31.
The reality is slowly waking in the brunette's mind. There had always seemed some way out. Release? Being found? Some way. Hope. But as he lowered the Dutch girl's cunt onto the blut point of the fork handle her eyes told him that last hope was fading.
The pain in Pia's belly is intense. With the rope slack her full weight is on the rounded fork handle, hard against her cervix; her body supported by the sheath of thin muscle that is her cunt.
Pia still dances her erotic steps. While her thighs hold she grips the handle for some respite. As they tire she locks her feet against the wood and pushes up as best she can. Relief from the slow, inexorable tearing of her cunt. Then ride the handle down as her muscles tire.
Push up, lock her thighs, tire and slip down those desperate few inches to pain. Up, hold, slip down. She has a rhythm. Slow and steady for now, while her strength holds. Slow and steady fucking the blunt spear in belly.
As the Dutch girl's body rises and sags on her shaft he grinds himself against Barbara's face; his fingers still tight in her hair. How long will Pia last? How long can she dance? His rasping breathing is quicker. How long can he hold?
With time Pia's rhythm changes. Her legs are tiring, thighs cramping. The strength to drive her weight up from the spear in her gut is weaker, her rests, if that is what they are, on the end of the handle are longer. But still she holds on.
It is well into the night now. He cannot let the women go much longer. They must be finished by the dawn.
Barbara feels his grip on her hair relax. The pressure of his hard cock against her face ease. She lets her head fall back, down between her stretched arms. She can see his boots. They take him towards the wall where he found the hay fork. The rattle of tools sorted. Then the boots bring him back.
Then they are beside Pia again and the brunette forces her tired neck muscles to lift her head, drawn to see what he is doing to her friend.
There is a heavy hammer in his hand. As Pia pushes herself doggedly upwards Barbara's eyes follow the hammer as he lfts it back then slams it against her friend's knee.
The Dutch girl screams, shrill, piercing at first then deeper, as her smashed leg loses grip and her weight falls. It is just a few inches but it is hard against the spear's blunt point. The deeper, visceral scream at the tearing of that muscle sheath in her belly.
He watches her for a while, standing between the two women. He looks at the horror on Barbara's face and in her eyes. The look in the Dutch girl's eyes is different. Her eyes are glazed. Her face seems different too. Calmer than the brunette's, lips parted, the tip of her tongue just visible.
Pia still fights, still pushes as best she can with one foot against the wood of the handle. Her dance had been even, rhythmic. Now it just macabre. But still she holds against the blunt spear that wants to run through her gut.
Wait until she makes that desperate thrust upwards, leg muscles taut, foot jammed hard against the handle. Crunch! The hammer slams the other knee. The piercing scream at the fire in her knee, then the deep, deep moan as her last grip gives way and she slips down, hard onto the end of the handle. The last muscles tear and the blunt spear begins its steady march up through her guts.
Pia's legs hang useless, down beside the hay fork handle. She makes a few desperate attempts to grip the handle but she cannot hold there. Barbara tears her eyes away. She cannot watch Pia's inexorable descent down that blunt wooden spear.