Ellen tried to move for the thousandth time. The rubber and leather straps wouldn't let her. They were wrapped around each wrist, attaching them to the crook of each of her elbows which were wrenched behind her back. They gave with each pull or tug but only a millimetre - less, really - and made a tiny noise of complaint ... one, she was sure, only she could hear over the roar in her ears. Not really over the roar; actually they became part of the roar as she pulled at her arms and at her legs.

Her legs vibrated, straining, for the millionth time as she tried to bring them together. But the straps around her ankles wouldn't let her do that either. They were incredibly tight around her firm, lightly tanned, impeccably shaped ankles, just above the even tighter straps of her impressive red ankle-strap high heels which she teetered on. The shoe straps kept her lovely feet imprisoned in the sexy shoes, while the leather/rubber straps kept her feet wide, anchored to the floor, attached to the wall behind her.

She tried to scream for help for the billionth time, but the huge red ball gag strapped unbearably deep in her mouth wouldn't let her. All she did, for the hundredth time, was gurgle, drool coursing out the corners of her mouth, to slide down her chin, across her lovely throat, and between her aching breasts.

Her breasts...! She glanced down at them again, amazed at how her small, brown nipples remained at abused attention, the tiny, tightly-bent paper clips pinching them like tightened pliers. Ellen's head went back, agonisingly, refusing to look at how her tight red dress was hanging down, exposing her chest, or even worse ...!

She tried again, for the umpteenth time, to force the night-stick out of her vagina. Ten inches of it was forced up there, tied in place by thin, coarse ropes which encircled the police batons perpendicular handle and anchored in the grooves of her betraying hip bones. They didn't even need to put the cords under the micro-hem of the red mini-dress. Even over the thin cotton-spandex cloth it held like solder.

Ellen groaned again, trying to remember how it came to this.

She remembered doing a favour for Tara ... something about a simple statement at police headquarters... She remembered sitting down, smiling, using her friendly Aussie charm on the polite detectives. The polite, black detectives. The big, black, smiling, solicitous black detectives. The big, black, smiling, solicitous, black detectives who started walking around her in the small, dark, plain, run-down interview room with the single pane of glass ... the pane of glass she suddenly realised wasn't a mirror ....

That's when the first hand was laid on her.

They grabbed her wrists. A huge, heavy, muscular black hand slammed across her mouth. Her arms were wrenched behind her back. Feet swept her legs back, forcing her front forward. She was suddenly locked down, her face sandwiching the gagging hand between her lips and the table top. That wasn't the worst. The feeling of straps going around her arms wasn't the worst. The way her hem slipped up over her red-lace-pantied crotch wasn't the worst. No, the worst were the hands which did nothing other than continually, unceasingly and unflaggingly maul her proud, strong, wide breasts all the time they bound and gagged her.

Then, without ceremony, they took her. Incredibly they kept up a happy, celebratory chatter while strapping her ankles to the table legs, forcing her onto her stomach on the table top, ripping off her panties, yanking down her dress top, grabbing her tits, and forcing their cocks up her rich, salty cunt.

First one; thrusting, thrusting, thrusting until he came inside her; then another. Then another, until the fourth became bored with that position.

Then her ankles were untied and she was laid, back first, on the table top. Her ankles were then retied to the chair arms so her next abuser could stand between the inverted "V" of her extraordinarily shapely limbs and force his meat deep into Ellen's already throbbing crack. He continued to thrust until he also came, and then it was the next man's turn.

Ellen was more than stunned ... she was unable to completely comprehend what they were doing. She was in a foreign land, in a police station, and what she had spent her whole life denying the possibility of was now actually happening without so much as an angry word or the slightest warning. They were taking her at their whim, delight, and leisure, giving her no more credit for existence than they would a blow-up doll.

She was taken six times with huge black cocks before they laughingly decided to anchor the night stick dildo in her already abused clit.

"Look how she handles it!" one marvelled. "This is one amazing cunt!"

"Amazing that she could fit it in there," said another, "considering all the nigger jism she's filled with."

Dragging, pulling, and pushing her by only her tits, they secured her to rings bolted in the wall by her ankles and throat, then, without so much as a curse, left the room, locking the door behind them.

She didn't know how long she stood there, shaking, her legs vibrating like rubber bands every few minutes, the awful intrusion doing its work even as she drew her ragged breaths.

Ellen heard the door to the adjoining room open. Her wet, tense eyes widened when she saw Sophie enter, charmingly led by the detectives who had assaulted her.

Ellen began to shake in earnest then, only this time it wasn't abuse or exhaustion which drove her. It was terror ... but not for herself ... for her friend; the richly formed Sophie, with her big dark eyes, her mane of dark hair, her sweet, open expression, and her full, curvaceous body.

She tried to slam her body against the wall, but her bound arms were in the way and her ankle/throat straps didn't give her enough leeway. She tried to call, but all that accomplished was to wet her naked torso again, droplets of drool having even made their way through her bunched dress and jerking off the hem of her red micro-mini.

Even so, she tried and tried again to alert Sophie through the soundproofed walls and window, knowing that all Sophie saw when she glanced into the glass between rooms was her own reflection.

And what a reflection. She was wearing a ribbed white cotton spandex mini-dress with a scooped u-neck and white high heels. Ellen could clearly see that her brunette friend wore no bra, nor did she need one. Her large, pendulous breasts were big semi-circles of adipose tissue high on her chest. Ellen could just imagine the white, lacy thong bikini brief she wore beneath the hem ... although she also knew, with increasing despair, that she wouldn't have to imagine it long.

She was right. Just as Ellen became aware that the sound from the adjoining room was being piped into her prison, she saw the detectives begin to circle Sophie as they had encircled her. Her sparkling eyes widened and widened as Sophie kept smiling and kept answering their questions, her head turning this way and that.

Ellen screamed and screamed but no one heard her. Ellen jerked in place, the night stick jerking into her, but no one saw. She had to stand there and watch as the black hands grabbed Sophie's wrists, the black hands slammed over her mouth, and the feet swept her high heels back.

Ellen looked away, her eyes tightly closed, tears streaming down her face like rain, but her ears could "see" them yanking down the short-sleeves of Sophie's dress. Ellen heard Sophie's breasts pop free of the scoop top. And she listened to the huge white ball gag being forced into Sophie's gurgling, choking mouth. Then the white lacy panties were pulled down the brunette's kicking legs and things changed. There was a man at each wrist and ankle, pulling Sophie into a mid-air spread-eagle. Then there was a man between her legs, gripping her hips like handlebars.

The last man was at her breasts, kneading, licking, pinching, sucking...

Sophie screamed into the ball as the first hunk of meat was rammed unceremoniously all the way into her.