Do you know Oliver Marwell? Of course you do, everybody knows at least one Oliver Marwell. Traditionally, Oliver wears glasses and was never much good at sports in school even though he got high marks. Oliver has a wife who is slightly taller than he is, even in sandals, and she normally tells him what to do and how to dress and what books to read, and then sleeps around with his friends whenever she gets the chance. Oh yes, Oliver normally has a big tough business partner let's call him Ken who pushes him around, takes all the credit for their business success and commits adultery with his wife whenever he gets the chance.
Starting to recognize Oliver Marwell? Just to make the story complete, don't forget Ken's wife, Milly, who is not much more than a female version of Oliver. Milly is slightly frigid and frightened of her own shadow, and she started hating her big handsome husband. Ken, before they finished their honeymoon in Niagara Falls. What Milly would really like is somebody gentle and soft like Oliver and Oliver feels the same way about her, but they're both too chicken to do anything about it.
Is this a story about wife-swapping? No. reader, rest assured that the mere thought of an orgy would render Oliver impotent for a week. Besides. Oliver really loves his wife and he thinks that his partner is his best friend. To tell the brutal truth, reader, Oliver Marwell is something of a jerk, a skinny nervous little jerk who makes a good living keeping the books for their firm because he's a red-hot accountant, but take his adding machine away from him and what have you got?
A good question, reader, and a question which our author, Carl Vandervort, has spent the course of this exciting novel trying to answer. If no one had ever taken Oliver's adding machine away from him. he would probably have gone on for the rest of his life polishing his glasses, wearing suits that didn't quite Fit and having the horns put on him once a week by his wife, Sandra, while he guiltily lusted after Ken's wife and never worked up the courage to do anything about it.
But one day, Oliver finds himself without his adding machine in a Land Rover heading across several thousand miles of open Saharan desert. It is a vacation, a lark, a joy-ride through the sand, and everybody (Ken, Sandra and Milly) is having a terrific time except for poor old Oliver who is so nervous his glasses keep steaming up. He's unhappy because if anything goes wrong with the Land Rover, they fry in the desert and if they run into any nomadic Tuaregs, they get their throats cut and besides his buddy. Ken, had been in the sack with Sandra again, and Sandra seems to be developing a lesbian thing for Milly and where exactly does that leave him?
And then, bang! The joy-ride turns sour. A sandstorm hits and then a raiding party of Tuaregs and there is a skinny old Oliver without his adding machine, cleaning his glasses while the world asks him to be a hero. In a sea of sand and sensuality, Oliver Marwell is forced to find out what kind of material he is made of after all.
There is one more thing, reader, which you should be aware of. While Oliver is going about the unpleasant business of finding out what it means to be a man, various people do wicked sinful things to various other people. It's all part of the story, but perhaps you shouldn't tell your maiden Aunt Nellie what a terrific book Rape In The Desert is and suggest that she read it. At the end of the story, for example, Oliver discovers a fairly unorthodox solution to the problem of being in love with two women simultaneously.
And Aunt Nellie would never approve.
-The Publishers
PART ONE: OLIVER MARWELL
The setting sun to the west burned at them across the sand like a serpent of fire as if it were offended somehow by the presence of creatures such as men on the burnished plains of the desert, and it meant to consume them with its only weapon, heat.
Heat! Marwell snatched his scorched hands from the sizzling wrought-iron railing of the balcony, realizing clearly for the first time that in this part of the world, heat was no longer merely an abstract concept in physics, or a number on a thermometer. Here heat was a presence, a godly being, a savagely malevolent spirit, capable of ruling and ruining their lives, blazing down at midday from a white-hot sky and searing the sands, as if mankind in all its pathetic fragility was an infection to be cauterized as a wound.
Even if Europeans and Americans in the madness of their vanity did not, the Arabs understood that men were not welcome here, that humans were not meant for the desert and the sun. Sitting in the back offices of the travel bureau in New York, Oliver Marwell had always pictured the Arab and his dauntless camel, scornfully crossing the trackless seas of sand without discomfort or difficulty. But now he saw clearly that this was tourist propaganda and nothing more. The Arabs were smart enough to be afraid of the desert, and except for a scattering of Tuareg tribes who seemed to be exempt from the inexorable laws of sand and sun, they huddled defensively in their crumbling cities along the coast or sought out the coolness of the mountains where life was possible, even if just barely.
Oliver Marwell retreated into the shade afforded by a large ragged pink umbrella, and considered lighting a cigarette, then deciding that he wanted no more heat in his life at the moment. The insolent circle of the sun was a third of the way below the horizon, but its force was still tremendous, and the man asked himself how in God's name they were going to stand it, day after day, as they crossed the desert. Oliver Marwell had lived with himself for thirty-seven years, and he knew he had never been afraid like this before. And what did you do with this kind of fear? he asked himself. Could he possibly go downstairs and say to Ken that he was terribly sorry, old man, but he happened to be scared shitless and he was catching the next jet out of here? And what did he say to Sandra? Well, love, you know what a great head I have for figures and how clever I am with the books, but I'm not much of a man for Sahara Desert expeditions, so if you'll locate my green argyle socks, I'll be packing my bags. Better a live coward than a dead hero, I always say, and I'll see you all in Central Park, unless you want to come to your senses, too, in which case I'll make that a reservation for four and we can have breakfast at Schrafft's.
"Oliver, we're going to be late!" came the insistent voice of his young wife from inside the faded green shutters which divided the balcony from their hotel room. Marwell looked apprehensively at the desert one last time and then ducked inside, knowing that Sandra rarely used his full first name unless she were on the verge of becoming irritated with him.
Besides being a coward, I'm getting to be henpecked, he grumbled to himself as he entered, wondering why his life had started to become intolerably complicated over the past few years. When he and Ken had been starving their way through the early years of their travel business, everything had been simple. Now they were making money as if they had a federal license to print the stuff, and everything was complicated. Why?
"They're probably already down there waiting for us," came Sandra's voice from the bathroom, and Oliver Marwell stripped his sweat-soaked shirt from his thin but muscular shoulders as his wife emerged from what must have been her fifth shower of the day. Sandra and Oliver had been married five years, but he had never ceased being stunned by the sight of her youthful naked body, and it stopped him again in his tracks while he asked himself for the ten-thousandth time how exactly it had come to pass that timid mild-mannered Oliver Marwell the perennial bachelor edging his way gracefully into middle age had stopped long enough to marry this magnificent blonde creature, twelve years younger than he.
Suddenly moved by an emotion halfway between lust and playfulness, he pulled a blue towel off the rusted iron rack by the shower stall and began to blot the drops of water still clinging to his wife's skin, drying her tenderly while she adjusted her hair in the cracked old bathroom mirror. Sandra seemed to accept this service the way a queen reacts to the ministrations of a servant, patting her blonde hair into place while Oliver stood humbly to one side, the coarse material of the towel wrapped around his hand, caressing the sensually rising spheres of her breasts. Oliver had never quite adjusted to the idea that Sandra without her clothes looked exactly like the American dream-girl, the kind of woman normally only seen in the centerfold of a men's magazine. Despite the incredible fullness of her breasts, her lightly voluptuous body was basically slender and trim with a flat smooth stomach gently swelling out to the full womanly sensuality of her nicely rounded hips and then tapering off into long exciting thighs. Down below, between her legs, the girl's pubic hair demonstrated that her stunning blondeness was natural, but the triangular zone of hair was sparse and light, making her seem twice as naked as any other woman, since the thinness of her pubic hair made it possible to see the pink fleshy folds of her vagina and the tiny jewel of her clitoris.
The half-moons of her buttocks were firm and almost boyish, and Marwell felt his heart beating faster whenever she turned around, carelessly displaying to him the rich sumptuous orbs of her breasts, each one tipped enticingly with a large, light brown nipple. Now, even as he stroked them, they were soft and pliant, yielding to the lustful touch of his trembling fingers, but Oliver knew what they could feel like when Sandra was aroused. In her moments of wild lust, those proud nipples would swell and grow hard, their light brown color deepening visibly almost to purple, and as he touched her, he remembered how they felt when pressed nakedly against his chest like two nuggets of bronze . . .
"Oliver, if you wanted to make love, we shouldn't have promised Ken and Milly that we'd meet them for drinks," she grumbled at him almost sharply, taking the towel from his hands and drying herself briskly. "I mean, dear, you pick the darnedest times to get romantic."
Marwell disengaged almost immediately, a wave of bitterness sweeping over him. You ought to slap her just once across the face, he told himself angrily, and tell her that you'll get romantic any damn time you please. And then grab her by the tits and drag her onto that flea-bitten bed and fuck her till her back teeth are loose! Besides, she gets romantic at some pretty strange times herself. It was only a month ago that she decided we had to do it on my desk in the office, and Ken walked in on us accidentally! If it was an accident.. .
"You know, this is really a lousy hotel," Sandra commented, stalking out of the bathroom in search of her dress for the evening. "With all the expertise you and Ken are supposed to have about foreign accommodations, why on earth did you check us in here? I think we'll be more comfortable in the field in our tent!"
"Ken picked it out," he responded
If, defensively. "He said it was close to the desert, and we could leave from here in the morning without any difficulty. And. besides, we aren't going to have much comfort or privacy once we're camping. That canvas flap dividing the tent isn't good for much, and I'm told the shower facilities in the North Sahara are very limited."
"We don't have much privacy here, darling," Sandra responded archly, "From the shower stall you can look right into the room where Ken and Milly are staying. But I guess this is what roughing it is all about. Do you like this dress?"
"Gee...." he said nervously, studying the brief mini-skirt she had put on over nothing more substantial than a pair of lace panties. "That would attract attention in New York city, and I don't know what it's going to do to these Arabs. We don't want you being raped by the waiters in the restaurant." The hem of the filmy silk garment cut high across the girl's full, lust-inspiring thighs and the bustline was low enough to reveal generous portions of Sandra's deep mature breasts, plus the fact that she was wearing no brassiere. In a country where women still walked the streets in veils, an outfit like this was liable to cause a riot.
"I don't know." she grinned at him saucily. "Being raped by a bunch of Arabs might be a great new experience for me, and we could include it as part of the package expedition you guys want to sell to your adventurous customers. Besides, with all this heat, I wonder how much action I'm going to get out of you tonight."
She kissed him lingeringly and Marwell instantly forgave her everything.
* * *
"Oh golly! Look at Sandra's dress!" Milly Stone whispered to her husband as the Marwells made their way across the restaurant towards their table. "If she dresses like that in the desert, she's going to get a terrible sunburn!"
Ken Stone followed his wife's glance, his own eyes widening with sudden desire as he studied the succulent young body of his partner's wife weaving towards them between the crowded tables. A sudden hush had fallen over the dining room as the Marwells had entered, and every eye in the house was focused on Sandra's fresh young body.
"She's just a girl who's got plenty to show and doesn't believe in hiding it, like some people I know," cracked Ken Stone pointedly, glancing with poorly concealed disgust at his wife's overly modest little outfit. "And I can't see anything wrong with giving these Arabs a little treat. God knows, they don't get to see much of their own women."
The two couples exchanged friendly greetings as the Marwells sat down. Drinks were ordered, plus a salad for Ken Stone, who felt hungry, despite the oppressive heat which lingered, even after the sunset in the hotel's dining area. They were an odd looking foursome, and anyone who had not seen Sandra and Oliver enter together would never have guessed correctly who was married to whom. Oliver was at least an inch shorter than his Amazon wife, even without elevator shoes, and while fundamentally well-built, he had a look of permanently skinny boyishness about him. as if he were still something of a gawking fumbling teenager, even at thirty-seven. Ken Stone, on the other hand, seemed much more like the kind of man who ought to be married to a spectacularly glamorous woman like Sandra. Despite the fact that the two men had been roommates in college and were almost precisely the same age. Ken still retained the look of an athlete in his late twenties, a rugged competent man with an air of success and self-confidence about him, and a convincing manner which had been winning customers for their steadily growing firm during the seven years they had been in business together.
Milly, on the other hand, was the kind of woman who appears in advertisements for home and garden magazines. A brunette who was close to thirty, she wore her hair in a neat but unspectacular ponytail and normally hid her deeply penetrating eyes behind a pair of dark sunglasses. She possessed a fine figure, but modesty prevented her from showing it off the way Sandra did, and it would never occur to her to leave her room without strapping her heavy mobile breasts into one of the sturdy but unattractive brassieres she habitually wore. Milly was the quiet member of the foursome, the one who hardly ever said anything and who blushed modestly whenever anyone looked at her too hard. And she looked precisely like the kind of girl who winds up marrying a man like Oliver Marwell.
The waiter came with Ken's salad, looked lasciviously down the front of Sandra's dress without taking the trouble to disguise what he was doing and gave them their drinks. Ken looked at the moldy green leaves of what might have been lettuce in an early period of its history and pushed the dish away with a gesture of disgust.
"Ugh! I guess we'd better get used to eating the canned stuff we brought with us, eh folks? It may be tasteless, but I hate to see the stuff on my plate moving, and this rabbit food here looks like it would poison a sewer rat. You're sure we got enough grub. Ol?"
Marwell nodded shortly. Calculating how much food they would need had been easy, a perfect job for a bookkeeper. Food was the least of his worries. Whether they would all live long enough to consume the last can of beans was another matter entirely.
"Water is the problem," he began uncomfortably. "Water and fuel for the Land Rover! We can carry enough dehydrated food to last us a year, but water is too heavy, and if we don't find a fresh supply within fifteen days of leaving here, we're in trouble. And the Rover can only take a few days of gasoline...."
"Not to worry, Ol old man!" laughed Ken Stone reassuringly, as usual treating his partner like an incompetent younger brother. "I've got all the waterholes from Marrakesh to Cairo marked on that map. If we get thirsty, we pop into the nearest one and fill 'er up. And the Sahara's full of gas stations."
"If the Rover makes it! And if the station isn't closed because of Allah's birthday! And if the oasis hasn't been destroyed by a sandstorm. And if we don't run into the same gang of Tuareg tribesmen that German expedition encountered last year, that, and about twenty other ifs too horrible to mention." Marwell surprised himself at his vehemence, realizing that the doubts and fears had been building up inside of him ever since Ken had first proposed this lunatic idea a year ago.
"Oh, Oliver, don't be so negative!" Sandra snapped, her eyes on Ken Stones's face as if she wanted to establish whose side she was on. "It's going to be a blast!"
"Look, Ol," Stone leaned across the table, that super-convincing look on his face, the look which had brought them a half-million dollar's worth of business in the past fiscal year. "We've argued this until we're blue in the face, and the answer always comes out the same way. The old travel business is dying on its feet, even if Stone-Marwell is still making money. People are just not interested in Easter trips to Paris and guided tours to the Colosseum anymore! And with the dollar worth next to nothing in Europe these days, a guy with a couple-thousand bucks in his pocket and a yen to do some traveling comes home a week or two later with the feeling that he's been robbed. And he's been robbed! He's seen the same tired old ruined castles everybody else has seen, and he's paid too much for it."
"But offer him an expedition to some really exciting place like this...." enthused Sandra, her face eager and happy as she did her best to support Ken's argument.
"Precisely! Offer him a do-it-yourself Land Rover expedition across North Africa with all the danger and the excitement he can handle, and for the same price he would pay for a boring old-fashioned tour of Europe, and you've got another customer. Can't you see it, Ol? We're bringing the old Stanley and Livingston stuff right down to the American middle class and they're going to buy it!"
"If it's possible," Marwell objected stubbornly.
"That's what we're here to find out, isn't it, old buddy?" Stone flashed his most self-confident smile. "If a couple of thirty-seven year old businessmen with their child brides can make it across the desert, then we know the formula works. And I'll be able to sell the package with photographs of the four of us having the time of our lives and getting through it in one piece. And you can just sit in that back office of yours with your feet on the desk, counting the money and figuring out how not to pay taxes on it."
"Listen, I didn't come all the way to Morocco to listen to you boys argue about business," Sandra decided suddenly, sitting up in her chair. "I want to see the native bazaar. Who feels like a walk before bed?"
"I'd like to go," Milly said, speaking for the first time, her deep alto voice coming across the table at them like a caress, "but I think I got a little too much sun today already, and this is the coolest spot in Morocco, right here."
"Well. I'm on for a walk." volunteered Stone briskly, finishing his drink off with one gulp and getting energetically to his feet. "How about you. Ol?"
"I think I'll stay here for another drink and keep Milly company," responded Marwell, who thought that following Sandra through the Arab bazaar in this oppressive evening heat just about the worst idea he had ever heard.
"Okay, you guys wait here for us and we'll be back for a second drink in an hour, okay?"
"We aren't going anywhere," Marwell promised.
* * *
They talked. Oliver Marwell and Milly Stone were closer than anyone suspected and perhaps closer than they would have admitted to one another. Both of them were made to suffer from time to time by their mates, and they suffered in silence, but often together, glancing at each other coyly, each knew that the other understood. The last time Ken had gone off for the week on an alleged business trip, Milly had come into the travel bureau and discovered accidentally that her husband had gone with his attractive nineteen year old secretary. She had blundered into Oliver's office and cried quietly in a chair. Overcome with sympathy, he had put his arms around her and kissed her tear-smudged cheek. He had felt the fullness of her breasts thrusting unconsciously against his chest as she sobbed, and in true Marwell fashion, he had become afraid and backed away. Committing adultery was something other men did. but Oliver Marwell would not take advantage of a woman. Not like that. And not Ken's wife, no matter what his partner had done.
They talked, exchanging fears as the hot desert wind curled sullenly around the dingy hotel, enveloping them in silent unrelenting heat the hotness of a Moroccan night. The waiter brought them another drink, and they stopped talking for awhile, having said all the obvious superficial things a man and a woman could say to one another, not daring to get down to the difficult things that needed to be said. It was easy enough to talk about the possibility of dying in that unforgiving desert which stretched limitlessly off to the cast just outside the window, but there were other things much harder to say. Finally, Marwell lit two cigarettes and passed one to the quiet, dark-haired woman opposite him and said one of the unsayable things he had held inside him for a long time.
"We ought to have married each other, you and I."
There was a long quietness, and Marwell listened to the insidious whisper of a faint desert wind telling him that he should never have opened his mouth.
"No, you need a woman like Sandra. I'm just a female version of you, and the two of us together...." her voice trailed off, but her dark brown eyes locked expressively on his face, and Marwell suddenly realized that he wanted to sleep with her. And that it was impossible.
"It's just that. . . they're two of a kind, adventurous, ready for anything, always on the go. They're two movie stars."
"And if they married each other, their marriage would last about as long as a movie star's marriage normally lasts," commented Milly. her voice as dry as sand.
"And us?"
"I would be very happy with you, Oliver. But you're in love with Sandra. You always have been."
"And I suppose you're in love with Ken?" he asked, challengingly, genuinely unsure of what her answer might be.
"No, don't be silly. I fell out of love with Ken years ago. But in my family, girl's get married for keeps. Sandra is my best friend, and I...I can't try to take her husband away from her. no matter...no matter what my feelings might be...Don't think about it anymore, Oliver. It's a pity you weren't born a Moslem. You would have been able to marry both of us."
That stopped the conversation cold. Marwell sat back in his chair, feeling suddenly bad. wondering why the hell he had not been born a Moslem. In the back of the dining room, the waiters were clustered lazily 'round the door to the kitchen, waiting for orders and chattering Arabic to one another in undertones. Marwell wondered how many of them had more than one wife and pondered whether it would be considered impolite to ask. The headwaiter was a Frenchman who tended to throw his weight around, and the waiters glanced up at him in poorly concealed distaste as he entered, snapping out an order as crisp as his starched white cuffs and collar.
"Line bouteille d'eau minerale, bien froide. Chambre numeru dix-netif! Vitc!"
Marwell comprehended the significance of this order immediately, and he looked up sharply to see whether Milly had understood the Frenchman. A bottle of mineral water, very cold, for room number nineteen. Quickly.
"Who could be in my room?" the girl asked quietly, folding her napkin as if she already knew the answer and what they would do about it.
"It must be them," Marwell told her simply. "Or a mistake of some kind."
"We...I wish I could know for sure."
Somehow, it was not much of a shock, although there had never before been any evidence that Sandra and Ken were fooling around. But it seemed perfectly in character for both of them, and they must have been excited by the notion of doing it like this, while their mates sat downstairs in the bar, waiting for them to return from the Arab bazaar. Unless there was a mistake. Unless the headwaiter had called out the wrong number.
But there was only one way to find out.
"Come on," he snapped, getting to his feet.
"Oliver...I don't want to barge in on them...you do what you want to, but I...I'd rather just pretend I didn't know, like I always have in the past. You know this isn't the first time for me."
"We don't have to barge in," he said, dropping his voice as he pulled the unwilling woman to her feet with a firm pressure on her arm. "You can see from our shower into your room. Sandra discovered it this morning."
"And, if they see us?"
"We'll pretend we were taking a shower."
* * *
The bottle of mineral water was already half-finished when they stood close together in the shower stall and looked through the grate. Making love in this temperature is thirsty work, thought Marwell, feeling ridiculous at the thought, but reminding himself that their water consumption during the trip might be even higher than he had anticipated. He put his arm automatically around Milly's supple waist, and surprisingly, she yielded to him, allowing the softness of her body to rest against his as the two of them gazed into the next room.
Only a few feet away, Sandra lay spread-eagled and naked in the dead center of the rumpled bed, and there was a light sheen of sweat on her skin together with the potent scent of musk in the tiny room. Marwell looked at his wife's face, knowing from experience that the expression she was wearing was one of undisguised lust. His wife's long shapely legs were widely separated and slightly bent. Between her knees, Marwell studied the muscular body of his college roommate, friend and business partner, Kenneth Stone. There was moisture on Sandra's breasts, the glistening souvenir of Ken's hungry lips where he had obviously sucked her large richly colored nipples into the rigid quivering kind of hardness which meant that Sandra had probably already cum once and would cum again before long. Marwell recognized all the signs.
There was a path of wetness from the sumptuous mountain range of Sandra's heaving breasts down across the tantalizing flatness of her stomach to the sparse "V" shaped patch of pussy hair between her thighs, and it was there that Ken was now concentrating his attention. As Sandra's hands gripped the pillow and her body writhed in growing ecstasy. Ken burrowed lasciviously into her, his mouth making a lusty smacking sound as he tongue-fucked the girl into a frenzy of illicit sex-pleasure.
"Oh...." murmured Milly, as if she were physically wounded, and Oliver Marwell tightened his grip on her waist, fearful that she was on the verge of fainting. Looking into his own mind, Marwell failed to find the great thundering rage he would have expected. His best friend was eating his wife's cunt, and all he could sense within himself was a kind of universal sadness and a touch of sympathy for the timid brown-haired girl at his side. Perhaps it was the heat.
"Oh Christ! Suck it like that!" they heard Sandra groan, her head flailing wildly back and forth on the pillow and her blonde hair describing savage arcs of yellowness in the steaming air as her body writhed and bucked under the terrible cunt-lashing she was getting. "Yes...yes...yes...yes, put your tongue inside...Yes...yes...my clit feels like it's on fire...." she babbled. Encouraged by this lewd groaning. Stone pushed his way even farther into her now. pressing his hands flat against the yielding surfaces of her widely spread thighs and digging his thumbs cruelly into the delicate pink flesh of her vagina as his tireless tongue stabbed agilely into the quivering depths of her body. Sandra's stomach jerked in abruptly as she felt Ken's tongue sear across the sensitive inner skin of her vagina, touching her deeper and harder than ever before, and the two hidden observers in the next room could see the taut pink bud of her clitoris pulsating with rampant lustiness, almost glowing like a hot coal. Even the air in Stone's room seemed to be panting, and the sweat was pouring off the two of them in torrents as Ken mercilessly drove Marwell's wife toward a soul-wracking orgasm. The hips of the blonde-haired woman were alive, gyrating, heaving, tossing, begging for more, and with the practiced eye of a husband. Oliver Marwell knew that she was seconds away from cuming like a maniac.
"Ahhhhh!" she groaned, the muscles in her throat standing out like cords of steel as Ken doggedly chewed his way into her womb. "Yes, eat me like that...Eat my cunt. . . Ah! I'm cummmiinnggg!"
As the spasm hit, Sandra seemed to rise magically off the bed, suspended in space by the overpowering force of her lust, her sweat-soaked body crumbling as if every muscle in her had gone into its own orgiastic paralysis. For a moment. Ken had to fight to keep her on the bed as her pleasure-ridden body threatened to explode in his face and the girl's fingernails bit fiercely into the muscles of his arms.
"Ah. that was wonderful!" Sandra gasped, the words tumbling from her lips as she gasped for air. "Now you get your reward, and I already know what kind of reward you like."
"Do you?" taunted Ken, kneeling lecherously over her as her breathing slowed back to normal, his long fat cock waving lewdly over her belly. "What will it be. fucking, my dear, or sucking?"
"You just bring that beautiful long cock up here and put it in my mouth, baby," she shot back at him unblushingly, "and I'll suck you like you've never been sucked before!"
Tormenting her by moving slowly, Ken inched his way lewdly forward, allowing the heavy scarlet tip of his penis to drag along the moistly twitching surface of her skin, rubbing its way torturously up over the smoothness of her stomach and through the tantalizing valley between her ripe young breasts. Marwell recognized this, too, this new mood in which Sandra became over-excited, suddenly possessed by an overpowering desire to eat cock, and he wondered if he could ever give that up, no matter how often she was unfaithful to him. There were women who would not do it at all and women who would do it for their lovers as a favor, even if they really did not like it, and there were women, just a few women, who really loved it. and Sandra was one of this exclusive group. And she did it for him without being asked, and he knew how much pleasure it could bring him.
"No...." whispered Milly beside him, and Marwell turned to see that her face had gone stark white, and her breasts were heaving violently. Oliver wondered if she might possibly be finding all of this exciting, and then felt ashamed of the thought. Obviously, the girl was in agony. Discovering her husband in the arms of her best friend was bad enough, but watching the two of them work their way through the lewdest acts in the whole carnal repertoire of sex must be ten times worse.
Ken inched forward, grinning lecherously until his hard, athlete's buttocks were resting gently on Sandra's luxuriously full breasts. The woman's hips were still twitching restlessly, and Oliver reflected philosophically that, once his wife got into her present over-stimulated state, she could go on fucking until the strongest man alive dropped over from exhaustion. One would need a cock of stainless steel to deal with Sandra properly, and Marwell consoled himself by speculating that, if she was not satisfied with him, she would probably not be satisfied with Ken Stone either, since neither one of them had the gift of an eternal erection. But, undaunted, Ken moved up, a sadistic smile playing on his lips, allowing the bulbously flexing tip of his instrument to rest teasingly on the tip of her chin.
"Come a little closer, baby," the blonde-haired woman pleaded, bending her neck forward hungrily but finding Ken's hotly pulsating cock just beyond the reach of her parted lips.
Ken obliged and Marwell wondered if any man on earth could have done otherwise. With a brutal flicking motion of his hips, the man jammed his penis forward, and Sandra had him, like an obedient dog catching a bone in midair. With a sigh of contentment, she sucked him in, her tongue working cleverly to steer the bulging shaft of his cock directly into her throat.
"She'll choke!" whispered Milly in terror, slipping her hand into Marwell's as if he were her father or older brother and she were seeking protection from some horrible menace.
Oliver Marwell shook his head knowledgeably, fully aware of Sandra's talents in this sensual art. He himself had never quite figured out precisely how she did it, but she could take a rigid penis further into her throat than seemed humanly possible.
"Oh Christ! That feels good!" Ken Stone muttered passionately as he leaned forward, supporting himself on his hands, his hips flicking rhythmically back and forth. There was an obscene gurgle of forbidden pleasure rumbling deep in Sandra's throat every time the man fucked savagely into her cruelly stretched mouth. Seen from a distance like this, it all seemed more exciting than ever, and Marwell found himself reacting with lust to the sight of his wife's lascivious defilement, just as if he were watching a pornographic film which had nothing to do with him. By his side, he could feel Milly's body trembling, and her hand tightened in his every time her husband surged powerfully into Sandra's mouth. The two of them watched with horrified fascination, seeing the woman's cheeks billow out on the in-stroke and hollow on the backstroke, a film of wild mindless lust clouding her large blue eyes. Sandra's lips were clasping desperately on Ken's cock, tightening and loosening as the man battered her brutally, treating her mouth as if it were merely another cunt into which he could spew the semen collected in his testicles. Both of Sandra's hands had snaked around behind him now, and her fingernails dug urgently into the muscles in his buttocks as if she were wordlessly asking him to fuck even deeper.
The heat seemed to be growing more intense by the moment, and Oliver asked himself if he could bear to watch this obscene spectacle another moment. There was fluid of some kind, an obscene mixture of semen and saliva, trickling from the corners of Sandra's cock-filled mouth and dampening the mattress beneath them, and Marwell stood still, knowing that he lacked the willpower to drag himself and Milly out of this ridiculous shower stall and back down to the restaurant. This was something they had to see to the end, and the end was not long in coming. Sandra was really going wild now sucking Ken's cock as if she had been born into the world for this and no other purpose. The man's balls tap-danced obscenely against he chin, and with every furious thrust, Marwell watched his wife's face disappear into Ken's loins.
"Oh, goddamn! Here it comes! I'm cumming!" He gasped suddenly, almost unexpectedly, his hardened athlete's body going rigid as the orgasm rippled through his nervous system. He lunged, one last time, and Marwell had to force himself not to look away as the steaming white cum bubbled out of the corners of Sandra's mouth, trickling down her cheeks as she gulped voraciously, desperately trying to swallow every last drop of the lust-inciting liquid. Ken collapsed beside her on the bed, utterly drained and exhausted, a few white streams of cum still connecting his flaccid cock to Sandra's glistening lips. For awhile, the two of them lay quietly panting, too hot and too exhausted to speak.
Ken was the first to break the silence.
"Wow! What a ride! I got to hand it to you, Sandra...."
"You didn't have to hand it to me at all," she interrupted him lasciviously, "I reached out and took it, as I recall."
"Very funny! But, my God! Where on earth did you learn to suck cock like that? Hey, tell me something. Do you blow my little friend, Oliver?"
Marwell stiffened, and he realized with a jolt that his marriage could probably survive Sandra's infidelity, but if she spoke badly of him to Ken, he would leave her. Instantly.
"Yeah," she answered simply. "He seems to like it."
"Seems to like it? You mean he doesn't ask you to do it? Christ, if you were my wife, I'd have you down on your knees three times a day."
"Oliver isn't like that," the blonde-haired girl replied thoughtfully. "It would never occur to him to make demands like that. You know how shy he is."
Ken Stone laughed scornfully.
"My little buddy Oliver probably has a lot to be shy about! We used to organize an occasional little gang-bang in college, and old Marwell would never participate. Guess he didn't want the other guys to know that he wasn't so hot in the sack. Must be kind of a drag being married to him, eh?"
"Don't give yourself airs. Ken," Sandra snapped suddenly. "You've known Oliver almost twenty years now. four times longer than I have and you still don't understand him. Do you realize that it's him who's made Stone-Marwell a financial success, or are you too blinded by your own egotism to see that?"
Stone laughed again, the same raucous deprecating laughter, and Marwell realized that he had forgotten to breathe. Here was the moment of truth. The two people who knew him best in the world were discussing him frankly with no holds barred, unaware that he knew that what they said was going to change all their lives.
"Honey, I'm conceited, but I know where my bread is buttered. Little Oliver is the greatest financial manager I've ever known, and what he can do with figures would make an IBM computer sit up and stare. And you know it too don't you? He ain't much fun in bed, but he keeps those happy dollars rolling in, and as long as you've got somebody like me to warm up your love life, you put up with it!"
"Oh fuck you!" the girl suddenly spat at him angrily, sitting up in bed and reaching for her dress, 'it's a pify you never got Ol to take part in one of your college sex parties, or you would have discovered something very interesting, and I'll explain exactly what I mean, buster, so you never get it wrong again! Oliver Marwell has about two inches on you in the cock department, and he fucks like a little demon! Not much imagination, maybe, but he can go on all night long. How often do you screw Milly?"
"Couple times a week," responded Stone, now somewhat subdued.
"The poor kid! I ought to get to help you out on off nights, but he's too damn shy, even for someone as timid as Milly. For your information, he slips it to me at least once a night, sometimes twice, and he's been keeping it up steadily ever since our honeymoon. And it's me who asks for it, not him! No, baby, you got it all wrong. You're the gold digger, not me. I'd stay with Oliver if we had to live on unemployment checks, 'cause he's the closest thing to a fucking machine I've ever found, and little Sandra discovered a long time ago that's exactly what she wants."
Ken Stone's face was twisted and angry as he climbed into his pants, and for a moment the handsome, self-confident salesman was subdued. Beside him, Marwell could feel Milly's body growing stiff and hostile as she felt her sheltered little world falling to pieces, and the man realized that she too had believed in the myth that Ken was a super-stud, the best lover in town, the man so virile he needed lots of women to satisfy him.
"Okay, then tell me one little thing." he sneered, facing her across the bed as they both fastened their clothing. "If Oliver's so great, why do we have these little weekly sessions, you and me? I must have something you want!"
"Well, as long as we're being truthful...No, you'd never believe me...." Sandra mumbled, suddenly uneasy. The blonde-haired woman looked away sharply, suddenly blushing. Marwell found himself wondering what on earth could bring a blush to the cheeks of a girl who had just put on this savagely erotic performance. Could there be anything which really embarrassed an outspoken tough-talking creature like this?
Marwell was not the only one to be perplexed. With two quick strides. Ken Stone hurled his muscular body across the room, seizing Sandra's arm and twisting it sharply behind her back.
"Talk, you little bitch! I want to know! We've been shacking up for a year now. and I've got a right to know! What is it?"
"It's nothing...I guess I'm just a nympho...." Sandra grimaced with pain as the infuriated man cruelly bent her arm. "What I need is a company of Marines to keep me happy...."
"Don't give me that shit." he growled at her impatiently. "I've seen you at parties when guys are making passes at you left and right, and you won't give them the time of day. You like your fucking, all right, but the nympho business won't wash. It's something deeper than that!"
Suddenly, Sandra looked up, the blush gone, the corners of her mouth set. and Marwell knew that the truth was coming out at last.
"Ken...when did you last make love to Milly?" Her voice was quivering.
"What's it to you?" he snapped irritably. "We had it off this afternoon, after lunch, if you must know!"
"Oh, tell me please...docs Milly...when you screw her...does she cum?"
"About once a year! As long as we're exchanging family secrets you might as well know that Mrs. Milly Stone is about as passionate as a deep freezer."
"Do you...do you cum in her mouth?" Sandra seemed almost to be pleading. Ken looked more perplexed than ever, but he answered, as if hypnotized by the strangeness of this bizarre conversation.
"Are you kidding? If I tried to get a blow-job out of Milly, she'd leave me and join a convent! I told you, the bitch is frigid, and one of these days I'm going to get me a wife who isn't. Goddamnit, I had my cock in your mouth two minutes ago! What's Milly got to do with that?"
A wind from deep in the desert blew hard, just then, swirling around the old hotel, sending the hot sand flying against the window pane, and covering the noise of Milly's quiet sobs as Sandra whispered the answer.
"It's crazy...but when you cum in my mouth after you've been with Milly, it's almost like touching her with my lips . . .I guess I'm a little mixed up inside, Ken, but I don't think I love you at all. I love my husband...and I think I love your wife."
Marwell listened to the wind, not even trying to put it all together. Outside the hotel, the sand was moving, shifting, plotting to bury them and all their foolish lusts there. Then there was a long silence. Stone drank the rest of the mineral water and put the bottle into a waste-paper basket. Sandra fastened the top button on her blouse.
"I think we'd better get back," she said. "They'll be wondering what happened to us."
* * *
At first, it was easy, and Marwell wis ashamed of being afraid. It was not that he had stopped being afraid altogether, since shame is something society and civilization instills in men. and consequently is weak, but fear comes from the bones of a human being, from purest animal instinct, and can be much stronger than shame. Marwell was a subtle man, a bit of a philosopher, and he understood this, but even understanding, in the final analysis, could not make the fear go away. The man decided that fear had a physical place in his body, a hang-out located in the pit of his stomach far back against the spinal column. It rode there with him, an ever-present physical sensation, growing in intensity when he thought about it and shrinking when he managed to distract himself, but never quite disappearing . . .
So far, it's been easy, he tried to tell himself, as lie spun the wheel to negotiate a sharp turn in the incredibly twisty road. They had left Marrakesh at dawn on the first day with the sun blazing into their faces from the east, and followed a well-marked road over a pass in the Grand Atlas mountains. The track was filled with ruts and pot-holes, but there was nothing dangerous about driving down a bumpy road in a vehicle which had been designed for the worst possible driving conditions. The Land Rover was new, and Marwell enjoyed driving it, sitting up straight on the hard seat and feeling like an airline pilot as he gazed out the window at the wildness ahead. But he had to admit that they had encountered nothing thus far which his Pontiac at home could not have handled, and with considerably more comfort.
The first night, unnaturally tired by what had essentially been an easy day, they stopped at Quarzazate, where there was a choice of first-class hotels, a bartender who mixed a decent martini, and a flock of sun-burned French tourists who were guests at the local Mediterranean Club. There were gas stations, Coke machines and even a traffic policeman. The temperature was high, but no worse than New York in August, and their Land Rover seemed to be functioning perfectly. Marwell lingered over his early morning drink at the bar. Even with his tomato juice and vodka he somehow seemed reluctant to start off for the second day. The bartender cleared his throat, washing a few chipped glasses out in cold water.
"Where you go? "
"We're heading southeast to Zagora," responded Marwell, who had spent hours studying maps of the region and attempting to plan them a reasonable route. "Then northeast towards Boudenib where we'll cross into Algeria...."
"Why, Monsieur?"
"Well, uh...to see what's there, I suppose. We're on vacation and uh...."
"Nothing there, Monsieur," the bartender told him blankly, as if he were explaining a very elementary fact. "Everything stop here. The tourist, he come here, then go back."
"Nothing to see, you mean?" Marwell was perplexed.
"No life, Monsieur! The world, he end here in Quarzazate!"
Marwell understood him then, and the fear burned in his stomach, already irritated by alcohol so early in the day. He nodded, not being able to think of anything to say, paid for his drink, and moved to leave. The Arab, who had apparently decided he liked the slender nervous American, took him gently by the elbow and walked him to the door, speaking quietly in a jumble of English, French and Arabic. They shook hands as they parted.
"What did that guy want?" demanded Sandra as Marwell swung himself behind the wheel. "What was he saying?"
He was saying that out there...where we're going...it is tres serieux," Oliver reported faithfully. "He said it was fun here, but no fun out there."
* * *
They left Quarzazate, following a track which ran along the side of an ancient Wadi, or dry river bed, and Marwell drove, trying to establish the proper speed. At twenty miles per hour, they seemed to be getting nowhere, and every bump in the track hurled them violently against the roof of the Rover. At thirty, it was solidly uncomfortable, but the Rover seemed to leap like an animal from one bump to the next, without reacting to any of them particularly, and they found it easier going. Ken Stone had elected himself map reader and compass man and the expedition had to come to a halt a few times an hour to allow him to take a new sighting and re-orient the map. At times, it was difficult since the track simply disappeared from time to time in fields of black rock and pebble and they sometimes searched for close to an hour before relocating themselves and moving off again in what they fondly hoped was the right direction.
In addition to the painful physical discomfort of the trip, there was an emotional strain on the four of them so thick and so real that sometimes Marwell felt that he could reach out and touch the radiations of lust, hatred, confusion and fear which flashed around the interior of the car.
"For Christ'ssake, can you keep this bus from going into orbit?" Ken screamed at him for what seemed to be the hundredth time, after accidentally banging his head against the door.
"Do you want to drive?" Marwell would offer mildly.
"Shit no! Somebody's got to watch these maps or we'll wind up in Upper Volta instead of Algeria!"
And in the back seat, instead, there was a tenderness and a new quality of friendship growing between the two women.
"Are you okay, honey?"
"Yes...it's a little hot, but I guess I can take it. How are you, Sandra?"
"Okay. I guess."
Marwell caught it in the rear-view mirror, the sight of his golden-haired young wife reaching out to brush a lock of dark brown hair from Milly's forehead and a quick caress, the hand lingering an instant longer than necessary on the other woman's skin, then an exchange of smiles, timid, tired, a little frightened.
After the "incident" in the hotel in Marrakesh. neither he nor Milly had said much as they hurried back to their table, beating Sandra and Ken by seconds. His wife had immediately pronounced herself exhausted from the heat the moment she was back in her seat and the two couples had retired quickly to their respective rooms. Marwell had slipped into bed next to the naked body of his wife, his mind a battlefield for conflicting emotions, suddenly finding himself the proud possessor of an enormous erection. Having sex tonight with Sandra was the last thing he really wanted to do, but after what he had seen, his need was urgent, demanding, overpowering. Normally Oliver served his wife's passion, taking pains to satisfy her as well as possible before surrendering to his own pleasure, but that night he had yanked her around roughly to face him. The girl had looked startled, unaccustomed to the idea of having him take the initiative, and a little frightened. Instinctively, Sandra had moved to kiss his lips, but kisses were not what Marwell had wanted, and with an abrupt movement of his slender body, he pulled her face down to his loins, his fingers pried her jaws apart. Before she had had the chance to understand exactly what he wanted, Marwell had plunged his burning cock deep into her throat.
It had not lasted long, because he had been over-excited, but it was sweet. A moment later, the man had cum, listening to Sandra make that special moan she always made when he ejaculated into her mouth. As his cock slowly wilted, she had tried to pull away, but he had seized her by the hair and held her in the same position, her face buried in his pubic hair until his cock had grown strong and rigid again. Then he had taken her a second time, more roughly than before, probing sadistically for the back of her throat and slamming his loins into her face until she whimpered with pain and fear, stunned by this strange behavior. When he had cum a second time, he had released her, the punishment over, turning abruptly onto his back and falling almost immediately into a dreamless sleep.
* * *
The first fight happened at Agdz. where they had decided to stop for lunch. The sun was really sizzling and the inside of the Rover was like a pressure cooker as they coasted through the tiny oasis, looking for a possible source of fresh water and gasoline. There were date palms lining the dirt street which was the town's main axis, and emaciated pathetic Arab children stood by the side of the road waving at them as they passed. In a minute they were on the far side of the town, ready to emerge again into open country, and Marwell realized that there was nothing in Agdz but mud huts and possibly a little brackish water seeping painfully from some subterranean stream. There was no shade. There were no ice-cold Cokes. The bartender in Quarzazate had been correct. There was nothing here.
"Look, are you going to stop or not?" flared Ken, who seemed to be suffering more from the heat than anyone and becoming more irritable by the moment.
"Why. do you want some pictures of us having the time of our lives?" inquired Marwell acidly as he slowed the vehicle to a crawl and looked around for a reasonable place where they could find some relief from the blazing sun.
"For Christ's sake, shut-up and park!" Ken stormed, his face going red as his anger increased.
"Where?"
"Anywhere! Over there!"
Obediently. Oliver Marwell steered the Land Rover off of the dirt track into what looked like a patch of hard sand near the foot of a lofty date palm, and jumped out. He realized his mistake immediately as his feet sank deeply into the sand, but by the time he was able to throw himself back into the cab and send the wheels spinning frantically in reverse, the Rover was sunk into the soft yielding sand up to the hubcaps.
"You jackass!" shouted Stone as Marwell put the vehicle into four-wheel drive and tried again. "Couldn't you see that.. . "
"You said to park it over here!" Marwell retorted sharply, feeling that he had already absorbed more abuse than could reasonably be expected of him. "I thought you were the great desert expert!" The wheels spun futilely. all four of them, and the big vehicle settled another inch or two with a tired metallic grunt as if it had found its final resting place. "Come on, you get out and push, while I try to ease it out in reverse."
"Fuck you! I'm not going to kill myself in that sun because of your stupidity!" Stone-raged. "You push and I'll drive."
Marwell's hands tightened their grip on the wheel, and a kind of basic stubbornness welled up inside of him. He stayed where he was.
Infuriated, Stone tried to shove him out the door, putting one hand on his shoulder and pushing while Marwell tried to hold onto what little remained of his temper. Finally, a millisecond later, it snapped, and he wheeled around to face his partner, his left fist flying. Moving like lightning. Ken Stone blocked the punch expertly, sending a shaft of pain through Oliver's arm as he intercepted the blow before it landed.
"You mother-fucker.. . " he growled, pounding his fist viciously into Marwell's ribs as he counter-attacked. "Get your ass out and push!"
Marwell doubled over in agony as Ken's fist stabbed into his rib cage, and the next thing he knew, he landed on his head in the burning sand next to the Rover, and Ken Stone was standing over him. swearing horribly, his fists balled. Off-balance and shaken, Marwell staggered to his feet, feeling the fear-sensation race through his gut as he realized he was going to have to fight. He could see it all ahead of time. He would take another swing at his partner, who had boxed in college. Ken would block the punch again, and slap him mercilessly back down to the ground.
But it had to be done. Grimly he rolled to his feet, desperately hoping the girls would come out of their shock and interfere, but things were happening too fast and both of them were still sitting in the back seat with their mouths open. With a curse, he launched himself against Stone, irrationally thinking he might be able to catch the other man off-guard long enough to land one decently solid blow. Ken side-stepped quickly, keeping his back to the Land Rover, and pounded his fist sadistically into Marwell's face, sending the slender man reeling backwards as blood streamed from his nose. But he did not go down, and he was gathering what remained of his courage for another attack, when Milly Stone leaned out of the window and brained her husband with a monkey wrench.
Stone looked at Marwell in surprise, as if for once in his life he were lost for words, and then sank quietly down on the sand.
* * *
But fights have a way of destroying more tension than they create, and by the time they got caught in the sandstorm outside of Bechar, in Algeria, the four travelers were feeling friendly towards one another again. As Ken recovered consciousness, Sandra had burst into a fit of hysterical' laughter and two or three dozen sympathetic Arabs had materialized out of nowhere to help them haul the Land Rover back onto solid ground. It developed that Ken had never seen Milly behind him with the wrench, and had somehow come to the conclusion that Marwell had successfully knocked him out.
"You must have moved like greased lightning," he marveled incredulously, after they had shaken hands and made up. "I never even saw that punch. Funny, nobody ever got through my guard like that before."
Through the rear-view mirror, Marwell watched Sandra and Milly giggle and hug each other. The hug seemed to go on longer than necessary, and in the end Milly rested her head on Sandra's shoulder while Marwell's wife held her hand.
What's going on? Marwell thought as he shifted his attention back to the arid desert around him. What Sandra said the other night about loving Milly . . it's silly, she's no lesbian, and yet. . . was it possible for a woman to feel sexual desire for members of both sexes? There are men who claim to be both AC and DC. but I never heard of a woman like that. . . and what's Milly doing cuddling up to her like that'. ' This heal, this Goddamn flicking desert is driving us all crazy. . . first Ken and I start fighting like alley cats and then our women turn queer. . .
"Hey. I don't like the looks of that," said Ken quietly, gesturing at what seemed to be an enormous yellow cloud off in the distance ahead of them. The palm trees were far behind them now and Marwell had been motoring cautiously down a poorly marked hard-sand track which seemed to snake its way aimlessly across the barren waterless reaches of the Sahara. According to the map, they were only a few hundred miles from an oasis called Beni Abbes, a place which had been a fort in the old days when the French Foreign Legion had controlled this part of Algeria. The compass and the map agreed that they were headed roughly southeast, skirting the outer limits of "le Grand Erg Occidental", the Great Western Sandsea, an enormous empty tract of sandy desert filled with shifting treacherous dunes. It was not possible to cross the erg by car, even with a Land Rover, and the only occupants of the area (according to Milly's guidebook) were wandering warlike tribes of Tuaregs, a nomad people who had never been conquered by either the French or by the present Algerian government.
"I think it must be a sandstorm," said Marwell through gritted teeth, knowing precisely what a menace these storms could be.
"Oh God, what do we do?" asked Sandra, the terror now audible in her voice.
"We hole up. and fast," suggested Oliver so decisively that he surprised himself. Normally Ken Stone made all the fundamental decisions, but since that monkey wrench had connected with the back of his head. Stone seemed quieter than usual, and more ready to accept Oliver's leadership. "We'll have to cover the Rover as best we can, and then get inside the tent with enough food and water to last a few days. And we hope like hell we don't get buried. Come on, those things move fast!"
* * *
It was night, but the wind howled like a hungry wolf outside the fragile sheet of canvas which protected them from the blinding spray of flying sand. Dinner was brief and gritty, since the heat inside the tent was astronomical, and they could not open the flaps for ventilation without having their refuge abruptly fill with the line white sand which inhabited the atmosphere around them. The Land Rover was only a few feet away, but it was no longer visible, and Marwell hoped desperately that they had shielded the motor adequately, since the nearest Land Rover dealer was eight hundred miles to the west, in Marrakesh.
The night wore on. but no one felt sleepy, and when the flame in their lantern flickered and died, no one moved to relight it. In the darkness, there was a cigarette glowing as Sandra smoked and the conversation ebbed and eventually died. Ken played briefly with a short-wave radio he had brought along for the occasion, succeeding only in irritating everyone with a series of electronic squawks and static before switching it off in disgust. Sandra snuffed out her cigarette, stretched and let down the flap which separated the two sides of the tent. This stopped what little air circulation there had been previously, and, after a few suffocating minutes, Milly suggested that they put it back up.
"After all. it's perfectly black in here. I can't sec the hand in front of my face, and I don't think anybody's modesty should be offended."
"Okay." agreed Sandra readily. "I just want to get my clothes off before I die of heat exhaustion."
"Good idea." seconded Ken. and for a few minutes there was a busy rustle as the four would-be desert adventurers wiggled out of their clothing and settled down for the night, lying back on their sleeping bags to let the perspiration evaporate from their overheated skin. Marwell propped himself up on one elbow, facing toward the center of the tent and discovering that his eyes were adapting quickly to the darkness and. thanks to a little light creeping into the tent from a partially opened flap, he could see the three other bodies who shared this enclosed space with him. Sandra was stretched out on her back next to him, her hands behind her head and her knees slightly spread, her proud white breasts jutting up before him. Marwell felt his naked cock thicken and twitch. For years, since their marriage, he had been in the habit of making love to his wife every night, innocently unaware that other married men his age were normally satisfied with two or three times a week, and he had already missed last night. Could they possibly do it now, like this? His eyes, keen in the dark, traveled around the tiny compartment. The others, perhaps, did not possess his acute night vision, but a few inches away from Sandra, he could see the trim, splendidly formed body of his partner's wife curled up on her side. Of course he had seen Milly in her modest, old fashioned bathing suit at the beach, but now, seeing her naked, her skin bejeweled with moistening droplets of sweat, excited him beyond measure, and his penis shot up to its full height, throbbing restlessly against Sandra's leg.
On the other side of the tent, he could see Ken Stone roll over, putting his hand on his wife's breasts and beginning to play with Milly's soft brown nipples. The brown-haired girl rolled away from him, gently trying to turn him off as she lay on her side facing Sandra. But Stone was persistent, inching towards her and stroking her thighs as the two of them lay together like spoons.
Sandra's hand moved in the shadows and Oliver felt the tautly quivering rod of his cock being caressed by soft dry fingers.
"Well, look what we have here," Sandra whispered to him lasciviously, with a low lusty giggle. "Do you want to do it, really? Right in front of them?"
Marwell could tell from the tenor of her voice that she was for it, one hundred percent, but somehow he could not quite bring himself to start the ball rolling. There was something indecent about the idea, almost immoral, and it struck him as being dangerously close to things he disapproved of. like group sex and wife-swapping.
Of course, he told himself with a little bitterness. Ken Stone and Sandra have already done ifwir wife-swapping scene, hni they forgot In include Milly and me' Maybe a healthy orgy is what we need to c tear the air? No. Milly's not the type, and I guess I'm not either God, she's beautiful' I wonder if she's really frigid, like Ken says, or if she's just cold to him because she gave up lining him a few years back . . .
"Ah-hem!" Sandra cleared her throat for attention, startling everyone with this sudden breaking of the silence. "I think we ought to come to a group decision here. We're going to be together for almost a month, day and night, and I think that's too long for people like us to practice chastity, if you follow me...."
"You guys don't bother us, and we won't bother you," Stone promised, and Marwell guessed that his partner liked the idea enormously. "It's pitch black in here anyway."
It was not pitch black, since Marwell could see quite clearly by now, and he decided that the others were not all that blind, but it was a convenient fiction to adopt. It should have occurred to them when they were buying camping equipment that they would need two tents but this model had seemed so large and spacious in the showroom that they had decided it would be adequate. But as it turned out, there were only a few inches of space between them and, as he rolled his body over on top of
Sandra's, he could feel his leg rubbing against Milly's flank. The touch excited him and he left his leg where it was, expecting that she would inch modestly away from him. Surprisingly, she did nothing of the kind, and in fact, the pressure seemed to increase, as if Milly were pushing forward, trying to draw herself away from Ken and towards the Marwell couple.
Sandra was ready for him, and Marwell guessed that his wife's love of adventure was being stimulated by the idea of being screwed in this bizarre group situation. All the ingredients of her sex-life were here: her adulterous lover, Ken, and the girl for whom she had developed a warped lesbian passion, Milly, and just for good measure her husband, whom she regarded as "the closest thing to a fucking machine I ever found". Marwell's hands roamed down between her outstretched legs, and as he touched the sparse light fleece of her pubic hair, he found that she was already moist with the fragrant lubricating fluids of sex, indicating that she was thoroughly excited. There was no need for foreplay tonight, he decided, taking his super-hardened instrument in his fingers and guiding it directly between the moistly trembling lips of her vagina which guarded the entrance to her fluttering open womb. Sandra groaned as she always did when he entered her, twisting her hips in a desperate attempt to ease his passage and sighing, half from the sensual pleasure of his bulging cock pressing against the sensitive interior walls of her tender young cunt and half from the momentary discomfort of accepting the massive size of his enormous member into her delicate elastic cuntal opening. Never having participated in an orgy, Marwell had always been blissfully unaware that he was larger than most men, and it had only been when he had seen Ken Stone with an erection that he began to realize precisely how enormously masculine he was, since he had no reason to suspect that Ken was smaller than usual.
"Oh God, you feel good," his wife whispered, twisting her tongue agilely into his mouth with anxious hungry lustfulness, her arms wrapping tightly around his neck as she thrust her widely spaced pointed breasts up into his chest. More excited than he could ever recall being in the past, Marwell raised himself up on his arms, pushing the lengthy shaft of his cock into Sandra's cunt to the hilt as another groan of unutterable bliss escaped from her lips. He hated to act like a voyeur, but they were so close that he could not resist the temptation to glance a few inches to his right to see how Ken and Milly were getting on.
They had not yet changed their original position, Milly on her side facing Sandra, and
Ken tucked tightly in behind her, but the rocking motion of Ken's hips told the story. He had stabbed into the brown-haired girl's cunt from behind and was fucking her slowly and steadily, his face buried in the back of her neck and his hands twisting and tweaking her heavy mobile breasts. Milly lay limply as if she were being raped by a stranger, her arms crossed defensively across her breasts and her knees drawn up to give her husband unrestricted access to her backside. Her eyes were open and as Marwell scanned her lushly voluptuous body, she looked up at him suddenly, and Marwell realized that no one was really having much difficulty seeing in the dark.
For a long time, their eyes met, and they simply looked at each other. Marwell's hips surging automatically back and forth as he fucked methodically into Sandra's welcoming womb, and Milly grunting involuntarily every time Ken's slender shaft penetrated her vagina from behind. Marwell dropped to his elbows, letting his chest drop lightly on the softly cushioning orbs of Sandra's mountainous breasts, but his face was drawn towards Milly like a magnet.
God. he told himself as his animal lust increased by leaps and bounds. I want to fuck that girl' And why not! Ken got into Sandra's pants, so why shouldn't I get my day in the saddle? Neither one of them would dare object. Hut does Milly want to? She's looking at me so strangely but maybe it would wreck everything if the four of us started playing musical beds. I love Sandra but Goddamn. I want Milly too! And I'm scared of my own shadow If Ken goes for me again with his fists, he'll beat the shit out of me, and Milly won't always he standing behind him with a monkey wrench. . . if we could only gel out of this fucking desert. . . In New York, everything could be much simpler. . . my desk and my books the kind of things I understand. . .
Ken was pummeling her like a madman now, striving to ignite some kind of passion in his wife's listless body, but Marwell observed that his partner was getting nowhere fast. It was almost as if Milly were unconscious of what Ken was doing between her legs, and the whole of her attention seemed to be focused on Oliver and Sandra. Suddenly, there were tears on her cheeks, and Marwell felt a burst of some savage new emotion explode inside of him. looking down from what seemed to be a great height upon the two women. Sandra's hips were going like a jackhammer now and the rampant lust in the tent seemed to cover them like some soft sensuous blanket. At first she had obviously made a studied attempt to keep quiet, but it seemed as if she had now forgotten about everything else in the world but the fact that Oliver was giving her the fucking of her life! Lasciviously, her long tapered legs climbed up on his back, her heels digging into his kidneys as she urged him obscenely to fuck deeper and harder, and Marwell obliged, never taking his glowing eyes off of Milly's tear-streaked face, his loins flashing forward with all the power in his body as he wormed his long fat penis in and out of Sandra's wildly clasping cunt. Sandra was groaning openly now, sobbing and panting as the crisis of her ecstasy grew closer and closer and the fire in her hotly twitching loins threatened to flame out of control.
"Oh yes. . . oh, oh, fuck me like that!" she gasped, only dimly aware now that there were others in the tent, listening to her, and unconscious of the fact that she was disgracing herself eternally by letting herself go so wildly in the presence of her friends. Marwell had seen this happen before, although rarely with such burning intensity, and he worked even harder, propelled by a lewd desire to show Ken who the real man was by sending Sandra into one of her shrieking orgasms. He burrowed one hand down between their thrashing bodies, locating the throbbing little jewel of her clitoris, and as he touched her on the most sensitive spot of a woman's body, Marwell felt his wife's cunt flowering open to him. He took advantage of the moment to take her convulsing little clitoris between his fingers, toying with it to drive her passion even higher, and sending his super-inflated rod of hardened male flesh churning recklessly up into the girl's pleasure-saturated young cunt.
"Oh Christ, I'm cumming." she gasped, and in the throes of her ecstasy, Sandra threw her head wildly to one side, her face only inches from Milly's lips. With a sudden, totally unexpected move, Milly stretched forward at this precise moment and pressed a long moist penetrating kiss on the blonde woman's open mouth. Marwell looked down at the two of them, wondering if Sandra knew exactly who was kissing her, and the sight of the two naked female bodies so close together hit him hard, and he felt the semen stored deep in his balls begin its savage rush out through the narrow channel in his wildly ejaculating cock. With a sudden reckless thrust, he buried himself in his wife's womb, and dropped his head down to become a third party in the kiss Milly and Sandra were sharing. Both women turned to him, and his hand found its way to Milly's nakedly heaving breast as his tongue lewdly invaded her mouth. Even while his cock exploded with the most incredible orgasm he had ever experienced, Marwell realized that Milly was cumming, too. It was hitting them all together and the brown-haired girl's arms were around his neck as she cried out a timid bittersweet little cum.
Behind them, as alone as if he had been marooned on another planet. Ken Stone shot his load of semen into his wife's fluttering vagina, and then turned on his side to face the canvas.
Outside, the wind howled and the sand blew, shifting, moving, searching as it wandered agelessly across the desert's ancient face.
PART TWO: SANDRA MARWELL
Sandra Marwell lay perfectly quiet as her husband withdrew his slowly wilting tool from her still churning vagina, and she thought about reaching out to envelop him with her arms, dragging his body back down onto hers and enticing him to make love to her a second time. It was one of Oliver's special talents and having had a certain amount of experience with other men, Sandra knew precisely how special it was. Ken Stone had loads of imagination as a lover, and all those big beautiful muscles, but once he came, he was finished for the night. Oliver, on the other hand, could rest a few minutes and if she demanded more action, his reliable instrument inevitably rose to the occasion a second or even a third time.
Funny, Oliver was different tonight, she meditated as her husband stretched himself out by her side. He was rougher than usual, but I liked it! My God, I thought he was going to tear me to bits...and he went in so deep...God' I don't think I've ever had it so deep.
Milly Stone stirred restlessly beside her, and Sandra realized that she still held her girlfriend's hand in hers. Softly, she raised it to her lips, remembering how Milly had impulsively joined into the lovemaking and how the three of them had all shared that final kiss just at the cataclysmic moment.
How strange everything is working out to be! Ken and Oliver aren't going to be friends anymore after this, even if their partnership holds together. . He must have seen the three of us kissing and known we were leaving him out in the cold...I can't believe the things I m feeling inside of me...God. am I really a lesbian? No, it can't be! I just made love to a man. He fucked me deep and hard and I loved every second of it and yet. . . that urge to touch Milly's body, I can't seem to lose it! What would happen if I tried? She'd be shocked and offended, probably, and then the Stones and the Marwells would go their separate ways. . . but still, she s lying so close . . .
Slowly, Sandra turned on her side wondering if her husband was watching her, and if what she was about to do would turn everyone against her. How would Oliver feel about learning that she had a deeply hidden lesbian streak in her Could she ever hope to make him understand that the kinds of weird perverted emotions she was feeling for Milly did not mean that she desired him any less? She wanted them both, together, at the same time, if possible, that instant when their lips had all touched simultaneously a few minutes before, she had realized with the sudden clarity of a desert night that she wanted it all: the hard demanding feel of a man's rigid cock pounding into her grateful vagina and the soft zephyr-like caress of a woman's gentle fingers across the fullness of her breasts. But could she really have it all? Or was she destined to wind up with nothing?
In the shadows of the tent, she saw Milly's eyes, now strangely luminous and large, watching her from a distance of less than a foot. She squeezed the brown-haired girl's hand affectionately and then pressed it daringly against the lushly tempting softness of her right breast as she waited breathlessly to see what Milly's reaction would be, half-expecting the other girl to snatch her hand away in disgust.
But Milly did nothing of the kind. Instead, as if she were grateful for this erotic opportunity, the dark-eyed woman opened her hand and deliberately stroked Sandra's sensitive brown nipple, her fingers brushing delicately over the tiny button of sensitive flesh until it thickened and hardened again into lustful rigidity. At the same time. Milly inched forward, presenting her face to be kissed, and Sandra promptly obliged, her lips apart and her tongue gliding teasingly out to invade Milly's open mouth. Instinctively, Sandra's free hand stretched forward to cup one of the other woman's heavily sumptuous breasts as their kiss went on and on.
Sandra knew that they had now wandered into kind of a no-man's-land of lesbian sensuality and that they had already passed the critical point of no return. Her tongue exploring lasciviously the inside of Milly's mouth, the blonde-haired woman realized that this was not a sisterly or friendly kiss; some of the power of Sandra's perverted lust must have communicated itself to Milly, infecting her with the same kind of strange desire. Or had it been there all along, a lesbian streak in her personality which had been waiting for all these years to spring unexpectedly to the surface?
"Have you...you done this before?" whispered Milly, kissing Sandra's ear as she spoke. "I feel so...so funny...it isn't right, but. . . "
"Never before," admitted Sandra honestly, moving closer to Milly so that their thighs were touching. "I just wanted to. . . I don't know...hold you and touch you. It's been like this for a long time now."
"Oh...why didn't you tell me?...oh, I'm so confused! All this week I've been thinking I was in love with Oliver, and feeling badly because I knew I loved you, too...is that terrible? Are we queers or something?"
"I don't know...it's okay if you want to love Oliver...we'll sort it out somehow...Can I touch you...some more?"
Milly nodded in the darkness, apparently too choked up to voice her reply in words, as Sandra's hand slid slowly across the soft flesh of Milly's inner thigh. She expected that the timid brunette would move away, fleeing from a caress which was so thoroughly carnal. But instead, Milly's hips came slowly forward, jerking slightly as Sandra's hand reached the moistly swollen lips of the girl's tight little cuntal opening. Moving as cautiously as an animal trainer with a frightened deer, Sandra stroked the other girl's compliantly yielding flesh, gradually working up to the crucial moment when she dared to brush her fingers over Milly's pulsating clitoris. The touch sent shock waves of illicit desire through both women, and Milly gasped suddenly for air, as if she was having difficulty remembering to breathe.
Encouraged, Sandra slowly wormed her fingers into the other woman's gently fluttering vagina, softly caressing the moist inside walls and keeping her thumb firmly placed on her clitoris. Milly's hips surged forward every time Sandra's fingers crept farther into her, and the arms of the dark-eyed woman wound tightly around her girlfriend's neck. Sandra felt her desire rising higher and higher by the moment, and she rolled Milly over onto her back, getting to her knees above the other woman's body and looking down with growing lust at the voluptuous body beneath her. On the right, Ken was curled on his side facing the wall of the tent, obviously asleep. On the left it was too dark to see whether Oliver's eyes were open or closed, but Sandra decided that he would have to know about this hitherto unknown side of her personality sooner or later, and if he was watching, then he would know sooner and there was nothing she could do about it. In the bottom of her heart, she sincerely wished that Oliver would come towards them and join in, but the man's body was motionless.
Then, dipping her head suddenly, she touched her lips to Milly's left breast, quickly sucking the turgid pink nipple into her desirous mouth and caressing it lasciviously with her tongue. The other girl's nipples began to expand rapidly, swelling up quickly with lewd desire until they both seemed ready to burst, and Sandra trailed her lips passionately back and forth between the two rigid little peaks, sucking and biting gently until Milly began to pant with wild wanton lust. But Milly was not the only one to feel her self-control slipping rapidly away from her.
There was a burning aching sensation between her legs, and Sandra felt that driving internal hunger which always meant that she had to achieve physical satisfaction or kill herself in the attempt.
With a lustfully impatient motion she seized Milly's hand and, guided it lasciviously to the sparse blonde patch of pubic hair between her legs, feeling the electric signal of rampant desire flash madly up and down her spine as her dark-eyed friend began to caress the most sensitive part of her body. Their lips met again, a deep probing kiss which seemed to crackle in the dry air of the tent while the two women finger-fucked each other into oblivion.
Sandra was the first to cum. A warmly sensuous woman who had never had any problems with coldness, she felt the orgiastic sensation begin to sweep up from her toes as Milly's skillful hands diddled her churning genitals, the girl's softly responsive fingers passing again and again over the yieldingly grateful flesh of her clitoris.
"Christ, I'm cumming!" she half-groaned, half-whispered into Milly's ear, feeling the girl's arms tighten around her as the erotic spasm stormed over her voluptuous body.
"Oh, Sandra, you came so hard!" Milly whispered back, her deep alto voice husky with obvious desire. "I'm so glad I could make it happen to you...I wish...."
"What?" the blonde-haired woman demanded, sensing that she held a deeply-troubled woman in her arms and remembering the time when Ken Stone had scornfully denounced Milly as frigid. "Can you cum?"
"It almost never happens to me," Milly admitted, hiding her face in Sandra's sumptuous breasts. "Ken says I'm as cold as an ice-cube tray and so it's not your fault...I thought it might be different with a woman, but...."
Suddenly Sandra felt challenged, realizing that she had an opportunity finally to do some real good for someone she loved. Ken was obviously too much for someone as timid and shy as Milly, and he had convinced her that she was frigid, which was nonsense, since the girl was obviously a warm and loving creature who simply needed the right approach. Making a quick decision, she pulled herself free of Milly's clinging embrace and sat up, no longer caring whether either of the men saw her or not. She had a job to do, and she already knew precisely how she was going to go about it.
Stretching her long elegant legs above Milly's head, Sandra arranged herself upside down next to her girlfriend, her lips already invading the moistly inviting space between the other girl's willingly parted legs. As soon as she realized what Sandra intended to do, Milly tried to shrink away, frightened by the directness of the blonde woman's approach, but Sandra was too fast and too insistent, and there was no place for the dark-eyed woman to hide.
"No...." Milly groaned as Sandra's hotly panting lips pushed through the forest of dark brown pubic hair, her tongue flashing out eagerly to caress the other woman's timidly pulsating little clitoris.
"Let me!" Sandra pleaded in the darkness, and knew she had won as she felt Milly's body relax passively, her sleekly elegant thighs drifting farther apart as passion conquered her fears. Knowing that this preliminary victory was important, Sandra chuckled to herself as she dipped her golden head again onto the target, her tongue spearing out wetly to tantalize the rich pink lips of Milly's over-stimulated vagina. For a long time she probed, enjoying the bizarre new experience of tongue-fucking another woman, a member of her own sex, and trembling as she felt the vibrations of ever-growing lust sweep through Milly's voluptuous young body. The girl's legs parted even more, indicating that what little remained of her resistance was running low and Sandra lunged into her with a vengeance, burying her face in the moistness of Milly's cunt.
The brunette was writhing now, in something approaching total sensual abandon, a light fragrant sheen of perspiration covering her skin, as her legs began to quiver with the approaching spasm. Sandra knew she was winning, that she was driving Milly to the first lesbian cum of her life, and that it was going to be a sensational orgasm. Nibbling on the girl's sweetly pulsating clitoral flesh, Sandra felt the girl's legs go back as the moment of absolute frenzy arrived. Milly was squealing now like a stuck pig, and it seemed impossible that-the two men could sleep through an orgy as noisy as this one, but neither of the two husbands moved.
Deciding to accelerate matters, Sandra carefully inserted her fingers into Milly's wildly throbbing cunt, sliding her hand in and out while she sucked lecherously on the girl's tender pink clitoris. Suddenly, the brunette grunted and filled her lungs with air.
"Oh God...don't stop...Sandra...I'm cumming...oh, it's so good!"
There was a long sigh and Milly's body went rigid as the orgasm swept violently over her. Sandra spun around quickly, gathering the woman's body into her arms and kissing her as she came, shuddering with the fury of her orgasm.
Afterwards, they did not talk, despite the fact that neither of them could sleep immediately. The wind had stopped swirling around in circles and was now driving in hard from the east, spraying sand against the side of their tent. The air cooled, after awhile, and the two women slept, their fingers entwined.
* * *
The desert at dawn looked so soft and welcoming that it took Sandra a few minutes to realize how serious their situation had become. The sun in the east seemed to be balanced on its rim, sending a river of liquid gold across empty reaches of gently rolling dunes.
Sandra looked around her, discovering that their tent was almost completely submerged in crimson sand, thanks to the violent storm of the night before, and she wiggled nakedly out from under the canvas, leaving her three sleeping friends behind her. It felt good, since the real heat of the day had not yet begun, and she jumped in the soft sand like a child at the beach shaking her yellow hair out behind her as she played and letting the morning air dry the effluvial liquids of sex still clinging damply to her skin. There was no one to see her and the nakedness felt good, and she had already decided that the day was going to be fun when she circled around the tent and found that the
Land Rover was buried in loose sand up to the windows.
Alarmed, she looked wildly back and forth, trying to see how much of the road had been buried, but she was destined to be disappointed. The road was gone!
"Oh sweet suffering Christ!" she said to no one in particular, suddenly remembering the curse her father had saved for moments like this. "What the bloody hell do we do now?"
"Why haven't you got your clothes on?" came Oliver's sleepy mildly protesting voice behind her. "What is this anyway, a nudist colony?"
"Oh stop worrying about my morals and look around. We're stuck!"
Oliver Marwell crawled out in his underwear, followed by Ken Stone who was dressed the same way, and the two men managed to drag their eyes off of Sandra's stunningly voluptuous body long enough to survey the desperate situation. It was bad. Millions of tons of sand had shifted overnight, moving westward to cover the road. A few dozen feet to the east of them, the wind had scoured out a plain of flat hard sand which stretched off in the general direction of the rising sun. They were possibly less than a hundred miles north of Beni Abbes, a town and tracking post where they could get fuel and water, but everything to the south of them was soft shifting sand, and whatever else happened they were not going to be able to go an inch farther in that direction in a Land Rover.
. Sandra gazed despondently at their loyal sturdy British vehicle as she somehow expected uV desert car to solve their problems for them. The Rover had something for almost every eventuality: there were stainless steel jerry cans strapped to the sides and back for extra fuel and water, and the four-wheel drive made it possible to take the Rover over terrain which would terrify a mountain goat. The bottom was sealed and the Rover could pass through three feet of water without missing a stroke, but when all was said and done, it was still just a motor mounted on four rubber wheels, and if those wheels sank down to the axle in soft sand, then the motor was not going to do them any good.
The sun rose a few inches over the horizon, and Sandra walked around, kicking the sand and running her fingers over the slowly-warming metal of the automobile. She was still naked but the temperature of the air was just right for going without clothing, and she resisted the idea of crawling back into the stuffy tent to put on her garments.
After all, she meditated as the warmth of the sun penetrated her smooth tan skin, everybody's seen me naked before. Ken must know every inch of me by now, and Oliver's my husband, so what does it matter? And Milly...well what's happened has happened, and I'm proud of it. Maybe if the two guys didn't see us last night, we ought to tell them, somehow, that we have this new thing between us...or maybe that would be stupid. Oliver would understand, somehow, and I could make him realize that it didn't threaten him. But Ken is too egotistical, too self-centered. .he'd start screaming that we were a pair of dykes and probably use it as an excuse to divorce Milly...and we 're not dykes! I couldn't imagine doing it with any other woman but her, and I need Oliver, too...oh God, what a mess we 're in!
The two men had separated briefly as they explored the dimensions of the disaster. Ken prowling eastwards into "Le Grande Erg Occidental" as it was called on the map, while Oliver plodded through a sand dune to see if there was anything left of the road. Sandra occupied herself with digging through the sand enough to open the door of the Rover and extricate what she needed to brew some dark rich coffee. It was going to be rough today. She had the primus stove working and the water boiling when Milly poked her tousled head out of the tent, her eyes blinking from the sunlight.
"What's happening?" came her deep throaty voice. "I heard Ken say something about being stuck. Why haven't you got any clothes on?"
"We are stuck, and I don't feel like putting my clothes on," reported Sandra saucily. "Come on out and have some coffee."
"Wait till I find my panties. . . everything got mixed up last night.. . "
"You don't need your panties, Milly. There's nobody around but me and the men arc off exploring.
The brunette looked dubious for a moment and then crawled out of the tent, brushing the grains of sand free of her hair and letting the morning sun bathe her body with warmness. It was the first time Sandra had ever seen her friend's body so clearly, and she stared at her hard, studying the firm high breasts and the narrow supple waist until Milly blushed with embarrassment.
"Gee...." she stammered, reaching out with awkward timidness to brush a grain of sand off Sandra's naked shoulder. "What got into us last night?"
"Are you sorry it happened?"
"No, but it sure is going to create some problems, isn't it?"
"Nothing like the problems all that sand is creating," commented Sandra dryly. "If we don't leave our bones in this unmentionable desert, I guess we'll have to sort out our love lives, but right now we've got our hands full of real problems. Here come our brave explorers now. Maybe they've found a Howard Johnson's, or an Esso station or something."
"Oil, there's Oliver. I guess I'd better get decent." Milly sighed, setting down her cup of coffee and preparing to get to her feet. '
"Oh let it go," Sandra advised. "You'll never get a chance to acquire an all-over tan like this again, and Oliver isn't going to call the police."
"But suppose...golly, we are getting into mischief, aren't we? Suppose Ken gets mad?"
"We can always bop him one with the monkey wrench, can't we?"
Oliver brushed the sweat out of his eyes as he saw the two women sitting nakedly in front of the tent brewing coffee, and Sandra laughed aloud as she watched the look of consternation cross his face. Milly was blushing and Oliver was obviously unsure whether some comment was called for or whether he should pretend that finding Milly stark naked was the most natural thing in the world. Sandra found the whole scene almost unbearably comic.
"Come on, my hero, get your eyeballs off of Milly's tits," she laughed cheerfully, "and tell us what you've discovered in your travels."
"Uh...well the road's completely gone as far down as I went." Oliver confessed as he sat down opposite the two women, accepting a cup of coffee and lighting a cigarette. "I don't know what the hell we do now. We can't go back and we can't go forward. Maybe Ken found something."
Stone approached, a look of incredulity on his face as he saw the two women seated nakedly with his partner. He stopped a few feet away, anger visible in his features.
"Would somebody mind explaining what the fuck is going on here?" he demanded crudely. "We've got troubles, and this is hardly the time for group sex!"
"Who's group-sexing?" Sandra shot back at him. "We're having coffee, and there's a cup for you if you want it."
"Why haven't you got your clothes on?" he stammered, looking directly at his frightened wife.
"We didn't feel like putting clothes on," Sandra answered sharply. "So stop acting like a Sunday school teacher and tell us what the score is!"
Ken Stone looked back and forth between the two women, battling within himself. He obviously liked looking at the two females without their clothing, but on the other hand, there was something suspicious going on. He had been too sleepy the night before to investigate, but there had been some strange rustlings and murmurs in the tent as he was drifting off to sleep, and now Milly was brazenly exhibiting her body to the Marwell's. Stone felt his authority over the group being eroded by Sandra, and he did not like it at all, but for the moment he was left without a means of counterattacking.
"I hope you both get sun-burned asses," he commented bitterly as he sat down and helped himself to coffee. "What's the story on the road, Oliver?"
"No story," countered Marwell bleakly. "Couldn't find the road."
"Okay, I figured as much. The road was perpendicular to the direction of the wind, and the whole desert just moved over a half-mile or so. But the wind scooped out a channel headed that way and the sand looks hard enough to drive on. Where's that map?"
Sandra got to her feet, her breasts vibrating enticingly as she moved, and fetched the map from the front seat of the Land Rover. Ken spread it open before them and four pairs of eyes studied the chart, all looking for a way out of their difficulties.
"Okay, now look at this. We're about here, as near as I can figure and the main road to Beni Abbes is closed, right? Now we're on the edge of this big erg whatever that is and there's a path which runs over to this oasis and then south to Beni Abbes." Ken looked up at his listeners, checking to be sure he was making himself understood. "Now if we can dig the Rover out, I say we head east along that hard sand and hope we can strike that trail."
"Wait a minute, an erg is a sand sea," objected Marwell, "and there's a note here which says that travelers are supposed to stay out of it."
"Except in emergencies, obviously," snapped Stone, making a great display of keeping his temper.
"Well, here it just says stay out. And suppose we don't find that path? Maybe it got erased by the sandstorm, too. There's no water in there, and the place is occupied by the Tuaregs."
"What the hell are the Tuaregs?"
"The Tuaregs are a Berber people, nomads, and none of the North African governments have really brought them under control. They're dangerous and...."
"Look, the day Ken Stone can't handle a bunch of scruffy Arabs running around on camels, I'll let you know. If the jerks had any brains, they'd have moved out of there a long time ago. Besides, what other choice have we got?"
"We could sit here and wait. The authorities must know that the road is gone, or at least they will the next time somebody tries to go to Beni Abbes. And somebody may remember that we headed down this way and come looking for us."
"How many days of water have we got?" Ken snapped.
"Oh...it depends on how thirsty we get. Maybe five or six."
"And what happens when it runs out?"
"I don't have to draw you a picture. We die."
"Right, you want us to sit here on our asses waiting for a miracle to happen. If we're lucky we can have the Rover out of the sand and over to that oasis in a couple of hours. We can replenish our water tanks there and get fresh instructions or maybe even a guide out of this damn erg."
"If we find the oasis. And if the Tuaregs don't find us."
* * *
The argument went on for a long time, and the two women were both in support of Oliver's point of view, but all three of them were traditionally in the habit of following Ken's lead in important matters, and he insisted upon having his way. Even Oliver seemed relieved when they finally dug the Land Rover out of the sand, packed up the tent and went spinning off into the bleakness of the desert. They had reached a basic compromise. As long as the sand seemed firm enough to take their weight, they would press ahead, looking for the oasis. If there was danger of being lost, or they were getting into difficult country, they would turn around and return to the place where they had pitched their tent for the night. Their tracks were plainly visible in the sand, and it did not seem that they would have much difficulty finding their way back if they decided to retreat.
Oliver argued that the women were wasting precious bodily fluids by sitting around undressed, and Sandra called a halt to their nudity rebellion to the extent of putting on a super-tiny bikini and trying to sit in a shaded spot in the rear of the Rover. Milly put on a short skirt, despite the steadily rising temperatures in the vehicle, and a halter top to contain her sensually swaying breasts. Ken sat silently in the front of the car, studying the map attentively and knowing that his leadership of this little expedition was on the line. If this idea turned out badly, Oliver would certainly take charge by popular consent, probably leading them back to Marrakesh as quickly as he could arrange it and then bundling them all on the first plane to New York, since roaming around the desert had obviously not turned out to be his idea of fun.
From time to time, the two men called a halt, taking turns walking in front of the Rover to test the dependability of the sand, but generally they made reasonable progress, and Ken assured them every few minutes that they ought to be Hearing the oasis. The two men were trying hard to keep the growing antagonism between them down below the boiling point, but every so often it bubbled to the surface.
"I think we'd better have a look at that stretch ahead of us," advised Marwell quietly as he brought the Rover to a gentle halt on a patch of hard ground.
"Come on, make a run for it!" urged Ken Stone impatiently. "What are we waiting for?"
"Just making some calculations," muttered Oliver, bent over and studying the mileage gauge. "You figured that oasis was fifty miles out. right?"
"Right, and we've done forty-five, so we should be there any minute now."
"Yeah? Let me see the map a minute!"
"Why. don't you think I know how to read a map?" snarled Stone, immediately taking offense at this implied challenge to his competence as an expedition leader. Marwell ignored him, picking the map up off the seat and spreading it out on the steering wheel while Stone fumed.
"I thought so," he concluded quietly after a moment's contemplation. "This map's in kilometers."
"Kilometers?"
"Right. That oasis was fifty kilometers from where we were, assuming that we were where we thought we were. And forty-five miles is close to seventy kilometers, which means we missed it. Let's turn around!"
"Wait!" Stone snatched the map back, unable to believe he had made such a preposterous mistake. "Okay, you're right, but we're not turning back. It's got to be around here somewhere. I figure if we swing around to the south, that looks like hard sand; we can come up to this point here...."
"We've got company." murmured Sandra quietly from the back seat, staring hard out the window. "A lot of company and a lot of camels."
"Tuaregs," muttered Marwell. looking frightened as he refolded the map and watched the column of tall yellowish-brown colored camels make its way leisurely towards their car.
"For Christ sake, how can you tell? It looks like another bunch of stupid Arabs to inc!" snarled Stone disdainfully. "Get your French ready, Ol, and we'll ask them which way to go."
"They're Tuaregs, I tell you," insisted Oliver Marwell dully, his hands trembling a little as he gripped the wheel. "I've been doing some reading and those white-blue robes they're wearing over linen pants and shirts are the typical Tuareg dress. And so is the shesh, that big turban they wear on their heads."
"And what the hell do they do besides ride around and look impressive?"
"They used to be slave traders," Marwell informed them. "They brought blacks from the South up to the Mediterranean Coast because they were the only people who knew the desert well enough to cross it. Nowadays they hunt, rob their enemies and run a few slaves to the Arabs who still have them. The Algerian government went after them last year for kidnapping a pair of French girls who were down here on vacation, but they never got the girls back...no one knows what happened to them...."
Sandra's body stiffened as she contemplated the prospects of being sold into slavery, and she considered getting more clothing out to cover her voluptuously desirable young body. But the Tuaregs were too close and it was too late to try to disguise herself as an ugly old hag. There were about fifteen men, carrying ancient-looking but functional rifles, and there were scornful smiles on their faces as they maneuvered their magnificently haughty camels into a circle around the Land Rover, preventing the vehicle from moving.
"Come on, Oliver, find out if they speak French and ask them the way to that oasis," Ken Stone urged his partner, and Marwell stumbled out of the Rover, looking up to the man who seemed to be the leader, an impossibly tall and cruel-looking young man in his twenties.
"Excusez-moi, Monsieur," he began in his good, but school-boyish French, but there was something in the Tuareg leader's bronzed arrogant face that said he was wasting his time. The Tuareg swung agilely down off his camel, nearly kicking Oliver in the face as he did so, and brushed by the American contemptuously as he strode to the Rover and looked into the back window. As he walked, he was followed closely by the eyes of his men, and from inside their vehicles, Sandra saw rifles trained on both Oliver and Ken, realizing that they had just been taken prisoner, without so much as a word of explanation.
The young Arab desert warrior gazed lustfully in the window at the two of them for a moment, and Sandra did her best to meet his cruelly lecherous glance, but as she studied his face, she realized that the man was half-savage, and unlikely to be moved by a burst of her inadeepjate college French.
The Tuareg spat a word over his shoulder in his native language, and most of his men dismounted and approached, leaving only a few to stand guard, their rifles ready, their brown eyes cautiously trailing the two American men.
"Get out of the car," the Tuareg suddenly said in fluent easy French, and Sandra realized with a wave of fear that he was talking to them. She glanced quickly at Ken waiting for him to react in some way, but Stone was sitting very still, his face ashen white, and the blonde-haired woman understood with a horrifying shock that he was afraid. She would have expected her husband to react timidly to a situation like this, but Ken was the great man of action who had boasted not too long ago that he was prepared to "take care" of any Arab who gave him any difficulties. Well, what was he waiting for?
The door opened, and Sandra looked up into the sadistically smiling eyes of the Tuareg warrior, wondering what he wanted of her, and fearing the worst. She stepped out of the Rover, suddenly conscious of precisely how exposed this horribly inadequate bikini left her sumptuously sensual young body. The Arab men closed in on her, silently, their savage desert eyes stripping her naked and observing every soft curve on her lust-provoking body. The girl stood still, terrorized as much by the total deadly silence of the Tuareg group as by anything else. Oliver Marwell stood a few feet away, his face red, nervously twisting his fingers as he tried to decide upon a course of action.
"You understand French?" murmured the Tuareg softly, surprising her with the clearness of his pronunciation. Sandra nodded, taking a deep breath, and pushing one of her bra straps into place.
"Good," the man nodded, "Take your bathing suit off."
Somehow the order did not come as much of a surprise to anyone. Oliver Marwell snorted, his flush deepening as anger fought with fear inside of him and took a quick step forward, as if to interfere, instantly, there were hands on his shoulders, restraining him and he stood still again, looking desperately in Ken's direction as if he still expected help to come from that direction.
"There's nothing we can do," muttered Stone, shaking his head and looking away. "There's twenty of them and they have guns...."
"Your bathing suit, Madame," the Tuareg repeated softly. "I wish to see you naked."
"Go fuck yourself," Sandra told him distinctly, staring him straight in the face defiantly.
"Ah a spirited woman! You will be worth that much more, and there is a sheik to the east who will pay dearly for the pleasure of subduing you."
As he spoke, a long wickedly gleaming knife appeared from under the Tuareg's light blue cape, and Sandra's eyes widened with fear as she watched him slide it deftly between the ripely magnificent orbs of her breasts, the dull side towards her delicate skin and the sharp edge slicing neatly through the slender piece of material which held the two cups of her brassiere together.
As her bra top fell uselessly to the sand, leaving her naked except for the flimsy bikini panties she was wearing, a snort of rage came from where Marwell had been standing, and Sandra looked over in time to see her normally placid husband deck one of the Tuaregs guarding him with a vicious uppercut to the chin, and then slam his knee ferociously into the groin of a second man, doubling him up on the sand with pain.
Two emotions flashed quickly through her i brain; fear that Oliver would be killed as a result of this senseless display of bravado, and pride that he was actually fighting for her honor.
But the Arab revenge was swift and terrible. A half-dozen men moved in fast on Marwell clubbing him viciously with the butts of their antique rifles, and the man screamed in pain as six expert fighters worked him over thoroughly. One of the men he had hit staggered to his feet, his knife flashing in the hot desert air, his body lunging in Oliver's direction. Both women screamed in unison as the deadly blade described a murderous arc in the air, but a softly-spoken command from the Tuareg leader stopped the slaughter before the knife made contact.
Marwell lay stretched on the ground, his eyes blackened and a trickle of crimson blood seeping from one lip. but he seemed more stunned than hurt as the men pinned him viciously to the blazing sand.
"I find that women are less enticing after their husbands have been slaughtered." the man said slowly and proudly, taking another step towards Sandra with the dagger still held loosely in his hand. "He must love you very much, that man, to fight against such odds. We admire courage here, and perhaps we will spare his life. Or perhaps not. It depends a good deal on you."
Sandra stared back at him, now too shaken to think of anything to say in either French or English. The Tuareg commander turned to the men who were holding Oliver's badly beaten body and snapped a quick precise command in Arabic. Instantly the Tuareg warriors obeyed, and Sandra watched mystified as they tore open his fly, ripping down her husband's pants and underpants and leaving his genitals exposed to the savagery of their merciless knives. That magnificent cock she had seen so often standing up hard and firm was now flaccid and limp as fear took possession of Oliver's body. In fact, his organ now seemed frail and vulnerable, but there was a whistle of admiration from the Arabs as one of them picked up the uncircumcised instrument by the foreskin, holding it up for the others to see and admire.
"He is well-constructed, this man of yours," commented the Arab with brutally heavy humor, "It would be a shame to order my men to cut off his pike, but I shall do it if you defy me. Now we will see how much you love your husband, or at least how much you love his cock. Strip!"
Sandra moved fast, knowing that she no longer had any room for maneuver. There was a sharp steel blade only inches from Oliver's trembling cock, and she knew that men like these would have no hesitation in castrating him if she hesitated so much as an instant. This man was in charge now, and if he meant to rape her. then there was nothing to stop him.
II this were a movie, she thought bitterly as she slid the frail bikini panties down over her loins and stepped out of them, we'd hear a bugle call right about now and the French Foreign Legion would come charging over the nearest sand dune on white horses to rescue us.
But it was not a movie; it was real and the warmth of the sun against her now naked skin told her clearly how real it was.
"I am called Abdul Ibn-Nasir," he informed her politely, stepping close to the shivering blonde woman and running his hands lewdly over the ripeness of her breasts. "And my name is known and feared in half the Sahara. You may think of that as you caress me with your lips, which is what I desire of you. Down to your knees!"
The other Arabs crowded around eagerly to watch, anxious to view the spectacularly lewd sight of this big-breasted and proud American woman on her knees sucking their leader's bulbous cock. Sandra dropped to her knees, remembering vaguely that the Arabs believed that a man's penis was the source of his power. They admired Oliver because of the size of his masculinity, and by the same token, they were forcing her to accept Ibn-Nasir's penis into her mouth as a symbol of his conquest.
The Taureg leader stepped closer, loosening a knot in the cotton string which held up his pants, and exposed himself to her. He was not precisely tiny himself, and his penis was already half-erected, bobbing in the air like an animal just released from captivity. Her mind staggered by this bizarre humiliation into which she was being forced. Sandra reached forward with trembling hands to take the man's rampant cock between her fingers and guide it to her unwilling mouth.
Maybe it s just as well it's me they picked on. she told herself as she stroked Ibn-Nasir's rapidly swelling instrument At least I've done it before and know what to do. Milly might have gone into hysterics and then they'd have hurt someone. . .
The Tuareg chuckled from somewhere far above her as the blonde-haired woman leaned submissively forward to take his now erected cock into the warm moist sanctuary of her mouth. Finding this unlucky little expedition had been like a smile from Allah! Later, they could torture the men and kill them. The car could be sold for good money in Morocco and the women would fetch high prices in Libya or Arabia. And in the meantime they would soften them up for their future owners. Foreign women knew nothing about the Arab ways of pleasing a man, but they could be taught. . .
There was an electric spark passing between the Arab man and the American woman as the scarlet tip of Ibn-Nasir's lustful cock brushed lewdly against the softness of Sandra's red lips. The girl closed her eyes, struggling to shut out the gleaming lascivious stares of the other Arabs who stood around them, panting like animals and waiting their turn. She felt suddenly numb, empty inside, and decided to do it and get it over with before she was knocked senseless by the burning force of the sun.
"I am waiting," said the mocking voice from above her. "And Allah has not given me much patience."
She obeyed. There had never been any choice, and she concentrated on the thought that she was doing it to save Oliver, feeling the thick bulbous mass of the man's lustful cock slither into the tiny cavern of her mouth. Ibn-Nasir had not deigned to ram himself forcibly between her lips; instead he had deepened her shame and humiliation by making her lean forward voluntarily and take his invading pole with her lips, sucking it obscenely into the warm sanctuary of her throat as if she had genuinely desired him. Hoping to humiliate her farther by making her choke and gag.
A tiny spark of rebellion broke inside the woman's mind, and she suddenly found herself possessed with the savage irrational desire to show this big desert bully with the turban that he was not Allah's gift to women after all. So he wanted a blow-job, did he? All right, he'd get his blow-job and she vowed that she'd make him groan for mercy before she was finished with him. Let him ram his thick fat cock as deeply as he liked! She could take more than he had to give. A woman who had practiced with Oliver's mammoth pole should have nothing to fear from Ibn-Nasir!
Almost forgetting in her torrid desire for revenge that she was being degraded and humiliated, Sandra fell into a kind of a mystic erotic trance, putting everything she had into the task before her. Timidly at first, her lips began to nibble teasingly at the broad staff she held obscenely in her mouth. She gasped for breath, but kept her courage as the bulbous shaft pounded into her, and without stopping to worry about what the others thought, she brought her hands into play, tickling and caressing Ibn-Nasir's giant sperm-filled testicles.
She opened her eyes long enough to glance sideways at where Oliver was still sprawled on the hot sand, his arms and legs pinned to the ground, the deadly blade still poised at his groin, ready to slice if she made the slightest false move. His face was white, almost chalky, and Sandra realized that it was taking all the courage he had in him to confront this terrible situation. Oliver was not natively very brave', but he had fought to save her from this humiliation and she knew she would love him as long as she lived for having made the gesture, useless as it had been. Now he was watching, incredulous, as his wife lustfully ate the hotly throbbing cock of the man who had taken them prisoner. Did he understand why she was doing it? Did he comprehend that she was debasing herself to save him from castration? No matter, it had to be done.
"Tres bien, ma petite," the Tuareg complimented her crudely, his hips beginning to sway back and forth lasciviously as he drove the broad shaft of his quivering penis deeply into the unnatural sanctuary of her throat. Sandra thrilled internally as she realized that she was winning the private little war she had declared between herself and this evil ruthless man. Already his fully-erected instrument was throbbing hotly as if it were ready to explode, and she could feel the great bulbous glans vibrating with erotic energy as if plunged ceaselessly towards the back of her throat. She knew that the other Tuaregs were watching her intently, crowding around lustfully, and possibly waiting for the moment when their leader would finish with the American woman and hand her over to them. These men were used to the idea of women as slaves, Sandra realized with a sinking sensation, and they would have no hesitation in carrying out any evil notion which floated into their savage minds.
But the moment of truth was approaching, and suddenly she had no more time to consider their immediate future. The saliva was accumulating rapidly in her cruelly stretched mouth, and mixing obscenely with semen slowly oozing from the over-stimulated tip of his cock, forcing her to swallow convulsively. His fingers had wound their way into her long blonde hair now, and he was rhythmically yanking her head back and forth as if her face were a woman's loins and her tender bruised mouth was simply another cunt into which he could empty his vile seed. Sandra could feel his savage cock expanding, growing like some diabolical animal as he filled every last crevice of her mouth.
Trying desperately to end it, and not to lose her strength before she had successfully sucked him dry, the girl devoured him wildly, feeling the muscles in her jaw throbbing with fatigue as he skewered tirelessly into her. She had never felt so low, so utterly and completely used in her entire life, but she had thought it all through before and come to the painful conclusion that there was no way out but this. She had to finish it and hope for the best.
Suddenly Ibn-Nasir jerked, a shudder running spasmodically through his lithe, desert-hardened body, and Sandra knew that the moment had arrived. The man surged forward, his flat stomach crashing against her face as he rammed his wildly ejaculating cock deeply into the back of her throat, ranting insanely in Arabic as the hotly steaming semen spilled out of him.
It poured into her like a never-ending waterfall as she gulped frantically, somehow possessed by a mindless erotic desire not to lose a drop of the pungent, lust-provoking fluid. Here on the desert, moisture of any kind was precious, and she swallowed like a madwoman in order not to choke on the enormous quantity of semen he was spraying into her. For a long time, they strained towards each other, the tall villainous figure of the desert warrior forcing his loins into the face of the blonde nakedly trembling woman who knelt before him, and they looked like some strange mythological beast, frozen like a wall painting on the side of a cave.
Then slowly they disengaged, a long thin streamer of cum still connecting the scarlet tip of his wilted cock to the edge of her bruised lips. He stepped back, his arrogant manner now considerably moderated, and Sandra resisted the temptation to collapse on the warm sand, forcing herself to kneel erect. She faced him, her blue eyes searching his weathered face boldly, trying to give the impression that what he had just forced her to do had been nothing, really, and that she was prepared to do it a dozen times more if necessary to save her husband.
"A remarkable couple," Ibn-Nasir commented softly, the faintest trace of admiration in his voice. "The man with the great cock who fights against ten men to save his wife, and the woman who does bravely what she must to save her husband. Remarkable, indeed. My respect for Americans has increased."
There was a brief exchange of Arabic conversation between Ibn-Nasir and his men, who then relaxed their hold on Oliver, allowing him to sit up. One man launched into a considerably lengthy discourse, and Sandra sat back on her heels, wondering what he could possibly be saying. He was a big man, taller and more heavily built than the rest, with a patch-work of scars on his face and arms, old wounds from old battles. Sandra watched him point lasciviously at Milly who was still trembling in the back seat of the Rover. Ibn-Nasir smiled evilly and nodded in agreement as the big man finished his statement.
"Amir has an interesting proposal. He would like to know if all Americans are as brave as this slender one here. He also desires the dark-haired woman and he suggests an amusing test. I take it that man is her husband. Does he speak French?"
Ken Stone looked blankly at the warrior, and Sandra realized he had not followed much of what was being said. The other man approached the Rover, and pulled Milly roughly out onto the sand, making a circle around her while Ken Stone got out the other side, looking for a moment as if he were going to flee uselessly off into the desert. Two men took him by the arms and propelled him up to face the man called Amir.
Suddenly bending over, Amir seized Milly's frail body, throwing her forward onto her stomach, yanking her brief skirt up over her shoulders and snatching the fragile material of her panties away as if they had been made of tissue. The brunette's bare bottom glistened in the harsh sun, looking vulnerable and inviting as the stern fearsome figure of Amir towered over her trembling body. Dropping to one knee, the giant took one of the half-moons of her buttocks in each hand, spreading them apart so that he could inspect the tiny puckered hole of her anus. Ibn-Nasir intervened with a sharp sadistic laugh.
"Amir has strange tastes, you understand," he chuckled. "And while the Koran is not clear on the morality of this point, he likes in women what they have in common with boys. If you will translate please, he proposes a contest with your friend. They will fight, each armed with a knife. If the American wins, he may go free with his little woman. We will bury Amir in the sand and go our way. If Amir wins, he will do what he likes to do with the brown-haired one, and we will bury the American in the sand."
"For Christ sake! What is he saying?" Ken Stone gasped in agony as the other men stepped back, placing a long sharp dagger in his hand and leaving him to face Amir over Milly's half-naked body.
"You've got to fight him," explained Oliver tersely. "If you win, they let us go. If you lose, that guy is going to...going to...."
"Is going to what?" Stone whined, looking unhappily at the dagger in his hand and at the slightly smaller one in Amir's enormous paw.
"He's going to fuck her in the ass!" Sandra screamed at him. "Ken, you can take him! It's our only chance! He's twice your age, and not half as fast! You took fencing in college. Just wound him and they'll let us go!"
Amir smiled, looking calm and confident, and Milly glanced up beseechingly at her husband, tears streaking across her sun tanned face. She tried to speak, but no words came out. Ken hesitated, taking a step backwards.
"Ken, don't let them do it to her!" screamed Sandra in agony, getting nakedly to her feet with her hands outstretched. "She can't take it!"
"We are waiting, my friend," smiled Ibn-Nasir easily, folding his arms patiently.
A look of wild panic swept across Ken's face. With a sudden gesture of agonized fear, he threw the dagger into the sand, and turned as if to flee from this scene of torment. But two Tuaregs intercepted him quickly and wrestled him to the ground. Sandra heard the sound of an approaching camel and looked up to see a man arriving at high speed, but the others were too occupied with the drama before them to pay much attention.
"Apparently all Americans are not created equal," Ibn-Nasir commented dryly. Amir laughed contemptuously at the terrorized Ken
Stone and then deliberately opened his linen pants and allowed his thick, slowly rising cock to tumble free. Obscenely, he brandished it in Milly's face, and then threw himself between her knees, his hands plunging wickedly into the crevice between her richly inviting buttocks.
"Ahhhhhhhhh...No!" she screamed, and Sandra tried to rush to her girlfriend's side, only to be slapped to the ground by Ibn-Nasir. Oliver sat up quickly, hatred in his normally placid features.
"I'll fight him!" he shouted. "Give me the dagger and get away from that girl!"
There was a moment of wild confusion as men leaped to control Oliver, and Amir fought with the wildly struggling Milly.
And then the man Sandra had seen approaching a minute before emerged from behind a sand dune, mounted tall on a proud beige-colored camel. He was a young man, barely out of his teens, but the moment he made his appearance, everything came to an abrupt halt. Sandra saw a look of fear cross Ibn-Nasir's cruel face and even the barbaric Amir seemed apprehensive. The youth spoke calmly, a torrent of Arabic words which none of the Americans could follow, apparently giving orders and in a tone of voice which implied that he expected to be obeyed.
Ibn-Nasir listened, bitterness written on his face. When the young man finished speaking, he shrugged and turned to the naked Sandra.
"It seems you have been reprieved, at least temporarily. Dress, all of you. We have been summoned to the Rakaar."
PART THREE: KENNETH STONE
"Pass the wine," Ken Stone ordered his wife, nudging her rudely in the ribs with his elbow, Milly looked up quickly to see whether anyone else had noticed how drunk her husband was getting, but either the others were unconscious of Ken's condition or they were politely pretending to be unaware of it. Ken himself knew that he was gradually getting plastered, but he fully intended to go on drinking the light red Algerian wine until he got roaring drunk, after which he planned to cart Milly back to their tent and fuck her until her back teeth were loose.
Goddamn, he swore mentally, what a lousy fucking day! First that idiot partner of mine gets us lost and then tries to fight all the mothering Arabs in the Sahara. Then that monster Amir wants to stick a knife in my ribs and then tes-fuck my wife. And everybody's pissed off at me because I wouldn't play their silly little game. Oh. how stupid can you get? He was going to stick his cock up her ass whether I fought him or not! Why get myself killed for nothing? I wasn't scared! It was the only smart thing to do!
"Mais vraiment?" Stone heard Marwell say happily at the other end of the table as he and Sandra conducted a lively conversation with their host, the Rakaar. Milly was looking on with great interest since her high-school French was adequate to the task of keeping track of what was being said if not to contribute anything herself. Sandra was nodding and smiling enthusiastically, occasionally laughing at some joke of the Rakaar's. And Oliver was having the time of his life, sipping tea as he exchanged comments with the aged tribal chieftain.
Ken found it all a thunderous bore, since he could not follow a word of what was being said. The others had not reproached him for his act of cowardice earlier that day, but the coolness was there and he knew he had lost a lot of face, in the oriental sense, and that it would be difficult to get the others to accept his leadership again. And who cared? Why should he break his neck keeping these three idiots out of trouble? A miserable little accountant like Oliver who suddenly decides he's a tough guy because a bunch of worm-eaten Arabs admire his cock. One nymphomaniac blonde dyke, and one frigid brunette dyke, Sandra and Milly! The first thing Ken Stone planned to do when he reached New York was call his lawyer and start the proceedings for getting rid of Milly. When that was over, he was going to have to think seriously about breaking up the Stone-Marwell corporation and striking out on his own. Carrying these three jerks around with him was like having three anchors around his neck, Stone decided bitterly.
And meanwhile they had to sit and listen to an old geezer, this Rakaar creep, sit at the head of the table and shoot off his mouth in French. Anger bumed in Stone's mind and he looked around desperately for something to amuse him, since Milly kept returning the wine bottle to the other end of the table to keep it away from him, despite the obvious fact that he was the only one drinking. Moslems were not supposed to drink, Oliver had explained, and the Rakaar only kept wine for guests.
Two young girls came in to clear away the dishes, and Stone pushed uncomfortably away from the table to allow one of them to remove his plate. He was complaining mentally about big-shot Tuareg chieftains who were supposed to be so important and did not even have chairs and a normal table, when one of the servant girls rubbed against him.
At first it seemed like a casual accident as her firm high young breast brushed over his upper arm, but she did not move away immediately as a woman normally would. Instead, she occupied herself by brushing away some crumbs beside his plate and kept pressing her body against his without ever once looking in his direction. Stone was intrigued. It was difficult to say whether she was pretty or not, since her face was veiled, leaving only a large pair of luminous eyes glowing in his direction, the rest of her body being covered with the traditional long flowing robes. It was also hard to tell her age, but she seemed very young, in her early teens, despite the fact that her breasts were already full and mature.
She finished clearing away the remains of their dinner, rubbed her right breast against his shoulder one last time as if she wanted to be sure that he got the message, and then retreated to the other side of the table. Stone watched her avidly as she cleaned up the table next to Sandra, noting that she accomplished the job without any bodily contact whatsoever.
No question about it, he told himself in a frenzy of erotic self-congratulation, you turned that little Arab chick on and she gave you a free feel. She can't be more than fourteen, but what terrific little tits!
Across the room, the two girls finished their work, curtsied gravely to the Rakaar, and backed out the door. As she was leaving, the adolescent girl who had touched him with her body gazed across the table at him and winked. It was a very slow, deliberate wink, a plain, unequivocal invitation. Then she disappeared, leaving Stone excited and disturbed.
The conversation in French droned on, and with the girl now gone, Ken became more and more restless and irritable. No one had yet bothered to explain to him why Milly's rape had been interrupted before it began, or why they had been brought here to the oasis to be the Rakaar's guests. And he started to dislike the skinny old man to whom everyone was bowing and scraping.
Suddenly giving way to a burst of resentment, he leaned past Milly and poked his partner.
"Do me a favor," he grunted heavily. "Tell that old fart he's an old fart!"
"Come on, Ken, settle down," Oliver Marwell urged him. "I don't know the word for fart in French and besides he's a really tremendous person. He saved our lives."
"Okay, okay, if you won't tell him he's an old fart, at least tell me what the fuck is supposed to be going on! We all admire your beautiful French, but explain to me in English why his boys were leaning on us in the first place if he's such a sweet old fellow."
Marwell looked vaguely uncomfortable and said something polite to the Rakaar to excuse himself while he chatted in English with his partner. Sandra picked up the thread of the conversation he had been having with the Arab chieftain and continued to chat with him in an effort to cover up Stone's boorish behavior.
"Okay, listen," said Marwell quickly in an undertone. "The Rakaar is the hereditary tribal leader of all the Tuaregs in this part of the erg and his word is law. But he's only the second son of the former Rakaar and his older brother was the Rakaar before him...."
"Look, I'm not interested in his family history," Stone grunted impatiently, taking another hefty swig of the potent red wine. "Who was that Ibn-Nasir cat who got his rocks off with Sandra?"
'That's what I'm trying to explain. Before our man's brother died, he got his wife pregnant. When he died without leaving a live heir, our host took over as the new Rakaar, which is what he should have done according to one version of their law. But then Ibn-Nasir was born, the son of the old Rakaar, and he claims that he ought to be the rightful Rakaar. He isn't pushing it too hard, because the other tribal leaders don't like his way of doing business, but the Rakaar can't push him too far either. But the Moslems believe that it's wrong to mistreat peaceful travelers like us, so when he heard what was happening, he sent his son to break it up."
"So now we're supposed to be buddies with Ibn-Nasir?"
"No." Marwell told him eagerly. "Actually he's been explaining the whole Muslem philosophy of life to me and it's fascinating. They get very unhappy when someone fools around with one of their wives...."
"One of?"
"Sure, the Koran, which is their Bible, allows them to have up to four wives if they can afford it and manage to treat them all equally. And about the worst thing you can do is seduce or rape another man's wife. So they've got a council of elders coming in from the different tribes to decide what to do about Ibn-Nasir now. He's officially in disgrace because of what he did to Sandra and it's liable to cost him his claim to becoming the Rakaar someday."
"Ah, what a lot of bullshit."
"Look, Ken...ah...there's kind of a lot of tension in this oasis, and I think we can get out of here in a couple of days if we watch our step, but in the meantime, try not to offend anybody, will you? As long as you're friends with these people, they'll do anything for you, but they make nasty enemies and we need the Rakaar's protection until we get out of the desert."
Stone burned, his resentment getting hotter by the minute. So now the little accountant was
I ! I telling him not to offend a lot of stinking little Arab bastards! With a snarl, he untangled his legs from beneath the table and got unsteadily to his feet, swaying slightly as he made his way to the door of the mud-wattle hut.
"Ah, fuck off, Marwell," he muttered bitterly and staggered out into the night, expecting that Milly would come running after him, helping him back to their tent and pulling off his boots for him while he collapsed on an air mattress. He waited for a moment, planning to give her hell for being so chummy with Marwell, but all he could hear from within was the murmur of French words as his partner and the two women resumed their conversation with the Tuareg leader. So they didn't give a shit whether he left or not, eh? Okay, the hell with them, anyway! He had a good mind to climb into the Land Rover and leave them here, in fact, the more he thought about it, the better an idea it seemed.
The night air sobered him a little and Stone wandered around the village, looking at the mud huts and listening to the camels snorting indignantly and stamping their feet in their enclosure. Suddenly he caught the subtle sound of bare feet moving through the sand behind him and whirled, half-expecting to find himself confronted by some murderous Tuareg warrior with a knife. But he was wrong. It was the girl who had served at the table and she was strolling along deliberately, a few feet behind him. Stone stood still wondering what was going to happen next, but the girl kept on walking, passing him without a sound, but throwing him the most temptingly provocative look he had ever seen.
The man followed, spell-bound, watching the sensuous wiggle of her hips as she wound her way through the long rows of wattle huts until they left the main area of the settlement. Aside from the one come-hither look she had flashed him a moment before, the girl had made no sign that she was aware of his presence. Stone understood that she was leading him somewhere, but knew that she did not want to be compromised if anyone saw them together, so he fell back a few feet and sauntered behind her until she reached an isolated hut on the outskirts of the Tuareg village. Without the slightest glance behind her to see whether or not the American man was still following her, she ducked inside and disappeared.
Ken Stone looked around, saw no one, and decided that this was his chance to take a little revenge on the Tuaregs who had tormented him earlier that day. They had messed around with his woman and now he was going to do the same with one of theirs. And he did not propose to be particularly gentle about it, since he was not in a very gentle mood tonight. Once he stepped inside that hut, the little Arab girl would not be in a position to object to anything he decided to do to her. Who could she complain to? She would have to keep quiet about their little affair or she would ruin herself.
Making up his mind quickly. Stone ducked into the hut, finding it surprisingly pleasant and well-furnished on the inside despite its crude exterior appearance. There was a soft oriental rug spread out over the sand, a scattering of cushions and the usual long low table on which rested several tall candles. The girl was lighting the candles and she did not look up as he entered, concentrating all her attention on what she was doing.
"Well baby, Kenneth Stone, at your service," the American remarked as he entered, and the girl turned and looked at him as if he were a complete stranger whom she had never seen before.
"Come on, baby, don't look so scared," Ken joked, knowing that it was unlikely that she could understand a word he was saying but feeling that he ought to say something anyway.
"Parlez-vous Francais?" she asked him timidly, her dark eyes flashing with some unspecified emotion.
"Nah, I don't parlee voo nothin' but English, sweetheart, but I sure would like to see a little more of you. Like your face, for example."
The girl dropped submissively to her knees as
Stone advanced on her boldly, and the American man ripped away the veil which concealed her features. It seemed a strangely erotic thing to do and Stone realized that a woman could make almost any part of her body sexy by keeping it covered. The Tuareg woman was beautiful, as young as he had suspected, with a warm brown texture to her skin and classic Arab features.
"Mighty nice," he commented, getting down next to her on his knees while his hands roamed lustfully over the girl's unresisting young body, discovering that her dress buttoned down the front. His hands trembling with impatient desire. Stone undid each button carefully, finding that Tuareg women did not wear brassieres and seeing that this nameless girl had the finest set of high firm adolescent breasts he had ever seen. He caressed them roughly, chuckling sadistically to himself as he tweaked and twisted the rosy points of her nipples, making each tantalizing circle of flesh harden as some of his erotic excitement communicated itself to her.
"Getting steamed up, eh?" he mocked her as he slid the brightly colored native garment down over her hips, denuding her completely. "You'll cool off fast enough when you get a load of what I got in mind for you. But by the time you cotton on, it'll be too late, baby, too late."
Stone pushed the young girl over backwards, reflecting that this was the golden opportunity of a lifetime. Back in the United States, they would give you twenty years in jail for looking cross-eyed at a female this young but Stone had always had an urge to enjoy himself with a chick about this age. Plus there was the exhilarating feeling that he could do anything he wanted with her. It made no difference whether she liked it or not. She had gotten herself into this lewd situation and he intended to take advantage of it, right to the hilt!
"Now Daddy's gonna do it to you nice and easy," he advised her as she looked at him with frightened deer-like eyes, "American-style!"
The young girl's legs were long and slender and he pushed them roughly apart in order to give himself access to the part of her tender young body which really interested him. The girl seemed apprehensive, but she did not try to stop him as he lifted her loins up in the air and dipped his head down to plant a moist, open-mouthed kiss on the sensitive lips of her vagina. A tremble ran through the lithely slender body stretched out spread-eagled on the rug beneath him and Ken felt his excitement growing by leaps and bounds as he delighted in the cruel power he had over this frail creature. The girl was helpless and she shivered again as he munched his way into her vulnerable little cunt, spearing his tongue lewdly into the narrow vaginal channel. He played with her. teasingly washing his lips over the softly quivering flesh of her cunt and chuckling every time she gasped, her body beginning to writhe and twitch as this sadistic tongue-lashing started to take effect.
Guess those Arab bastards don't know the right technique. Ken chuckled, congratulating himself as he observed the unmistakable signs of sexual arousal sweeping over the young adolescent's helplessly violated body. The girl was panting now as Stone's thumbs invaded the wetly pulsating layers of her cunt, gradually opening her up to his flashing tongue and occasionally she murmured something vaguely in French or Arabic, but since the American man was not prepared to understand her in either language, he paid no attention. Her buttocks, nakedly firm and athletic, ground ceaselessly into the rug-covered sand beneath them as if she were trying to escape from the zephyrs of forbidden pleasure this foreign man was sending into her inexperienced young body.
And there was no escape. Stone lewdly pushed her thighs ever farther apart, burrowing into her like some perverted animal, forcing gasp after gasp to her lips as he slavered over her quaking little pussy. Her small high-set young breasts jiggled seductively as he rocked her body to and fro, and Stone watched with delight as she began to caress the pointy brown tips of her nipples, exciting herself even more with light fingering strokes.
Now we get serious. Stone told himself, realizing that the moment had arrived for him to proceed to the next stage in his cruel ravishment of this innocent young body. Lifting her unresisting legs into the air over his head, he stabbed a low blow with his tireless tongue, probing indecently for the tiny puckered circle of her anus and laughing sadistically as he felt her over-stimulated young body tense with this bizarre new attack on her senses.
"Mais non!" she groaned, and Stone understood but disregarded what she said, tongue-lashing his way even deeper into the moistly quivering crevice between her two taut young half-moons. The girl was ready, but Stone decided to soften her up with a little conventional fucking before proceeding to what he really had in mind. Abruptly breaking off his savage assault on her trembling loins, the man raised himself up on the powerful muscles in his biceps, gazing down contemptuously at the innocent victim he had somehow managed to snare. A question, disturbing and persistent, drifted into his mind, and he pondered it as he positioned his throbbingly hard cock between the widely spread surfaces of her thighs.
Funny, he thought seriously, this chick doesn't seem like the type to pick up a perfectly I strange man and lure him back to her hut for I some casual screwing. Unless she s one hell of an actress, she doesn't even seem like somebody with a lot of experience in the hay. I wonder why she got turned on to me?
But no answer presented itself immediately and the thought slowly faded from the man's wine-soaked mind. Now he had other things to think about. The tight elastic ring of her cunt resisted the invasion of his thick muscular cock and for an instant he maneuvered for a better angle and then pushed home, feeling her womb welcome him in like warm butter.
Nonl Tu es trop grand.'" she moaned, and Stone guessed that she was protesting the size of his organ, but the thought that she might be suffering pain did not upset him much. If you think I'm big, you should see my friend. Oliver. he told her bitterly in his mind. But unfortunately friend Oliver doesn't know what to do with it. and I do. so hang on. little girl. Daddy's gonna fuck!
With a savage forward lunge, the athletic American businessman flicked his hips, driving his lust-inflamed cock deep into the girl's resisting young cunt. Stone was afraid that she might scream and held his hand ready to cup over her mouth, but she took it with an agonized groan, her head thrashing back and forth as the American stuffed her inexperienced little vagina to the hilt.
But the Arab girl had been raised from childhood to accept without question whatever torments men might chose to inflict upon her and she did not lose her training now. Concentrating the way her mother had instructed her, she deliberately relaxed the overstretched muscles in her vagina, surrendering herself to Stone's brutal invasion. Ken noticed the difference immediately, feeling her hips begin to flow with every thrust, and he complimented himself on the speed with which he had conquered this delightful creature. Now she was ready for the real thing! There was something he had always wanted to try with a woman and finally his chance had arrived!
Moving fast so that he could get her into position before she realized what he was up to, he yanked his glistening white pike free of her churning little cunt, making her gasp with the suddenness of his action. Kneeling up, he quickly rolled the astonished Tuareg girl over onto her stomach, and threw himself back between her legs before she had the opportunity to defend herself. Her whole innocent backside was naked and exposed to him now! With a savagely lustful snarl, Stone dipped his fingers into her freely-flowing pussy, collecting some of the orgiastic lubricating fluid now pouring from the glands in her cunt. His fingers moistened, he twisted apart the two shining half-moons of her tantalizing young buttocks and quickly inserted one thick finger into the clasping virginal hole of her rectum. He moved so fast that he had buried his middle finger into her as far as the first knuckle before the Tuareg teenager knew what was happening to her, or realized that she was about to be the victim of a depraved act of sodomy.
Frantically, she writhed, trying to throw off the man who was violating her inexperienced little anus, but Stone found it easy enough to control her slender young body by putting his hand flat on the small of her back and pushing downwards steadily, pinning her to the ground. Sadistically, he swirled his finger around in a circle, widening the delicate opening until he was. able to insert .a second finger. The girl groaned in misery, but as Stone had craftily predicted, she seemed to be in no position to scream for fear her friends and relatives would Come rushing in and find her entangled in a lewd act of fornication.
"Come on, little girl, open up that sweet little ass-hole. I thought you Arabs were big on this kind of thing!" he taunted her, knowing she could not understand and not particularly caring. Stone could see she was trying not to scream, despite the tears befouling her beautiful young face. She took several deep breaths, long tortured shudders racing through her overwrought young body, and then lay perfectly still, as if she had successfully put herself into a trance. As suddenly as he had entered her, Stone pulled his fingers free and guided the throbbing tip of his super-hardened tool to the tiny puckered circle between her buttocks. This would be tough going because she was still tight, but he realized that it would feel like distilled heaven once he got in and he pushed without hesitation, dipping his fingers into the honey-pot of her pussy and lubricating the long bulbous shaft of his cock as he forced it cruelly into the tender depths of the woman's body.
"Aaaaaaaggghhh!" It was half a sigh and half a groan, and Stone felt like groaning himself as the tightly elastic ring of anal flesh closed tightly around the broad shaft of his cock, clutching him with pressure so fierce that at first he could barely move. The girl seemed to be holding her breath as he ground steadily into her throbbing rectum, putting all his athletic strength into this lewd project, and grunting with the exertion as he buried his pike in her throbbing backside all the way to the hilt. When his bulging sperm-filled balls tap-danced against the outer folds of her empty vagina, the man grinned in the semi-darkness, realizing that he had just accomplished the erotic dream of a lifetime. The girl was quiet as if the pain had almost gone away, or was at least down to a bearable level, and the American marveled at this fantastic display of self-control. She was taking it, the entire length and breadth of his loin-busting cock, buried in the brutally ravished tightness of her rectum. She was pierced, transfixed like a butterfly on a pin and Stone's ride could now begin!
He started slowly, withdrawing carefully until the bulbous head of his cock was lodged just inside of her badly-stretched anus, and then inched his way forward again, painfully rocking from side to side in an effort to widen the constricted passageway. The girl was muttering incomprehensibly under her breath, but Stone was too excited to bother deciphering whatever she might be trying to say. The feel of the girl's velvety young rectal muscles clutching the hardness of his manhood was the most exquisite sensation he had ever experienced in his entire life, and he was determined to enjoy it if it were the last thing he ever did. Reaching around and beneath the girl's helplessly impaled body, he cunningly began to play with the pinkly fluttering lips of her vagina, dipping his finger into the moistening depths of her cunt and then teasing the throbbing pink bud of her clitoris with one moistened digit. All the while he continued slowly withdrawing and advancing and with every inward stroke, he could feel her backside flowering more and more open to him.
She was gradually catching fire for a second time and already Stone could feel her buttocks begin to twitch restlessly, almost as if she were masochistically begging for more.
And more is what you'll get! he told her mentally, a feeling of fierce lust suddenly sweeping over him. Gathering his knees beneath him for better leverage, he began screwing into her bottom with all the strength in his long! tawny body, plunging into her as deeply as he could go and ignoring her sobs and protests. It was hard for Ken to decide whether she was suffering or taking off, but it did not much matter to him. He was getting his kicks and what happened to the Arab girl was of no concern to him. It was revenge, payment for the way the Tuaregs had treated him that morning and the eternal disgrace they had placed on his shoulders. So he was a coward, was he? He'd show the bastards and he dug extra deep into the adolescent's offended backside, deliberately trying to hurt her and, through her, all the Tuaregs in the Sahara.
"Ah oui! Oui. plus fort!" she gasped suddenly, rocking her slender young body back at him. Stone's French was defective, but he knew enough to understand that she was begging him to fuck her even harder and deeper. It was impossible but true: she was turning on!
In fact, she was going out of her mind, and it was all he could do to keep pace with the insanely masochistic tempo she was setting with her fantastically mobile young hips. The girl was white hot with lust, surging back at him now with all the passion in her young bronze body, and to his astonishment, Stone realized that she was on the verge of an orgasm. Forgetting his earlier desire to hurt and humiliate her, he now worked like a slave, trying to make it good.
Suddenly she peaked, going into the spasm of her cum like an epileptic sliding into a fit. The convulsion rocked her languid young body, sweeping through her nervous system like an electric storm and causing every muscle to go abruptly rigid.
"Aaaaahhh!" she groaned and then gathered the breath in her lungs for a long piercing scream which seemed to split the silent air of the desert night. The scream worried Stone, but before he could cover her mouth with his hand, her rectal muscles spasmed wildly, crushing his lust-inflated pole with incredible force and driving him into a cum of his own.
Their groans intermingled as Stone wrapped his arms around her violently gyrating body, pumping the white hot sperm from deep in his testicles into the unnatural sanctuary of her ass. Their cum seemed to go on forever as his wildly ejaculating cock discharged its load of sperm, jerking convulsively inside of her flowering back passage.
Outside, there was the sound of running feet and excited voices shouting in Arabic and Ken Stone suddenly remembered just how piercing the girl's scream had been. He shook his head, trying to clear up his confused, alcohol-ridden brain and decide what he ought to do, but the muscles in the girl's anus were still clutching him so tightly that he could not withdraw his now-flaccid organ from the moistly quivering depths of her body. He was a prisoner!
A streak of yellow light intruded upon the shadowy darkness of the hut and Stone found himself gazing at the harsh beam of a flashlight and the murky figures of a group of men. For a moment the Arabs said nothing, looking in wonder at the sight of their drunken American guest who had presumed to violate a Tuareg woman in this bizarre anal fashion.
Fear loosened the rigid muscles in the young adolescent's body and Stone yanked his limply glistening cock free, rolling over and preparing to face the men who were confronting him. The flashlight dropped for a moment, and he gazed upon the stem unforgiving face of Ibn-Nasir. Behind him was the monster they had tried to make him fight, Amir, the scars on his face gleaming in the reflected light from the flashlight's beam. Stone suddenly got very sober as he realized how serious the situation had abruptly become. It was the moment of truth! Were they going to execute him on the spot?
The girl crawled nakedly away from him, covering her breasts with one arm. When she had put a decent distance between their two bodies, she sat up, looked at the men who had interrupted their sex session, and pointed at Stone, a torrent of Arab words pouring from her mouth. Naturally Ken could not follow what was being said, but the gist of her argument was painfully clear. She was accusing him of having raped her!
Men reached for him in the shadows and Stone's body went rigid with fear since he expected to be murdered on the spot, but all they did, in fact, was pull him roughly to his feet and march him out of the hut. Overhead, the sky was crystal clear and the stars shone down so brightly that it seemed impossible for this awfulness to be taking place below. Stone shook his head, trying to make the Tuaregs, and the mud huts and the desert all go away, somehow hoping that he would open his eyes and find himself back on the garden terrace of his apartment in New York City, having fallen asleep after dinner and the consumption of too many martinis. He opened his eyes and instead found that his arms were bent painfully behind his back as he was being rushed roughly towards the large hut where the Rakaar was holding court. Behind him stumbled the Arab girl, hastily wrapped in a blanket, being led along by Ibn-Nasir who had one hand on her wrist as if he was afraid she might try to flee from whatever punishment awaited her.
Would they execute her as well? It suddenly occurred to Stone that if he were going to die anyway, he should perhaps make one last generous act and back up her claim that he had raped her. Then she would not be harmed, no matter what happened to him. He tried to fix this good deed in his mind, attempting to convince himself that he had already decided upon this noble course of action. He would take all the responsibility for what had happened, and after he was dead, she would remember how brave he had been, how he had gone unflinchingly to his punishment, courageously defending her honor and innocence to the end . . .
He was back in the Rakaar's tent, and he saw the faces of Oliver and Sandra Marwell looking at him in amazement. Milly's eyes were bright and full of fear as she saw her husband roughly pushed into a corner like a common criminal.
"I was tricked!" he groaned as soon as he caught his breath, his arms outstretched to his friends like a supplicant. "That little bitch dragged me into her tent and whipped off her clothes and just as I was trying to get away from her, Ibn-Nasir and his crowd came busting in! Tell 'em, Oliver, for Christ's sakes, tell 'em I'm innocent!"
But before Oliver could collect his French vocabulary and explain to the Rakaar what Stone was saying, Ibn-Nasir interrupted with a long steady burst of rapid-fire Arabic. Gesturing at the cowering figure of Kenneth Stone and at the silently impassioned Tuareg girl, he argued his case while the Rakaar sat listening, his arms folded and his face settling into a judicial hardness. Then he asked what seemed to be a question. Ibn-Nasir snorted contemptuously and pulled the slender Tuareg forward so that the flickering light from the oil lamp fell softly on her delicate young body. With a dramatic gesture, Ibn-Nasir yanked away the blanket she had been wrapped in, leaving her stark naked before the eyes of the Rakaar and his American guests.
There were marks on the girl's body, bruises where Stone's fingers had seized her sensitive skin too roughly and teeth-marks on her high firm young breasts. The light brown hair of her pussy was still moist from the orgiastic fluids of her body, and on her legs, there were streaks of white semen, left there when Stone had jerked his slowly deflating cock free from her savagely abused young body. Any court of law in the world would have convicted Stone on the basis of this evidence. The girl had obviously been thoroughly and brutally ravaged sexually. The Rakaar asked a question. There was a brief silence and the Tuareg girl nodded miserably. Ken Stone watched her face and knew instinctively that he was being condemned.
"Excuse me...." stammered Marwell nervously in halting French. "But it seems to me that we have a right to know what's going on."
The Rakaar turned to him slowly, motioning to the others to be silent. His gaze was sympathetic, but no longer quite as friendly as it had once been.
"It is fairly clear," he said slowly. "Your associate left here drunkenly, a fact I myself observed, and then raped this child who happened to be returning alone to her hut. She is the youngest of Ibn-Nasir's wives and he is claiming his rights under Islamic Law. I think there is not much doubt about the accuracy of his statement."
There was a long silence, only broken by Stone's occasional sniffling. Ibn-Nasir stood with his arms folded across his chest, waiting for justice to be done. The girl stood nakedly before them, her eyes modestly lowered and her hands crossed in front of her ravaged pussy.
Oliver Marwell, his accountant's mind working logically, first broke the quietness with a question.
"All right, what are his rights under Islamic Law? If it's a question of money, we have quite a bit at our disposal.. . "
"Pas d'argent!" snapped Ibn-Nasir angrily, indignant at the suggestion that his righteous rage could ever be calmed by greenbacks from the prosperous coffers of Stone-Marwell, Incorporated.
"His rights are two," said the Rakaar slowly, his eyes focusing sadly on Milly's frightened form. "He may demand and accept a sum of money from the offender, a course of action he has already rejected, or...."
"Or what?" Sandra interjected, knowing that women were supposed to remain silent during moments like this, but unable to restrain her anxiousness.
"Or he may demand retribution. The guilty one is handed over to him for whatever punishment he sees fit to inflict and the guilty one's wife is surrendered to compensate for the woman who has been dishonored."
"You mean...." said the startled Milly, her eyes flashing with fear.
"Precisely. According to our law, you are the property of Ibn-Nasir from this moment on and he may do what he likes with you."
"But wait," Marwell insisted, lighting a cigarette nervously and getting to his feet. "This can't be in accordance with Algerian Law. No nation in the world...."
"Algeria?" the Rakaar spat contemptuously. "I know nothing about Algerian Law except that it permits their army to hunt down my people and kill them whenever it feels brace enough to venture into the erg. And we are Tuaregs, not Algerian scum! Tomorrow we may be in Libya, or Morocco, or Mali, or Niger. These nations mean nothing to us."
"But the woman is innocent!"
"He may not kill her without due cause," the Rakaar responded heavily, as if he were suddenly growing tired of being the judge. "But she belongs to him, and he may expose her to the kind of public disgrace his wife has suffered. I imagine that is what he has in mind, since Ibn-Nasir is a man with rather bizarre tastes. But there is no way I can stop him."
"And Mr. Stone? What can he do to Mr. Stone?" Oliver wanted to know.
"Whatever he pleases," said the Rakaar, moving his hand to indicate that the trial was over. "I am sorry but the law is the law."
PART FOUR: MILLICENT STONE
"He wanted her all along, the bastard," Milly heard Sandra hiss at her husband as the men dragged Ken Stone out of the hut. "I wonder if Ibn-Nasir could have arranged...."
She turned to her friends, not knowing what was expected of her now. The Rakaar, who had been so kind and amicable towards them all evening long, was now sitting cross-legged at the head of the long low table, his eyes fixed on the empty plate before him, obviously not willing to say another word, or listen to any last-minute appeals. He had made his judgment. She was now the slave and the property of Ibn-Nasir, who was free to do precisely what he pleased with her. And who could protect her? There was only Oliver left, and what could one man do against this mob of knife-wielding Tuaregs? And Ken was out of it completely. Whether he lived or died, she knew that he would never be good for much of anything after this experience. He was already a broken man, obviously weeping with self-pity as they dragged him from the hut. Outside, she could hear his voice, a new cowardly whining tone she had never heard before.
"We'll make a deal," he was gasping futilely at Ibn-Nasir, despite the fact that the Tuareg warrior spoke not a word of English. "You want the woman? You can have her! Let me go and we'll work it so you get both of them, the blonde one too...don't hurt me! Please, I didn't know...."
Stone's babbling grew faint as the men bore him away and Milly looked at the floor, realizing that her husband had just offered her up in exchange for his own life. She had always known that he was an egotistical, self-centered man, but this was too much!
Two men reappeared in the door, one of them Amir, the man who had tried to violate her anally earlier that day in the desert. He grinned at her evilly and moved forward to take her arm.
"Wait a minute!" snapped Oliver, his face pale with fear as he stepped in front of Milly, but obviously driving himself forward anyway. Amir grinned agreeably at Marwell and slowly drew his knife as the other man did the same. Weaponless, Marwell stood his ground, defying them to stab him.
"Don't," whispered Milly, hardly able to find enough breath to make a sound. "Don't get killed now. It's useless. Go for help or something, but don't let them kill you."
Convinced that further resistance was useless and suicidal. Marwell stepped back. Amir bowed to him with mock-respect and then wheeled Milly out into the abrupt darkness of the Saharan night. The terrified girl tried to get her bearings as they rushed her through the village, but she was too confused and immediately became lost. She tried to walk, but her legs were weak with fear and collapsed beneath her. The two Arabs simply lifted her off the ground and carried her across the soft sand of the oasis until they arrived at the place where the Land Rover had been left. A crowd had already gathered, men of all ages and even a few older women, their eyes excited and lively above the concealing strips of cloth they used to cover their mouths.
The headlights of the Rover had been switched on, illuminating the area just in front of the vehicle where a large, richly designed rug had been spread over the sand. Two men were holding Ken against the front of the car between the headlights as Milly's two guards led her to the edge of the rug.
Taking advantage of an instant's distraction as Milly was pushed into the center of the crowd, Stone suddenly broke free from the men who were holding him. With his physical strength doubled by fear, he smashed his fists violently into the faces of the first few Arabs who dove wildly in his direction and then raced through the crowd as Ibn-Nasir's men scrambled in ho pursuit. He might have escaped into the desert and won at least a temporary reprieve, but as h raced screaming through the crowd, an elderly Tuareg woman simply stuck out her foot ant sent him sprawling on his face. Ibn-Nasir barked a second order and his loyal band of warriors fell on the athletic American brutally, pounding him with their fists until his face was bleeding profusely. Then they dragged his half-conscious body back to the Land Rover and threw him u against the grill.
"Your husband does not want to see the performance we have arranged for his benefit, came Ibn-Nasir's voice, pronouncing the word in French with a heavy Arabic accent. "We will take measures to ensure his presence."
He snapped a command, and a Tuareg knell promptly before Ken Stone's brutally battered body. Milly saw the blade of a dagger catch the light from the car and understood what was going to happen a second too late to scream With a brisk forceful movement of his arm, the Arab drove the knife through Ken's right foot and then leaned on it to push the blade deeply into the sand, effectively pinning him to the spot.
"Aaaaggghhhh!" came the man's agonized scream echoing at them back from the silent dunes in the distance and Milly covered her eyes, unable to watch the man she had once loved as the pain took possession of his body.
"And now, we must rectify a wrong," Ibn-Nasir's eyes gleamed as he turned his attention on the shivering brown-haired woman. "Your husband violated one of my wives, and he will live just long enough to see the same thing happen to his."
The Tuareg clapped his hands theatrically and the older women separated themselves from the crowd of curious on-lookers and closed in on Milly. Just before they surrounded her, the timid American girl saw the pale faces of Sandra and Oliver Marwell watching apprehensively from the rear.
Oliver, think of something, think of something! she begged him mentally as the women gathered around her, their thin old hands reaching out like claws to strip away the frail garments she was wearing. Their fingers crawled curiously over her body like a hive of ants, struggling with a zipper here and pulling off a button there, and there were too many of them to even think of resisting. When they stepped away a second later, she was naked and defenseless. She looked up in time to see that she was not the only one to be naked. Ibn-Nasir and Amir had both taken the opportunity to strip away their clothing, along with two other Arabs, and the four of them stood around her on the rug waiting, their cocks all slowly rising in unison as they surveyed the magnificence of her vulnerable young body. Her mind shattered as it came home forcefully that she was destined to be subjected to a mass rape, a gang-bang! She sank to her knees, her head whirling, misery and helplessness sweeping over her like a sandstorm as she realized that there was no escape, no way out. They were going to do it to her any way they pleased, and it would be the last thing Ken Stone, her husband, saw before he died. Oliver and Sandra would see it, too, and they were destined to go on living and remembering. How could she live down the shame of this moment?
And then there was no more time to think about her lost honor as things began to happen. With a stunning blow to the side of her head, Ibn-Nasir sent the girl sprawling on her back, her long finely tapered legs automatically scissoring open in an attempt to regain her balance. With cat-like speed, Ibn-Nasir flattened her, assisted by the three naked men whom he had chosen to assist him in the defilement of this innocent American woman. She struggled some more, instinctively, and received more blows for her troubles as the four strong men pinned her writhing body to the rug, taking great delight, as their hands roamed lustfully over her succulent young body. Then, when they had completely dominated her, and she was resisting no more, Ibn-Nasir rose up on his knees, his long fat cock waving obscenely in her face. He snapped his fingers and an old woman trotted out of the crowd carrying an earthenware cup. No one asked her if she was thirsty or not, but in fact she was, and when Amir placed the cup to her lips and poured, she drank, unquestioningly and greedily.
"Now, let us have a little contest," he proposed to her sadistically as the cup was lifted from her lips, "and we will see how much you love this cowardly man they say is your husband. We are going to make love to you, my brothers and I, and if you remain unmoved and unaffected by our best efforts, then we will let your husband go free." The Tuareg outlaw paused to let these wicked words sink in. Milly thought she understood, even if it struck her as being the most obscene thing she had ever heard of.
"On the other hand, if you should show in any way that you are taking pleasure in what we do to you, your husband will die, very slowly and colorfully. Comprenez' I should mention that the refreshing drink we have just given you contains an herb found only in certain parts of the desert. Our women drink it frequently. because it increases their pleasure...."
And what did that mean? They had drugged her! Anger and intense resentment flashed through Milly's mind as she realized how cruel and bizarre Ibn-Nasir's proposal really was. Well, she would show them! Let these filthy sex-criminals do whatever they liked to her. They would never hear so much as a murmur of pleasure from her lips. What incredible male conceit, to think they could rape her in front of her wounded husband and dare to predict that she was going to enjoy herself! This was the break she had really been waiting for, since Ibn-Nasir could hardly go back on his word now that he had made a public announcement.
The rape began. Ibn-Nasir was apparently so self-confident that he felt he could afford to dispense with foreplay and he pushed her legs apart roughly, his bulbous instrument exploring its way lewdly into the soft flesh of her inner thighs. The other three men closed in on her from all sides, their hands gently caressing every square inch of her ripely voluptuous young body so that she could barely move. Ibn-Nasir was rubbing the bluntly thickened glans of his cock up and down against the super-sensitive lips of her vagina, tickling the tiny pink jewel of her clitoris, while Amir fastened his animalistic mouth on one of her brown nipples, sucking it quickly into involuntary rigidity.
They won't win! she told herself with an iron sense of determination. What makes them think they could possibly arouse a woman in a horrible situation like this?
Sure in the knowledge that she could not be conquered, Milly tried to relax her tensed body, waiting for the inevitable pain. But strangely enough, the men were now surprisingly gentle as they went about the lewd business of assaulting her womanly modesty. Ibn-Nasir continued delicately probing into the dark moist hair of her pussy, lightly stroking her vaginal lips with the turgid tip of his cock and all she could feel was a warm featherlike sensation creeping up from her loins. Instantly she recognized the danger signals and reminded herself that this was rape, brutal criminal rape, no matter how gentle they chose to be, and she must not surrender an inch of ground to them. There were only four men around her, but they seemed to be caressing every portion of her vulnerable young body simultaneously and the tingling feelings of forbidden pleasure became harder and harder to deny. Her vagina was softening, yielding slowly as Ibn-Nasir inserted first the tip and then a few inches of the shaft of his long fearsome pole, but he was apparently in no hurry to ram himself all the way home. Instead he toyed with her sadistically, entering her slowly clasping cunt an inch or two and then delicately withdrawing. and with a sudden shock of self-disgust, she found herself wishing that he would get it over with and plunge his iron-hard cock into the flowering depths of her slowly awakening little cunt. Meanwhile, Amir was moving his head teasingly from one heaving breast to the other, biting and licking her rigid little nipples until she thought they were going to burst.
Ibn-Nasir apparently decided that it was time to escalate the proceedings, seeing that their innocent victim was already moving into the early stages of arousal and could now be pushed even farther. Exchanging a lewd glance with his three companions, he raised himself up on his muscular arms and arched his pelvis slowly forward, steadily driving his merciless pike up into the vainly resisting channel of her cunt.
"Oooooggghhh," murmured the girl softly, momentarily forgetting about her iron determination to take her punishment in silence. It was not exactly painful, in fact, and as his semen-filled testicles rocked lasciviously against the widely spread cheeks of her buttocks, she realized with remorse that it had been virtually the most pleasant sensation she had ever experienced. She despised herself for her weakness, wondering why it was that she had never experienced this kind of restless sensuous hunger during her sessions in bed with her lawfully wedded husband. Ken? Only twice in her life had she known really savage lust, once in the arms of another woman, Sandra, and now, a captive of a gang of uncivilized Tuaregs. What was wrong with her?
Whatever it was, it was getting steadily worse. Suddenly she realized with horror that every time Ibn-Nasir's long tormenting pike slid recklessly up the inflamed channel of her vagina, her hips were twitching and gyrating convulsively. God, they had promised to kill her husband if she became aroused! What was happening to her?
"No, no, please," she begged, unable to concentrate hard enough to speak in French. "I can't take it, please!"
If the four men heard and understood, they gave no sign of it. Instead, Ibn-Nasir barked a sharp order and suddenly rolled his body to the right, slipping his muscular hands beneath her body and clutching the softly pulsating cheeks of her buttocks so that he brought her with him and they lay side-by-side on the rug, the man's long hardened cock still buried deeply in the dark mystery of her cunt.
Once settled in this new position, he began to fuck seriously, surging forward with long punishing strokes and withdrawing at an angle so sharp that the broad shaft of his cock trailed over her tiny jewel-like clitoris. The girl gasped with dismay as she felt her drugged body slip up to a higher plain of excitement, realizing with a desperate feeling of helplessness that the herb potion they had given her to drink had now made its way into her digestive system and was stabbingly starting to have an effect! She was slipping out of control and fast!
Her body jerked and bucked as the man seared callously into her, driving his pole higher and higher into her inflamed vagina, and she bit the inside of her lip, desperately worried that her self-control would slip away from her just long enough for her wildly aroused emotions to take over completely. If she came, giving way to her basic instincts and letting herself surrender to an orgasm, then they were finished. Ken would be killed and she would be carted off into a lifetime of horrible sex-slavery. She had to control herself!
There was an impassioned grunt behind her as Amir slipped into position, curling up against her defenseless backside. For a moment, Milly was perplexed, wondering what he intended to do back there. Then she felt his hands lewdly intruding between the soft fleshy globes of her buttocks, prying them cruelly apart, and suddenly she understood! Horror flooded into her brain as she remembered what Amir had been preparing to do to her earlier that day. He had wanted to sodomize her, and would have done it had not the Rakaar's son arrived in time.
ISO
But there was no rescue in sight this time and now he was going to have it his way!
She fought back, groaning a muffled protest, but the man's hands were as strong as iron, and his thick middle finger plunged even deeper, scraping lasciviously over the tiny puckered aperture of her anus. Her body jerked with panic and around her she could hear the dull nimble of laughter as the crowd enjoyed this obscene defilement of an innocent woman.
Amir moved again, the blunt tip of his finger forcing its way past the tightly clasped rim of her rectum and into the cruelly-violated depths of her body.
"Noooooohhh!" she gasped in agony. "Not there, please...."
But her cries for mercy were destined to fall on deaf ears. Sadistically, the Tuareg warrior dug deeper, wiggling his finger brutally from side to side until he had created enough space for a second and then a third. At first the pain was unbearable, and her body writhed in agony, a motion which Ibn-Nasir apparently enjoyed as he plowed systematically into her inflamed cunt. Then, just as the hurt cased by Amir's fingers began to subside, she felt the blunt thick tip of his cock beginning to slide licentiously between the cruelly spread cheeks of her backside. With a howl of despair, she started to fight all over again, despite the fact that it really no longer hurt that much. But more than anything else, it was the idea that bothered her. This was something animals did, not humans!
But there was enough of the animal in Amir to make it all possible, and the savagely perverted Tuareg seized her flanks powerfully and pushed with all his might as soon as he had situated the pointed tip of his long fat cock against the vainly resisting circle of flesh which guarded the entrance to her rectum. Milly put up a brave fight, but it was over quickly. With a terrible pressure. Amir battered his way mindlessly into the outraged tract of her rectum, not letting up until he had successfully forced his hardened rod into her up to the hilt.
For a moment, she lay limply between the two men, too beaten and too exhausted to struggle any more. The pain was substantially less than she would have expected, but the humiliation enveloped her like a frog, and she knew that she could never again consider herself a respectable woman. Inside of her now there were two hard throbbing cocks, and both men were now in the lewd process of synchronizing their thrusts so that both of them plunged deeply into the twin channels of her loins at the same instant.
"Oh, get it over with!" she moaned in an agony of humiliation, but neither of the two men was in any particular hurry. Slowly but powerfully, they began churning in and out of her abused groin like two giant pistons on an engine, and when they both shoved their battering rams home, Milly felt so absolutely filled, she thought she would burst. But that was not the thing that bothered her most.
She was turning on again!
The damnable potion they had given her to drink at the outset of this savage rape was an incredibly persistent aphrodisiac and it seemed capable of making her become aroused over almost anything. Gradually, she felt the heat building up in her abdomen, as if a fire had been ignited between her legs, and her hips began to twitch convulsively every time Ibn-Nasir stabbed ruthlessly into her from the front and Amir pierced her from behind.
"Noooooh!" she sighed, feeling the shooting stars of forbidden pleasure beginning to race up and down her backbone. Her mind was shattered, exploding in all directions like a hand grenade, and without realizing what she was doing, her arms went around Ibn-Nasir's neck. The two men sensed the urgency of her need and began stabbing into her faster and faster, driving the over-stimulated young woman inexorably towards the most powerful orgasm of her life.
Then she felt fingers probing at her lips, and she looked up to see the third man kneeling next to her head. Instinctively she knew what he wanted, but a strangely masochistic feeling had now taken possession of her battered body and she did not even enjoy trying to resist. So they wanted to fuck her mouth, too? All right, it no longer made any difference. She could sink no lower than, she already was. If this man wanted to be sucked, then she would suck him, it was as simple as that. Milly had watched carefully how Sandra had handled Ibn-Nasir earlier that day. She could do the same.
There were drops of cum oozing lewdly from the tip of the man's bulbous rod and Milly realized dimly that she had no idea what his face looked like. Insanely, she giggled, amused by the notion of accepting into her virginal mouth the cock of a man she had never even looked at.
Every eye was upon her as the man's lustful pole neared her chin, and the spectators were prepared to watch a real battle as the Tuareg forced his way brutally into the delicate confines of her mouth. But there was no battle. As the scarlet sex-gland nuzzled her lips, Milly's mouth fell submissively open and the third Tuareg warrior plunged his thickened instrument deeply into the back of her throat. Automatically, Milly closed her lips tightly around the bulbous shaft of his cock and began sucking, feeling his massiveness gliding easily back and forth across the smoothly moist surface of her tongue. With a shock she realized that she was enjoying everything! The pain in her rectum was gone and Amir was generating a yearning hunger in her bowels which could only lead to a soul-shattering orgasm. Ibn-Nasir was helping matters along by plunging deeply into the back of her fluttering cunt, the blunt tip of his pole stabbing brutally against the tenderness of her cervix, each thrust raising her to a higher plane of lust and rampant desire.
Milly's mind became less clear and she found it difficult to concentrate as savagely erotic sex-fantasies blossomed in her mind, a product of the malicious aphrodisiac they had fed her. Insanely, she imagined herself in love with all of the men, and she tried to tell them all how much she loved them, making lustful crooning sounds in the back of her cock-filled throat. Dimly, she remembered that there had been four men originally and since there were only three cocks buried in her massively over-stimulated body, it meant that someone was being left out. She stretched her hand out searchingly, unable to see because of the man's groin blocking her vision, but she wiggled her fingers invitingly to signal what she had in mind and the fourth man got the idea immediately. An instant later she felt a stiffened cock resting between her trembling fingers and she squeezed him as hard as she could, milking his hungering penis like a madwoman.
Opening her eyes, she could see a man's long thick cock sliding mercilessly in and out of her overstretched mouth, glistening with a mixture of saliva and semen and somehow the vision excited her beyond endurance. She was not conscious of precisely how it happened, but the observers could tell the exact moment when the young American woman lost the last vestiges of self-control. Her lips clamped tightly around the man's hard-driving cock, forcing a groan from his lips, and below, her body felt light as a feather while it crashed back and forth between the two men who were fucking her jubilantly into oblivion. Her hips and loins were now responding, answering back every thrust and lunge, and they all watched her cheeks puff out erotically as she sucked the third man with all the energy in her poor overwrought body. Her hips and loins were now responding, answering back every thrust and lunge, and they all watched her cheeks puff out erotically as she sucked the third man with all the energy in her poor overwrought body. Her hand became a blur of motion as she milked the last man and groans and mutters of pathetically submissive lust gurgled obscenely in her throat.
Had they rehearsed for a year, they could not have timed the orgasm better. The tormented girl could feel the cock she held between her lips growing thicker and heavier as it prepared for the inevitable explosion, and a second later, her mouth was full of cum as the man ejaculated fiercely into her. Operating on blind animal instinct, she gulped the lust-inciting fluid greedily, fearful that she would spill the smallest drop. The powerful spray of hot sticky cum into the back of her throat set off a reaction which suddenly spasmed through her lust-wracked body, and before she had time to think or even to try to stop it, she sailed off into a rich, body-shattering orgasm which seemed to last forever.
Every muscle in her body suddenly went tight and she groaned aloud with pure erotic joy as she felt the two men who were penetrating her loins abruptly begin shooting their searing loads of cum into the depths of her grateful body. Then her orgasm seemed to subside for an instant before being quickly replaced by a second one, even more powerful, as twin streams of sperm poured into her loins from both back and front, flooding the wildly clasping channel of her cunt and saturating the unnatural sanctuary of her anus.
"I...I'm cumming!" she wailed in a high passionate voice and although there was no one in the crowd except Sandra and Oliver who spoke English her meaning was perfectly clear. It was a death sentence for Kenneth Stone.
* * *
The girl opened her eyes, shuddering slightly as the cold desert night air washed over her cum-soaked body. The first thing she saw was Oliver's worried face bending over her. The first thing she heard was a scream of agony. Ken's voice, and then the rumble of merciless laughter from the Tuaregs.
"My God...what's happening?" she murmured. She now remembered how she had been raped, and what they had told her would happen if she gave in to her emotions. She remembered screaming out the fury of her orgasm, howling in the throes of a cum too powerful to be controlled or concealed. Then there had been the peace of unconsciousness and now the screams of her husband as Ibn-Nasir's gang tortured him to death.
An Arab man appeared out of nowhere, putting his hand on Marwell's shoulder and pulling him gently away from the girl before bending almost respectfully to help her to her feet. Milly saw Sandra standing a few feet away, tears on her cheeks. Then there was another scream from the direction of the Land Rover and Milly turned her head wearily to see what was going on. But there was nothing to be seen but the top of their vehicle and the backs of the crowd of Tuaregs who were standing around her husband.
"What can we do?" she stammered unhappily as the Arab man tugged at her wrist, leading her off towards one of the huts.
"God, I don't know. I've already pleaded with the Rakaar until I'm blue in the face and he just keeps telling me it's the law and there's nothing he can do. If I could get my hands on a gun...." Oliver Marwell shrugged expressively.
The Tuareg halted before the door of the hut, undid the latch on the door and motioned for Milly to step inside. The American girl noticed that he was being particularly polite, and she wondered if this attitude was a result of all the agony she had been through, or whether it was due to the fact that she was now the slave of Ibn-Nasir, a very important man. She went in, catching one last glimpse of Oliver's pale worried face as she disappeared into the darkness. There was a rug on the floor and she collapsed, suddenly feeling that all the tiredness of the world was crushing down on her shoulders.
"Pssssssssst!" came a hiss from behind her and she glanced up to see Sandra's blue eyes gleaming in at her through a chink in the plaster. "Don't worry, darling, we'll think of something to get you out of there."
"Can you open the door?" Milly begged hopefully.
"No, that Arab is guarding it. Oh Christ, why couldn't Ken keep his hands off that girl? We were almost out of trouble!"
"What are they doing to him?" asked the girl, wondering as she spoke whether she really wanted to know.
"I don't know. I don't want to think about it," Sandra muttered thickly. "The important thing is to save you. They're going to sell you as a slave."
Milly shook away the tears suddenly flooding down her cheeks, trying desperately to think. Ken had been drunk and in one of his mean moods, but it was simply not like him to rape a girl, particularly not one that young. She must have led him on, offered to make love to him and then decided it was rape when the men discovered her. And, as luck would have it, she happened to be one of Ibn-Nasir's wives . . .
Or was it luck? The coincidence was just a little too hard to accept. Could Ibn-Nasir have ordered his youngest wife to make a play for Ken in order to give him the opening he needed all along?
"Oliver!" she hissed, suddenly convinced that she had found the key to something. "Is Oliver there?"
"I'm here, honey, what is it?" came the man's strained, tense voice.
"Listen, you've got to find that girl," she told him urgently. "I bet she tempted Ken under orders from Ibn-Nasir. If we can make her admit it, then we could convince the Rakaar that he should order us released."
"Oh God, I've been stupid!" exclaimed the American man as the idea sank in. "Why didn't I think of that? But I don't want to leave you here alone. How can we get you out?"
"You could try hitting the guard over the head," suggested Milly dubiously.
"I've got a better idea," put in Sandra. "He must have watched the others getting their kicks With you and if he's a normal man, he should be pretty turned on about now. He doesn't dare mess with you because you're Ibn-Nasir's slave, put I'm free for the taking...I mean I could sort of distract him for a while."
"No Sandra, you can't!" Milly burst out, but Oliver was silent, desperate enough to give even mis bizarre proposal a careful consideration.
"It could work," he muttered, obviously not too happy about the notion of allowing his wife to prostitute herself in this fashion but unable to come up with a better idea on the spur of the moment.
"Oliver, we've got to try it. If nothing else, we have to get Milly away from these people," Sandra pleaded, a tone of intense desperation in her voice.
"Okay, you see if you can get him around to the side of the hut so he won't spot me while I'm opening the gate. I'll stay out of sight."
Milly ducked away from the rear of the hut and put her eye to the crack in the front door, watching the man who had been detailed to guard her. He was young and reasonably good looking, as most of the Tuareg men were, but he started nervously when Sandra suddenly waltzed into his field of vision, her hips swaying sensuously.
"Hello," she said easily, her French heavily accented but good. "You don't have a match, do you?"
It was not a very original come-on, but the Tuareg understood what she wanted and produced a box of old-fashioned kitchen matches from somewhere underneath his cloak. Sandra dropped to her knees before him, offered him a cigarette, and then leaned forward, caressing his hands invitingly as he applied the flame to the tip of her cigarette. Through the crack in the door, Milly could see that Sandra had unbuttoned her blouse and taken her brassiere off. The approach was fairly blunt and heavy, but it had to work and the Tuareg seemed to be the unsuspecting type.
He also seemed to be more nervous than passionate at the moment, so Sandra accelerated the pace of things by taking off her blouse entirely, exposing her magnificently mature breasts to the startled eyes of the Tuareg warrior. Then she took his hand in hers and crushed it lasciviously against her right nipple. Milly watched, suddenly realizing that she was jealous of this complete stranger who was now wantonly stroking Sandra's lust-provoking young body. She would not have minded seeing Oliver touch those ripely exciting breasts because Oliver was...well, one of them, but this man was an outsider.
The Tuareg hesitated a moment, perhaps wondering what he was getting himself into, and then reached out roughly to crush Sandra's lips against his. Life in the desert tended to be short and brutish, and the Arab nomad had apparently decided that he was unlikely ever to have a chance like this again, no matter what it cost him.
"Not here, darling," Milly heard her girlfriend whisper lustfully. "Here they can see us. Come!" The Tuareg nodded, probably not understanding her French, but getting the point that the front of the hut was a little too exposed for what they had in mind. The couple disappeared from Milly's field of vision and a second later. Oliver Marwell was at the door of the hut, undoing the fastening and giving her, her freedom. Neither one of them dared to speak and she slipped her hand into his and followed him quickly as he re-fastened the door of the hut and led her away. When they were a few dozen feet from the hut, they halted and Milly melted nakedly into his arms. Marwell kissed her for a long time on her full red lips and Milly felt the strength flowing into his body as he understood that both of these women had found something in him to love. He had to make himself worthy of it.
* * *
They found the girl quickly, huddled in terror in the same hut where she had taken Ken Stone to seduce him. Frightened and upset, she was still wearing only the blanket they had thrown over her nakedness and she looked up fearfully as the American man burst into her home, followed by the naked woman whom her husband had ravaged publicly a few minutes before. Somehow she seemed to understand instinctively why they had come looking for her and she put one hand up defensively.
Milly guessed that the girl would never confess anything voluntarily and she wondered whether Oliver had enough courage to do what had to be done. Then she glanced over at him, seeing his jaw set in the half-light of the hut's interior, and knew that Oliver had changed from the bumbling timid man he had been when they had started this insane expedition. Suddenly she remembered how he had offered to fight Amir for her early that morning. He had changed, all right, and it was going to mean that all of them were going to have to change with him.
"On your feet," he snapped at the trembling Tuareg girl, and then seized her by the arm and pulled her up from the ground. She stood before them, holding the blanket in place across her breasts and looking scared.
"Okay, talk! Ibn-Nasir ordered you to bring Mr. Stone back here, didn't he?"
The girl's eyes glowed in the shadows, large and luminous, but she said nothing. Suddenly Oliver's hand flashed out, ripping away the blanket and leaving her helplessly naked before her interrogators. In the back of her mind, Milly pitied the child. If she betrayed her husband, she would be punished severely and if she refused to talk, Oliver was going to make life unpleasant for her. She backed away, frightened, but the American man followed her doggedly, persistently, knowing that every minute they lost brought Ken Stone that much closer to death.
"Come on, admit it!" he growled at her, holding onto one arm so tightly that his fingernails sank sharply into her skin. "Your husband wanted Mrs. Stone, didn't he? And he organized this little game so he would have a legal excuse to grab her, isn't that right?"
The Tuareg woman stood impassively, probably having been beaten in the past and willing to take another beating now rather than confess what she knew. Marwell seemed to sense the situation and his eyes darted quickly around the room, searching for what he needed.
There was a knife on the table and the accountant picked it up quickly, and then forced the Arab girl flat on her back on the rug.
"I'm going to use this on you if you don' start talking," he warned her threateningly waving the knife before her frightened, doe-like eyes. But the girl was either too tough to b swayed or unable to believe that this civilized American man would really resort to the Tuareg methods of persuasion, and she simply turned her head aside.
Milly saw the beads of perspiration glistening on Oliver's forehead as he faced the moment o decision. Then the man placed the sharp point of the blade just below the tiny brown circle o the girl's left breast.
"Tell us exactly what happened!" he ordered/
She was silent. Marwell bit his lip am carefully pushed the razor-sharp point of the knife into the soft flesh of her breast to the depth of about an inch. The Tuareg girl gasped and clenched her teeth, but there was no sign that she was about to begin talking. It must have hurt like hell, but her face was calm and impassive and Marwell shook his head in amazement.
"What the hell do I do now?" he asked Milly in English. "I just can't sit here and carve her up into pieces no matter what happens."
Milly thought, concentrating for all she was worth, trying to imagine what torture would break her fastest. A woman, of course, had certain ....
Quickly the brunette American dropped to her knees and spread the Tuareg woman's unresisting thighs apart, baring the vulnerable zone of naked flesh between her legs. The girl's soft delicate pussy seemed incredibly tempting and for a split second, Milly had a mental image of herself bending over and kissing the tantalizing bud of the other girl's womanhood. But this was no time for eroticism.
"There," she said throatily, feeling an insane bloodthirsty excitement rising within her naked body. "Put the knife there, against her clitoris!"
Oliver took a deep breath and moved the shining steel blade across the flat smooth surface of the girl's stomach, allowing the deadly point to trail menacingly across her delicate skin so that she would know precisely where he was headed. The cutting edge of the blade rested against the tiny jewel of her clitoris and Marwell nudged the throbbing sex organ with the cold metal, watching it swell slightly as if this were all part of some bizarre act of love.
"Talk, Miss," he ordered her softly. "There isn't much time and if I don't hear what I want to hear, I'm going to cut it off, and you'll never be a real woman again. No man will want you without it."
For a second it seemed that she was going to be willing to endure even this to avoid talking, but as Marwell's hand tightened around the merciless steel, the adolescent Tuareg girl gasped, and began to talk. Her French was not much good, but they understood every word.
"My husband told me to do it...I had to obey or he would sell me in the slave market...I tempted Monsieur Stone to come here. What you say is true...."
Marwell breathed a sigh of relief and threw the knife into the comer of the hut, getting rid of it as if it were suddenly too hot to hold.
* * *
"Please hurry," Marwell urged the Rakaar, taking him respectfully but firmly by the elbow and leading him towards the Land Rover. Behind them stumbled the two women. Milly and the Tuareg girl, both sheltering their nakedness beneath blankets. Skirting the hut where she had been held prisoner, Milly spotted two naked figures threshing around wildly in the darkness and realized that Sandra was still giving the Tuareg guard the ride of his life. But there was no time to interrupt them now. They had to rescue Ken, assuming there was anything left of him to rescue.
They cleared the last group of huts and saw the glow of the Land Rover's lights. There was still a crowd of men standing around Ken's body, but Milly's husband had stopped screaming, and the woman felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She had not loved this man in years, and lately she had almost been hating him, but she could not bear the idea that he had been tortured to death by a mindlessly cruel gang of Arab outlaws.
One of Ibn-Nasir's men spotted them as they approached, and the entire group turned around quickly, instantly awed by the authority of the Rakaar. The old man shouted something in Arabic, and the group parted, leaving only Ibn-Nasir himself standing defiantly next to the blood-smeared figure of Ken Stone. He was alive and looked at them with a glassy uncomprehending stare, and Milly realized that he would probably be better off dead. He had been horribly mutilated in every part of his body and there was blood and gore drenching the sand beneath him.
The Rakaar roared again, a rapid-fire burst of phrases, and pointed to the frightened Tuareg girl, leading Milly to guess that the tribal chieftain was explaining what had happened and why his original decision was now abruptly and belatedly being reversed.
Ibn-Nasir snarled back at him, his cruel arrogance undiminished by the fact that he had now been exposed as a heartless sadistic scoundrel. Oliver started forward, determined to see if there was enough life left in Ken to warrant trying to get him to a hospital, but his path was suddenly blocked by the enormous figure of Amir. The big man was holding a knife and his usual sadistic grin had now been replaced by a grimace of deadly hatred. The sides of the conflict formed quickly. The men who had blindly followed Ibn-Nasir until a moment ago were not ready to follow him to the death, and defying the authority of the Rakaar meant precisely that. They backed away slowly, disappearing among the huts, leaving only Amir and Ibn-Nasir himself to face the wrath of the tribal leader. Knowing that they were doomed desert animals now, the two Tuaregs snarled their hatred and defiance at the Americans, daring Marwell to come to his friend's assistance.
Stone's head lolled on his shoulders and Milly saw that he was losing blood fast. He had dozens of shallow knife wounds in all parts of his body, but as far as they could tell, he was not yet mortally wounded. Oliver backed up, apparently having decided that it was suicidal to attempt to force his way past the armed giant, but still looking tough and determined. The Rakaar marched up, shouting at Amir in a rage, not accustomed to having his authority challenged, and when the man doggedly refused to yield, the chief slipped his own dagger out of his belt and handed it to Oliver, who looked rather stunned at the way the situation was developing.
"Kill him!" ordered the old tribal leader, gesturing at the mutinous Tuareg.
It was easier said than done. Amir was presumably an expert knife-fighter and Oliver had never done anything more adventurous with a blade than carving a turkey on Thanksgiving. Milly expected him to do the logical thing and refuse this unequal combat, but instead he balanced the knife in his hand, crouched and moved towards the Tuareg warrior. To her surprise, Milly saw that Amir was afraid. His bluff had been called and now the slender, unathletic American with the charmed life was stalking him through the loose sand. The big Arab back-peddled, watching his antagonist warily, waiting for an opening.
Marwell lunged first, the Damascus steel whistling a deadly tune as it cut the air, and Amir staggered backwards to avoid a slash which had nearly caught his left arm. Off-balance, he tried to regain the initiative by spinning and parrying another of Oliver's deadly quick stabs, but he was losing ground fast. His back to the wall, the criminal Tuareg chanced everything on a quick kill and lunged without having the time to calculate his moves properly. Oliver jumped agilely to one side, his face hard and suddenly brutal. Amir stumbled and dropped to one knee, using his knife hand to steady himself as he prepared to rise again and continue fighting, but he never got off the ground. With a move so fast it seemed almost like a blur in Milly's eyes, the slender New York accountant slashed forward wickedly, catching Amir in the neck. The coldness of the blade caressed the veins in his throat and crimson Tuareg blood stained the sand where he fell.
Amir turned his head with difficulty, looking as if he could not quite add it all up. Then he gave up trying and pitched forward onto his face, his big, once-powerful body convulsing quietly as his life seeped away into the desert sand.
"You have not won yet, Mr. Marwell," came the harsh dry voice of Ibn-Nasir, and Milly looked up from Amir's fallen figure to see that the warrior had drawn his own knife. At first she feared that Oliver was going to have to endure another hand-to-hand knife duel, but in fact Ibn-Nasir's intentions were quite different. As Marwell faced him, the Tuareg outlaw grinned and turned to the half-conscious figure of Kenneth Stone. There was a quick powerful motion of his arm, and the blade flashed into Ken's chest, the point finding its way quickly to the man's heart.
Stone died quietly, his body crumbling into the blood-soaked sand, and Milly watched, knowing that in reality he had died a long time ago.
For a moment no one moved. Oliver stood watching the blood trickling off the steel of the cold blade as Ibn-Nasir slowly withdrew his dagger from Stone's lifeless body, looked at it and then threw it away.
Then he moved like a flash, quickly circling the Land Rover and flinging himself into the driver's seat and turning the key on. Marwell launched himself in the direction of the car, determined that this murderer would not escape punishment.
The motor turned over once or twice and then stopped. Ibn-Nasir sat looking at the numerous gauges and dials on the dashboard, a perplexed expression on his handsome Arab features.
"You left the headlights on too long,"
Marwell explained in a conversational tone of voice as he climbed into the passenger seat. "Battery's run down."
Ibn-Nasir nodded to show that he understood and then turned his head away as Marwell killed him.
EPILOGUE
"Yes, we had grown apart in recent years, but there was a time when we were like brothers, or even closer than brothers."
"It is well that you are not a Moslem, my friend," replied the Rakaar, puffing on a Turkish cigarette as the two men relaxed after their meal. "According to the Koran, if your brother dies without producing any sons, you are obliged to marry his widow and get her with child. But perhaps the obligation would not be too heavy for you, eh? Mrs. Stone is a very lovely widow."
"She is," agreed Marwell, still wrestling with himself over the moral dilemma he was facing with respect to the two women, and regretting that it was against his religion to love more than one woman. "But I must say that being a Moslem has its advantages," he continued. "If I had been born a Moslem, I would probably take Mrs. Stone as my second wife. Pity I wasn't born a Moslem."
"No one is born a Moslem," grunted the
Rakaar tiredly as he rose from behind the banquet table and accompanied his guest to the door. "One becomes a Moslem by repeating three times with sincerity, "There is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is his Prophet."
"Really, is that all there is to it?"
"That is all. From that moment forward, you are a Moslem."
Oliver Marwell thought about it as he wandered slowly back to the tent where Sandra and Milly were waiting for him. The Rakaar and he had had a number of profound conversations since Ken Stone's violent death, and Marwell realized he was going to miss the Tuareg chief. They were leaving in the morning with the Rakaar's son as their guide, and it seemed unlikely that they would ever be passing this way again. But the Rakaar had possessed a kind of rough wisdom which had impressed Marwell and he knew it would be a long time before he forgot their conversations.
He reached the tent and looked through the wire netting at the two women inside waiting for him, glancing from one to the other as he tried to decide which of them was more beautiful or more desirable. It was impossible. Milly and Sandra were each quite different, in fact, like black and white, but they complimented each other magnificently, like two halves of a perfect sphere. How could he possibly face life without both of them? And yet a moral man could not have two wives. Unless he was a Moslem.
Inside, there was a brief conversation, the women's voices soft and murmuring in the silence of the desert night.
"How beautiful you are! How much happier I am since I realized I loved you and you loved me back!" It was Sandra's voice, and for a moment, her words made Marwell feel alone, excluded.
Milly glanced at her girlfriend and crawled to the center of the tent to stroke Sandra's long blonde hair.
"I love you too, and Oliver...I wonder, will he understand?"
"We'll make him understand," promised Sandra, undoing the buttons of Milly's blouse and caressing her high proud breasts gently until the girl's tender nipples stiffened into hardness. "We shouldn't try to convince him with words. We'll have to show him with our bodies how much we love him and how we want the three of us to live together from now on."
Marwell watched, his penis thickening with desire as Milly bent to plant a moistly sensual kiss on the other woman's open mouth.
"Wait, I want to take off my clothes," gasped Sandra, getting to her knees and pulling off the brief flimsy shift she had been wsaring.
"We agreed we'd wait for Oliver," Milly objected mildly, undoing the buttons on her skirt anyway and wiggling out of her panties.
"We can wait for him naked," Sandra retorted happily, her magnificent leonine body glistening in the lamplight as she pulled Milly tightly into her arms. "I know it's going to be okay. First I want him to make love to you while I watch. The two of you never made love, did you?"
"I want him to take me in the mouth...." volunteered Milly, her face reddening as she revealed what had obviously been a secret desire of hers.
"And then we'll have him...."
"Wait, we're doing this all wrong." Milly suddenly commented seriously as Sandra's hands explored the softness of her moistly quivering little pussy. "Oliver's changed, ever since the trouble started. He's his own man now and we're not going to tell him what he's going to do with us, or how, or where! If he wants the two of us, he'll just walk in here and take us, anyway he pleases."
"You're right," agreed Sandra meditatively. "Of course, I'd forgotten. I was thinking of the old Oliver we used to know."
"He's gone! The old Oliver disappeared the time he tried to save you from Ibn-Nasir and wanted to fight Amir to keep him from putting it in my bottom."
"And suppose this bold masterful new Oliver of ours decides he wants to put it right here," giggled Sandra lasciviously, reaching down between Milly's legs to run her index finger playfully over the tiny puckered circle of Milly's anus. "What then?"
"Oliver can fuck me anywhere he wants, including there," Milly promised fervently, blushing again as she used the obscene word. "In fact. I've had a little more experience with the rear-entry business than you have, unless you've been holding out on me. The late lamented Amir taught me it wasn't all that bad, and I'm going to see if I can convince Oliver to do it to you while I watch...or even help...."
Oliver straightened up from the window, breathing deeply in the cool night desert air which was blowing down from the Mediterranean Sea a thousand miles to the North. It was a time for making decisions.
He entered the tent briskly, abruptly. The two girls disentangled their voluptuous bodies and both of them starting chattering enthusiastically at once.
"Quiet!" he roared, and there was silence in the tent. "On your knees, both of you!"
The girls glanced at each other, mystified, but the new Oliver was clearly a man to be obeyed and they quickly got to their knees, both of them stark naked, and watched while Oliver removed his clothes and then got down on his knees.
"We're going to repeat this phrase three times, with sincerity," he ordered. "All together now!"
"Yes Oliver," the two women answered in unison.
"There is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is his Prophet," he quoted for them, enjoying the looks of confusion on their faces.
"There is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is his Prophet," they chorused.
"There is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is his Prophet," they repeated, and finally, "There is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is his Prophet."
"We are now Moslems," he announced. "Welcome to your new religion."
"Why did we become Moslems, Oliver?" inquired Sandra submissively.
"Because Moslems are allowed to have four wives and I want at least two for starters. I forgot to ask how the marriage ceremony goes, but we can check it with the Rakaar in the morning."
"Do we have to wait until morning to be married?" murmured Milly softly.
"Hell no," replied the new Oliver Marwell firmly. "Come here, both of you."