Idnapped

Professor Suzan Hastings adjusted her wide-brimmed hat as she stepped out of the dusty jeep, her dark hair tied back in a loose ponytail, sweat beading on her slender neck. At fifty-four, the UCLA archaeologist and Middle Eastern studies expert still cut a striking figure--her frame lean from years of fieldwork, her full breasts and rounded ass accentuated by her fitted khakis and linen shirt. She'd come to Iraq to lead an academic expedition to the Babylonian ruins, her passion for ancient history driving her to this remote site near the Euphrates. Her team had barely begun cataloging clay tablets when the roar of engines shattered the stillness--masked men in black swarmed from trucks, rifles raised, barking orders in Arabic.

She was shoved into a van, blindfolded, her wrists bound, her heart hammering as they sped away. Hours later, they dragged her into a hidden compound--mud-brick walls, a low ceiling, the air thick with dust and menace. The leader ripped off her blindfold, his eyes cold as he muttered something about ransom. Suzan, trembling, tried to reason--her Arabic fluent, her pleas measured--but they laughed, shoving her to the ground. There were five of them, rough and unyielding, their hands tearing at her clothes, exposing her pale skin, her heavy breasts spilling free, her curves stark against the dim light.

At first, it was pure violation--her shirt shredded, pants yanked down, their hands groping her ass, her thighs, pinning her to a coarse blanket on the floor. She screamed, fought, her nails clawing at them, but they overpowered her, one holding her arms while another forced her legs apart. The first entered her, rough and unrelenting, her body tensing in pain and fear as the others watched, waiting their turn. Tears streamed down her face, her mind reeling--disgust, shame, terror--but as the second took his place, something shifted. Her body, betraying her, began to respond: a flush of heat, a tightening she couldn't control. She hated it, hated herself, but the rhythm, the rawness, sparked a buried instinct.

Days bled into nights, and the assaults became routine--three, four, sometimes all five at once, their hands and mouths everywhere. She stopped fighting, her distress dulling into a strange detachment. Then, slowly, it morphed. Her body adapted, her vagina slick despite the brutality, her sensitivity sharpening. One afternoon, sprawled across a table, one man thrust into her while another kneaded her breasts, a third pressing against her lips--she opened her mouth, tasting him, a moan escaping her throat. It wasn't surrender; it was survival, then pleasure, dark and unbidden. She arched into them, her big boobs bouncing, her ass clenching as they took her from behind, her cries no longer pained but hungry. She learned their rhythms, craved the overwhelm, the chaos of multiple bodies claiming hers.

Weeks later, American Special Forces stormed the compound--gunfire, shouts, the kidnappers scattering. A soldier hauled her up, wrapping her in a blanket, her dark hair matted, her body bruised but alive. Back in Los Angeles, she returned to her quiet life, her husband--a gentle, bookish man in his late fifties--welcoming her with relief. But Suzan was different, restless, her nights haunted by the memory of hands, cocks, the flood of sensation. She couldn't unfeel it, didn't want to.

One evening, sipping wine in their Pasadena home, she turned to him, her voice low. "I need to tell you something," she said, her slender fingers tracing the glass. "In Iraq... they took me. All of them. And I... I started to like it." His eyes widened, but she pressed on, unashamed. "I want that again--with you. Multiple men. I need it."

He stared, stunned, then nodded slowly, a flicker of curiosity in his gaze. She arranged it--three men, friends of a discreet colleague, all in their fifties, fit and eager. In their bedroom, Suzan stripped, her dark hair loose, her body a map of experience--full breasts swaying, great ass firm as she knelt on the bed. Her husband watched, hesitant, as she beckoned the first stranger, guiding his cock to her mouth, sucking him deep while another slid behind her, entering her slick heat. She moaned, loud and uninhibited, her husband's breath hitching as he shed his clothes, joining them.

They moved her to the center--one man beneath, thrusting into her vagina, another easing into her ass, her body stretching to take them both. She gasped, the double penetration a flood of fullness, her husband stepping forward to offer his cock. She took him in her mouth, her lips stretched, her eyes locked on his as the three men fucked her in sync. Her big boobs jiggled with each thrust, her ass clenching around the intrusion, her moans muffled but wild. The strangers gripped her hips, her thighs, their pace relentless, and she came hard, shuddering between them, pulling her husband over the edge as he spilled into her throat. The others followed, one in her ass, the other in her core, a messy, primal release.

After, she lay tangled with her husband, the strangers gone, her body sated but alive. "More?" he whispered, his hand on her breast. She smiled, dark and bold. "Oh, yes. This is just the start."