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Review This Story || Author: Harry Berg

Trials of an Obese Wife

Chapter 3 the Dungeon

Chapter 1 Rude Awakening

Chapter 3 the Dungeon

    

     Screams of agony blasting through the headset drew Christine’s attention to the television.  The scene had changed.  The same two men were stretching a different woman on a torture rack.  She was younger.  Close ups of her pain ravaged face reinforced Maurice’s assertion the DVD was for real.   

     Christine used the remote to study the girl’s face.  They had placed a small keg in the center of her back causing her body to arch obscenely as her spine was curved and stretched.   Christine’s hand stroked her wet sex as she recalled how it had felt when Maurice and his brother had racked her.

     She looks like me realized Christine, same color hair and eyes.  My God, they’re about to pull her arms out of their sockets. One of the men maintained the tension while the other one climbed on the rack taking a position between the woman’s legs.  Christine watched fascinated as the man spit on his large cock then placed it in the woman’s opening.  Speaking in what Christine took to be one of the Slavic languages she was begging the men to stop.  Instead one man turned the windlass increasing the tension as the other penetrated her.

     Immediately, Christine knew what Maurice had meant when he said there was a part of the DVD that would bring back fond memories of an event that occurred during her first visit to the chateau.  She had been terribly excited and apprehensive about meeting Maurice’s family.

     Fortunately, everything had gone well.  The fact she was a full professor with a well-received book on macro economics to her credit impressed the family who had the French appreciation for intellectuals and thinkers.  Still it had been tense and when Maurice offered to show her the dungeon as a diversion she eagerly agreed.

    It turned out to be one of the most erotic days of her life.  Afterwards, Christine was certain that marrying Maurice was the right decision for her.  They had both been in a playful mood when they entered the oldest part of the castle.  On the way, Maurice had repeatedly stopped and taken her in his arms, pressing her against the wall, forcing his tongue in her mouth as his hands squeezed her breasts.  By the time they reached the subterranean area, Christine felt overwhelmed by lust.

    “This is part of the original edifice,” said Maurice as he switched the lights on.  “Of course, we’ve modernized certain things.  Torches were incredibly expensive so we had to switch to electricity.”

    “Your mother said the chateau was burnt to the ground in the Revolution,” said Christine looking around at the furnishings of the stone walled dungeon they’d descended three steep flights of stairs to reach.

     “It was but we are several meters below ground.  When the chateau collapsed the entrance to the underground passageway was covered.  After Waterloo and the Bourbon Restoration the chateau was rebuilt and the passageway cleared.  Of course, by that time matters were more civilized.  There was no need for a dungeon and it was allowed to fall into disrepair.”

    “Who restored it,” asked Christine?

    “My great grandfather began the restoration.  It was something of a hobby plus a way to recapture the family heritage.”

    “And was great grandmother involved,” asked Christine putting her arm around Maurice’s waist and pressing her sex against his.

     “Only when she displeased the old man, then he would bring her here, strip her naked, and whip her senseless before giving her to the servants,” said Maurice placing his hands on Christine’s hips and pulling her hard against him.  One of the gardeners had an enormous cock and grandfather made sure he took her anally.  When her sphincter gaped open, everyone pissed in her ass. 

     “Sounds very Chernier, what happened to him?” asked Christine.

     “He died in battle during the Second World War.  The family never speaks of him. He was a Colonel in the Charlemagne Division.”

     “Why? He sounds very heroic, fighting to liberate his countrymen from Hitler and the Nazis,” said Christine.

     “Not quite the way it was.  The Charlemagne Division was composed of fanatical French fascists who had sworn a blood oath of loyalty to Der Fuhrer and National Socialism.  The surviving members of the Charlemagne Division were assigned to defend Hitler’s Bunker to the last man.  On the day Hitler committed suicide, my grandfather lead his last four hundred thirty five soldiers in a suicide attack on the Red Army.  None of them survived.  If they had, they would have been tried and executed as war criminals.”

     “How horrible, I’m sorry I asked,” said Christine.

     “It happened a long time ago.  Besides in two months, you will be a Chernier so you should know the good and bad of our family history,” said Maurice. “My parents continued the restoration.  Jean Paul and I added to the collection of torture implements to make it more interesting. ”

    “What’s this?  It’s heavy,” asked Christine picking up the three-pronged iron tong without first realizing the weight of the cast iron.

     “That my dearest is a breast ripper,” said Maurice casually draping his arm across Christine’s shoulders.  He reached down and placed his hand over her breast and squeezed it.  His strong fingers found her braless nipple through the lamb’s wool sweater.  He smiled as his thumb and forefinger slowly flattened the flesh causing Christine to recoil in pain.  She turned to kiss him wanting her tongue to intertwine with his as she suffered.  After several seconds, he removed his hand allowing Christine to experience the sensation of blood flowing back in the capillaries.

    “We should behave.  I’m acting like a bitch in heat.  You mean it was actually used to rip off a woman’s breast?” asked Christine wishing her fiancé had not stopped.

    “Frenchmen never behave when they have a beautiful woman in their dungeon.  But yes, first, it was heated until it was red hot.  The Dungeon Master would capture the breast in the tongs then twist and pull.  Off it came for the Dungeon Master’s supper.”

     “You’re kidding me of course.  They practiced cannibalism?” asked Christine.

     “Such tales are handed down but only if it was the tender breast of a beautiful young girl like yourself.  They were said to have magical restorative powers, like Viagra,” said Maurice lifting Christine’s sweater to expose her chest.  He pressed her back against the stonewall forcing her mouth open with his tongue.

    “These are not for supper,” said Christine pushing her sweater down once Maurice stopped.  She stepped over to a nearby table and picked up a small metal object.  “I recognize this.  It’s a thumbscrew.  I saw one used in a movie.”

     “Bailiffs carried them because they’re light and transportable.  They were used to extract confessions on the spot.  A few turns and even the most determined criminal would be begging for mercy.  Not everything in here is authentic.  My parents participate in a local charity that permits the good citizens of Lyon to tour the chateau for a donation.  The dungeon is by far the most popular attraction.  Father and Mother bought much of what you see at auctions to give our visitors a thrill for their money. Jean Paul and I have added to it over the years.”

     “Show me how it works,” said Christine handing the thumbscrew to Maurice signaling her willingness to engage in the kind of sadistic role-play that made them a well-matched couple.

     “Suppose I wanted you to confess to having sex with the Queen of England,” said Maurice slipping Christine’s thumbs into the device and rapidly turning the small handle.

     “It’s unbearable,” said Christine surprised at how quickly it created an agonizing pain in both her thumbs.

     “You haven’t confessed,” said Maurice rotating the screw a half turn.

     “And I shall not.  The Queen is an honorable lady of the highest moral caliber. She is old enough to be my grandmother.”

     “Yet, whore that you are, you have stolen into her bed and placed your mouth on her aged sex.  The two of you pleasured one another in countless sinful acts.”

     “No, I am falsely accused,” said Christine falling to her knees.  Her eyes were beginning to tear from the pain. She could feel the studded surface crushing her nails.

     “Confess,” said Maurice as he performed a quarter turn.

     “No, sir, please stop I am innocent,” said Christine barely able to suppress a scream.

     Maurice looked down at his beautiful bride to be.  She was obviously in terrible pain. The thumbscrew’s platen was bending her thumbnails.  “Confess now and the pain will cease.”  Maurice turned the handle a full turn wrenching a pitiable scream from his bride-to-be.

     “I confess.  I have lain with the Queen of England,” said Christine.  “Please stop, sir.  I can bear no more.”

     “Just a little more to punish you for being so stubborn,” said Maurice moving the handle slightly causing Christine to scream again.  Seeing blood seeping from under her nails, Maurice quickly loosened and removed the thumbscrew.  He raised a sobbing Christine’s hands to his lips and licked the blood off her thumbs.

     “You should have confessed sooner.  You’ve ruined your manicure,” said Maurice observing the cracked and wrinkled nail lacquer covering her thumbs.

     “I know I should have but I didn’t want to give in too easily,” said Christine nursing her sore thumbs.

     “Most women would have confessed to sucking the Pope’s dick several turns ago,” said Maurice once again kissing Christine’s thumbs.

     “But you’re not in love with most women,” said Christine. “Or going to marry them.”

     “Shall we continue with our tour,” asked Maurice?

     “Yes, what are these,” said Christine picking up two of several odd shaped metal globes?  Each had a short handle with a turn knob on one end.  The other end of the globe contained sharp points and the sides were covered with an inscription definitely not French.  “Ah, it opens,” said Christine turning the handle several revolutions causing the globe to separate like the pedals of a blooming flower.

     “Pears, they were inserted in the orifices of witches and opened until they confessed to consorting with Satan,” said Maurice.  “They’re Spanish not French in origin.  But they were used by the Inquisition in both France and Spain.”

     “Are they lethal,” asked Christine turning the handle rapidly imagining how it felt for a young girl unjustly accused of witchcraft to have such an object inserted inside her then slowly expanded?  Others would be present to observe her ordeal.  There would be the learned men of the church, the Inquisitors, watching closely as the dungeon master slipped the Pear inside her vagina and turned the knob.  After a few turns, he would no doubt look to the Inquisitors to begin their interrogation.  How long before the pain became too great and she told them what they wanted to hear.  She would implicate innocent others.  Christine had read where during the height of the persecution of witches, the entire female population of certain European towns were tortured then burned at the stake.

     “They usually were when opened to the maximum extent.  But if used carefully, they only produce agonizing pain,” said Maurice.

     “And the inscription?” asked Christine.

     “Latin, quotations from the official manual of the Inquisition, the Malleus Maleficarium, I recall the English name is Hammer of the Witch.”

      “Were any Cherniers involved in the Inquisition?”

      “According to Vatican archives, there was a period in the sixteen hundreds when several of my ancestors were members of the French Inquisition.  There is a book in the Paris Library that describes in detail how a young noble woman of Lyon accused of witchcraft and heresy confessed to having sex with Satan after one of these was inserted in her vagina and slowly expanded,” said Maurice picking up one of the smaller Pears. 

     “Some of them must have gone mad before confessing,” said Christine examining the Pear closely.

     “No one was allowed to leave a dungeon of the Inquisition without first confessing or dying,” said Maurice.

     “And after they confessed?” asked Christine.

    “Some were taken to the square in front of the cathedral and burned alive.  Others who recanted witchcraft were allowed to resume their normal lives.”

     “Not exactly an incentive to tell all.  This looks newer,” said Christine standing in front of the large rectangular table in the center of the room.

     “That is called a rack and the reason it looks new is Jean Paul and I restored it when we were boys as part of a school project.” said Maurice.  “It had rotted out and fallen in disrepair.  Only the iron parts are authentic.”

      “Really, a school project,” asked Christine?  “They taught classes in torture where you went to school.”

      “No, Medieval History, we got the highest mark in the class. Would you like to try it?  It would be something few experience these days,” asked Maurice looking down on the sixteenth century instrument of torture.

      “Perhaps, how does it work,” asked Christine sensing another erotic spark one very much to her liking. 

      “The witch’s ankles were placed in these round holes formed between those two boards at this end of the table.  That held her feet in place.   These iron manacles were attached to the wrists.  When you turn the windlass like so the chains wind around this take-up spool and the arms stretched overhead.  Stretch a person too far and they’re a cripple for life.  It’s quite simple, really.  But it’s highly effective. Being boys, Jean Paul and I had to experience it once we got it working.  It is truly hell on earth.”

     “And the round barrel thing in the middle?” asked Christine feeling a more powerful spark of excitement as her hand touched the stone cylinder in the middle of the rack

     “Referred to as the Pillow.  It goes under the small of the back elevating the abdomen toward the ceiling.  The victim is stretched across the Pillow.  It adds greatly to the agony.  That’s unique to a French rack.  English racks allowed the victim to lie flat.  The Spanish had a dual windlass version that stretches in both directions at the same time.  However it required two persons to operate, a waste of manpower,” said Maurice.

     “Good dungeon help must have been more plentiful in Medieval Spain,” said Christine before kissing Maurice.  Ending the kiss, Christine pulled her sweater over her head.  “You know I have never made love in a dungeon.”

     “There was also another advantage to our use of the Pillow,” said Maurice.

      “Yes,” said Christine slipping off her casual shoes as she unzipped her slacks.

      “The Pillow elevated the sex organ making it available to the Dungeon Master.  He could choose to slowly remove a male’s testicles over the course of several hours or in the case of a female relieve his sexual tension before excising her clitoris.  I am told vaginal intercourse while being racked is a truly unique experience that only the most extreme masochist can enjoy,” said Maurice.

      “You are making it sound enormously attractive,” said Christine stepping out of her thong panties.

     “Legend has it that the Burgundians stretched Joan of Arc on the rack the night before she was executed.  A local superstition held that bad luck came to those who burned a virgin; so her jailers solved the problem on the spot.  Once she was stripped and stretched, the Messenger of God was mounted by a succession of her jailers.” 

     “How enterprising of the French.  Did she enjoy it?” said a now naked Christine climbing up on the rack and placing her feet through the wooden half circles?

     “Who knows, perhaps,” said Maurice adjusting the placement of her feet and lowering the top board to capture them completely.

     “Am I the first woman to test your restoration,” asked Christine moving the Pillow slightly to place it in the curve of her back?

     “Sorry but no,” said Maurice inserting the iron pin to lock the foot restraint into place. 

     “I never knew history could be so interesting.  Please show me what the Burgundians did to the Maid of Orleans,” said Christine reclining over the Pillow extending her arms toward the windlass. 

     “We have a historical discrepancy to deal with.  Joan D’arc by all accounts was a virgin and you are a whore,” said Maurice placing locking pins in the iron manacles circling Christine’s wrists.

      “True, tis a problem, Milord.  Maybe you should punish me doubly for my whorish ways,” said Christine her libido responding to the situation.  

       “I will punish you for being a whorish witch who consorts with Satan,” said Maurice grabbing the spokes of the windlass and turning it rapidly to take up the slack.  When he reached the point Christine’s arms were fully extended, he paused for a moment took a deep breath then turned the windlass slowly causing two loud clicks of the ratchet.

     “Please sire, I’m an innocent maid,” yelled Christine as the slack disappeared and the Pillow pushed hard against her spine.

     “No, you are a whore from a nation of whores.  You are a witch known to have lain with Lucifer himself.  Women in the village witnessed you applying your tongue to his ass,” said Maurice giving the windlass another crank.

     Christine felt pain in her shoulders, hips, and ankles as tension was increased.  One more crank and Christine sounded a small cry of pain.

      “My God, it’s like being ripped apart,” said Christine.

      “I have something else to otherwise occupy your mind,” said Maurice walking over to a locked cabinet in the far corner of the room.  Maurice carefully selected a key from the ring he had brought when they had first begun their tour of the chateau.

      “What is it,” asked Christine straining to see?

      “Patience, medieval torturers were known for the attention to detail and skill.  They were patient men who didn’t rush things.  Their subjects stayed alive for weeks or months. They’d torture their charges right to the very edge of death and madness then allow them to rest for a week or two before starting again.  They were very serious about their profession,” said Maurice approaching Christine with a shiny brass contraption.

     “What’s that,” asked Christine eyeing the ornate brass object?

     “Manchu breast crusher, I said that not everything here was authentic.  In our travels for the bank, Jean Paul and I have added some exotic devices of other cultures,” said Maurice fitting the device over the top and bottom of Christine’s breasts.  “These are so lovely.  It’s a pity they have to suffer.”

     “It’s beautifully made,” said Christine watching as Maurice turned the wheel in the center narrowing the space between the top and bottom.

     “I paid a small fortune for it at an antique dealer in Hong Kong.  It’s been authenticated as early Qing Dynasty.  It’s amazingly clever.  The Manchu’s were known for the pleasure they took in the suffering of their enemies.  Once you have it positioned, you capture the base of each nipple in the clamp then pull this handle like so,” said Maurice.

     “Oh my,” said Christine with a hiss.  “It feels like my nipples are being ripped off.” 

     “It pulls the breast forward until the base is between ten rows of sharp metal spines.  It’s quite ingenious,” said Maurice locking the rings around Christine’s nipples then pulling a small handle on each side to extend her breasts outward.

     “It’s intense,” gasped Christine feeling the pinch as the clamps tightened further.  The metal edge pressed painfully against her breast bone.

     “Now that your exquisite tits are ready to feel the pain of a thousand sharp needles, I will ask you a question,” said Maurice.  “Do you want me to close the press?  It will be horribly painful.”

     “Yes, close it.  I love you,” said Christine her eyes tearing with emotion.

     “I love you too, darling,” said Maurice turning the large center knob narrowing the distance between the top and bottom of the device.  Christine’s screams reverberated off the dungeon walls as hundreds of spines penetrated the top, bottom, and sides of each breast.

     “It’s horrible,” said Christine taking deep breaths attempting to control the pain.  She could feel the sharp points contact her skin, slowly push inward then puncture her flesh.

     “Having fun with your fiancé without your dear brother, I should be offended,” said Jean Paul entering the dungeon.  “I imagined I would find you here when Mother said you had taking her for a tour of the castle keep.

     “Jean Paul,” said Maurice rushing to embrace his younger brother by one year who had just arrived from a trip to the Middle East

     “And this must be Christine,” said Jean Paul when the embrace ended.

     “Yes, Christine Winston, this is Jean Paul,” said Maurice.

     “My pleasure, I see Maurice has been showing you our school project,” said Jean Paul stepping to the side of the rack.

     “Yes, it’s very painful.  This is terribly embarrassing. Maurice, would you mind letting me up so I can get dressed,” said a red faced Christine conscious of her nakedness.

     “Who does this remind you of, Jean Paul,” asked Maurice ignoring Christine’s request?

     “Agnes Langue,” said Jean Paul.  “That was four, no three years ago.”

     “Have you seen her recently,” asked Maurice?

     “Yes, in Paris several weeks ago, still as beautiful as ever and just as unforgiving,” said Jean Paul.

     “Who was she,” asked Christine?

     “The last woman who occupied the same position as you do now,” said Jean Paul reaching down to touch Christine’s bare leg.

     “Jean Paul thought he was in love with her.  He brought her home at Christmas to meet the family,” said Maurice.

     “I was in love with her.  When I brought her to the dungeon she was intrigued with the rack and wanted a demonstration,” said Jean Paul.

     “Just like you have done, Christine.  She removed her clothes and allowed Jean Paul to place her in this horrible instrument of medieval torture,” said Maurice taking hold of the post and tightening the windlass slightly.

   Christine groaned in pain as the round bones in her shoulders strained against the sockets.

    “Christine and I were playing a game.  She was pretending to be Joan of Arc and I one of her Burgundian jailers.  I imagine she would enjoy the game even more if you joined us.  Wouldn’t you, Christine?”

   “Yes, Jean Paul should join us.  Is that what happened to Agnes?” said Christine realizing what was happening.  Role-play of a rape while being tortured excited Christine beyond anything she had experienced.  There was no question in Christine’s mind that Maurice was the perfect husband for her.

    “Poor Agnes was not the gamester, you are.  She screamed and begged us not to rape her but like good Burgundians we both took her, several times as I recall,” said Jean Paul unbuckling his belt to step out of his trousers.

    “She particularly objected to our taking some photographs of her with semen oozing out of her asshole,” said Maurice taking a small camera out of his jacket pocket.

    “Of course, we didn’t have this little apparatus at the time, a recent acquisition,” said Jean Paul reaching down to turn the small wheel that further narrowed the gap between the two spike lined half globes crushing her breasts.

    Christine screamed in anguish at what was happening to her body.  She could feel every joint separating as the rack lengthened her frame.  Her breasts were blood red and swollen to the point the veins were visible.  They looked hideous.

    “She’s magnificent,” said Jean Paul touching her sex allowing his fingers to slide down and enter her vagina.

    “Take her.  She’s a familiar of Satan,” said Maurice.

    “Then we should begin with the Devil’s Kiss,” said Jean Paul who had finished undressing.   Jean Paul nimbly stepped onto the rack, positioned his buttocks over Christine’s face then lowered himself to the point he felt the tip of her tongue touch his sphincter.

     “Lucifer taught her well,” said Jean Paul reaching back to separate his buttocks as he felt the warm tongue explore his anus.

     “Christine is an apt student in all matters of the flesh,” said Maurice maintaining a constant tension on the rack.

     “Did Maurice tell you he planned to let me have you,” asked Jean Paul turning around to offer his cock to Christine’s mouth?

     “No, but if it is what Maurice wants then I agree with his decision,” said Christine before placing her lips around the mushroom head.

     “I think you have made an excellent choice in a wife, dear brother,” said Jean Paul as he felt his cock descend into Christine’s warm mouth. 

     “I knew we were kindred spirits the moment we met,’ said Maurice pushing hard enough to cause the ratchet to click twice.

     “Join me, Maurice,” said Jean Paul.  “It’s been too long since we shared a woman.”

     “Of course,” said Maurice removing his sweater.

     Moments later, Christine felt Maurice pressing his cock into her vagina.  Between the French Rack and the Manchu Breast Crusher she was in incredible pain.  Her arm and leg joints were on the verge of dislocation.  The slightest movement caused the thousands of needles stuck in her breast to shift position causing her to scream in agony.  The Pillow tightened her abdomen to the point that Maurice’s cock had to force its away down a narrow passage.

     “There is nothing more erotic than a cunt stretched over a Pillow,” said Maurice as he began a slow thrusting motion.

     “Let’s swap,” said Jean Paul after a few minutes.

     After what seemed like forever, Jean Paul climaxed in her vagina.  Maurice took his place and finished moments later.

     “Now for her other side,” said Maurice removing the Breast Crusher.  “Jean Paul, help me turn her over.”

     “What are you doing,” asked Christine thinking her ordeal was over.

      “Jean Paul wants to fuck you in the ass,” said Maurice as he rolled Christine onto her stomach.

      “Satan preferred to sodomize his familiars,” said Jean Paul helping Maurice secure Christine face down on the rack.

      “Such a tempting sight,” said Jean Paul running his hand over Christine’s upturned bottom elevated by the Pillow.

      “What do you have in mind, dear brother,” asked Maurice?

      “A good English caning would turn her bottom red.  It would also be amusing to watch her sit calmly and listen to Father’s boring stories at dinner tonight,” said Jean Paul.

      “Twenty five with a Malaysian bamboo cane should do it,” said Maurice.

      “All together or twenty-five each,” asked Jean Paul?

      “Each of course, we’ll stand on opposite sides and take turns,” said Maurice removing two flexible bamboo canes from a nearby display case.

      “I forgot how nasty these are,” said Jean Paul cutting the air with the whip like cane.

      “You want us to whip you?  Don’t you Christine?” asked Maurice.

      “Yes, I deserve it,” said Christine.

      Twice they stopped to give Christine water when her voice started to crack.  It took fifteen minutes for the punishment to be administered. 

      “Her bottom is certainly warm enough to be fucked,” said Jean Paul running his hand over the whelps covering Christine’s backside.

      “Go ahead, she loves anal,” said Maurice putting his shoulder against the post increasing the tension causing Christie to scream from the pain in her shoulders.

      “I congratulate you, brother, on finding such a wonderful match,” said Jean Paul as he pushed his cockhead past Christine’s sphincter.  “Welcome to the family, Christine.”

      “Harder, Jean Paul,” said Christine reacting to the dual pains of her ravaged bottom bearing his weight and his large cockhead forcing open her anus.

      “Spoken like a true Chernier,” said Jean Paul slamming his cock into his future sister-in-law’s bottom.

      Moments later, Maurice added his semen to Jean Paul’s.

      “Is there anything more beautiful than the sight of a well fucked vagina and ass slowly leaking cum,” asked Jean Paul admiring Christine’s orifices as he helped Maurice remove her from the rack.

      “Caravaggio should have painted such a scene,” said Maurice pushing three fingers into Christine’s not quite closed anus.  He removed the fluid coated fingers and presented them to Christine’s lips.  She signed with pleasure as she greedily licked them.

       Christine recalled how the two brothers gently rolled her over and placed a rolled up blanket under her head.  They used their mouths to bring her to an incredible climax.  They took their time slowly licking her sex and breasts until she sensed the onrush of an explosive orgasm.  Screaming her pleasure, she shook and writhed as her sex assumed command of her body.  She almost fainted at the intensity of her orgasm.  The French refer to the female climax as la petite morte, the little death.  That afternoon, Christine learned the accuracy of the phrase as her climax took her to the edge of nothingness then slowly allowed her to retreat.    

 

***

    

     Flashes of light awakened Christine.   It was morning in Boston and a fully dressed Maurice was standing over her holding the expensive digital camera she had given him for his birthday.

     “Don’t,” said Christine starting to get up without realizing she had fallen asleep with the black dildo inserted in her vagina.  Only the realistic ball sack that served as the base was visible.

     “When did you buy that,” asked Maurice continuing to capture images of his naked wife spread over the couch as he pointed to the black dildo?  A collection of clothespins, dildos, vibrators, and an inflatable anal plug were lying on the carpet by the couch.  A plastic container labeled, “Wet”, stood open on the table.   

     “Please stop, Maurice,” said Christine starting to cry as she tried unsuccessfully to remove the dildo.  Her lubrications had dried sealing it inside her.  Pictures of any kind had been a non starter since she gained weight.  Images of her with an oversized dildo stuck in her cunt horrified her.

      “Having difficulty,” asked Maurice smiling as he grabbed the base of the faux cock and pulled dragging her off the sofa onto the floor.  “Sorry, it seems to be stuck in your fat cunt.” 

     “Don’t pull. It hurts too much,” said Christine realizing that while she slept her fluids had dried causing her vaginal walls to adhere to the object.  Only a good soaking in the tub or generating additional lubricants would permit its removal.

     “Here,” said Maurice turning on a small vibrator and handing it toward her.

     “What,” asked Christine not understanding what he meant?

     “Get yourself wet or it will never come out,” said Maurice placing the plastic end against Christine’s clit then pressing the point into her soft flesh.

     “Not so hard,” said Christine.

     “You do it then,’ said Maurice handing her the vibrator then lifting the camera to capture another image.

      “Stop, please,” said a sobbing Christine as she worked the hard plastic around her clit.

      “No, it’s not everyday a man finds his wife sound asleep with a black man’s cock in her cunt,” said Maurice.

      “It’s a dildo not a cock.  I bought it the other day.  Black was the only color they had left in this size.  I had to have something.  We haven’t made love for months.”

     “And we won’t until you’re exactly the same weight as when we first met.  My limo’s waiting,” said Maurice slipping the camera into his briefcase. He leaned down to kiss Christine on the forehead then turned to leave.

    “What are you going to do with those pictures,” cried Christine?

    “Show them to Jean Paul.  They should be good for a laugh,” said Maurice as he stepped out the front door.


Review This Story || Author: Harry Berg
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