Disconnected

Hey. This is an erotic story about Kelly Osbourne. It is fiction. It is

fairly nasty, and those of a sensitive disposition should stop reading.

I make no apologies for the lack of a decent plot; it is intended to be

sex-dominated. Age restrictions are tyranny, as is copyright: this story

is in the public domain.

DISCONNECTED

“Someone told me once that there’s a right and wrong

Punishment was sure for those who dared to cross the line…”

— Tool, _Jerkoff_

The leader swore as his white van pulled up into the ostentatious driveway.

He was running a risk by being
here. He’d tried to bribe the security

guards,

first with a sizable wad of cash, then with promises of a piece of fine

teenage ass, but they were having none of it. _Clever them_, he thought,

for none of these things would ever have reached them. _Or not so clever_,

he corrected as he caught a glimpse of their stunned bodies in the driveway.

A man can be big, but a tazer will beat any muscle.

He cradled the keycard in his pocket, lazily driving the van with one hand.

Soon she would be his. He pulled up outside and quickly carded the door,

taking care to avoid the security camera’s gaze. Silently, he was in.

He bounded up the staircase, marvelling inwardly at the skulls adorning

the walls, but holding his silence with the precision of a cat burglar.

As he reached the door (there was no doubt: it was plastered with a large

middle-finger motif), his adrenaline sparked.

He stepped gingerly into the room, its cow-patterned lurid carpet, its

garish colour scheme, and knew this was right. The posters told the tale:

clean-cut rockstars from the latest anonymous bands on MTV, but these were

signed lovingly, addressed to “Kelly”. And there she was, the little bitch:

lying splayed on her bed, not below the sheets, as if she’d just passed out.

And that was the truth.

How brilliant his plan was. When he wasn’t assembling an entourage of

cultlike fervour (to them, he was just “master” or “leader”), he found time

to serve drinks in the Korova, the hippest rock bar in town. He served

celebrities daily, and usually wasn’t that interested in them: so perfect

and dull. But then, one day, walked in a girl – she can only have been

sixteen, early seventeen – who strutted around like she owned the place.

Visually repulsive (at least for one used to the sight of celebrities) –

overdone make-up and a pot belly, cellulite that was exposed through the

striped and torn pantyhose she wore below a short black skirt – and with

a shock of pink hair and a foul mouth, she looked more like a hooker from

outside a goth club than a patron of the Korova.

“Get me a fuckin’ drink, bartender.”

“With respect, madam, may I see some ID?”

“You don’t need to see my identification,” she said, and, with a flourish,

subtly lifted her enormous breasts (augmented with fat) from her top and

rubbed them together with audacity before squeezing them back into her tight

black bra.

Briefly persuaded, the man had served her her choice – double vodka and

lemonade, although she was clearly too young to be drinking. He wondered

how she got in, how she got through the bouncers.

“Excuse me, may I ask your name?” he enquired, straining to be polite to

this underage strumpet.

“Duh.” She accompanied this with a sardonic hand gesture and a silly face.

“I’m Kelly Osbourne. Ya know, daughter of the biggest man in metal and

rising musical starlet?”

Now he thought, he could recall hearing a song on the radio. _Shut Up_,

it had been called. It fit perfectly with her personality: loud, obnoxious,

and strongly needing discipline. As he stared transparently at her

mammaries,

he hatched a plan.

“Let me get you the special,” he said. As he went into the back, he took

a pill from his wallet. It was Rohypnol (a “roofie”), easily obtained,

especially when you had contacts like him. He had planned to use it to aid

his getting drunk at the end of the night, but now he found a much better

use

for it. He mixed a vodka and lemonade, slipped the pill into the drink and

watched it dissolve. He then grabbed a bottle of claret to mask the taste

and make it more “special”. He realized it would taste foul, but nevermind.

As he arrived back at the bar, the little harlot was making eyes at him,

having finished her drink quickly, without so much as a shudder. Before he

handed her his drink, he asked, “So, what are you doing tonight?”

“I’m going back to my house with my boyfriend. We’re gonna watch

movies…and

maybe more.” She gave him a wink and giggled. “Sounds like a great night

in,” he said, now on autopilot. This was all he needed to know. She

wouldn’t

know for a while, but as the night went on, the drug would make her drowsier

and drowsier. Her boyfriend would have to go early, because she wouldn’t

want to do _anything_. And _everyone_ knew where the Osbournes lived.

And so he found her, lying face down on her expensive pillows, her black

lipstick stained mouth dribbling a small pool of saliva. It was a beautiful

sight. Everything was going to work out great…except for her. He picked

her up, and she didn’t stir, but God, she weighed a ton. He thought of

himself

as a strong guy, but this was stretching it; and she was _big_. She

wouldn’t

fit across his shoulder, so he had to painfully haul her down the stairs,

cradling her pink hair in one hand while supporting her weight from her

thigh

with the other. His footsteps were much heavier, and it was very lucky that

the family were heavy sleepers, otherwise he might have been detected.

Desperate to be rid of the weight, the second he got to the van, he opened

the boot, and found his gang waiting for him. He dropped Kelly roughly on

the floor, and her hand moved and a groan escaped her mouth. She was

quickly

restrained by his followers. The leader smiled. It didn’t matter that she

was awake now. There was no escape, and the fun was just about to begin.

* * * *

“Caught by the fuzz, while I was, still on the buzz

In the back of the van, with my, my head in my hands…”

— Supergrass, _Caught By The Fuzz_

He pulled a piece of metal from the tattered blue sports bag. It was dark

steel, welded roughly in a square shape with the bottom left off, forming

an arch; facing inwards from the right and left walls were two squat spikes,

their length roughly the same as their two-centimetre diameter,

impertinently

staring you in the face. There were concealed hinges in the joints between

the side and top pieces of metal. The purpose of the device was clear: to

puncture. A button on the top poked obscenely; the man pressed it

playfully,

and the gang watched in unsurprised glee as the spikes clanged together,

contacting perfectly with a jarring steel clash.

One gang member pinched the flesh of Kelly’s ass between his finger, and

pulled

it upwards, stretching it far away from the bone. Another member positioned

the stapler device in the exact middle of the exposed plane, bringing both

sides of cold metal down around the arch. Kelly screamed, desperately

trying

to get a look at the stubby spikes facing inwards towards her butt-flesh.

“Don’t worry, it’ll only hurt for a second”, the gang leader said, while

giving

the order to fire. The spikes closed, instantly puncturing Kelly’s flesh

and letting blood trickle down from the wound, clogging around her asshole.

Kelly screamed blue murder; the pain seared like the end of the world.

A gang member slapped her around the face, causing it to blotch, but this

only provoked more screams.

“Let’s do this thing before we have to kill this bitch”, said a more violent

member. The leader tacitly agreed. He gave the command to pierce Kelly’s

other ass cheek; the one that had just been pierced was beginning to finish

bleeding, and the hole left was neat and clean, about one centimetre radius.

Kelly, of course, could not care less how big her new opening was; she was

too busy screaming. The gang decided to take advantage of this situation.

They quickly positioned the stapler; it was more difficult because

Kelly’s back was bucking so violently, but a member quickly held her down.

She hardly noticed when the arch punched another hole in her ass-flab,

exactly horizontally symmetrical thanks to the high standards of the leader;

the blood trickling down her legs seemed to soothe her psychological torment

rather than intensify it.

The gang left her tied up naked on the floor, bleeding from her buttocks

onto

the cold sheet-iron crinkled floor. As the van drove off along the darkened

road, lit by cats-eyes and the odd streetlight, she squirmed and writhed,

confused, wondering why anyone would want to do this to her. She’d never

thought herself particularly attractive: certainly, she could do with losing

some weight. Her music career was nothing but a piece of harmless fluff,

something that no-one but a true elitist could find fault with, and a music

fan would never go to these lengths. Money? She held barely any

personally;

the security around her would cop anyone who tried to access her funds

or those of her parents in a second. There’s only one explanation left,

she thought as she felt the blood cool unnaturally in her bare asshole.

A ransom. I’m nothing more than a cartoon character tied to a traintrack,

only this time I’m just tied to a van wall with holes in myself.

The gang leader giggled in his head, knowing that Kelly was nothing of

the sort, also knowing that she would soon be tied to something she would

find much more objectionable than the tracks ridden by the biggest train.

He chuckled at the brilliance of his heist, and his penis strained against

its enclosures when he thought of Kelly Osbourne’s pale ass staring at the

moon, two gashes in it contrasting perfectly to the darkness of the night.

Better yet, this had only just started. They had many days of play ahead

of them; who knows how long they could keep her before they threw the fat

fucktoy away, her body used, her mind broken? The voices of his members

barely penetrated his fantasies: “Bitch wasn’t punk enough to get her nose

pierced, how does it feel to have her ass pierced?”…”She doesn’t need a

ring for it, there’s one in full view”…Lame jokes, shame he had to use

these creeps to fulfil his objectives.

* * * *

“I got the mugwump jism up in every verse”

— Bomb The Bass, _Bug Powder Dust_

The van pulled up, anonymous and white, at some equally anonymous

destination.

Anonymous not to the gang members, but to Kelly, who had been diligently

tied

up so that even though moonlight reflected off her bare bottom perfectly,

the view looking back through her legs was just the night sky and her

pursed pussy lips. She had no hope of ever seeing behind her over her

back: she was tied too well, and doing so just rippled the fat on her neck.

The gang will have to get me into wherever I’m going somehow, she thought.

I’ll just look around, then call the cops and give them a detailed

description.

Hell, I’m Kelly Osbourne, they’ll get people to come get me in an instant.

In a few weeks I will have forgotten this even happened. Come dig me out,

she thought wryly, despite the painful crick in her neck.

When a burly gang member burst into the back, the metal doors painting

his silhouette holding aloft a blindfold, she thought, Damn. Mustn’t let

myself get ego trips when all the blood in my body is pooling in my brain.

They probably posed me like this just to get me off my guard, she thought,

with a whisker of paranoia. She didn’t resist, however; by now, psychosis

made her dilemma seem mildly amusing. She was led out of the back of the

van,

blindfolded and guided by two men lest she break one’s grip and run away.

Her bare feet walked over painful stones and onto cold stone, and she felt

the

outlines of a door brush her tied hands. When her blindfold was taken off,

she was in the whitest room she ever saw. Even in her music videos, where

she did all her filming in a white room, there were always crew around her.

But here, she couldn’t even tell how big it was. Her only point of

reference

were metal hooks on all four sides of her: she guessed there were walls

there,

but she couldn’t be sure.

“Oh, it might look empty, but before long it’ll seem like a veritable

playground”, the gang leader said playfully, with the charm of a pantomime

villain. Suddenly, Kelly remembered she was naked, bound, and had gaping

holes

in her buttocks. Probably induced by this motherfucker. She felt a sudden

rush of hatred, and lunged to hit him. Unfortunately, her bonds kicked in,

her arms flailed uselessly in front of her, and she fell flat on her face,

her cheekbones taking the brunt of the impact, making her cry out like a

little girl.

“Ooooh, did ickle Kelly have a fall?” The gang leader bent down, levelled

his

face with Kelly’s, and angled his face to the right, as if talking to a

puppy.

Kelly’s hate had not faded. As soon as his nose touched hers, she spat in

his face. A big blob of her sputum splattered across his cheek. Expecting

to

be hit, Kelly instinctively recoiled. Nothing happened. Instead, the gang

leader stood with an amused expression as Kelly’s saliva rolled into his

mouth.

He licked his lips, and said, “Untrained dogs always slobber at first”.

“I think she needs to be taught what it’s like to be…attacked”, one

onlooking

member said. The leader nodded. The man ran forwards, unzipping his

trousers,

and pulling his penis from his underpants. It was erect already, presumably

from the previous piercing. He walked right into Kelly’s face, banging

his balls into her chin and forcing her neck back. He then pulled back,

grabbed his cock and slapped Kelly around the face with it. She shouted,

“WHAT THE FUCK?” The man did it again, harder. She swore again in pain.

Angered now, the man repeatedly slapped her with his penis, the head

knocking

her nose aside each time, occasionally stabbing into her eye. Kelly’s eyes

began to water. The man stopped his display. Kelly was crying, tears

staining her cheeks. She was backed into the corner of the white room,

its newly painted wall cold and clinical; there was no escape.

Without warning, the man forced open her mouth with his hand and inserted

his cock. He grabbed her short, dyed pink hair and rocked her back and

forth,

her shocked mouth massaging his prick. As he moved faster and faster, he

grasped her scalp, causing her eyes to widen in surprise, a yelp suppressed

by the cock fucking her face. The man’s cock started to hit the back of

her throat. He felt this and forced her face towards him, pushing his cock

down her throat and obstructing her breathing.

Kelly was thinking. She was thinking, This is how I’m going to die.

Choking

to death on a penis. Well, it’s better than Elvis. She felt herself grow

fainter as the man probed deeper into her gullet. I’m going to be sick.

No I’m not. I haven’t had anything to eat. Suddenly, she felt the man’s

cockhead pulse. He’s giving me something to eat, she thought woozily.

She was shocked out of her stupor as a spurt of glutinous semen squirted

down her throat, directly into her stomach. She felt like her whole body

was occupied by this man, so cruelly raping her throat, now spewing his

unwanted DNA into her digestive system. She choked as the thick, sticky

fluid accidentally found her lungs.

The man felt his penis be ejected from its natural home. Distracted from

his

ejaculation, he forced his cock deeper back into Kelly’s throat, and

continued

filling it with his sperm. As he saw her face turn blue, he pulled out,

his job done, smacked her a few times with his penis, watched her cough,

trying to eject his semen from her lungs, and backed away to watch the

scene.

Kelly was still having trouble breathing. She had gone without air for

too long. Suddenly, the man was gone, and she took a big gulp of air;

feeling the semen slosh in her mouth and throat disgusted her. She coughed

at the floor, like a new smoker. She coughed again. Suddenly, her throat

buckled, and she puked her semen snack onto the floor, gagging and retching.

She noticed an oddly-coloured drink in the foul ejection as well: although

she

did not know, this was the spiked alcohol that had subdued her and hastened

her kidnapping. She was a placid cum dumpster.

The gang leader strode over, pleased; the Osbourne girl had been shown who

was boss. “You see, Kelly, here, no one can hear you scream.” Cum dribbled

from the sides of Kelly’s bruised lips, causing her thick make-up (intended

ironically by her highly-paid cosmeticists, but now making her look like

another cheap whore) to run in a parody of showbiz. “Oh, Kelly, your face

is smudging,” the leader said. “Perhaps we’d better make you up some more.”

He lifted his jackbooted foot high in the air as Kelly cowered on the floor.

He bought it down on her neck, not with malice but firmly, eliciting a yelp

from his dog. Kelly’s face was forced into her own vomit, semen and slushy

food, coating and sticking to her face. “Oh God, save me, I’ll do

anything,”

she thought. She was barely aware of the shouted order from the gang

leader;

gang members crowded around her and forcibly removed her pink crop-top and

black, short PVC skirt. She was aware of cold, and little more.

“So, little Kelly Osbourne, on her knees in a bra and panties, with a face

full of cum. How many times has this happened?” Kelly was released from

the

leader’s boot, and her face flushed as she fulfilled his prophecy by rising

to her knees. “All made up,” he wryly noted as strands of semen dripped

onto her nipples. “How about we get that out of the way?” The elaborately

dressed master unsheathed a butterfly knife from a belt attachment. Kelly

struggled to her feet. The master circled her, overtly ogling her puppy

fat, her large breasts and ass. He quickly and subtly sliced through her

bra straps, shocking Kelly, her nipples becoming unwillingly erect because

of the fear and the cold. Her bra fell off from around her, exposing her

breasts, her oversized nipples, one breast bigger than the other, she had

always felt self-conscious about that. How far away it all seemed now.

She trembled as the master continued to circle, cold cum dripping from her

chin and shocking her already distended nipples.

Kelly’s black panties – emblazoned with tiny “KO” logos – were beginning

to discolour as a darker circle appeared around the crotch. _Oh God,

I’m getting wet,_ thought Kelly. It was entirely involuntary. She prayed

to God the master wouldn’t notice. He did. Elaborately bending down, he

pressed his nose obscenely to her crotch and sniffed twice, theatrically.

“This won’t do. Little girls don’t have – juices – coming out of them,”

he said, in a sick parody of a British schoolmarm. His knife slashed past

Kelly’s chest, barely missing her nipples, and cut through the cotton of her

underwear with precision. The knife cut down half the material, down to her

urethra, and was whisked away as fast as it had been unleashed. The master

circled again. Kelly was beginning to worry now; a guy was standing behind

her near-naked body with a knife. Something about the ringmaster, however,

persuaded her she was not in immediate danger. This instinct proved

correct.

The knife scraped the small flesh-strip between Kelly’s pussy and ass,

finishing the panty-cutting up to the top. Kelly’s panties fell from her

hips, cut in two.

“Now the dog is ready to learn,” the master smirked.

* * * *

“Shiny shiny, shiny boots of leather

Whiplash girl-child in the dark…”

— The Velvet Underground & Nico, _Venus In Furs_

Kelly winced as her mouth tasted cloth. Musky scent filled her nose.

She recognized it as her own, even with her blindfold reattached. She knew

better than to fight now. She had been stood up for a very long time, and

yearned to sit down; but God knows what they’d do to her if she did. No:

best to stay here. _Inhale the smell of your own juices, stuck-up bitch,_

Kelly screamed at herself. She couldn’t help blaming herself. If only she

had appeased the scene kids, made herself out to be less of a “poseur”,

maybe this wouldn’t have happened. She took note that the holes in her

asscheeks had stopped hurting a while ago. She didn’t dare to feel them:

she

was almost afraid to feel another alienated part of her body for one thing;

and on a more practical level, surely the penalties for “feeling yourself”

uncommanded would be high.

Little did Kelly know she was about to get to know those holes in detail.

She felt rough hands force her to the floor. “All fours, bitch,” the master

said, and as if by magic men forced her hands to the floor as well. She had

no idea why. She heard distant clanking.

The master surveyed two of his men, carrying two metal chains. They

advanced

towards Kelly. The creeps had no idea what to do, so he knew he would have

to interject. He strode to Kelly. “Good girl. Now stick that fat ass in

the air for me.” Kelly complied, confused already. The clanking got

louder.

Kelly felt metal against her skin from two directions, and a slight pang

of pain. Then she realized what was happening. The fuckers were _threading

steel chains through the holes in her ass_. Why, God only knew. This was

such a gross violation that Kelly screamed.

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, YOU ASSHOLES? LEAVE MY FUCKING ASS ALONE!

I’LL FUCKING KIL-”

She was cut short. The master had aimed a vicious kick at her tits.

The steel toecaps contacted on a slant, bruising her right nipple and

hitting her ribcage, forcing all the air from her lungs and winding her.

Kelly turned red in the face and gasped for breath. “You’re certainly not

going to be killing anyone, Miss Osbourne. We’re the ones who are going

to be killing you if you don’t take your punishment like the dog you are.

Or should I say bitch?”

Kelly tried to crawl forward, still hurt from the kick. But she found

resistance from her behind. When she tried to move forward, it was like

flesh was being ripped away from her asscheeks. She was still blindfolded.

The master kindly elucidated. “It’s best not to try and resist. You’re

chained to the walls doubly. If you try and go forward, your ass will

tear like so many magazines with your face on them. If you try and go

backwards…well, let’s just say you won’t be going backwards any time

soon.”

The master slapped her ass as he said this, causing rolls of fat to ripple

down across her belly. Kelly shuddered. What were they going to do to her?

What merited this kind of restraint? Her thoughts were cut short as light

poured onto her retinae; her blindfold had been removed. At the same time,

she felt a cock brush her backside, and precum dried there.

Kelly realized as the cock touched the back of her legs that she was going

to

be fucked in the pussy. This was quite a relief to her. She had done this

a few times with her various boyfriends, and she enjoyed it. Of course,

there was no way she could enjoy it here; but it could be a lot worse.

She didn’t want to think about just how much worse it could be.

This wasn’t the master, for he was standing in front of her, leering

obscenely.

Her rapist pushed his dick into Kelly’s pussy. “God, she’s fucking loose!”,

the man exclaimed. The master took this and ran with it, as Kelly had

predicted. “Is he a better fuck than your boyfriends, Kelly?” And he was.

The guy was hung; Kelly could feel it as he rammed in and out. She began

to unconsciously ride his cock, and instantly felt guilty. She could feel

her labia loosening, her hole being enlarged, as this man violated her.

Suddenly Kelly remembered: he wasn’t wearing any protection! Kelly didn’t

take the pill as a matter of principle. “Fuck! Get out! I’ll get

pregnant!”,

she screamed, then instantly regretted it. “As little as the world needs

more

fat Kellys ruining the music scene…I think you need to be taught a

lesson.”

The master was irritated at Kelly’s outburst. He summoned another gang

member, who strode across the room. He violently entered Kelly’s pussy,

rubbing up against the other guy.

“Ever had double-vaginal before, Kelly? Thought not. Though you’re plenty

loose enough for it, little sixteen-year-old whore.” Kelly unconsciously

grunted at this new intrusion into her cunt. She was being pushed and

stretched, and it was beginning to hurt. Her eyes screwed up on every push

forwards. The men were coordinating their assault on her teenage vagina,

ramming to the hilt in time, and making Kelly’s eyes water.

Kelly couldn’t help it. She was going to cum. She rode back and forth

on the two cocks, fucking them frenetically and violently, her eyes and

her occasional whimpering telling her distress. She dug her fingers into

the floor. “ARGHHH YES FUCK MEEEEEEEE!” she screamed, the blissful release

of orgasm taking over her body and warming down to her toes, forgetting she

was being raped, just coming. A surprising amount of juice trickled out of

her pussy, stretching obscenely like mozarella onto the floor.

Sanity returned. Kelly realized she had two cocks in her pussy. More than

likely, they were about to come inside her and make her pregnant. At the

same time, the chains attached to her ass were hurting more every second.

Suddenly, one cock pulled out of her cunt, and the man circled her teenage

body, looked into her distressed and helpless eyes, and began to masturbate.

“Suck it up prissy teenage popstar bitch. I hope your cunt rips in two.

Prickteases like you deserve to be raped. You need to diet anyway –

I hope you like cum”. The man spewed abuse at Kelly’s face. Suddenly,

his pulsated member jerked, and began to spew white globules at her face.

The first strand hit her cheek, and quickly dribbled into her mouth, still

involuntarily opening from the vicious fucking she was receiving. The next

spurt went directly into her left eye, stinging and making it impossible

to see. Kelly shrieked. She tried to get the sticky semen out with her

hands, but only rubbed it in deeper. Meanwhile, her forehead and hair was

being decorated with white goo, her right eye continuing to gaze obscenely

and uncomprehendingly at the cockhead an inch from her face.

Brutalized by this scene, so common, she was woken from her stupor by

warm mucus in her vagina. Kelly realized, with growing horror, that the

man had come inside her. The shock spread across her face, whitening her

already pale complexion, and rage formed in her gullet. Her mind was war:

she desperately wanted to scream the place down, to tell these bastards that

they had ruined her life; and by the same token she didn’t want to give them

the satisfaction (or any reason to smack her up more than they had already).

She kept her mouth shut, although it took serious concentration.

“Awww. What’s the problem, Kelly? You constipated? Did our little starlet

have to learn some self-control? Pregnancy is the least of your worries,

my dear. Why, it won’t be such a shock, darling. People probably mistake

you

for being pregnant most of the time anyway.” Another crack about her

weight.

Kelly groaned inwardly. So many times she had wanted to lose the pale

flesh that hung off her ass and midriff. But even her darkest moments were

no match for the lure of a juicy hamburger and double chocolate milkshake.

And, thought Kelly, that’s the way it should be, surely. Surely these

people

can’t be so brainwashed by society that they would do this to be rid of my

voluptuous curves?

Kelly stopped thinking. She realized she was tired (she hadn’t slept in

a long time now). And hungry (her last meal was long enough ago that it

hadn’t shown up in her vomit earlier). And thirsty (her last drink had

been the reason she was here now). And sore (she had been chained in the

air by her ass for several hours now). She whimpered, “Food. Drink.”

The master heard. He leaned down, looked Kelly in her cum-smudged eyes,

and said “Kelly want a cracker?” She nodded, letting out a false laugh at

his sick joke. He nodded, and motioned for the exit. The men strode out

of the room. Kelly knew they’d be back. For the while, she leaned back

against her restraints, put her face to the floor, and went into a light

sleep, her cheeks spreading against the cold white floor and spreading an

inch of drool backwards as she closed her eyes.

* * * *

“Yeah, 4st 7, an epilogue of youth

Such beautiful dignity in self-abuse

I’ve finally come to understand life

Through staring blankly at my navel…”

— Manic Street Preachers, _4st 7lb_

The lights burned brightly. Kelly’s eyes opened woozily as she realized the

men were back. She’d been out for…maybe an hour? Her body clock told her

that, but then her body was fucked, literally and metaphorically, so it was

probably safe to assume that its clock was. She’d slumped back during her

rest, and her mouth was directly aligned with an unpleasant-smelling

secretion

smeared on the floor? God knows where it came from; her impregnated

cunthole,

the cock in her face, or the ones surrounding her. This did not matter.

She pulled herself up, feeling some slight resistance from the sticky fluid.

The gang emerged, brandishing a silver dish. Kelly, although she was used

to life in the lap of luxury, had never seen one of these before except

in cartoons, and had to stop herself laughing. It was flatly bell-shaped,

and evocative of expensive restaurants. Two henchmen laid the thing on the

ground before her eyes. She wanted to touch it, but knew she shouldn’t.

The master whipped round, and showily removed the cover from the dish,

revealing to Kelly’s eyes, and nose, the biggest steak she had ever seen.

“A big dish for our big girl,” the master said. “No scraps for this dog.”

There was cutlery at the side of the vast thing, its rind deep red, its

body flat, pink and rare. Kelly didn’t wait to be told. She lunged forward

towards the cutlery, grabbing it and straining her restrained ass, although

she didn’t notice. Another lunge pulled the steak within range. She paused

briefly to honour the moment, and then attacked the steak in its luscious

centre with the fork and (savagely sharp) knife. The steak briefly gave at

the sides, before surrendering to Kelly’s sleek carving and revealing pink,

barely blood-stained flesh.

Kelly shoved the fork in her mouth. The steak instantly erased all the

foreign

fluids that had invaded her system. Its natural juices filled her mouth,

her

carnal, animal instincts awakened by this flesh, now sliding down her

throat,

going directly to her stomach. She jabbed the steak again, now elaborately

carving out a piece and swallowing it whole, only just fitting it into her

mouth, the dark blood staining her lips and cheeks. She ate the whole

steak

with the hunger of a starved dog, dropping pieces now and then, abandoning

knife and fork to stuff them into her gaping maw hard with her stubby fists.

As Kelly finished, she was woozy, having received so much raw energy in such

a short space of time. She felt slightly ill, and the angle didn’t help.

As she felt the steak come back up her abused throat, she gestured

desperately

to the master for some water, choking. Amazingly to Kelly, he obliged,

whipping a large bottle from behind him. Kelly frantically screwed the lid

off, discarded it and threw her head back as far as she could, draining the

bottle dry in a single motion, gulping, her throat protruding obscenely when

she swallowed. The master applauded when she meekly handed him the bottle.

“Kelly sure can swallow. That will be useful.” And with that, he gestured,

and the gang left the room.

Kelly’s face hit the floor, exhausted, not even noticing the pain of impact.

It was time to sleep, sleep was good, and good things were rare these days.

It was strange how the past day had come to seem like a thousand days, her

entire life. In essence, this was her entire life in microcosm. Exploited

by

those she had trusted. Reduced to reliance on the generosity of strangers,

living in hope that her next public gesture would be well received. How

long

ago it seemed when she had written – well, sung – songs about pregnancy and

masturbation. As she descended into the alternate reality of the

dreamworld,

words echoed through her brain.

“We’re in an awful mess, and I don’t mean maybe

Papa don’t preach, I’m in trouble deep

Papa don’t preach, I’ve been losin’ sleep

But I made up my mind, I’m keeping my baby…”

* * * *

“It seemed to last for hours

It seemed to last for days

This lady of the flowers

And her hypnotic gaze…”

— Placebo, _Lady Of The Flowers_

Wet. That was her awakening. The lights were off. The men weren’t home.

Kelly was by herself. Why had she woken up? She wanted to sleep, but

something was stopping her. Something physical. Something behind her.

It was revealed, as a bass, vibrating note rang out around the room, and a

foul, yet oddly agreeable, smell spread across Kelly’s nose. Kelly never

farted like that. Hers were ladies’ farts: discreet in public, rich and

loud in private, but never with such noise, aroma, or physical sensation.

That fart had rippled the flesh around Kelly’s asshole, had shaken her

restraints. It was an omen.

The jig was up. It dawned on Kelly, as she felt her sphincter loosen.

The fuckers had given her laxatives. She shuddered, in horror at herself,

as, unbidden by her, a light brown slug trailed out of her asshole, making

its way over her hind quarters, leaving tracks across her vaginal lips,

hitting the apex of her belly, where, as Newton predicted, it left her body,

dangling horrendously and coldly in the air as it stretched the vast

distance

from her belly to the floor. Kelly was sickened as she looked underneath

her,

parting her pendulous breasts to one side to get a better look.

Kelly farted a few more times, spattering the skin of her ass with

quick-drying

brown diarrhoea, before her digestion relented. She sighed with relief

as she felt the “spent” feeling radiate from her bowels towards her face.

It was only a few seconds later that she realized another source of wetness

had appeared. From her urethra, there trickled yellow piss. It trickled

down her belly with more tenacity than her anal excretions. As the light

yellow fluid approached her face, she bucked furiously, but by increasing

the angle she made it worse. Her piss flowed across her face, pooling

around

her lips and entering the corners of her mouth, making her spit and staining

her face. She couldn’t stop the flow, and soon she decided to help herself.

She briefly shook off the eye-stinging piss flying into her face and put

her hand to her urethra, directing the flow onto the floor.

As Kelly spent her bloated bladder, the pool on the floor spread.

Disgusting

though it was, she couldn’t help being relieved, and instinctively touched

her

twat as it was sprayed with her yellow piss. As the pool spread, so her

nipples

were soaking in her urine, she was too far gone to care, and as it reached

her hands it dawned on her that this was the longest piss she had ever

taken.

Eventually, she finished, joyously, and slumped, before realizing she was

slumping in her own piss. Even though it was not very concentrated, she was

close enough for the smell to be unpleasant. But there was nothing she

could

do: it was her fault she had pissed all over the floor. She was disgusted

with herself, but resigned herself to her fate, and fell asleep in a puddle

of her own urine, her piss clogging her nostrils when she tried to breathe.

* * * *

“It’s carryin’ something

It’s carryin’ me

And someone I used to be

Great plastic someone

Blue plastic girl

Your prayer is, pushin’, pushin’

Push in

Pushin’

Pushing

Push…out…”

— Underworld, _Push Upstairs_

Kelly awoke to the sound of footsteps. She woozily raised her sticky face

from the floor. As the master walked into the white room, he feigned shock

at

the sight of the floor, which stunk of dried urine and held a yellowish

tint.

“Looks like our dog needs toilet training,” he wryly observed. Kelly put

her face down in instinctive shame. She didn’t see two gang members grab

her shoulders and pull her head back, and barely had time to struggle as

they rotated her legs underneath her and sat her on her naked buttocks in

her dried piss.

What’s going on now, she thought. But she didn’t protest as two men grabbed

her feet, holding between her toes, and spread her legs painfully wide.

Her vaginal lips were now straining to close, her neatly trimmed pubic bush

bunching together in thickets, held with semen and urine. She was

determined

not to be embarrassed, though her pussy was now on display like never

before.

“Ahh, a beautiful sight,” the leader said. “Little Kelly Osbourne’s cunt.

Looks loose enough now to be ready.” Ready for what, thought Kelly.

“Spread

those lips,” the man commanded, and Kelly reluctantly obeyed, pulling back

her skinfolds easily to reveal a deep red hole, clearly recently penetrated.

“Now hold still, this won’t hurt a bit,” the man said. And he whipped

something out from behind his back. Kelly didn’t recognize it at first,

but she realized soon that it was a bottle of Coca-Cola. Large and bulbous,

and half drunk. The man sloshed it around in the bottle. Then she suddenly

realized what he was going to do, and tried to get up, but she was held

too tightly by the gang members, who had her arms in a lock, and her hips

were held apart in a tight brace by two other men. She kicked her feet

pathetically and flailed her arms, but there was no escaping. The man

advanced, holding the bottle like a divining rod.

The man was now kneeling in the maw of her hips. He levelled the bottle,

then carefully peeled back Kelly’s labia with one hand, holding the bottle

precariously in the other. “Relax Kelly, just relax, it won’t be bad.

Just think of it as a practice for when you really give birth. It’ll be

easier when you’re seventeen and give birth to this fucker’s seed,” –

he pointed at the member who had ejaculated in Kelly’s pussy yesterday –

“your cunt will be almost fully grown by that time. But this’ll help.”

Bizarrely, Kelly did feel reassured, and as the bottle top was eased in,

she barely felt it.

The neck of the bottle, however, jolted her out of her disconnection.

She felt her cunt walls stretch as the neck of the bottle inside her labia

became wider. “Too wide!” she shouted. The leader motioned, and the men

spread Kelly’s hips wider. Her body wasn’t built for doing the splits, and,

although the angle between her legs was still a long way from a hundred and

eighty degrees, she screamed in pain, and her muscles ached. This briefly

masked the stretching of her pussy, and also made it easier to fit the neck.

The master took advantage of this, and shoved the whole neck into her pussy.

“The worst is over now. From here it’s clear sailing.” His words were

distant. Kelly felt good. It was so wonderful to feel full. She felt

relieved from all responsibility, and a smile spread across her face.

She instinctively put her hand down to her labia and found her clitoris, the

men letting her arms go when they saw her path. She began to slowly fondle

her vagina, rubbing all around her twat and letting out tiny yelps whenever

she accidentally touched it. The concentric circles her stubby fingers made

became smaller. She had little moving space anyway, and as she got closer

and closer to her orgasm she rubbed harder, faster, frigging her clitoris

directly on the nub, rebounding her hand off the cold plastic Coke bottle –

all was lost as she came, screaming, sighing deeply, her breathing shallow.

As her juices leaked from her cunt and coated the label, she closed her hips

around the bottle.

“Looks like someone’s enjoying herself,” the master leered. As sanity

returned, Kelly realized she hated him. “It’s my turn now,” he said,

and pushed the bottle further into Kelly’s spent hole, with a vestige of

violence now. The bottle was pushed almost three quarters of the way in

when Kelly realized something hurt. It felt like her bowel, but she knew

it wasn’t. The man continued pushing the bottle into her. Every push now

caused sharp pangs in what felt like her stomach. Kelly protested, but it

was

too much, she felt like she was being eviscerated from the inside. She

cried,

“Stop…it…breaking…me…” between her sobs. Tears ran down her face,

and her muscles spasmed to get free. Suddenly, just as the pain reached

its zenith, it stopped, fading to a dull ache and knowledge that permanent

damage had been inflicted. The master watched Kelly’s labia close around

the indented bottom of the bottle, and then it was gone, the only evidence

it was there at all a slight bloating of Kelly’s nether region from her

labia to just above her navel.

Kelly’s brain reeled as she tried to think clearly through the fog of pain.

Something had been broken, maybe her womb, cervix, whatever. She hadn’t

paid much attention in Biology. She heard the master command, “Rise,” and

she woozily rose to her feet. She was unprepared for the liquid inside

her, however, and the sloshing put her off balance, making her stagger.

Still, she reached her feet, unconsciously clenching her labia to prevent

the bottle falling out. “Walk, bitch,” she heard, and she tried. She put

one foot in front of the other, and tried to walk, but it didn’t come easy.

She felt like she had gained a hundred pounds, and walked with a stagger,

desperately trying to keep her balance.

“Now run.” Kelly sped up her pace. This was virtually impossible. To run

she had to spread her legs. If she had, the bottle would have slowly and

painfully fallen out. Instead, she waddled comically, keeping both legs

virtually parallel. The gang members laughed uproariously at this sight,

which

even Kelly would have admitted was funny if she had seen it herself, seen

her

fat breasts swing from side to side and her face contort with concentration.

Still, it wasn’t funny when she was the one being laughed at. Unbalanced,

she fell over, landing on the white floor in an ungainly and painful manner,

the plastic inside her jarring against her back, and she groaned.

“Get up, bitch!” She pulled herself to her feet. Astonishingly, the bottle

had not been dislodged by that. Presumably it had become wedged inside her.

But as she staggered up, a strange sensation filled her cunt. A rushing and

tingly one. She realized what it was. Fizz. Seeing her face and a

telltale

brown drip hanging from her distended labia, the leader said, “Oops, I

forgot

to mention, we unscrewed the top a little.” Kelly felt the liquid trickle

down from high inside her. Suddenly, she felt the bottle slip inside her.

Her labia parted. The bottle’s end poked out. Kelly’s face was a picture

of horror. But how could she stop it? She stood stock still, racked by

pain

as the top of the bottle slipped from its home, retouching all the wounds

inflicted from its original entry. She spread her hips instinctively and

pushed. The bottle shifted. Her fists clenched, the bottle lurched slowly

through her labia, lubricated by the liquid. Then, suddenly, the body of

the

bottle was out, leaving only the neck, and it fell obscenely from her cunt,

landing upright on the floor. Her labia fell back around her hole, relieved

from duty, and as she looked down she saw the bottle, its lid on the floor,

the label stained with blood. She fell to the floor. Barely conscious, she

didn’t protest as the men forced the bottle into her mouth. She tasted the

flavour of her cunt and the blood of her body in the liquid, but swallowed

it anyway, needing rest. Eventually, she passed out.

* * * *

“I need you to feel this

I need this to make me whole

Release in this sodomy

I am your witness that blood and flesh can be trusted

And only this one holy medium brings me peace of mind.”

— Tool, _Prison Sex_

The master circled his cock head around Kelly’s puckered asshole. It was

clearly virgin-tight. Her blindfolded head was oblivious. He circled

around and around her forbidden hole. He pushed the tip inside, and Kelly

gave a shriek.

“God, no, please don’t fuck my ass. It’s too disgusting. No, no, no,

no…”

A gang member signalled if he should stop her tear-stained face from any

more

complaints, but the master responded in the negative. “I want to hear every

scream when I fuck this bitch’s ass,” he said. And with that, he forced in

the head of his cock, with an audible pop, and Kelly screamed blue murder.

The master waited a few seconds to savour the sound of her pain. Then he

viciously rammed his member directly into her underage asshole. It was

unbearably tight and hot. Kelly gave a shrill, vocal-chord-stretching

scream as her asshole

was destroyed. The master pulled out and reinserted, again to the hilt.

“GET IT OUT! GET IT OUT! HE’S TOO BIG! AHH FUCK IT HURTS…”

The master repeatedly rammed into her ass several times to relish her

violated screams. He settled into a rhythm, bumping his balls against her

distended pussy lips.

Kelly was in agony. This was like something alien, the worst case of rape.

Every synapse in her bowels was shouting, “I’m dying”. The pain as her

anal nerve endings were destroyed was exacerbated by the pains of the master

forcing her ass forward, straining the metal chains against her cheeks.

The master smiled, his lips curling as he pulled out to see blood staining

his penis. He rammed all the harder for this. “Shit it out, Kelly. If

it’s

so bad, just shit it out. Pretend you’re pooping in your pampered house.”

And she did. She couldn’t believe it, but Kelly pushed back with her

sphincter

muscles, trying anything she could to get the violator out of her bowels.

The master was brought to new plateaus of ecstasy with this new development.

Her fighting made her eventual giving in all the more pleasing. But shit,

this bitch was fighting, and pushing his cock out. He redoubled his

efforts,

doing battle with her sphincter, and eliciting more blood. Kelly’s screams

were deafening now. It sounded like she was about to pass out.

The master had to finish. He pushed harder as she screamed. Harder.

Harder.

Harder. He was going to come soon. He sped up his efforts, and shouted,

groaning loudly as he crossed the threshold, burying his cock in Kelly

Osbourne’s asshole to the hilt and ejaculating, flooding her bowels with

her semen. At the same time, he pushed against her wobbling ass cheeks

so hard, Kelly’s stretched ass flesh could no longer support his weight.

The holes in her ass broke open, sending torrents of blood onto the floor

as her face was rammed forward into the floor.

Kelly passed out. As all went black, she was aware of a slimy sensation

on her chest. Oh, God. As Kelly had flown forward, the master had pulled

out, and a mixture of Kelly’s shit (brown and semisolid), blood, and the

master’s semen trickled down her chest, falling from her tits onto the

floor.

The master laughed; his shrill voice rang out around the echoing room.

* * * *

“I’m a punk rock prom queen

Brown paper magazine

Hotter than you’ve ever seen

Everywhere and in between…”

— Josie And The Pussycats, _3 Small Words_

Sticky eyes opened. By now, Kelly had lost track of all time. She could

have been out for minutes or months. She could feel something on her lips.

Then she saw the master standing above her, holding a stick of black

lipstick.

She was tired, and her ass hurt like hell. She lay still, stemming the

initial shock, as the man drew on her lips with precision. “It’s dress-up

time today, Kelly,” he said. She didn’t hear.

He pulled eyeliner from his pocket and stretched open Kelly’s eyelids.

He flicked the eyeliner onto her thick lashes expertly, so well that Kelly

did not flinch. He applied an eyebrow pencil with artistry to her brows,

extending and defining them. He fished for rouge in his make-up box on

the floor; pulling out some, he applied it to her cheeks with a brush.

He pulled out a mirror and showed Kelly to herself. Kelly noticed her pink

hair was gradually slipping back to its real shade, jet black. She only

applied limited time hair dye, and presumed her sweat had washed it out.

Pink highlights still persisted. She was shocked at her sunken eyes, due

to lack of sleep. The make-up had been applied with an intentional lack

of subtlety. Her pink cheeks contrasted with her pale complexion like those

of a Japanese geisha, and her face looked painted on.

“Stand up,” the master said. Kelly obeyed, staggering to her feet. “Lift

up

your arms.” Kelly held them out to each side, feeling silly. The master

picked up a bra from the floor and fitted it around Kelly’s breasts with

difficulty. The bra was a B, while he knew Kelly was a large C. She

grunted

as he tied it around her back. “Too tight,” she mumbled frustratedly.

She was ignored, though her nipples were clearly visible through the bra.

The master now took a tiny black tube top from the floor. Kelly lifted her

arms, and the master fitted the strapless thing across her chest, pinning it

behind her back. It was obscenely low-cut, and the bottom of her bra and

her nipples were exposed at the top; it was cut off at the bottom as well,

so Kelly’s ample belly protruded obscenely, her large waistline emphasized

by the squeezing of her breasts. Despite the bad taste of the outfit, Kelly

enjoyed this in an odd way. It was like being back at home, and dressing

up to go out. In fact, Kelly rarely dressed much more subtly than this.

The master produced another garment, this time a pair of panties. Kelly

knew

these. They were her personalized range, emblazoned pop-art style with “KO”

explosion logos. She put them on; they fitted perfectly, although they

smelt

a little; she had been wearing them for a few days before she was captured.

They were in a thong style, and the pink cloth pressed against her violated

asshole.

Another garment was held aloft in the fingers of the master. This was a

tiny

black PVC miniskirt. “I don’t think I can fit in that,” Kelly said timidly.

“Of course you can. What are you, fat?” the master replied cruelly.

And so she tried. The master knelt, stretching the skirt apart, and Kelly

felt an interesting role reversal. _I could kick him now_, she thought,

but instead slipped her left leg into the skirt, and then the right.

She was now immobile: how quickly her power had gone. The master pulled

the skirt up past her knees, but the skirt stuck at the start of her thighs.

Kelly fell over awkwardly onto the floor, unbalanced.

“You’ll fit,” the master said, not entirely reassuringly for Kelly. He

hoisted

the skirt up another few inches. This was beginning to hurt. But he

pressed

on, pushing the skirt against the flesh of her thighs, compressing the flesh

around the rim of the skirt with his fingers, and making steady progress.

He got up to just below her waist, so the crotch of her panties was just

hidden

by the skirt, when Kelly shouted. “Arghhh, fuck this hurts!” Kelly quickly

checked herself and was silent, but, surprisingly, the man stopped.

And finally, the shoes. Strappy black high heels, too small for her.

Kelly squeezed her feet into the shoes, the straps contrasting with her

pale flesh and showing the deep impression they made against her large feet.

“Get up,” the master commanded, and Kelly obeyed. She gingerly put a heeled

foot behind her torso, briefly stumbling for purchase on the floor, and then

moved the other one to a parallel position, until she was sitting on the

back

of her legs. She then straightened her thick legs, steadying herself on the

floor with her hands. The tiny skirt, suspended below her waist,

constricted

her movement. Kelly looked down at herself. Her titties and belly bulged

from her front, and the skirt emphasized her large waist and thighs. She

could

feel her pale round ass cheeks sagging against the thong and skirt behind

her.

“And now the crowning moment,” the master announced. He pulled out a cheap

black tiara, decorated with gold stars. He put it around Kelly’s head,

pulling back strands of pink-black hair. “Kelly Osbourne is our Punk

Princess.

Princess, because she acts like one, and Punk, because that’s what she is,

in the original sense.” The men had all gathered round without her

noticing.

They all cheered, and Kelly felt a bizarre ego boost. “Take a bow, Kelly!”

the

master commanded, and she did. Taking a step back, she wobbled on her

heels,

having to take three small steps because of the skirt.

She was carried away in the moment, and dramatically put her arms to her

belly

and leaned her torso forward. As she did so, her back horizontal, wounded

ass cheeks on display to the men behind her, her bra suddenly gave way and

her breasts fell out of her top. An uproar broke out, all the men laughing,

hooting and jeering at her as she lifted her head, her face reddened with

both rouge and embarrassment. Her nipples were pressing against her chin.

She frantically tried to stuff her mammaries back into the bra, but they

would not go in.

“Let me help you,” the master said, and strode over to her. He viciously

squeezed Kelly’s left breast with one hand, stretching the bra out with the

other. He seated it in the cup, Kelly wincing with pain as her breasts were

crammed against her ribcage, and stretched the bra around it, eventually

covering the nipple. He repeated the process for her right breast, and

stood back to admire his handiwork.

Against her will, Kelly was turned on. She felt like she was at a concert

again. She revelled in being looked at by crowds. She had sometimes fucked

groupies; sex with them was often better than with her boyfriend, since

they were devoted and noncontradictory. Her nipples were erect now, and

her pussy began to leak juices, her stretched panties revealing it

immediately.

“I knew you loved the attention, Kelly,” the master said. “Now we can start

the celebration of your crowning.” He signalled, and a member pulled

something

from his pocket. Unrolling a piece of material, he revealed a red plastic

mat, circular and big enough for one. He laid it down ceremonially on the

floor behind her. The master pushed her forehead, not harshly but firmly,

and Kelly staggered, falling to the floor and bracing herself with her

hands.

As her ass cheeks hit the mat, pain stung her.

She changed her sitting position to avoid the pain. Surprisingly gymnastic

for a girl her size, Kelly put her feet out to her sides, drawing them in to

her thighs, so her legs formed an “M” shape. This was comfortable: it put

the

weight on her thighs rather than her ass. Meanwhile, the men were lining

up,

as if for a procession. Kelly wondered what was going to happen. Suddenly,

they removed their robes. There were around thirty men in the line, white,

black, Asian men, all naked, stroking their dicks. A horrible realization

dawned on Kelly.

Suddenly, before she could react, the man at the front of the line stepped

forward and began to masturbate, unsheathing his cockhead and aiming at

her mouth. Kelly stared at his face and body in wonderment, watching his

expression change as he rubbed his prick harder and faster, seeing the

head glisten as it moistened. She had never had such an unflinching view

of male sexuality, and she was scared. Suddenly, it ceased to matter:

a beam spread across the man’s face, and thick white semen erupted from

the tiny hole in his cockhead. It sprayed across Kelly, from her shiny

forehead to the cleft of her breasts. The man moved forward, jerking his

hand harder, and another spurt hit her nose, dripping down onto her lips.

As his rubbing faded, another smaller strand of cum fired onto Kelly’s ear,

dribbling and pooling in the aperture.

Kelly was horrified as she felt the cum drip down her face, staining the

rouge on her cheeks, moving with purpose around her mouth onto her chin,

dripping from there onto her breasts, seeping through the bra and drying

on her nipples. But before she could think, another man was in her face,

flesh moving vigorously up and down, this time much closer. This man came

quicker, his payload spraying artistically across her eyebrows, dripping

down

onto her cheeks, a small amount of watery precum dribbling into her eyes,

stinging and making her blink.

The next man forced his cock into her mouth, grabbing her forehead and

pushing her face back against his cock, forcing her tongue to taste the

salty head of his penis. When he pulled out, smiling, Kelly’s head sighed

forwards in a cringing breath, and the man euphorically shot his cum into

her black hair, making a beautiful contrast as it bunched together strands,

sliding down and chilling her scalp.

And another twenty-seven men ejaculated onto Kelly, most hitting her mouth

and

cheeks (she spat out the semen in her mouth), a few deliberately ejaculating

into her eyes, making them water and close. Some went for more spectacular

performances, coating her hair with white goo, or spraying glutinous juices

down her bra, quickly growing cold and unpleasant around her nipples. Most

of

the cum on her face ran off her chin and onto the red mat. Some ran down

her body, eventually staining her belly and panties with dried sperm. By

the

time all the men had finished, Kelly was unrecognizable, her make-up blurred

down her face, her eyelashes specked with fluid, her hair decorated with

white

stuff that made it look like she’d just washed it. Her chest was stained

with

dried spunk; the stuff pooled in the cleft of her squashed-together breasts;

it ran down the front of her top, pooled in her belly button, obscured the

logos on her panties. And since she hadn’t moved (her ass still hurt),

the cum on the mat remained solid and sticky, although cold.

Kelly opened her eyes, blinking away pain. The men were sitting down now

around her. The master was standing up. He announced, “Kelly, you have

truly earned your title of Punk Princess. Stand up and accept your title.”

Kelly, barely hearing him, got to her feet laboriously, hooking her legs and

pushing up. As she did so, the cum that had pooled in her various crevices

dislodged itself, running down her body and falling from her crotch onto the

floor to join the spunk that was preserved there. “You may kiss the groom,”

the master said. And suddenly, he kissed Kelly deeply, ramming his tongue

into her mouth, tasting the semen of thirty men. He pulled her forwards,

embracing her, making her stagger forward. She regained her balance as he

removed his lips from hers with a great smack. Kelly had to admit that

this guy was a great kisser. She didn’t notice that the mat was gone.

“Three cheers for our princess Kelly!” the master declared, and as a roar

went up among the men, Kelly felt cum drip off her tiara and run down her

face.

A member ran in, and passed something to the master. Kelly couldn’t see

what.

“And now, it’s time for our princess to sup of the ceremonial beverage.”

The leader raised a bottle forward. It was a Coca-Cola bottle, smaller

than the one that had been inserted into her. Its neck had been severed.

But what worried Kelly was its contents. It held a white semisolid,

of subtly different colour throughout. It was instantly recognizable.

“Yes, the leftover semen of all the men who helped in your crowning.

Once you drink this, the celebration will be complete.” And with that,

he handed the bottle to Kelly.

Oh my god. Gross. Who knows what diseases these men have? Can you

get pregnant from swallowing semen? But none of this matters, really,

said the voice in her head. You’re already pregnant. Besides, there are

thirty men around you. Do you really think you can escape? And so Kelly

held the bottle aloft, and put the neck in her mouth. The slimy goo took

a while to slide to the front. She got her first taste, and was revolted,

spitting instinctively. The master grabbed the bottle and held it

vertically,

and sperm slid into her mouth, filling it quickly.

She panicked. She couldn’t breathe properly, because her mouth was blocked

with cold semen, and her nose was sore with crying. She couldn’t spit the

foul salty mess out of her, because the master was holding the bottle to her

mouth. And so, she swallowed, forcing the glutinous spunk down her throat,

gagging as it stuck to the sides. Soon her mouth was empty. Before she

could

catch her breath, another load was dumped into her mouth. She swallowed it,

gagging and coughing. Another load arrived. The coldness of the cum and

her revulsion with herself and this act caught up with her, and she felt

bile and half-swallowed spunk rise in her throat. Panicking, she forced

both down at once. As she felt a last trickle of spunk snake into her mouth

from the bottle, and felt the cold semen trickling down her oesophagus into

her stomach, she smiled. It was over. She, Kelly Osbourne, had swallowed

a bottle of sperm. She was the Punk Princess, whatever that meant.

* * * *

“Breathe in the healing love of the universe,

and breathe out the sickness which has taken you.”

— DJ Shadow, _Blood On The Motorway_

Training complete. The master didn’t switch the light on. Instead, he

padded into the room with two henchmen. They could dimly see Kelly sleeping

on the floor. They picked her up neatly, holding under her knee-pits and

against her back. She was heavy, and the men staggered as they moved her

out

of the room. Meanwhile, the master was putting a blindfold over her eyes.

Kelly woke just as he had begun to gag her with a piece of black silk.

She shouted, and was muffled, as he tied the gag securely around the back

of her head.

The men opened the back door of the van, which was still parked outside on

the gravel track. They placed Kelly on the floor with uncharacteristic

care.

She was reminded of the coldness. _Where am I going now_, she thought.

As the door slammed, the side doors opened, and Kelly saw the men get in the

passenger seats. The master was in the driving seat. He fired the

ignition,

and the engine rumbled slowly to life.

“Our little doggy is going home,” he said, and Kelly’s heart lept.

“You’ve learnt all you can while you’ve been here.” Kelly would get the

police on them. She would tell, and everyone would feel sorry for her,

and these men would go to prison for a long time. “And before you think

of telling…consider this. We have pictures and videos of you here.

You can tell the police it was us, but your career will be ruined forever

once the pictures come out. And we have surprising power in the government.

We can get the case against us dismissed.”

“You may think that people love you, Ms. Osbourne, but the truth is that

most

people hate you. To them, you’re just a stroppy, attention seeking

teenager.

They think you deserve punishment – punishment we administered. The footage

will strike a chord with the public at large. That will ensure our victory.

We’ll walk free, and you will just be an ex-pop star who got a little too

big for her boots.”

“No, Kelly. How about you go home and forget all about it? Carry on with

your life. But remember what we taught you, when you mime masturbation

on stage. If you’re gonna talk like a whore, you gotta walk like a

whore; don’t be surprised when people expect you to.” Kelly was furious.

But something the brute had said struck her. How many real friends did she

have? How many people thought she was a valuable human being as opposed to

a disposable novelty? And from that moment on, she knew she was not going

to be able to tell anyone.

Kelly was dumped outside the Osbourne mansion, naked and tied, by the

plateless

white van that sped off as quickly as it had arrived. The guards, trying to

hide their erections, escorted her to the door, and she collapsed into the

arms of her mother. But when she asked where Kelly had been, she frowned,

looked away, and said “Nowhere.” Quickly, she went upstairs and got into

the shower. As she rubbed the soap all over her body, cupping her ample

breasts and washing deep inside her violated pussy and asshole, she felt

she no longer owned her body.

>From that moment on, her life resumed as normal. She still strutted on the

stage, she still sucked her boyfriends’ dicks. Her family never thought

to ask: her nakedness was worrying, but otherwise week-long benders were

not rare among the rich and famous, especially wild children like Kelly.

Something was different for Kelly, though. She felt changed by her

experience.

Sometimes, in her darkest moments, Kelly wished the men had killed her

instead of leaving her with her secret.

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