The Baron grabbed her jaw.
He turned her face toward the cucumber. "Look at it. Look at what is inside you. Look at how far you have fallen. You laughed at a Prince. Now you carry his produce."
He pulled the cucumber out.
SKHLRK—
The wet sound was obscene. Her walls gripped the vegetable. The seed poured out around it—a thick, white flood mixing with the clear juice of her violation. The cucumber emerged coated in their combined filth. He threw it on the floor.
"To the bath," the Prince said. "She stinks. She smells like a whore's gutter. We will clean our toy before we break it again."
They dragged her from the bed.
Her legs would not hold her. The Count and the Lord each gripped an arm and pulled her across the chamber. Her feet dragged on the carpet. Her tits hung—heavy, bruised, marked with teeth. The seed ran from both holes in steady, warm streams, leaving a trail of white droplets on the expensive rug.
The bathroom was marble.
