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He had a painfully firm grip on the back of my neck forcing my mouth downward until his cock head blocked my throat opening. Donaldson, sensing that his pecker had arrived at my esophagus, pushed harder and I felt that rock solid piston of man meat painfully descend another inch, scrapping the delicate tissue lining my gullet.

He lifted me up slightly by the back of my neck then violently forced my head down to drive his manhood another inch or two inside my neck. His other hand grabbed me by the hair and I knew I was in for a good old-fashioned Donaldson family face fucking. My surviving it was problematic. Her brooding efforts had met with success. There were six of us seated in the back of the stretch limousine: My husband, Captain Trace L. Donaldson had been traveling through the streets of Kabul when a mine had exploded under his Humvee.

Trace and his driver were killed instantly according to the letter I got from his commander. It was going to be a closed casket funeral. The Humvee had burned and several pieces of ordinance had exploded inside the cab. My guess would be that the coffin contained a blend of both Trace and the driver.

Thank God, it was going to be a private, invitation only affair. They were rich too. British bayonets had gutted a Uriah Donaldson at Bunker Hill. Major Clement Donaldson had ended his days at Chickamauga, supposedly standing beside General Thomas, the Rock of Chickamauga until a mini-ball took off part of his skull. There were others too numerous to recall.

Equally devoted to the study of military tactics and the works of Marquis De Sade, they were a twisted lot. Trace used to say that his family considered arms their profession and pain their hobby. How did a nice girl like me from Lowell, Massachusetts get mixed up with this group of patriotic sadists?

My predilection for reaching an orgasm only after a sound flogging had brought Trace Donaldson and I together. As a result, I had a five-year commitment to patch up soldiers in whatever piss poor backwater the Army selected. Over time, I learned that pain was the additive I required to blow the searing hot wind of sexual satisfaction through my brain. The place was a dilapidated dump but once a month, a crowd gathered who could usually satisfy my needs.

I was naked, strapped to a St. Andrews cross when Trace and two of his army buddies arrived. It had been an off night. I was leaving for training at Fort Campbell next week. I had gone to the club hoping that some one with a talented whip hand would give me the discipline I craved.

A pair of dommes had made an attempt at providing a decent flogging but I needed something stronger. I was about to give up and ask to be released when Trace saw me. He stepped up to the cross, leaned against me while taking my nipples in his powerful fingers and gave them the kind of twist that makes an ordinary woman scream and beg for mercy. When my mouth opened, he shoved his tongue inside all the while twisting my dugs to within a millimeter of separating from my tits.

To this day I can recall the pain in my breasts and feel my cunt get wet. After he manhandled the hell out of my breasts, he stepped back, selected a particularly nasty looking whip out of the rack and casually delivered a blow that struck only one inch of my body.

Unfortunately or fortunately as the case may be, that one-inch was my clit. It sounded like someone had fired a shotgun between my legs. For a nanosecond, I thought Trace had missed; then every synapse in my brain got a wake up call from all the thousands of delicate nerve endings located in that single inch. The switchboard in my cerebellum went into overload and every muscle in my body convulsed.

I let out a scream that brought the moribund crowd to the flogging room to see who was having their heart ripped out. Trace expertly whipped my tits and pussy until I climaxed, the kind of climax where you let everything go including your bladder. He untied me from the St. Andrews, made me lick up the puddle of my urine and then invited me for coffee. For me, it was love at first lash. I suppose Trace felt the same. We were married six months later when we could both get leave together.

Before he was killed, Trace had found out that I was fucking around with the doctors and staff at the hospital in Kuwait City. Some prick had emailed him photos of me getting my ass caned, sucking dick, and taking a large black cock in my backdoor at a party we had to celebrate the Fourth of July. Trace had emailed copies of the photos home to the family and informed them he was going to divorce my whoring ass. Massachusetts is a community property state. Chapter 2 Ask The Sergeant Please take note!

The others were watching me gag or choke then spit out a mouthful of the product of my salivary and mucus glands. It was dripping out my nose too. You could tell he really got off on that kind of shit. Lois, always the dutiful wife, was stroking his trouser covered cock. I wondered whether Robbie would blow his load before I choked to death. Robbie was hung like a horse and I could feel my neck bulge every time he achieved maximum possible depth. My stomach was doing flip-flops.

Denise would help Robbie hold my head down as I kicked and thrashed about for air. Tears were pouring down my cheeks causing my mascara to run. I was a fucking mess. I had good reason to question my survival. A French general had provided some extraordinary films of Legionnaires using electricity on Algerian rebels.

There were some black and white classics from the Gestapo archives including the famous ones where the Wermacht officers who tried to assassinate Hitler were slowly strangled with piano wire. I never knew that being submerged in ice water could drive a person insane that quickly. And the one that seemed particularly relevant to my predicament was where his unit snuffed the two VC cunts.

I recalled how the girls were naked on their backs tied to tabletop. Their heads were hanging off the end of the table and someone had placed a belt strap on their foreheads to bend their heads back.

You could see the strain in the ligaments of their neck. When he finished, he took out his K-bar and cut their nipples off as souvenirs. He probably still has them somewhere in his box of keepsakes. After the girls were brutally raped, two Sergeants forced their mouths open and pulled all their teeth with a pair of dental pliers. I remember the loose bloody teeth scattered on the floor underneath the table.

The snuff part consisted of Afro-American corporal shoving his long thick black cock in their throat. After this torture went on for a while, he just left it in until the girl expired. The odd part to me was that after the second girl was dead; the Corporal slowly fucked her throat until he blew his load.

They held me down as he pumped his loads down my throat. When they finally let me up, there were black spots in front of my eyes. Semen, saliva, mucus and stomach bile dripped from my nose and mouth. I was lying there covered in my own secretions attempting to breathe normally.

Generals, especially this one, are overly fond of showmanship and theatre. What else was I going to say? They had me cold. I was thankful they had just one set of pictures. The Fourth of July party was only one of the dozen or so orgies that the doctors and nurses had organized while I was there. The General was referring to the doctor who was in most of the photos with me. Cecil usually began by setting my ass on fire with a thin whip-like bamboo cane.

We did some kinky shit, the doctor and I. He could tell from the look on my face I was enjoying myself. I knew I was going to wind up doing what he wanted anyway. He turned at the sound of the partition and looked expectantly in our direction. He glanced down toward the floor where I was lying with my skirt up around my waist. The dress was an expensive St.

With no bra, my breasts and nipples were all but exposed. A black lace garter belt held up my hose whose lace tops were visible when I stood upright.


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