Melody's Open Invite Gangbang Ch. 13

But he also made her cum like no man had ever succeeded at doing. He knew just how to push her, how to use her humiliation and shame to push her over the edge, over and over. Crucially, his cruelty did not extend beyond the bedroom. As reluctant as she still was to say it outright, it was true that the inherent submissiveness in her, her unavoidable sexual response to being exposed, degraded, and humiliated, made it so that the type of sex he gave her was as good as it could get within the confines of a single, monogamous relationship. She still felt a vague apprehensiveness about everything, which would probably take years to overcome, but she started to imagine a life with Bruce.

He took her out to parties like the first one about once a week. Each time he would have a new wardrobe laid out for her to wear, although now he had the outfit entirely selected for her each time, with no options. It was always something fancy that she liked, anyway. Each time she would be treated to an in-house spa treatment, with manicures and pedicures, in the day before they went. Her skin had never felt softer.

For the second party it was a chilly night, and he had a silky gray dress for her, tall black leather high-heeled boots, and the softest mink fur coat she had ever felt in her life. Her stylist had dyed her hair a lighter shade of blonde the day before, almost silver, but intentionally leaving the roots her natural darker color. She treated her to her full procedure, soaking and moisturizing her feet, then painting all of her nails a deep, rich red, with lipstick to match. When she was ready to go Melody felt like a movie star from Hollywood's golden age.

"One last thing," Bruce said when she came upstairs to join him, smiling at her attire. He pulled out a buttplug, slightly bigger than average but nothing too extreme. "Take your panties off and leave them here. You'll keep this in all night. I've already lubricated it, but there's more if you need it. Go ahead and put it in now."

Melody took the plug from him and stared at it for a moment. If he wanted this, she would do it. It wasn't so much to ask. She looked at him and smiled bashfully for a moment, feeling stupid, and then pulled her panties down, lifting one booted foot and then the other to pull them off. She squatted down on the ground and pressed the tip of the plug against herself, feeling the ring of her anus first resist, and then slowly open, reluctantly, to accept the continued force of the intrusion. She bit her lower lip as she gave it a final forceful push, and then her asshole tried and failed to pinch shut around the flange, about the diameter of a quarter, locking it in place. The part inside her rectum was about the size of a lemon. She stood up awkwardly, feeling more stretched and violated than she had anticipated. She smiled awkwardly at Bruce again and then took his arm and he led her out to the car.

It was a brisk night out, early spring. It felt odd and strangely thrilling to feel the cool air blow up her skirt and touch her pussy, while the rest of her was swaddled in a warm coat. When she sat down in the car she shifted uncomfortably, trying to find a way to sit naturally with what now felt like an enormous intrusion in her ass.

Soon they were at the party. Melody waddled in, feeling like everyone in the room knew she had a big plug up her ass as surely as if she were being x-rayed. The feeling of her asshole trying desperately to close but not being able to left her feeling very vulnerable, which in turn was making her feel unavoidably aroused. Whenever anyone spoke to her she tried to respond as nonchalantly as she could, but it felt as if her words were coming between halting breaths.

The night passed without much of note. She was more careful to watch how much she drank. She would hate to pass out in front of people twice in a row. Bruce had told her after last time that the alcohol they served at these events was of the highest quality, likely better than she'd ever had before, and it was so smooth that it could go right through you without realizing how drunk you were getting until it was too late. So she sipped a glass of champagne and avoided any drinks that might have liquor in them.

People greeted them, most taking time to specifically talk to her, not just Bruce, some of them as if she was an old friend. She recognized several of the same people from last time, although she had very few actual memories of interacting with any of them. All the while she shifted awkwardly, tugging at the hem of her skirt.

She followed Bruce around, waddling with her high heeled boots lifting her ass up, her legs strolling, trying to look natural around the big plastic intrusion shoved up between them. She was also highly conscious of the lack of panties. Feeling the breeze of the room directly against her labia and asscheeks made her feel naked among all these people. She kept fearing the plug would pop out of her sphincter and land on the floor right in front of a horrified crowd, but she knew it had to be in there too tight to do so. The violation and fear of exposure had made her wet. She became concerned that her pussy grool would start running down her thighs, too. She felt incognito from her normal reputation here. The thought of all these fancy, wealthy people realizing she just served as a nasty slut both mortified and, of course, excited that damned side of her psyche, ever present deep down. The side indirectly responsible for all the ruinous turns her life had taken.

She kept her alcohol intake slow and meager. The night passed without too much fuss. She felt continuously at risk of exposing herself, but she never did. When she sat the plug would burrow deeper into her rectum, maybe into her colon, and she would shift uncomfortably, feeling as if her situation was obvious to all these people. Still, no one commented or cast her askance glances.

They returned home a few hours later and Melody felt buzzed but luckily was still cognizant this time. Bruce took her straight to his bedroom and had her undress, removing everything except her tall boots. Then he bent her over, slowly pulled the plug out of her sore asshole until it cleared her sphincter with an audible pop, and then immediately replaced it with his swollen hard dick in her gaping shitter. She placed her hands flat against the window for balance as he railed her hard.

"How many men have used these filthy fucking holes?" he growled in her ear, as he always did.

"One thousand, three hundred and six," she panted, automatically.

He reached around and she felt him shoving the buttplug in her mouth, still coated in her anal juices. She knew better than to resist him. It invaded her mouth and her jaw strained strained around it, her tongue swirling for room around the filthy plastic.

"Keep saying it," he said.

"Ome thouthant thwee hunded and thix," she mumbled stupidly, hating it yet feeling strangely right in submitting to his degradation.

"Say it over and over."

She kept slurring it, her mouth fighting to form the syllables around the intrusion, while Bruce assaulted her colon, pounding into her viciously, the flesh on her asscheeks rippling with each thrust. With one hand he flicked her slippery clit expertly, bringing her to three shuddering orgasms as he rammed her, her knees buckling and fighting to stay upright. When he was ready to cum he grabbed one of her tits, squeezing it hard, like a stress ball between his fingers as she felt spurt after spurt of hot cum shoot up into her intestines.

He finally pulled out of her with a wet squelch. He took the plug from her mouth.

"Squat down," he ordered.

She did it compulsively. He reached down and shoved the plug right into her soaked cunt.

"Hope you cleaned it off well enough," he said. He cupped his hand under her asshole. "Shit my cum out."

She felt her face flushing red, but she did it. She pushed as hard as she could, over and over, until his cum splattered out of her asshole and into his hand in embarrassing wet farting noises. Once it was all out he smeared the puddle all over her face.

"Tell me what you are," he said, standing over her where she crouched at his feet and jerking off his cock, which was already regaining its rigidity.

She looked up at him, feeling utterly debased, ass-cum soaking her madeup features, a used ass-plug stretching her vagina open.

"I'm a whore," she said, knowing what he wanted. "I'm your whore."

He grabbed her head and impaled his cock into her face balls deep. She gagged and choked while he used her head and throat to bring himself to another orgasm. Finally, mercifully, he finished again, holding her head all the way down as he shot more cum right down her gullet. He pulled his considerable length out of her throat, freeing her airways. She collapsed to the ground and gasped in the precious air, coughing on the cum.

He caressed her face, suddenly gentle.

"Sleep in my bed tonight," he said. "Keep the plug up that cunt."

The next morning he was perfectly sweet to her again. At least his degradation took place in private, she thought. She was used to the same behavior and worse being shown to the whole world. She got out of bed, fully naked, and waddled to the bathroom. She sat down on the toilet and gingerly pulled the plug out of her vagina. Her opening was rimmed red where the plastic had kept her stretched open all night. In its absence she felt relief mixed with flooding soreness as her genitals were allowed to return to their normal shape. When she showered and put on a bathrobe and went out, Bruce was smiling at her over a table set out with another grand breakfast.

And so it continued on like this, with a party every week or so, and between those, confined to the mansion, but pampered and waited on hand and foot. At each party he would have her dress in a completely different style, almost as if she were some doll he was playing dress up with, but she never questioned it. It was fun for her, in a way. She had always enjoyed taking care of herself, dolling herself up when she could. He would have her try styles she never would have done on her own, but that was part of the fun, in a way.

Sometimes she would be dressed up in a fairly normal, glamorous fashion, with nice dresses and french manicures, but then the next time she would be made up in a way that she considered to be somewhat trampy and embarrassing - a low cut, loose blouse you could see her braless nipples poking through, short jean shorts, a short bobcut black wig, ridiculously tall open-toed heels and bright red polish on her finger and toenails. One time he had her wear all black - dress, hair, lipstick, nail polish - like some goth diva. It seemed to always be the same people at the parties, like they were part of some weird society, although it could just be the society of San Francisco's rich elites. She wondered what they thought of her showing up like a completely different person each time.

After the third party he had given her ornaments to put back in her piercings - regular steel barbells for her nipples, and a ridiculous diamond thing for her clit. He said it was a waste not to use them. He told her he wanted her to keep them in whenever she was with him from now on.

The plugs became a regular fixture as well. He gave her a larger one to simultaneously keep in her pussy throughout the night as well, and after a week they both became a size larger. The intrusions felt so extreme that the feeling of being double penetrated all night was all she could focus on, and she was certain that these people either had to realize she was plugged, or assumed she was a vapid idiot for never being able to carry a conversation with any of them beyond on or two word responses. Her gait felt extremely awkward, but Bruce assured her it was all in her head.

At that third party she had blacked out yet again. She supposed she went a little harder on the alcohol that time, reassured by her success the time before, but it still happened unexpectedly. She woke up in Bruce's bed the next morning, only being able to recall a couple hours of the night before. Bruce told her it was her nerves causing her to drink more than she realized. At the fourth party it didn't happen, but then at the fifth it did again.

She knew now that something had to be going on. She lay in Bruce's bed alone the next morning, feeling between her legs. She slowly eased out both of her large plugs. They made her sore enough on their own that it would be difficult to tell if her body had been used in any other ways without her recollection. She took a shower, knowing Bruce was waiting for her at the breakfast table upstairs. Her hands shook as she considered confronting him about what was really happening to her at these parties, but she knew she had to ask.

She got out, dried off, and put her bathrobe on her naked body. She took a deep breath, and then walked down the hall to the main part of the house.

Bruce was sitting at the table, smiling at her over a full spread, as expected. She sat down and sipped on the mimosa that was already sitting out waiting for her.

"Sleep well?" he asked.

She nodded without making eye contact with him. She struggled for the words to say but came up with nothing. She nibbled out some of the food with no appetite. She went through three mimosas while engaging Bruce in awkward small talk. Finally he leaned forward and put his hand over hers.

"Is something on your mind, Melody?" he asked, looking compassionately into her eyes.

She took another big sip of her drink.

"I passed out again last night."

"You did."

"Why does that keep happening? Am I being drugged?"

Bruce smiled at her.

"I wondered when you'd ask me that. I think you're ready for me to come clean about our arrangement. Come with me."

He got up and walked away. Melody followed him, her sense of foreboding rising. He led her to his office. A large monitor was mounted to the wall, which was connected to his computer. When she saw him sit down in the chair and boot up the computer, her heart sank. This couldn't be going anywhere good.

"Take a seat," he told her, gesturing toward a plush leather armchair in the corner. She did so, trying to hide her hand shaking as she held her glass.

His computer was running, projecting his desktop to the monitor. He turned and faced her.

"I first want to say that I do not believe I have betrayed the initial terms I set out at the beginning of your residence here. I said then, correctly, that your reputation, your capacity for a 'normal' existence in this puritanical society, is already ruined. Nothing I could do would change that. I told you that you were free to go at any time, as you were and are, but that if you stayed here I would protect you from death, from slavery. I never promised you privacy, or a total retreat from the lifestyle that is now bound to you with or without me. I told you that I would cultivate and shape your basest desires, those that, inadvertently or not, got you into this situation. That I would make them work for you, rather than against you. I never lied to you. What I am about to show you is the first part of that process. You will feel angry toward me at first when I show you this, but I think you will come to realize it was a necessary first step. You might not have agreed otherwise, and then...who knows where you'd be."

She was shaking visibly now, not even bothering to try to hide it.

"For these first few weeks you must have found my demands of you to be rather mild. They must have appeared so. But here are the secret machinations that were working under the surface."

He clicked something. A video popped up on screen. It took her a moment to realize what it was. It was candid footage of her, well shot but inconspicuously, chatting in a crowd of people. It was the first party he'd taken her to. She was wearing that first, shimmery gold dress, her hair done up in an Asian bun on her head. The footage continued for a while, following her as she chatted awkwardly to strangers or sat alone in a chair in the corner as people milled by, nursing a drink. She had been completely unaware of the camera. It made cuts, but it showed the full extent of her gradual descent into a blackout state.

"The roofies I gave you were of the highest quality," he said to her. "Very safe, very reliable, with no hangover."

She kept staring at the screen, her jaw clenching, a vein in her forehead starting to pulse. Soon the video was showing Bruce, along with a gaggle of men from the party, leading the loopy, stumbling Melody to a back room at the party. He skipped ahead. Now she was on all fours on a table, barefoot, her dress hiked up around her waist, some suited man railing her from behind, another in her mouth. He skipped again, several times. She didn't know how many men had their way with her. At least 20, maybe 40. Some of them she recognized as men she'd conversed with at multiple parties.

Bruce was grinning at her. "You didn't think I'd do the world the disservice of keeping that lovely cunt all to myself did you?"

She didn't say anything. He skipped to the next video. The night he made her go with the ripped booty shorts and black bobcut wig, like sexy trailer trash. That one went much the same as the previous one, with candid footage of her earlier in the night, followed by half the party fucking her raw. This one ended with a good dozen of them finishing on her face, her overdone mascara and red lipstick smeared across her face by a collective pint of semen.

Melody was still just staring at the screen, not looking at him.

"So this is why you took me to those parties," she said. "Was everyone there in on this? They were all just coming for the opportunity to use a middle-class whore?"

"Not all of them," Bruce said calmly. "It is a rather elite club, and most of the people there have an idea that there are certain rooms you don't go in if you're not invited. But they are discrete, enlightened people. The only people invited to partake in your charms were hand-selected by me. I slipped a card to those I deemed worthy. The rest didn't know that it was you, specifically, who were the entertainment. Though they may have had a hunch, as you accompanied me."

"How many used me?"

"62 total, across the three parties where you were out. Many were repeats. So 1,368 is your real number now."

She still didn't look at him. The screen was now showing her being used the night she went in that ridiculous goth getup. She swallowed.

"Were you ever going to tell me this if I didn't ask?"

"Of course. I knew you'd ask eventually, but I certainly would have told you soon either way. I didn't want to continue like that forever. I'm ready to move to the real arrangement of our relationship going forward, assuming you aren't ready to run out the door."

She finally looked at him now, a single tear now rolling down her cheek, as much as she'd tried to stave it off. Her mind was racing, recalibrating everything she thought about this man, weighing whether she wanted to stay with this manipulator, even if he was rich. Whether it would be better to face the unpredictability and possibly greater cruelty of the outside world.

There's only more pain waiting for you out there, she thought. At least here it's a known quantity now. And at least he's honest, if belatedly, about his manipulation. Others have not been so forthcoming. And he did warn me, in a roundabout way. Maybe it was my own stupidity to assume he wouldn't take things further.

Outwardly her face just trembled. More tears came.

"Remember the process I spoke of. I never implied it would be easy. I'm very familiar with the ins and outs of your situation, your story. And I am familiar with the forums and various webpages dedicated to you, familiar with the extreme interest a growing number of men around the world have in you. Your fandom, so to speak. I have to keep tabs on them, and on their desires, both nefarious and understandable.