Fucked with a Gun in Her Head

Mary was new in town, living on her own. She was about to go to sleep when a masked man trespassed, gun on his hand. He fucked her and beat her up without mercy. Witness the action at Girlsravished.com.

# The bashful pervert

This story contains adult subject matter, which may be offensive to
some or illegal within certain jurisdictions. Reading further places
legal and ethical responsibility with the reader. This story is a work
of fantasy, and none of the acts or attitudes described within it are
necessarily endorsed or tolerated. Those who cannot separate fantasy
from reality are mad; those who conclude that fantasy must therefore be
banned are probably not doing well either. See the end of the post for
information regarding redistribution. The Collaborator by She was led
into the clearing with her expensive Paris dress already torn off below
the waist, exposing her pale, shapely legs in their silk stockings and
the lacy panties beneath. Neither of the two hard-faced men who held
the chains of her manacles spoke, or slowed when she cried out, as she
stumbled blindfolded over some obstacle in her path, or brushed up
against some thorned bush which tore her stockings. She was led to the
clearing, and the men who had towed her in her chains like an animal
yanked them downward, forcing her to fall to her knees. She screamed,
and begged them to act like true and gallant Frenchmen, at which some
hollow voice made a hacking laugh, and then fell silent. There was a
clicking sound. Simone knew there was a crowd around her. She could
tell by the cigarette smoke that made her cough, by the rustle, the
bitter whisper of one to another. There were men and women, all around
her, watching her as she knelt, wrists chained before her. And she was
terribly afraid she knew why. “Let’s have it out in the open,” said a
rough voice then, and the blindfold was whipped away. Dusk had fallen,
but the moon was out for her to see every pair of eyes in the village,
staring at her with undisguised hatred. The short length of the chains,
fastened to the base of the marble bench, forced her to kneel, but now
her legs shook and she could almost not stay kneeling. “Simone du
Papillon,” said Raymond, his voice pronouncing the name as he had
spoken of the Boche, of the Germans. “Collaborator.” “No!” she
shrieked. “No, you must understand, it was not my fault, I never
collaborated!” The Paris dress was already torn, and what was torn
didn’t count, but everyone could see the stockings and the panties,
also gifts from Helmut. She tried to make them understand. “I did only
what I had to! I would have suffered otherwise!” Raymond’s spit hit her
just on her cheek, and her shock stopped the words in her throat. “Had
to, tramp? Everyone else in this village DID suffer, you filthy little
Nazi’s slut.” There had been an approving murmur from the gathered
crowd when the gooey spit, tasting of his harsh cigarettes, had hit her
cheek; now there was another approval as the knife she knew he carried
_snicked_ open, and the Paris dress with its lovely rosettes was slit
up the back. It fell to the ground, and she flushed as her generous
breasts swayed under her. “Please! I’m innocent!” she screamed. “I
demand a trial!” In her mind, she knew that if she could only make them
understand, that if they could only see how much nicer it was to
receive Helmut’s presents — and some other things from him — they
would understand that she COULDN’T have done other than she did. But
the same hollow voice — she now knew it was old Rostand, the grizzled
grandfather who ran the bakery — laughed again. Raymond sat down on
the bench, with her face between his legs, and pulled her head roughly
up level with the crotch of his harsh-fabric trousers when she tried to
bow her head. “You had your trial, slut,” he hissed at her. “Every time
you walked through the village streets on the arm of your Gestapo
lover, you tried and convicted yourself.” He loosened the belt that
held up his rough laborer’s trousers, and they slid downwards, exposing
a cock as red as a rooster’s comb and swollen with veins. “Now everyone
in this village who has suffered from your crime will get a piece of
your punishment.” She mewled in fear. Surely this couldn’t be
happening! Surely he could not expect her, a lady, a lady of
refinement, to allow in her mouth his rough peasant — He gagged her
with it, and the gathered crowd murmured approvingly. She tried to
scream, but his rough dirty cockhead was filling the back of her
throat. “Try to bite, little pisette,” he whispered to her, “and I’ll
find another use for this knife than just removing your clothes.” Her
throat tightened with panic, choking her again on the throbbing head of
his phallus. Tentatively, she pulled her head back only enough so that
she could breathe around his manhood, and let her delicate tongue sweep
along the underside of his prick. That was what she had always done
with Helmut when she was afraid he might be angry at her. Raymond
stiffened in her mouth, and laughed, softly. “I knew you would still be
a collaborator, you dirty whore.” He raised his voice. “Come, everyone!
There’s enough of her for all! Take what you want from the slut, she’s
taken enough from us!” The circle of villagers moved closer, and there
were men — and women — who came to her, touching her, pawing her.
Someone grabbed the silken middle-strip of her panties and yanked them
down. She tightened her legs to stop the theft, and got a vicious smack
from a bare hand across her ass and pussy that shocked her into opening
her legs, letting the garment be stolen. Pasquette, the pig farmer, put
his dirty hands on her right tit, roughly pinching and twisting the
nipple, and squeezing it between both hands as if he milked it. Her
eyes flooded with tears. These dirty peasants! Yes, she had sucked
Helmut’s manly rod, and swallowed his hot salt juices; she had enjoyed
his rough attentions to her breasts, letting him squeeze and suck; she
had even spread her legs for him and let him fuck her pussy with his
hard violent strokes. But Helmut had kept his body clean, had been
fanatical about scrubbing off every last bit of dirt! Whereas the cock
she could feel pushing its clumsy way inside her cunt, she could almost
feel it covered with mud and filth as the owner grabbed her hips and
forced it in to the hilt. Raymond had gripped the edge of the marble
bench with one hand and the hair at the back of her head with the
other; instead of making her suck at his cock he was thrusting his
pecker violently into her mouth, shoving it deeper in rhythmic thrusts
that gagged her and made the tears roll down her cheeks. “Slut!” he
cried. “Whore! Cunt! Trollop! Bitch! Take my cum in your throat, you
Nazi’s whore!” With that he began to spurt, the salty seed flooding her
mouth. “Swallow it! Every drop!” he ordered. Her sore, abused throat
struggled to obey. He pulled his rod from between her lips and slapped
each of her cheeks roughly with it, smearing them with saliva and cum.
“Now clean it off.” Simone had no choice but to extend her tongue and
lick the drops of thick liquid from the still semi-rigid tool. Raymond
slid from the bench, and another sat down in his place. Simone was
distracted by pain and shame as the oaf at her back finally loosed his
come in her tunnel, a tunnel nearly bruised from his clumsy thrusts.
When she could blink away the tears, she saw Jeanne-Marie sitting in
front of her face. Her heart leapt. “Jeanne-Marie!” she cried
gratefully. Her good friend Jeanne-Marie, with whom she had gone to
school, was the only other woman of refinement in the village, who
could understand that such peasants had no right to abuse her. “Save
me, Jeanne-Marie! You have to explain to them!” But Jeanne-Marie looked
nothing like her friend, now. “Explain what?” Jeanne-Marie asked
coldly. She brought her hand from behind her back, showing the lacy
sheer panties that Simone had been robbed of. “Explain nothing. Because
of your treachery, my husband who went to the front will never be
returning.” She pulled up the hem of the dark skirt she wore, showing a
bush of dark curls. “So until I have another husband, you will do for
me what he loved to do.” Simone tried to turn her head away, but a pair
of hands caught her head and forced her to stare at Jeanne-Marie’s
furred snatch. “Jeanne-Marie!” she screeched. “You cannot be one of
those, those…. damnee femmes!” Jeanne-Marie slapped her face, hard.
Whoever was holding her head in place for it gave a low, nasty chuckle.
“No, I am not the kind of woman whose dreams are filled with the
tongues of women. But you are not a woman, filthy Simone. You are a
traitor and a slut — lower than any woman could ever be.” Simone
stared at the dark masses of curls, and recoiled from the smell that
emerged from there. She realized that Jeanne-Marie must not have washed
at her bidet for days… as many days as this torture for her had been
in the planning. The meaty pecker that plundered her snatch now
throbbed and sprayed in climax, and Jeanne-Marie stifled Simone’s cries
with her cunt, pressed so hard against Simone’s face that she had
little choice but to lick the hot and musky-wet pussy lips presented to
her, and nuzzle the erect clit with her nose. Jeanne-Marie’s twat
muffled her cries when some man lifted her entire lower body off the
ground with one strong arm and with the other smacked her ass cheeks
hard and without stopping for at least five minutes. The night’s
shaming continued. Simone grew too exhausted anymore to open her eyes,
and guess which pecker or slit or bottom was being pushed against her
mouth; she had long ago lost count of how many men of the village could
now say they had left their white trails of sperm deep inside her cunt,
smeared across her thighs, or decorating her tits. At least one young
teenager, for all the young men had attended the gathering, had settled
for hosing her with a great stream of piss when he couldn’t attain
sufficient stiffness to fuck her opened cunt. And throughout the whole
affair, there were occassional bright flashes of light, blinding in
their intensity; she heard the voice of Royeau the mayor laughing as he
described how the pictures would be the village’s expression of
gratitude to all the poor soldiers recovering from the war in hospitals
at the front. Finally, it seemed as if the night might be over, as
there were no more cocks being thrust in her mouth or pushed between
her struggling thighs, no more hands grabbing at her breasts or roughly
squeezing her mound. She trembled, and no longer had the strength to
stay on her knees, but lay crumpled with the ground against her cheek.
She had only one blessing for which to thank a God who had failed to
rescue her from this: no one had attempted to penetrate her tight
bottom. Helmut had been too horrified by uncleanliness to ever think of
it, but in the days when she had had a husband, he had once forced
himself on her petite rosette with his hard cock and sodomized her for
an hour, ignoring her screams. But now the night was quiet enough that
above the hushed whispers of the crowd, she could hear the tapping of
Rostand’s cane. Rostand was an old grandfather, though his first and
only grandson had died at St. Lo; surely he could not have a erection
sturdy enough to penetrate her with? He could not even stand straight,
nor walk without his cane, a staff of unvarnished wood that was thicker
around than her forearm. She could hear Rostand speaking, but the words
were not clear. Two village men came to help Rostand in whatever it was
he planned; they hauled her to her knees again, though they had to
support her in that position. She remained with her cheek resting on
the hard dirt, eyes tightly closed against the mud her fallen tears
were making. Her ass cheeks were abruptly spread painfully wide, and an
ungentle hand slapped her tight opening with a wad of some sort of oil
or grease. She moaned weakly as the hand spread the grease, coating her
asshole thoroughly, and let out a shriek as it pushed the grease into
her bottom with two thick fingers. When her husband had buggered her,
she had ached for days after; her only relief was that Rostand, an old
man, would have a smaller and weaker cock. She screamed as she felt the
head of the cane nestle at the entrance to her greased bunghole. THE



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