Chapter 22: Wednesday night part 4
The harsh rasp of Paul’s breathing filled the sudden quiet after the belt’s final crack. He lay face down on the thick rug, the wool fibers scratching his bruised cheek, the scent of dust and his own sweat thick in his nostrils. The three deep welts across his buttocks pulsed with a white-hot agony that drowned out the earlier stripes on his chest and thighs. Every shallow inhale sent fresh tremors through his ravaged body. Nadia and Sophie had released him, stepping back, their own breathing audible in the dimly lit room.
A low, shaky whistle cut through the silence. Nadia. She stood over him, hands on her hips, her gaze fixed intently on his prone form, specifically on the livid stripes marring his pale skin and the incongruous, persistent erection trapped beneath him. Her voice, when it came, was thick, husky, stripped of its usual derision. "Fuck me sideways," she breathed, almost to herself. Then louder, a tremor of raw hunger vibrating through the words: "I have never been this turned on in my entire life."
Odette’s delighted chuckle echoed from the chaise longue. "See, Clarissa? Our Nadia appreciates art."
Clarissa, wiping her hands on a discarded napkin near the canapé table, smirked. "Primitive, but effective."
Paul barely registered their words. The pain was a consuming fire, his mind a numb, grey fog. He felt detached, floating above the wreckage of his body. Then Nadia moved. Swiftly, decisively. He flinched, a weak groan escaping him.
Before he could attempt to curl away, Nadia straddled his shoulders. Her weight pressed down, pinning his head firmly to the rug. The scent of her arousal, musky and intense, flooded his senses, cutting through the stench of urine and sweat. He felt the damp heat of her through the thin fabric of her dress against the back of his skull.
She grabbed a fistful of his hair, wrenching his head backwards off the rug with brutal force. His neck screamed in protest. His milky eyes, swollen and tear-streaked, stared blindly upwards. "Open wide, pretty boy," Nadia hissed, shifting her hips. "Dinner bell’s ringing."
She sat, positioning her hips under his face, as he was face down with his arse in the air his mouth and nose were automatically mashed down into her upturned vulva. The sheer, overwhelming sensory assault after the violence, shocked him into a choked gasp. Her folds pressed insistently against his lips. He tasted salt, musk, the tang of her arousal thick on his tongue.
"Lick!" Nadia demanded, grinding herself harder against his face. "Clean it out. Show me what that expensive tongue is good for!"
Sobbing, a wet, ragged sound muffled against her flesh, Paul obeyed. Instinct, humiliation, and a terrifying, deep-seated compulsion took over. His tongue, raw from earlier floor-scraping, pushed past his lips. He found the swollen bud of her clitoris, slick and hard beneath his probing muscle. He circled it tentatively, then flattened his tongue against her, lapping upwards through her slick folds.
A sharp gasp escaped Nadia. "Ohhhh, yes," she moaned, her hips jerking forward, grinding herself onto his mouth with abandon. "Just like that... fucking yes..." Her fingers tightened in his hair, holding his face locked against her as she rode his mouth with increasing urgency. The wet, sucking sounds filled the room, mingling with her ragged breaths and Paul’s choked whimpers.
The other women watched, rapt. Holly looked flushed, her earlier nausea replaced by a fascinated, slightly dazed expression. Sandrine observed with cool detachment, sipping champagne. Odette beamed, clapping her hands softly. "Magnifique! He’s born to do this. It’s in his soul!” She whispered.
Clarissa, meanwhile, had moved to the low table where the champagne bottles stood. She picked up the nearest one, a heavy, dark green magnum of Veuve Clicquot, its label ornate. The bottle was still mostly full, condensation beading on the cold glass. She hefted it thoughtfully, her gaze fixed on Paul’s exposed backside, the deep welts standing out like brands against his skin, his hips pinned by Nadia’s weight on his shoulders.
"While Monsieur Ashworth is diligently tongue-fucking Nadia," Clarissa announced, her melodic voice slicing through Nadia’s moans, "I believe La Grande Dame requires an introduction." She ran her fingers lightly over the bottle’s neck, then dipped them into the ice bucket beside the table, coating the thick glass in melting frost. "Holly, darling, hold his hips steady. We don't want him squirming and breaking the vintage."
Holly jumped at Clarissa’s command. Hesitantly, she knelt beside Paul’s prone legs. Her hands fluttered nervously before settling on his hip bones, pressing down. Her touch was hesitant but firm enough to immobilize his lower half. Nadia, lost in the sensations Paul’s tongue was eliciting, merely grunted and ground harder against his face, oblivious.
Paul heard Clarissa’s footsteps approach. He felt Holly’s hands on his hips. Panic, sharp and primal, cut through the fog of pain and forced arousal. He tried to buck, to twist away, but Nadia’s weight anchored his shoulders and Holly held his hips fast. His muffled cries against Nadia’s flesh became desperate pleas.
"Shhh, Paul," Clarissa murmured, her voice chillingly close now. He felt the icy chill radiating from the bottle as she positioned herself behind him. The cold glass brushed against the sensitive, swollen flesh of his buttock, just beside the deepest welt. He froze, every muscle tensing in terrified anticipation. "This IS going to happen," she continued smoothly. Her free hand pressed firmly against the small of his back, holding him flat.
Then, with no further warning, she pushed.
The cold was shocking, invasive. The thick, unyielding glass pressed against his anus, slick with condensation and melting ice. Paul wailed, the sound loud even muffled by Nadia’s body. He arched violently, but Holly and Nadia held him pinned. Clarissa applied steady, relentless pressure. There was resistance, a tight, burning ring of muscle forced wide against its will. The pain was excruciating, a deep, internal tearing sensation that eclipsed the fire of the welts. Tears streamed freely down his face, mixing with Nadia’s fluids.
"Easy now," Clarissa crooned, her voice devoid of sympathy. "Relax, darling. Madame doesn't like a fuss." She twisted the bottle slightly, the cold glass stretching him impossibly wider. A sickening pop, a visceral give, and the bottle’s neck breached him. Paul’s scream dissolved into a high-pitched, continuous whine of agony. His body convulsed, but the women held him fast.
Nadia, jolted by the violent spasms beneath her, lifted her hips slightly, breaking contact with Paul’s mouth. "What are you doing?" she gasped, looking over her shoulder, her face flushed with interrupted pleasure.
"Expanding his horizons," Clarissa replied calmly. She pushed further. The thick neck of the magnum slid inexorably deeper into Paul’s rectum, four, five, six inches. The cold was profound, a deep, internal chill that seemed to freeze his insides. The stretch was unbearable, a feeling of being split open, filled beyond capacity. He could feel the rigid shape of the bottle inside him, a grotesque, violating presence. His erection, miraculously, remained trapped and painfully hard beneath him, a cruel counterpoint to the agony in his backside.
"Look at him!" Odette laughed, a bright, delighted sound. "He’s taking it! Paul, I want you to know that bottle’s neck is only the same girth as your lovely cock. This is what it feels like to be a girl."
Holly stared, fascination etched on her face, her hands still pressing down on Paul’s trembling hips. Sandrine watched, her expression unreadable. Nadia, after a moment of stunned observation, shrugged and lowered herself back onto Paul’s face with renewed vigor. "Paul you just keep going," she grunted, grinding down. She grabbed his hair again, forcing his tongue back to work.
Clarissa worked the bottle in and out, inch by excruciating inch. The cold rounded glass scraped his inner walls. The pressure inside was immense, nauseating. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only feel the cold, hard intrusion and the searing pain radiating from his violated core. His whines were weak, pathetic things now, lost against Nadia’s moans and the wet sounds of her riding his mouth.
Clarissa gave the bottle a final, slight twist, settling it firmly. She patted his flank, the gesture obscenely casual. "There we are. A perfect fit. Now, Nadia, darling," she said, stepping back to admire her handiwork, the green glass protruding obscenely from between Paul’s bruised buttocks, "do carry on. Let’s see if our human champagne bucket can still multitask."
Nadia responded with a guttural moan, her movements becoming frantic, her fingers clawing at Paul’s scalp as she chased her climax against his obedient, suffering tongue. Paul lay pinned, violated front and back, the cold glass a glacial weight inside him, the taste of Nadia’s lust thick in his mouth, the world reduced to a kaleidoscope of pain, degradation, and the terrifying, inescapable knowledge that they had made a plaything of him in a way he’d never be able to forget. The jazz trumpet wailed on, a mournful soundtrack to his annihilation.
The jazz trumpet wailed on, a mournful soundtrack to his annihilation. Nadia’s moans hitched, became sharp, desperate gasps. Her thighs clamped like a vise around Paul's head, grinding his face deeper into her slick heat, her entire body tensing into a rigid arch above him. "Fuuuuck YES!" The cry ripped from her throat, raw and triumphant, as her orgasm slammed through her, a violent tremor shaking her frame.
Wet heat pulsed against Paul's mouth, flooded his chin, dripped warm onto his neck. He kept lapping mechanically, instinctively cleaning the slick release as Nadia shuddered, collapsing her weight fully onto him. The taste, the sheer biological reality of her climax, was oddly anchoring amidst the deep, cold agony blooming from where the champagne bottle violated him. It was a visceral, female truth, a counterpoint to the emasculating ruin happening elsewhere.
Nadia slumped, breathless, peeling herself off his face with a satisfied groan. "Christ, Paul," she panted, wiping her thighs, "you do have some uses." She patted his head, a condescending afterthought.
Before Paul could gasp for air, another presence replaced Nadia’s warmth. Cool, expensive perfume cut through the musk. Sandrine. She knelt, her dark skin smooth before his tear-blurred vision, and positioned herself precisely over his mouth. No words, no command. Just an implicit demand he understood. He extended his raw tongue, lapping at her clean, salt-tinged folds as she settled her weight, her stillness a stark contrast to Nadia’s frenzy.
Clarissa watched Sandrine claim her turn, then her sharp eyes flicked to Holly, who hovered near Paul’s legs, looking pale and wide-eyed, her hands clenched at her sides. "Look at you, Holly darling," Clarissa purred, a note of mocking concern in her smooth tone. "So terribly nervous. So worried for our dear Paul. Yet... you're still here."
Holly flinched, wrapping her arms around herself. "I... I don't know why," she stammered, her voice barely a whisper. She glanced down at Paul’s prone form, the obscene bottle protruding, Sandrine riding his face. "It’s awful... horrible... but..." She swallowed hard, a flush creeping up her neck. "Something... deep inside... feels... pulled. Drawn. I can’t look away. It’s... compelling."
A slow, predatory smile spread across Clarissa’s face. "Compelling," she repeated, savouring the word. She tilted her head, studying the champagne bottle lodged in Paul, then Holly’s nervous energy. A spark ignited in her eyes. "Odette!" The name cut through the humid air. "Be a love. Do you have a funnel? A kitchen funnel?"
Odette, perched elegantly on the chaise arm, raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "Un entonnoir? Mais oui, of course." She slid off and disappeared into the adjoining kitchenette, returning moments later with a stainless steel funnel, its wide mouth gleaming under the lamplight. "Pour quoi faire, ma chérie?"
Clarissa took the funnel, hefting it thoughtfully. "An experiment in refinement." She knelt behind Paul, ignoring his muffled whimper beneath Sandrine. Her fingers, cool and precise, gripped the slick, cold glass neck of the champagne bottle. "Hold him still, Holly. Don't want any...spillage."
Holly hesitated only a second before placing trembling hands firmly back on Paul’s hips, pinning his lower half as Sandrine’s weight anchored his shoulders. Clarissa applied steady, brutal traction. The thick glass shifted inside Paul, scraping inflamed tissue, pulling against the clenched, unwilling muscle. A ragged scream tore from him, muffled against Sandrine. With a sickening, wet pop, the bottle slid free.
Paul gasped, a wave of nauseating relief mixed with fresh, raw pain flooding the violated space. Clarissa held the dripping bottle casually, ignoring the mess. She inserted the funnel’s narrow stem firmly into the bottle’s neck. "Now, Holly," she said, her voice calm, instructional. "Stand over him. Lift your skirt. Piss into the funnel. Fill it up."
Holly froze, eyes wide with shock. "W-what? No! I couldn’t—"
"Couldn’t you?" Clarissa’s gaze was unblinking. "After what you just confessed? That deep pull? Show us. Show yourself." She gestured with the funnel-bottle apparatus towards Paul’s reddened, exposed entrance. "Give him your warmth."
A tremor ran through Holly. She looked from Clarissa’s expectant face to Odette’s amused smirk, to Sandrine’s indifferent profile, to Paul’s broken form. That flicker of compulsion she’d confessed to ignited into something hotter, darker. Her fingers fumbled with the waistband of her tights and knickers, yanking them down past her thighs. She stepped awkwardly over Paul’s lower back, positioning herself above the funnel's wide mouth.
The first trickle was hesitant, splashing softly onto the steel. Then, with a shuddering breath, she let go. A steady, strong stream of warm urine arced down, hitting the funnel with a loud, hollow splatter before gurgling into the champagne bottle. The sharp, acrid smell of fresh piss cut through the room’s other odours. Holly moaned softly, eyes closed, a complex mix of shame, release, and undeniable arousal tightening her features.
The bottle filled rapidly, the yellow liquid swirling with the dregs of champagne. Clarissa watched the level rise, a sculptor assessing her medium. "Good girl," she murmured as Holly’s stream tapered off, dripping the last few drops. Holly quickly stepped back, pulling her clothes up, face burning, unable to meet anyone’s eyes.
Clarissa swirled the now-warm bottle of piss and champagne. She crouched again behind Paul.
Sandrine’s cool, clean scent offered a fleeting, deceptive haven as Paul pressed his face deeper into her, his tongue tracing desperate, soothing patterns against her folds. It was a small pocket of stillness amidst the hurricane of pain radiating from his battered body and violated backside. The sharp ammonia sting of his own humiliation still clung to the air.
Clarissa’s voice sliced through his fragile sanctuary, cool and precise behind him. "Observe, Holly. See how beautifully he gapes for us now? That magnificent bottle did its work splendidly." Her fingers, clinical and unyielding, probed the tender, inflamed rim of his anus, making him flinch violently against Sandrine’s thighs. "Wide open. Ready. Just slide the funnel in, darling. Easy does it."
Holly’s hands trembled visibly as she took the cold steel funnel from Clarissa. She hesitated, her gaze flicking between the obscene openness displayed before her and Clarissa’s expectant stare. "Just... push?" she whispered, her voice thin.
"Just guide it home," Clarissa confirmed, a hint of impatience beneath her calm. "Like fitting a key. Smoothly."
Holly took a shaky breath and pressed the narrow stem of the funnel against Paul’s stretched entrance. The cold metal met hypersensitive flesh. He tensed, a low groan escaping into Sandrine. Holly pushed gently, then with firmer pressure as resistance yielded. The funnel slid in with unnerving ease, a stark, humiliating testament to the damage inflicted. It seated itself deep, the wide mouth protruding obscenely.
"Perfect placement," Clarissa approved. She hefted the champagne bottle, now brimming with Holly’s warm, yellow urine mixing with the dregs of Veuve Clicquot. The acrid smell intensified as she tilted it. "Now, Holly, take this. Pour. Slowly. Let him feel every drop claiming its space inside."
Holly grasped the heavy bottle, her knuckles white. She positioned the neck carefully over the funnel’s wide mouth. The first gurgle of liquid hitting steel echoed loudly. Then the warm stream flowed steadily down the funnel’s stem and deep into Paul’s bowels. A choked gasp tore from him, muffled against Sandrine. The sensation was immediate and overwhelming – a deep, invasive warmth spreading, flooding, pressing against internal walls already raw from the bottle’s violation.
"Feel that, Paul?" Clarissa crooned, her voice a silken blade. She rested a hand lightly on his trembling flank. "Feel Holly’s warmth filling you up? Soaking into every twist and turn?" She leaned closer, her breath hot on his ear. "Remember the lovely vintages you enjoyed earlier? Nadia’s sharp tang? Mine, so rich and complex? All that delicious piss you swallowed? It’s flowing through you right now. Working its way down, mingling with your blood, your bile."
The pressure inside Paul built steadily as Holly continued to pour, the bottle’s contents emptying into him. It was a deep, nauseating distension, utterly alien and degrading. He felt stretched beyond capacity from within.
"While poor Holly’s offering," Clarissa continued, her tone almost conversational, "is rising to meet it. From the bottom up. Can you feel them converging inside you, Paul? Your entire system, flooded. A perfect internal bath. A cocktail of our making. Your very least favourite vintage, filling every hidden corner."
Holly emptied the last of the bottle into the funnel with a final glug. The funnel itself held a shallow pool of urine. Clarissa tapped it. "Tip it all in, darling. Don't waste a drop."
Holly tilted the funnel sharply. The remaining piss cascaded down the stem in a sudden rush, flooding him further. Paul whimpered, his body rigid, feeling impossibly full, contaminated. The warm weight sloshed sickeningly as he trembled.
Clarissa sighed contentedly. "There. Utterly filled. Utterly ours. Isn't it exquisite, Holly? The science of him?" She patted the funnel still embedded in him. "A perfect vessel." Her fingers found the funnel’s stem. "Best leave this in for now. Let it all settle."
Paul’s world narrowed to the liquid fire in his gut and the faint salt of Sandrine’s skin. He tried to retreat fully into the darkness behind his closed eyes, into the desperate rhythm of his tongue against her, a frantic prayer for oblivion that wouldn’t come. The jazz record scratched to an end. In the sudden silence, the only sounds were Paul’s ragged, muffled breaths and the obscene, liquid slosh deep within him whenever he moved even slightly.