Newly widowed Army Captain Rossalind Donaldson returns home for her husband's funeral. The Donaldson's are incensed at the Captain bacause right before their son was killed, he found out she was behaving like a slut at her posting. They've decided to make Rossalind's wife utter hell beginning at her husband's wake.
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This is a work of fiction, any resemblance to persons living, dead or otherwise is purely coincidental, etc. He had a painfully firm grip on the back of my neck forcing my mouth downward until his cock head blocked my throat opening. Robbie, that's short for Major Robert C.
Donaldson, sensing that his pecker had arrived at my esophagus, pushed harder and I felt that rock solid piston of man meat painfully descend another inch, scrapping the delicate tissue lining my gullet. He lifted me up slightly by the back of my neck then violently forced my head down to drive his manhood another inch or two inside my neck. His other hand grabbed me by the hair and I knew I was in for a good old-fashioned Donaldson family face fucking.
My surviving it was problematic. Denise was Robbie's wife and a former Marine who'd resigned her commission five years ago in order to commence pumping out babies to carry on the Donaldson line.
Her brooding efforts had met with success. There were three little Donaldson's at home being cared for by the nanny. There were six of us seated in the back of the stretch limousine: Donaldson and his wife, Lois, my aforementioned brother-in-law and his wife and Mary Ellen, my dead husband's younger sister now in her fourth year at West Point.
They were watching me being abused as a prelude to entering Morrosco's Funeral Home in Melrose, Massachusetts for their son's wake. My husband, Captain Trace L. Donaldson had been traveling through the streets of Kabul when a mine had exploded under his Humvee. Trace and his driver were killed instantly according to the letter I got from his commander. It was going to be a closed casket funeral.
The Humvee had burned and several pieces of ordinance had exploded inside the cab. My guess would be that the coffin contained a blend of both Trace and the driver. Basically, I'm a nurse in uniform. But at the moment, I was dressed in a short black knit dress, way too short for a respectable widow to wear to her husband's wake. Thank God, it was going to be a private, invitation only affair.
The Donaldson's were regular army to the core and then some. They were rich too. Pictures of Donaldson's killed in combat lined the grand staircase of the family mansion. British bayonets had gutted a Uriah Donaldson at Bunker Hill. Major Clement Donaldson had ended his days at Chickamauga, supposedly standing beside General Thomas, the Rock of Chickamauga until a mini-ball took off part of his skull.
Major General Charles Donaldson, my father-in-law's grandfather, had ridden across France with Patten only to meet a bad end years later at the Chosan Reservoir in a shithole called Korea. There were others too numerous to recall.
The current batch of living and recently dead Donaldson's was as tough a bunch as this country could produce. Equally devoted to the study of military tactics and the works of Marquis De Sade, they were a twisted lot. Trace used to say that his family considered arms their profession and pain their hobby. How did a nice girl like me from Lowell, Massachusetts get mixed up with this group of patriotic sadists?
Well for one thing, I'm not all that nice. My predilection for reaching an orgasm only after a sound flogging had brought Trace Donaldson and I together. We'd met at a place in Manhattan called the Hell Fire Club. I'd just graduated college with my nursing degree.
Uncle Sam's Army had funded my education. As a result, I had a five-year commitment to patch up soldiers in whatever piss poor backwater the Army selected. During college I'd discovered that having a man between my legs slamming his cock in my cunt didn't rock my world. Over time, I learned that pain was the additive I required to blow the searing hot wind of sexual satisfaction through my brain. The place was a dilapidated dump but once a month, a crowd gathered who could usually satisfy my needs.
I was naked, strapped to a St. Andrews cross when Trace and two of his army buddies arrived. It had been an off night. I was leaving for training at Fort Campbell next week. I had gone to the club hoping that some one with a talented whip hand would give me the discipline I craved. A pair of dommes had made an attempt at providing a decent flogging but I needed something stronger. I was about to give up and ask to be released when Trace saw me. He stepped up to the cross, leaned against me while taking my nipples in his powerful fingers and gave them the kind of twist that makes an ordinary woman scream and beg for mercy.
When my mouth opened, he shoved his tongue inside all the while twisting my dugs to within a millimeter of separating from my tits. To this day I can recall the pain in my breasts and feel my cunt get wet.
After he manhandled the hell out of my breasts, he stepped back, selected a particularly nasty looking whip out of the rack and casually delivered a blow that struck only one inch of my body. Unfortunately or fortunately as the case may be, that one-inch was my clit. It sounded like someone had fired a shotgun between my legs. For a nanosecond, I thought Trace had missed; then every synapse in my brain got a wake up call from all the thousands of delicate nerve endings located in that single inch.
The switchboard in my cerebellum went into overload and every muscle in my body convulsed. I let out a scream that brought the moribund crowd to the flogging room to see who was having their heart ripped out. Trace expertly whipped my tits and pussy until I climaxed, the kind of climax where you let everything go including your bladder.
He untied me from the St. Andrews, made me lick up the puddle of my urine and then invited me for coffee. For me, it was love at first lash. I suppose Trace felt the same. We were married six months later when we could both get leave together. But now Trace was dead thanks to the Taliban and the Donaldson's were pissed at me. Before he was killed, Trace had found out that I was fucking around with the doctors and staff at the hospital in Kuwait City.
Some prick had emailed him photos of me getting my ass caned, sucking dick, and taking a large black cock in my backdoor at a party we had to celebrate the Fourth of July. I hadn't realized that anyone had a camera but then again I was too stoned to give a shit. Trace had emailed copies of the photos home to the family and informed them he was going to divorce my whoring ass.
I hadn't known any of this until I arrived back at the family home. Massachusetts is a community property state. Trace and I hadn't signed a prenuptial agreement. The fact that I was going to share in his trust fund hadn't gone down well with the Donaldson's. Chapter 2 — Ask The Sergeant Please take note! I'd created a puddle on the towel that Denise had thoughtfully placed over Robbie's lap before he grabbed my head and forced me to bend over and take his cock in my mouth.
The others were watching me gag or choke then spit out a mouthful of the product of my salivary and mucus glands. It was dripping out my nose too. The General was staring at me, taking an occasional sip of Jameson's. You could tell he really got off on that kind of shit.
Lois, always the dutiful wife, was stroking his trouser covered cock. I wondered whether Robbie would blow his load before I choked to death. He'd force his pecker as far down my gullet as it would reach. Robbie was hung like a horse and I could feel my neck bulge every time he achieved maximum possible depth. I'd gag causing my scrapped raw throat to grip his cock.
My stomach was doing flip-flops. Air would become scare after a while and I'd struggle to rise up and get a breath. Denise would help Robbie hold my head down as I kicked and thrashed about for air. Finally, they'd left me up and I'd take a loud deep breath then spit out a mouthful of saliva and snot. Tears were pouring down my cheeks causing my mascara to run. I was a fucking mess. I had good reason to question my survival.
Two of the VC were women and that meant the GI's were going to have some fun with them. He'd acquired an enviable collection over his long career.
A French general had provided some extraordinary films of Legionnaires using electricity on Algerian rebels.