Miss America

MISS AMERICA (NOVEL) by Chrissie Bentley
Miss America is a tense, extreme, erotic and often disturbing study of a young woman taken to the limits of her sexual endurance – there to discover that her limits are only the beginning. An interview with the author

EXCERPT
I stood, scanned the seats that made up the front rows of the audience. My eye settled on a young man seated a little down from where I’d eaten my meal. His expression told me all about him.

Blonde, young, frighteningly Aryan, he had that self-righteous air about him that one normally only sees in old newsreels about the Hitler Youth. He stared back at me, his face a mask of disgust, and I could read it like a book. He had not enjoyed my display, not the tenderness of the love-making, nor the passion of the oral, nor even the unscripted violence of the sodomy. He could not understand why a woman had been permitted to do a man’s job; and he could not understand why that man had not been him to begin with. He would show these bitches how to behave, he would teach them to be fucked and to suck and to accept every kick, every punch, every brutal penetration for what it was, a gift from the Gods, the manna of their Master. Their lot in life. I read all of that in his stare, and I despised him for it.

I stepped towards him, came to a standstill just inches away. The dildo, slicked with Chloe’s shit, danced in his face. He brushed it aside, like he would an annoying insect.

“Suck it,” I commanded.

Once again I was spat at, and this time his aim was unerring, catching me hard on the cheek. I did not flinch. “Suck it,” I repeated.

He gathered himself in his chair. Any moment now he was going to rise up and hit me. The room knew that, too. Any moment now.

“You heard her. Suck it!” Magdalene’s voice rang out. The man turned to face her.

“I refuse.” Now he did stand, a hand pushing me to the ground as he stormed past me, across the center of the room, past the table to which Chloe had once again been secured; and smack into the line of attendants who now blocked his way.

For a moment, there was an impasse. He stood there smoldering furiously; they stood there staring back impassively. Then, as one, they swarmed upon him, grasping his arms; pulling his jacket down behind him to lock his wrists together. His trousers were dragged down, pulled off and discarded. His briefs came with them. His waistcoat and his shirt.

Naked, he was dragged to one of the tables; its occupants swarmed from their seats to form a loose semi-circle around him. Forced to his knees, his still imprisoned arms were tightly bound to the table leg. His captors stepped aside; the man tried to rise but was quite unable. Again I stepped in front of him, angled the shaft to his lips.

His teeth were clenched, his jaw immovable.

“Here, this’ll open his mouth!” Somebody hurled a lit cigar across the room. I glanced at it; an attendant bent to retrieve it, and then very slowly, very deliberately, touched the glowing embers to the man’s hand. He opened his mouth to scream; I plunged inside.

I had switched off the vibrator. I wanted this to be slow, ugly, the most humiliating moment of this repulsive man’s life. I did not even fuck. Rather, I thrust the full length into his throat, and then merely pantomimed movement, so that he might choke on the cock, and choke on his fear of what would eventually happen… of what was happening… to him, in a room crammed with the very same people before whom he had once preened and posed and pontificated.

A thick accent called out from the circle around us. “Hey, Jurgens!” I was right, he was German. “Remember that whore in Dusseldorf? Maybe her ghost has caught up with you at last!”

A bustle of whispers. Still barely moving, just a light swaying motion so he’d know I was there, I strained my ears to catch what people were saying. “Street girl.” Yes, I got that. “Dusseldorf.” I know that as well. “Police. Murder. Choked. Prick.” Put them altogether. “Never caught.” Well, Jurgens, you’ve been caught now.

I looked down. The dildo was in his mouth to its root. I pulled back a little, saw his eyes… not so proud now, rather pitiful in fact… register a moment’s relief, thankful that the ordeal was ending. Wrong. It’s just beginning. I pushed forward again, and now I did begin fucking him, riding his face like I’d ridden Chloe’s ass, but there was not even a hint of gentleness now, not the merest glimmer of mercy.

That’s for my first night in the dungeon. That’s for the cocks up my ass. That’s for all the cum that I’ve swallowed. That’s for Chloe. The list was endless. Every indignity, every humiliation, every whipping and slapping and pinching, every spasm of pain and suffering and terror, and that’s for every night I’ve wished I was dead, and that’s for every girl who is dead, that and that and that and that and…. And then I came, wishing that this thing was equipped with a reserve cylinder so that I could flood his throat and drown his stomach, and then pull out and soak his face, so that the entire room could see him on his knees choking and sobbing and begging and screaming, and blowing great bubbles of snotty white from his nostrils.

I kicked him hard in the balls; he tried to scream but I was too deep in his throat; he gurgled instead, then collapsed to one side, so I kicked him again. I tore at the dildo, unfastened the clips, removed both the sensors and then, leaning over his prostrate, gagging form, coughing up cum and snot and bile, I lay the contraption beside him, so that the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes would be its one wide eye staring back at him.

Then, turning on my heel, I walked across the floor, past the roars of applause, into the hallway and back to my apartment. I knew I would pay for this later, but right now, I didn’t care.

Right now, I was Miss America.