Chapter 22: The Gift
The silence lasted three days. It was a thick, palpable thing, heavy with unsaid words and the ghosts of sensation. Mark cleaned. He scrubbed every surface until the house smelled of lemon and bleach, erasing the olfactory memory of the party. Emily stayed in bed, or sat by the window, wrapped in a robe. She was neither regretful nor triumphant; she seemed to be processing, her eyes focused on some internal horizon.
Sarah invited Emily over on the fourth evening for some wine at her house leaving Mark at home. When Emily arrived, Sarah opened a bottle of wine and sat her down.
Sarah started the conversation. "I know it's been a lot to process, but I thought the gangbang was good for two reasons. First, Mark had to realize that you can give yourself to whoever you want while he can't have you. Second, I thought it would be good for you to feel the total abandonment and freedom of giving yourself to others so you understand Mark's perspective.
Emily was silent for a few minutes digesting things. "I think I understand Sarah. It's like a total release of responsibility. A freedom to enjoy without constraints."
"Exactly" Sarah responded. "Deep down inside Mark needs this. He needs to be used and abused. To totally give up control. Would you like him to experience something similar?"
"What do you have in mind?" Emily asked.
"A gangbang for Mark. A bunch of guys using and abusing him in every way possible while we watch. How does that sound to you?"
Emily gasped at the image in her mind. Mark surrounded by men with hard cocks, servicing them in pain for her amusement. She felt a warmth rush through her body and her pussy was suddenly dripping wet. "How would we arrange such a thing? Where would we find the guys?"
"Leave that to me." Sarah said with a wicked smile. "Just arrange to bring Mark over to my house Saturday night and I'll take care of everything else."
That Saturday, Emily and Mark headed over to Sarah's house. They drove in silence. Sarah’s house had a different energy now. It felt like a studio, a workshop. She led them not to the living room, but upstairs, to the master bedroom.
The room had been stripped. The bed was gone. The drapes were closed, and a single, bright industrial lamp hung from the ceiling, casting a stark white circle on the floor. The carpet was covered in clear plastic sheeting, taped down at the edges. In the center of the lighted circle stood a low, padded bench, like something from a physiotherapist’s office, covered in black vinyl. A metal tray on a stand held an array of objects: rolls of tape, bottles of lube, a black rubber ball-gag, a leather hood with a zippered mouth opening, several coiled straps.
"It's time to formalize the arrangement," Sarah said. She wore dark trousers and a simple white tank top, her hair pulled back. She looked like a technician. "Emily, sit there." She pointed to a plain wooden chair positioned just outside the circle of light.
Emily sat, her movements obedient, her eyes wide.
"Mark." Sarah pointed to the center of the plastic. "Undress. Fold your clothes. Place them there." She indicated a spot against the far wall.
He did as he was told, his fingers clumsy on the buttons. The air in the room was cool, raising goosebumps on his skin. The plastic whispered under his feet.
"On your knees. Facing Emily."
He knelt. The plastic was slick beneath his knees. From this angle, Emily was backlit by the lamp, her features in shadow. He could only see the outline of her, the glint of her new necklace.
Sarah picked up the leather hood. "This is for your comfort," she said, her voice devoid of irony. "It’s easier if you don’t have to see." She pulled it over his head. The world vanished into stifling, scented darkness. She zipped the mouth opening shut, then unzipped it just enough. Then the rubber ball was forced between his teeth, the straps secured tightly behind his head. His breathing became loud in the confines of the hood.
"Count each one," Sarah instructed him, her voice muffled now. "You will count every cock that uses you. Out loud. If you lose count, we start over. Emily will be listening."
He heard the door open. Footsteps. More than one set. Low, casual murmurs of greeting. Nathan’s voice. Jake’s. Others he recognized from the noise of the party.
"Alright," Sarah said, her voice taking on a brisk, hosting tone. "Who's first? Remember, he counts."
"Let's get this party started," Nathan said. His familiar hands grabbed Mark's shoulders, guiding him forward until his gagged mouth bumped against denim. He heard a zipper.
"In your mouth first. Get it wet for the main event."
The cock pushed past the ball gag, invading the cramped space. It was already hard, thick. Mark choked, saliva soaking the gag. He began to suck, his mind scrambling for a focus. One. This is one.
"You hear that, Em?" Nathan grunted, his hands on the back of the hood, holding Mark steady. "Your husband's a natural fuck-pig."
Mark could hear Emily's breathing, quick and shallow from the chair.
Nathan fucked his mouth with short, efficient strokes for a minute, then pulled out with a wet pop. "Okay. Flip him."
Hands rolled him onto his stomach on the padded bench. His chest and cheek were pressed into the cold vinyl. Someone—Jake—pulled his hips up, looping a strap around his waist and buckling it to the bench so he couldn’t sink down. Another strap secured his ankles wide apart. He was bent over, exposed, utterly immobilized.
The lube was cold. A fat glob, then a finger, pressing insistently against him.
"Still tight as a virgin back here," Jake observed, his finger working in. "Gotta loosen him up for the big boys."
The finger became two, scissoring, stretching. Mark groaned into the gag. The sensation was a sharp, burning intrusion.
"Count, Mark," Sarah reminded, her voice calm. "Or we restart."
He tried to form the number around the gag and the invading fingers. "Mm-whunn," he garbled.
"Good enough."
Jake removed his fingers. There was a shift in the air, the sound of a man spitting. Then the blunt, immense pressure of a cockhead replaced the fingers.
"Ah, fuck, here we go," Jake sighed, and pushed.
The breach was catastrophic, a white-hot tear of pain that made Mark scream into the gag, his body straining against the straps. It felt like being split open. Jake didn't stop. He shoved forward relentlessly until his hips met Mark’s ass.
"Two!" Mark sobbed the number, tears soaking the inside of the hood.
"That's right. Two. My dick in your shithole." Jake began to move, establishing a deep, punishing rhythm. Each withdrawal and thrust was an agony of stretching, a violation so profound it felt like it was scouring his insides. The bench creaked. The plastic crackled beneath them.
When Jake came, it was with a series of harsh grunts, his body slamming forward as he emptied himself deep inside. Mark felt the hot, wet pulse, a disgusting internal claim.
Jake pulled out, a slick, obscene sound. Mark shuddered, feeling impossibly open, used.
"Who's next? Travis, you like it tight."
"Damn right."
The process repeated. Three. Travis was thicker. The pain was beyond pain now, a pervasive, radiating ache that swallowed his whole being. He counted. He listened to the men talk over him.
"His wife's watching. Look at her."
"Fuck, that's hot. She getting wet, Sarah?"
"See for yourself," Sarah replied. He could hear her moving, perhaps guiding Emily's hand. He heard Emily's soft, shaky moan.
Four. This one was faster, rougher, punching the air from his lungs with every thrust. Mark’s world dissolved into a cycle of searing penetration, brutal rhythm, and the guttural sounds of male pleasure. The count was his only tether to sanity. Five. The pain began to mutate, edged with a shocking, shameful streak of sensation that wasn't purely agony. His trapped, caged cock twitched against the bench.
"Think he's liking it," a voice sneered. A hand smacked his ravaged ass cheek, the sting blooming through the deeper ache.
"Six." This one held his hips so hard he'd have bruises. Mark's throat was raw from screaming counts and muffled sobs.
A pause. He heard Sarah's voice, close to Emily. "Your turn. You need to understand his function completely."
Footsteps. Then Emily's scent, her perfume cutting through the smells of sweat, leather, and sex. Her hand, cool and trembling, touched the small of his back. He flinched.
"Shhh," she whispered, her voice almost gentle. Her hand moved down, over the curve of his ass, slick with sweat and lube. Her fingers traced the swollen, abused rim of his anus, stretched wide and leaking.
A horrified, choked sound escaped him.
"Do you feel that?" she asked, her voice gaining strength. "Do you feel what they've done to you? This doesn't belong to you anymore. It belongs to them. To us." She pressed a finger inside, alongside the fresh, sticky mess another man had left. "It's a hole. That's all. A useful hole."
She removed her finger. He heard the rustle of fabric. She was undressing.
"Help me, Sarah," Emily said, no trace of a request in her tone.
There was movement. The bench shifted. Then Emily was over him, straddling his back, facing his feet. She lowered herself. Not onto him, but onto the cock of the man waiting next in line—Ian, he thought by the voice.
"Fuck me, Ian," Emily commanded. "Fuck me hard while I watch it come out of him."
So Ian, on his knees, entered Emily from the front as she rode him, reversed over Mark's prone body. Her hands gripped Mark's hips for balance. As Ian slammed up into her, Emily looked down, watching Mark's ruined hole.
"Seven!" Mark screamed as Ian, buried in Emily, reached under her and pushed his thumb roughly back inside Mark.
The syncopation was dizzying. Ian's thrusts into Emily rocked her forward, her gaze fixed on the show below. Mark was just a piece of the machinery, a secondary orifice being used for the viewers' pleasure.
Emily’s moans built, mingling with Ian's grunts. "Yes! Yes, like that! Make him feel it!"
When Ian came inside her, Emily threw her head back and cried out, her body convulsing. As she collapsed forward onto Mark's back, sweating and spent, she turned her head towards his hooded ear.
"I counted," she panted, her voice thick with a satisfaction he’d never heard directed at him. "I know how many. I own that number. I own this." She slapped his torn flesh.
The night wore on. The count passed ten, then twelve. The acts blurred. Sometimes it was only a mouth. Sometimes only the ravaged ass. Sometimes both, a man in each end, using him as a crude, living fleshlight. The men high-fived over his back. They made bets on how long he could take it. They called Emily over to inspect their work.
Through it all, Sarah was the constant. She provided water through a tube slipped into the hood’s mouth zip. She tightened straps. She instructed, praised, and degraded.
Finally, it stopped. The room emptied. The door closed.
The straps were unbuckled. He was hauled off the bench and laid on his side on the plastic. He couldn't straighten his body; it was locked in a curve of agony. Someone—Sarah—unlocked the chastity cage. His cock, ignored for hours, was a shriveled, pathetic thing. She uncinched the ball gag, let it drop onto the plastic with a thud.
"Final count," Sarah said.
"F-fourteen," he rasped, his voice gone.
"Correct." She unzipped the hood and pulled it off. The light was blinding. He blinked, tears streaming. Emily stood over him, fully dressed again, her face flushed, her eyes brilliant and hard. She looked down at him, at the mess of sweat, semen, and lube that gleamed on his skin and leaked from his body.
Sarah handed Emily a digital camera. "Document it."
Emily raised the camera. The flash went off, once, twice, a dozen times. Freezing his defilement into permanent pixels. She zoomed in on his face, his eyes, his violated ass, his limp, caged cock.
"Good," Sarah said, taking the camera back. She pulled a fresh black ribbon from her pocket and tied it in a neat bow around the base of Mark’s scrotum, pulling it tight. "A reminder. Until next time."
She looked at Emily. "Take him home. Clean him. The bench and the hood stay here. This is our room now."
Emily helped him to his feet. He could barely walk, each step a jolt of pain. He leaned on her, and she bore his weight stoically, a caretaker tending to a broken tool. As they shuffled towards the door, Sarah’s voice stopped them.
"Mark."
He turned his head.
"The next session," she said, checking something off on a clipboard he hadn't noticed before. "We begin with fifteen."