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Videos Of Girls Getting Raped story below

[All characters and actions in this story are purely imaginative. The author in no way condones sexual assault, physical coercion or any non-consentual activity].

In the decades that followed the global energy and food shortages, and the subsequent collapse of various economies, the old polities disintegrated into city states and feudalism. The rich were excessively so, and exploited the poor for their own private gain.

Inside the complex on the far side of the mountain, near the ruins of the Oratory, a slave girl was "hired" for the Master's personal indulgences. Her name was Shana.

Having been taught six erotic poses by the Understudy for display before the Master (upon his whim), Shana had been shown to her shoebox-sized chamber. It had been a disorienting week.

Following this, she had been given her slave outfit, which was a green tunic with short sleeves and a high, even collar with a notch cut in the front, like a priest's. It had a crisp, professional press to it, greatly flattering her upper body, but its hemline was very, very short. She had only an inch, it seemed, between her modesty and her embarrassment.

Now, Shana was in her chamber reading, lying across the bed on her stomach with her feet in the air, brushing her bare, pointed toes against each other. The whole exercise was unconscious to her now (Pose Four, Variation D), and so long as she was alone, she didn't mind the mirror reflecting how the skirt betrayed the first inch of cheek of her bare seat. Now, lost in the book, she was unaware of the approaching shuffle of the Usher, did not hear the feet on the ladder, did not realize her solitude was to be taken again until the curtain was flung back. Shana gasped, and was off the bed and on the floor in one, swift motion, her head bowed. The Usher's face was expressionless.

"The Understudy will see you now," he said simply. She never knew what time it was, but she had the sense to know it was late. She was always allowed her sleep, her quiet time. Shana nodded and rose. "Bare feet," the Usher said, absent-mindedly, almost to himself, as he climbed back down the ladder. Shana suppressed a sigh. Cold concrete again, the sandals forsaken. She climbed out and down the ladder, oblivious to the Usher's upward stare. She was going over in her mind what it was the Understudy might want her for.

* * *

The Usher brought Shana to a dark room she'd never seen before, at the far end of the complex. She was greeted by the sight of a strange contraption in the middle of the room. A sort of stainless steel operating table, with a large floodlight positioned overhead and a long, stainless steel piston-shaped tube emerging from an inscrutable mesh of hydraulics, rounding to a soft point at one end like a missile, and with a diameter comparable to a rolling pin. The Understudy paced slowly around the machine and stopped when he caught sight of Shana.

"Ah, good," he said, "You've arrived." She knelt and bowed her head. Rather than leave, the Usher went and flipped some switches on the contraption. Gauges and tiny lights jumped to life on the console. Then he switched on the floodlight and the metallic table was brightly lit, the shiny metal reflecting the light all around the room. The Understudy smiled thinly. "I designed and built this myself," he said. "Spare scrap from McGill engineering." Shana stared up uncomprehendingly at the machine. The Understudy stepped forward and took her hand. "Arise, slave," he said, gently pulling her up. "Stand on your toes for a moment." She did, and the Understudy paced around her, taking her in from all sides. Standing on her toes had the action of pulling the back of her skirt's hem up high enough to show a hint of the crease of her bare ass.

The Understudy stopped smiling. "All right, that's enough," he said calmly, striding over to the machine. "Come over here and get up on the table." Shana hesitated, her eyes wide. "Now!" the Understudy barked, and she padded quickly over, and slid onto the table, keeping her legs and thighs firmly together, in an attempt to preserve her modesty.

The Usher seemed to be checking gauges, and conferred momentarily with the Understudy, the two talking in quiet tones. Shana stared at the piston. The Understudy turned back to her suddenly and said, "Alright, Slave Shana, lie on your back." Shana broke her silence.

"What is this machine for?" she asked quietly.

"Lie down and I'll tell you," he replied. She slowly lay back, bringing her legs up, thighs together, onto the cold, metal slab. She tugged her tunic down to cover her fur, which uncovered her bare rear. She felt the cold metal beneath her and began to shake. Before she understood what was happening, the Understudy calmly reached to the side of the table and pulled a strap tightly over her pelvis like a seatbelt, locking it in place on the other side beyond her reach. Shana sat up in a panic, tried to wiggle her torso free, and found she was belted tight to the table. She looked at the Understudy with fright.

"Please, sir, what are you doing?" she squeaked. The Understudy pushed her back down roughly, eliciting a surprised grunt from her.

"Slave Shana, I am displeased with your truculence and we are here tonight to ensure that this behaviour changes!" the Understudy thundered. Shana began to cry, quietly, tears brimming up and rolling down her cheeks.

"But, but I've been a good girl," she said quietly, plaintively.

"No," said the Understudy simply. "Not to my way of thinking." She began to cry harder as the realization dawned on her that he meant to punish her. Her slim body increasingly shook with her sobs. "Anyway," said the Understudy, "I'm not much for lectures. This isn't a movie." He turned toward the console. "Begin the treatment," he said to the Usher, who nodded and flipped a switch.

Shana let out long, choking sobs as the piston shuddered to life and advanced up the table with a soft whine of its hydraulic arms. Shana's sobbing filled the room from end to end, echoing off the walls piteously. The piston was already positioned at a latitude that brought it easily up between her legs. Shana sat up again, wracked with choking sobs, frantically clamping her thighs together as he finally realized what the piston was for, and why she wasn't wearing any panties underneath her little skirt.

"Oh, no, no, no, no!" she moaned, shaking her head, as if trying to will a halt to the piston's advance. She grabbed it and pushed against it, pushed with all her might, but the hydraulics were relentless, and the belt across her pelvis had pinned her hips firmly in place. The Understudy stepped back and watched impassively as it nosed up under her skirt. It would not yield to her clamped thighs and, as the tip reached her pubic bone, Shana still pushed and pushed and pushed against it, shrieking. But the tip breached her labia majora, pushed through her hymen and began to stretch the insides of her vagina wider then she ever thought possible, making a discernable squishing noise.

For a brief moment, she continued to fight it with her hands, plunging them between her thighs and grabbing at the piston frantically as it went up into her, fingers sliding uselessly against stainless steel. Her legs squirmed and her bare feet scrabbled on the table. The piston slowed considerably once it encountered resistance: it would pause, advance an inch, pause, advance an inch.

That was when Shana stopped crying.

A special kind of silence began.

The room hushed as her normal behaviour ceased. The performance commenced: unrehearsed, spontaneous, and genuine.

Shana arched her back deeply, her breasts straining through her tunic, nipples hardened. The tiny, short skirt of her uniform slipped up her bare thighs as she brought her knees up. She began to tilt her head back, her long hair spilling off the edge of the table. Her arms and hands grew rigid, every tendon visible, and raked the table. Her bare feet arched hard like a gymnast, toes pointed. She silently opened her mouth wide, relaxed it slightly, then widened it again.

"Aa, aaa..." she croaked.

Then silence, and a soft whirring.



Her head was thrown all the way back, jaw quivering.

"Aaa..." she croaked again.

Her bare feet arched again, her sweaty soles squeaking as they slid on the table.

Silence filled the room.

The sound of her filled the silence.

"Aaa– aa-aa..." like Morse Code.

Sweat ran in rivulets down her forehead and neck.

The piston was deep inside her.

The Understudy gave a small nod to the Usher, who flipped the switch, and the piston suddenly withdrew from her – halfway.

Shana collapsed back on the table, hyperventilating noisily, her chest heaving, her tunic damp with sweat. The Understudy gave her a moment and then nodded at the Usher. "Again," he said. The Usher flipped the switch and the piston pushed up into her again. Shana's body went rigid, as before, and the room hushed a second time.

When the piston was fully inside her, the Understudy stepped forward and released the belt across her hips. With the flip of another switch by the Usher, the piston began to lift her, waist-first, leaving her back and shoulders resting on the metal slab and her raised lower half impaled on the piston.

Her body hung suspended at an angle, skirt falling up to reveal her how the piston emerged obscenely from her pussy. She involuntarily wrapped her bare legs around the cold piston, toes pointed, the sound of sweaty bare skin rubbing against steel. Her clawed hands tried to reach up toward the piston, uselessly.

"aa... aa... aa..."

The Understudy nodded at the Usher, who reversed the switch, and the piston let her back down to the slab, and withdrew from her quickly, dripping and slick. The Usher calmly wiped it with a cloth.

Shana hyperventilated again and heaved before rolling onto her side and drawing her knees up to her chest. The special, surreal silence was over and time snapped back to normal again. The performance had ended, the machine was switched off, and Shana began to sob hard, gut-wrenching sobs.

The Understudy said, "At the height of that, you executed a perfect Pose Five."

Shana sobbed. "Please don't do that again. Please don't hurt me anymore. Please don't hurt me."

"I won't. But I'm sure you'll work harder at your Pose Five with that kind of inspiration," he said. "Anyway, the Usher will take you to the infirmary. I know that hurt, but you'll get more than enough rest."

She lay still on the table, her thighs quivering.

The Understudy turned to go, stopped, and said, "I take it you'll be less familiar with the Caterer next time." He left the room, leaving her with the Usher, who waited patiently for her to recover.

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