We continue the destruction

We went for a walk, leaving my wife in an extremely difficult and uncomfortable position. And it seemed to me that she wasn't even aware of what was happening to her.

Inna and I took a leisurely stroll along the embankment. We went into a shopping mall to rest over a cup of coffee. And as we were heading towards the exit, Inna slowed down near a children's goods store and pointed to a stacking ring toy. An impressive one, about 70 centimeters tall and clearly more than 20 cm at the base.

— Just look at what a wonderful gift for our trained hole.

I liked the direction of her thoughts.

We returned home a couple of hours later and found

my wife in a pitiful state. In the literal sense of the word. The first thing that caught the eye was the tears streaming down her face. The tears flowed down her cheeks onto her breasts, pulled downwards, and streamed along them towards the dark blue pea-sized nipples. The rope, pulled taut by my wife's limp, hanging arms with bluish hands, had constricted her nipples, turning them into almost black balls on thin stalks.

My wife was struggling to inhale air through her nose, from which a trickle of snot mixed with tears was flowing. Her legs, bound with ropes, were also slightly bluish and trembling finely.

My wife showed no reaction to our arrival. And she didn't respond when addressed. Perhaps we should have returned earlier. And now my wife was in another state of shock.

I hurried to remove the mask with the gag from her. Forgetting to deflate the gag, I forcefully pulled it out of my wife's throat with a sucking sound. It seemed Inna had overdone it a bit with the inflation.

Inna, meanwhile, untied my wife's legs. The relaxed legs dropped to the floor, but my wife didn't even try to lean on them. We untied her arms and nipples together, Inna on one side, me on the other. The loops on the nipples were pulled so tight that we had to struggle quite a bit to remove them.

My wife continued to sit motionless, staring into space.

I picked my wife up to move her to the sofa. Surprisingly, the cone she was sitting on didn't stay on the stool and didn't even fall out while I was carrying her, despite its considerable weight.

I laid my wife on the sofa, and when I removed my hands, her knees fell wide apart, exposing her perineum for view. The entire perineum was covered by the base of the cone; after all, 16 cm in diameter is wider than the perineum.

I tried to take hold of the cone, but it was as if glued on. Applying significant force, I literally tore the cone away from the vaginal entrance, with a loud, drawn-out, sucking sound. And even the vaginal walls stretched out after it, then collapsed back into the hole.

What was revealed to our eyes could no longer be called a vagina. It was a funnel with smooth, shiny walls, like polished wood coated with varnish. It could be compared to a champagne bucket, at the bottom of which lay the cervix. And what I particularly liked was that the hole wasn't trying to close.

— Well, there you go," I said, "what I've been striving for seems to have come true. Now we just need to fix it in this state. But for now, we need to bring our toy back to her senses; I wouldn't want her to turn into a vegetable.

Inna prepared a cocktail of medications. My wife drank it with such greed, as if she hadn't drunk for a week. I had to give her another glass of water. After drinking that too, my wife passed out. And Inna pulled me into the bedroom to celebrate our little achievement with vigorous sex.