Clare's Humiliation Ch. 01

You know what he can see: he can see your tight, puckered, star-like anus: your arsehole: the place where your shit comes out of your body. He can see your red, glistening, inflated, lips, coated in sticky white fluid. He can smell your cunt; maybe even the musky, gamey smell of your arse.

You can hear James making panting noises. Your back's aching from holding the uncomfortable position, but, eventually, your husband tells you to stand up and turn around.

You turn back to the men, your eyes cast downwards. You can see that the man's taken his prick out now, too. You stare in fascination as the shiny purple head of his prick, glistening with pre-cum, is covered and uncovered, covered and uncovered, by his foreskin.

"Open your legs," says James.

With all your resistance having evaporated, and transfixed by this strange penis in front of you, you open them about a foot: all that the panties around your ankles will allow.

"Wider," says your husband.

Putting a hand down onto one of the chair arms, so as not to overbalance, you quickly step out of one leg of your knickers, stand back up, and spread your legs further apart.

"Wider," repeats James, still not satisfied.

There's no room to spread your legs further without stepping on the man's feet, so, after a moment's hesitation, you lean back, bend your knees and begin squatting; 'like an obscene limbo dancer,' you think, ... 'or a paid whore'.

You feel your sticky lips peel apart. Your pink, slippery hole opens. You know this stranger has a close-up view of your swollen clit, which is pulsing as the blood pumps through it; under that, of your glistening pee-hole: now he can see where the piss leaves your body; and beneath that, of the seductive cavern of your cunt. You're so open that you think to yourself that if he had a torch, he'd be able to see your cervix. The tops of your silken thighs are slick with pussy-juice: it's trickled down to the top of your nylons and is staining them.

"Now pull your lips open," says your never-satisfied husband.

With trembling fingers, you try to grip your lips so you can obey him; but it's hard because they keep slipping out of your fingers. The touch of your fingers on your inflamed labia is glorious; it's agony; it's unbearable; it's irresistible.

As if from a great distance, you become aware of some voices: they're coming from outside the window.

"Fucking hell! That tart's wanking herself off!"

You open your eyes and see two faces peering at you through the gap in the curtains, only a couple of feet away. Two strange men.

On seeing them, you convulse. The first wave of your orgasm hits you like a motorbike hitting a brick wall. Shaking and moaning you fall backwards onto the floor. You writhe and jerk as wave after wave floods over you; around you; through you. Your head snaps back, your face screwed-up as tightly as a crumpled tissue; your jaw gapping; your mouth wide. You're making primitive, non-human sounds; ancient sounds; sounds that you have no control over – the sounds of sex. You hear the unmistakable sounds of your husband and the stranger cumming; their moans and gasps a counterpoint to your own. You feel the stranger's spunk rain down onto your legs, wetting your stockings.

You've never felt so humiliated, so abused, so ashamed of yourself, in your entire life. You've never felt so bad ... or so good.

As the waves continue to shudder through your body, each seemingly greater than the last, your mind reaches a point where it can take no more, and, as you slip and jerk out of consciousness, one last, faint, faraway thought floats into being: 'So this is it: this is ecstasy.'

Then, the world drifts away, and you're left, lying still on the floor: at rest; at peace.