She couldn't stop coming.

There was no way she could stop. It didn't matter that she had already come repeatedly earilier that evening-with Bartelli, with Philip, with Townsend. It was as if that had been long ago. And something else. Not like this. Nothing had ever been like this.

They used her constantly. There was no pause, no rest. They passed her from one to another, from man to man, from group to group. She was always being fucked by at least one man, usually two, often three. They used every hole she had, and some didn't bother with holes. They took her lying, standing, sitting, crouching, bending, kneeling, leaning. She swallowed gallons of sperm. Her cunt and her asshole overflowed with it. The men were tireless. It went on for hours.

And she couldn't stop coming.

As much as they gave her, she wanted more. She gloried in the helpless feeling given her by her bound and aching wrists. She pulled at the ropes just to feel how useless her arms were to her as the men manipulated her body into the positions they wanted. She moaned with joy as they pulled her legs roughly apart to get at her cunt, or flipped her over to use her ass, or pushed her tits together toslide a cock between them. Her cries filled the air, even when muffled by a marauding prick pushing its way into her throat. She came again and again, over and over, with no lessening of intensity. Over and over. And still it went on.

Her body was streaked with come, wet and dry, mingling with her sweat. When it got distracting, they took her into the bathroom and placed her in the tub. Then they gathered round and cleaned her off by urinating all over her body. She came twice as they were doing that. Then they ran the shower on her, and then it began again.

Some time in the small hours they were finally ready for a break. Townsend uncovered a large buffet that had been set up on one side of the room, and the men partook ravenously of the various kinds of food and drink. They did not untie Susan to allow her to eat, but they amused themselves by throwing bits of food at her, and making her scramble after them as best she could, and eat them from the floor like a dog. She hated herself for doing it, but she loved being degraded so thoroughly before the watching, laughing men. Her debasement and their assuaged hunger swiftly aroused most of them still again, and soon she was screaming with the terrible ecstasy of being mercilessly, endlessly, mauled, fucked, used and passed on. And coming. Over and over again.

It ended at dawn, with some of the depleted men dragging themselves into their clothes and out the door, but most of them just lying around the room, either sleeping or just too tired to move. In their midst Susan lay crying with exhaustion, with joy, with despair. Townsend, who had watched throughout the night without participating, sat on the sofa, still watching.

"You may go home now, Mrs. Garson," he said.

"Oh god," Susan sobbed bitterly. "I'm such a whore."

"Of course," Townsend said.

"A rotten, fucking slut," Susan choked.

"You are magnificent," Townsend said flatly. "Would you like to come over here and suck me off before I let you go?"

"Yes," she said, and crawled painfully toward him.

After she had sucked him off, he untied her hands and helped her into her dress. He tucked something down inside it as he said goodbye to her. Outside the apartment door, Philip was waiting to drive her home. He was polite and silent, seeing her to her door and even tipping his hat as he left her.

She was almost too tired to undress herself, but she managed to unzip her gown, and the thing Townsend had put down between her breasts fell to the floor. It was a thousand-dollar bill.

Susan's face burned and her eyes stung. I guess that makes it official, she thought bitterly. I'm a whore for real now. A genuine, honest-to-god whore.

She began to cry again, and when she stopped she had decided to kill herself.