An incredible tale of the middle east complete with spies of the fairer sex who like to diddle each other when there are no male spies around to perform. The violence symbolizes a country where hostilities have had centuries to ripen into unholy black arts. Lesbianism, onanism, fellatio, cunnilingus, anal intercourse; these are but a few of the social activities of the characters. Tricks of the trade include the most vicious and the most tantalizing of tortures; refinements that can only be understood by true aficionados.
CHAPTER I
The Moroccan who straggled against the tide of travelers milling around the customs post was hardly distinguishable from his co-citizens, neither by his obsidious appearance nor by his clean but shaved skull; a steel gray cape floated around his long body. His discolored, veined and sinuous sandals had seen better days. The leather of which they were composed, by its color and cracked surface, strangely resembled the skin of the man's emaciated face as if they had been cut in the same material. A peasant no doubt, he walked with a cane, or rather a solid walking stick, around which an ornamental serpent was entwined. The serpent's head formed the handle.
It was especially on this last object that Olga and Natacha directed all their attention. If its owner was really their contact, the serpent should have two small eyes, one ruby, the other emerald.
The two young women stood immobile near the glass door. Each had only one case and a big bag lay at their feet. On the other hand Natacha was girded with a conglomeration of photographic equipment. If they, the young women, carried sun glasses which hid them, their very light attire did more than indicate the heady fullness of their bodies. Especially Olga's more generously opened than her companion's who however, was extremely well equipped with attractive curves. A green silk scarf held back the thick red hair of the Soviet spy. Under the coat of her little ensemble in brown suede, of which the bell shaped skirt did not hide half of her long chiseled thighs, shining in their spidery cases of smoky nylon, the splendid creature wore only a very thin green silk blouse to hold her magnificently developed breasts, astonishingly firm considering their fabulous volume. And with the quivering of the cloth, with the tumultuous trembling which accompanied the young woman's smallest movement, one knew that no restricting undergarments stopped the enormous bulbs from bouncing. Completing her sporty attire, Olga wore brown high heeled suede shoes.
Wishing to accentuate the youthful appearance of her very good friend, Olga had made Natacha dress in a very light bright red polo necked sweater, so clinging one could distinguish the pointed nipples of her breasts, bare underneath, divinely rounded, and a blue pleated mini-skirt, extremely short, the soft serge of which moulded the roundness of her hips, just a little large, swelling slightly under the pressure of her luxuriously curved belly. A large belt of varnished leather stretched round her supple waist, showing off her natural form; long tartan socks climbed onto her strong dancer's calves. She had had her hair curled, and it hung in a mass of ebony.
Holding his walking stick by the middle so that the serpent's head could be seen, the Moroccan spoke to Olga, "Porter? Guide? Would you like to buy a lovely desert rose?"
"Yes, I would like to come by a desert rose, but on condition that it is red."
Olga had noticed in a glance the bi-colored eyes of the sculpted animal and had answered the password. The Arab took care of the luggage, led the agents to a Volkswagen taxi, the driver of which started the motor as they approached.
The two young women were relieved when the 1500 was obliged to reduce speed when they shot out of the Medina into the streets, practically blocked by the crowd. Opening quickly before the car at the sound of the horn it seemed to swallow them up, closing in immediately behind.
After a few hundred meters of difficult driving, the chauffeur stopped. The Moslem with the cane said, "We go the rest on foot. Hold on to your luggage."
One behind the other, they stepped into a labyrinth of little streets so narrow that even the sun did not penetrate there. In a while, the guide stopped in front of the grille of a nailed wooden door.
He tapped a signal with the handle of his stick. Two beady eyes gleamed in the shadowy hole. A loud voice snapped out the words in Arabic. The guide replied. The door opened letting the three enter. He followed a dark corridor, emerging into a charming patio, floored with glazed slabs used by the years, in the middle of which a refreshing fountain sprayed.
The Moroccan signalled the young women to wait for him. He went into a room, spoke for an instant and then came back to get the Russians.
The vast room into which he brought them was painted sky blue. All about hung hand made tapestries, carpets of fine wool, pouffes, sculpted hexagonal tablettes encrusted with mother-of-pearl, copper lamps and beautifully designed silver trays.
Sitting on the floor was a man cross-legged, like a great adolescent baby, shiny skinned and greasy, whose young looking face was outlined by a thin brown pointed beard which finished above his double chin, watching the arrival of the visitors with his little round eyes, bright as diamonds which almost disappeared into the folds of flesh around them. He was wearing a red fez and his white gold embroidered gandoura stretched across his fat stomach.
After the usual greetings, he bade the young women sit down in front of him, on the carpet. Then he himself served the mint tea as a sign of welcome after which he asked many probing questions, just to be sure of the Soviet agent's identity.
Then and then only, with his reedy, disagreeably piercing voice, did he enter into the heart of the subject. While he spoke, his eyes scrutinized the baiting shadows round the young woman's thighs. They had their legs drawn up under their chins. More prudish than Olga, Natacha closed her skirt over her abdomen and held it behind her thighs with her hands. Contrary to her brown headed and inseparable friend, exhibitionist by nature, the red head didn't seem to care much that her suede skirt uncovered the ample rosiness of her buttocks, almost bare since only a thin tight band of pink nylon enclosed the egg-shaped swelling of her sex.
Trimmed with fine lace, which encrusted itself in the folds of her groin, her panties were so moulding and small that the seam split the pulpy mouth of her stomach in two, before losing itself between the extraordinarily full cheeks of her backside. In contrast with the almost coal colored stockings, stretched to the limit by four black satin suspenders which lined the soft flesh, the milky skinned thighs were well set off against this satin encasing.
"The present politics of our Sultan does not lend to a healthy democracy which would get our people out of the dead end street into which they were pushed under the yoke of France. To overthrow this despotic Monarchy, we have to rally all the Caliphs who rule the towns and nearby tribes."
He chuckled sardonically. The flesh on his cheeks quivered and his abdomen flopped, before continuing:
"These great sheiks are of course, infamous bourgeois whom we shall exploit to win our victory, but who will be immediately stripped of their would-be rights straight after the liberation. Your business in agreement with your government is to help to decide the Pasha of Marrakech to come and swell our ranks; a mission made even more difficult because, according to my information, the C.I.A. of Washington is trying in secret to win over Mohammed Iff Hallepah. I know for a fact that American agents have already contacted him and, more important than that, they are to negotiate an important arms delivery. It is most urgent that you find out what the Pasha needs in the way of arms and especially what the price is so that your superiors may make a better offer. To my mind, only the thought of a better business deal would make Mohammed take one or the other. He is an ambitious man who doesn't care much about his subjects and who thinks he can profit from a proletarian revolution aided in that by foreign powers. Don't worry, we'll keep an eye on him and when the time comes.." he made an explanatory gesture; the heel of his hand slid across his throat.
He got up slowly. The two young women did the same.
"Now we are going to a part of my house, specially arranged for 'receiving' those who do not yet believe in communism and who show themselves unwilling when we want to know something. At the moment I am lodging a young girl, 16 years old, devoted servant of the Pasha who my servants have just kidnapped. She just arrived a few hours before you and that's why I haven't yet had time to interrogate her. I would like you to assist at the interrogation. It is in your interest that this young woman should describe these Americans who have introduced themselves into Mohammed's household. Come..."
While he was walking in front of Olga and Natacha, he said: "I hope you are not too sensitive to the treatment which sometimes, unfortunately we are obliged to employ against our captives, when they are disobliging..."
Olga answered quickly, her voice trembled slightly.
"Oh, we have undergone a lot of training for this, moreover, if I can be of any assistance in helping to loosen your prisoner's tongue, don't hesitate. I know some excellent methods!"
Natacha grinned; for giving a helping hand when it was needed to loosen tongues, one could count on Olga! She even applied herself with a certain ardour, which really did justice to her professional integrity.
At the end of a corridor which seemed to lead nowhere, the big Moslem bent down, flipped open glazed tile and pulled on a tiny handle. A whole section of the wall pivoted on itself, revealing an immense room in the middle of which stood a concrete parallelogram covered with a thick layer of glass wool, no doubt to choke certain outcries of the prison's occupants.
The "Master" chose a key from a large ring and opened a little sound proof door. The three of them crowded into the cell. Two oil lamps of forged metal did the best they could to pierce the gloom. They were driven into the wall, framing the little prisoner's body. Chains tied to rings, scorching the youngster's wrists, stretched her and held her tight, face to the wall. Other chains bound her ankles.
From an old umbrella stand, forgotten vestige of French occupation, jutted a medley of whips, cat'o nine tails, batons and horse whips. Chains hung down from the ceiling, enabling one to hang the prisoner in any position. Strange rudimentary contraptions, made of wood in the form of tables, racks and stools furnished the sinister room.
Olga and Natacha noticed that the girl was well dressed. She wore a short blue silk tunic, embroidered with gold and silver arabesques, tightened at the waist by a beautifully worked belt, white muslin blouse with fluffy sleeves and trousers of white linen, taken in, as is the custom, under the knees.
Omar approached the youngster, strutting like a pigeon, taking her long plaits, which would have been brown, had not a dye turned them ochre with more than a hint of red, in his hand. He tugged them violently. The child's head jerked backwards, a cry spilled from her lips. Her neck twisted, the poor thing rolled fearful eyes. The Russians could see pure Berber traits on which the flickering candlelight projected changing copper colored halos. The girl had mystical signs tattooed on her high intelligent forehead.
"What's your name," asked the Moslem, in French so that his allies could understand.
"Aida Daharouleth."
"What are your duties with the Pasha?"
"I am a servant and when there are receptions, I am a dancer."
"Do you dance...nude?"
"Sometimes, when the guests are important, mainly Europeans."
"And for the Americans, do you show yourself completely naked, dirty immodest little pig?"
A light of fear crossed her eyes, she cried, "There have never been any."
"Liar! I know that some Americans came to see your Master less than a week ago. Admit it!"
"NO! NO, Master, I didn't see any, I swear to you."
"Ah! I see that Mohammed has taught you well, listen, if you describe them to me I'll take you into my service and afterwards you will be a Sheik's wife in our new People's Republic. Do you agree?"
"I don't know anything. I didn't see anything!"
The man was unbending; pulling ignobly on her plaits until the young girl lost her breath, he declared: "I assure you that I have the means of making you talk, you dirty impious sow." And he spat in her face. Aida grimaced at this insult, but almost immediately her face became impassive again.
The man let go her locks and bent over the torture instruments. With fat sausage like fingers, trembling no doubt because of a certain jubilation which could be accredited to his sadistic desires, the Arab chose a dog-whip. Not speaking, oppressed by breathing which sexual tension had made difficult, he rolled her tunic up over her kidneys and tucked it into her belt. Then, with awkward hands, he began to unloosen the cord of her pantaloons with a quick movement, bending at the same time, Omar untrousered the girl, insolently passive and dumb. As she had no undergarments under the silky pleats of the tunic, her backside was open for all to see, completely naked.
Olga shivered. Her large green eyes shone with pleasure. Natacha also felt a voluptuous shock. She gripped her superior's arm tightly. Both of them felt themselves aroused as they passionately contemplated those two perfectly balanced spheres. They pressed so well together on their deep brown bisection, that together they formed a perfect sphere, fined with two charming dimples on each side of the cavity, suavely hidden by the cap of the buttock's swelling where the base of the spine curved. Despite their projection, the globes on which the fine grained skin had a copper effect, had only a double split, sharp and clean like a scalpel's incision.
The marble buttocks hardly budged when the biting cord lashed across them, leaving a red weal on their fleshy summits. Stoic, refusing the impulse which should have made her scream with pain, the chained young girl took the blow with only a tightening of her muscles. Unhurried, savoring the privilege of having such a magnificent backside to whip, a little young, but perfectly mature, the whipper brought out all the cruel refinements, which spoke wonders for his experience. He never hit the same place twice, carefully designing scarlet lines all over the muscled flesh.
His eyes glittered feverishly. It seemed that he became aroused to ejaculation on pounding the naked buttocks of the youngster. Sometimes, positioning himself more to the left of Aida, he whipped her up and down, piercing under her buttocks, between the cheeks. Toward the tenth stroke, unable to bear it any more, the girl, whose pantaloons had fallen over her slippers, was shaken by an uncontrollable nervous shudder. Her resistance to pain, too long withheld, dissolved like snow in the sun. Her teeth chattered while deep in her throat distressed murmurings escaped. Her body began to twist, her thighs tightened one against the other.
Feeling her finally ready, the sadist put all his strength in the next blow. The leather reptile whistled lugubriously, smacked virulently on her venu-sian cheeks. That was enough for the girl. She couldn't endure the pain any more, the hot lash; the burning liquid which licked her ass-hole like tongues of fire: the biting which disagreeably furrowed her skin. She burst into tears, hurled strident cries, contorted herself, got up on her tip toes. Her head rolled from side to side like that of a madwoman. The spectacle became fascinatingly beautiful. The real joy commenced.
Whilst the cord, hot and biting, landed brutally on her flamboyant buttocks, of which the marks of the beginning of the whipping merged now in one and the same burning flesh, the suppliant almost strangled herself with tears and shouting.
Olga tore away the hand holding her forearm, lifted up her dress and buried it in the quim, deliciously velveted and damp with the bodily heat of her thighs. Her middle fingers caressed by the prominences of femininity, hardly protected by the wisp of nylon, Natacha fingered the thick lips which seeped the vaginal liquor, agitated her index finger with an electrifying quiver whenever it came into contact with the opening crack. In the course of the exploration, the red-headed spy felt herself melting in sensual exquisiteness. She stuck her hand under the pleated skirt of her friend, to massage, to feel the great big mass of her behind.
At once her palm contacted the naked flesh, elastic, vigorous with the flexibility of rubber, for she had asked, as often happened, despite the young girl's protests, Natacha not to wear panties for the day. Nothing made the brunette so ill at ease than to walk in the street completely naked under skirts which present fashions had shortened above decency. If she could have worn light half skirts which cling to the thighs and hips, she wouldn't have worried much, but with pleated skirts, the vulnerability of her secret places was largely and unreasonably augmented.
However, for the present, she could only accept to be deprived of intimate lingerie since that permitted a darling hand to give her some very troubling caresses.
The man interrupted the application of the whip for a moment.
"Well, then, perverted bitch, will you talk now?"
Between the sobs which shook all of her, the poor little thing stammered, "I don't know anything about what you say, sir."
Delighted inside himself to be dealing with a spirited girl, since her refusals justified the continuation of the corporal sanctions in virtue of a political obligation; to teach the facts which would serve the abolition of the people's slavery (!) the master again took up the systematic mincing of her round buttocks.
Olga, annoyed, shrugged her shoulders, "I think, comrade, that you haven't quite got the knack. If you wouldn't mind letting me try, I think I could obtain positive results before long."
The whipper, called in a way which he considered mocking, turned suddenly. He was about to reply when, discovering just how the young women's hands were occupied, he forgot it, colored and stuttered ... "G-go...a-ahead."
Olga stepped forward and commanded. "Help me. We'll chain her, as now, arms above her head, but in the middle of the room."
As soon as Aida was freed from her handcuffs the three of them were just enough to overcome her, she defended herself so ardently, kicking with her feet as well as the fallen pantaloons would permit; she bit deeply into the arms within reach of her mouth, snaked between the arms which tried to catch her.
Slaps rained upon her cheeks to overpower her, and Olga, armed with a stick severely thumped her poor swollen buttocks and her short mountain-woman's thighs. Finally, after a lot of cries of pain and gesticulations of rage, the poor girl was once again tied by the wrists with the handcuffs to a single chain hanging from the ceiling, her legs ignobly spread open with the aid of chains, one to the left and one to the right, equipped with metal bracelets which they had closed on her ankles.
On the Russian's order, who determinedly took over the operations, their six sadistic hands attacked the Berber's clothing like the claws of a bird of prey tearing the flesh off a corpse...with the same avid beastly barbarity.
Soon the girl was completely bared. Fairly small, she had a woman's formed body, rather thick, characterizing the premature development of the Mediterranean races.
But even for that, her flesh still being supple and firm, the roundness of her stomach deeply indented by the nombril, the opulence of her breasts, the large brown rings, swollen, capped by nipples a shade lighter, the lump of the groin, made much more appetizing by the fact that it was shaved according to custom among North African dancers, and her buttocks of which we have already spoken; the marvelously sculpted body of the 16 year old commanded sexual desire of the ages.
"Natacha, take these switches and see to her breasts. You, comrade Omar, finish whipping her buttocks and thighs only when you see blood. As for me, I'll try and get my information by tickling her cunt."
On hearing the sentence, the young girl broke out crying, tearing like a madwoman against the restraining chains.
Pulling on one foot then on the other, twisting at the same time, she tried childishly to close her thighs, to preserve their soft and tender joining. With a quick wrist movement, Olga clawed her hairless crack. Aida let out a piercing scream, pushing her backside towards the whip which rang simultaneously upon her. The burn was so sharp that she shoved her stomach out in time to receive another blow between her legs. Then the switches rained down upon her breasts, which the stretched arms lengthened a little, vertically on the torso, animated by a rapid bellows movement of repressed breathing.
Covering the hiss of the switch which wobbled her beautiful breasts, the little dry explosion of the latter hitting the folds of her shaven sex's lithe flesh, the crack of the whip feeding coals to the fire which consumed her buttocks, Aida's lamenting cries filled the room with an amplitude almost intolerable to the ears when they reached the high notes.
Unable to move her feet, the young girl convulsed erratically from one side to the other. She steamed and perspired. Her face was pathetic, tragic. Her eyes, blinded with tears, opened with pain and shock. The thin sides of her nostrils throbbed.
Between the baton which bit her intimate flesh and the whip which slapped the voluminous shaking cheeks of her backside, the unfortunate Aida pushed her stomach backwards and forwards, miming the copulative action. Her legs, being spread apart, one would think that she was a mad-woman making love with an invisible man.
Here and there, the extended skin of her squirming backside cracked, blood formed, then flowed down the outcrops, lined everywhere with furrows, rectangular and swollen, red and violet.
In a trance, using the whip dementedly on all sides, Omar whacked into the fat cheeks, trying to cut them into ribbons. Although Aida was stupid with pain, a gleam in her brain made her try to seek refuge by fainting. She could only find this relief after ten more minutes of exemplary suffering.
Her eyes rolled under her heavy eyebrows, disappeared underneath; her head hung loosely, chin on her throat. Quivers agitated her nerves, her muscles slacked, she let herself hang, lifeless, on the end of the chain.
"The whore," growled the whipper throwing his whip away in disgust, "That helps us a lot."
Taking command again, he punctuated his words by slapping his fist into the palm of his hand.
"We'll begin, of course, by rousing her after which I'll organize a little session of my own for her which I'm sure you will find interesting. This kind of torture, more mental than physical, provokes such repulsion in the prisoners who refuse to talk, that they always cough up in the end. Try and bring the whore round. There's a bucket of water in the corner. Meanwhile, I'm going to find something which will change this fish into a singing bird."
He went out. In bad form, furious that the youngster had resisted her, Olga took the bucket and threw the water over the young girl's face. Under the brutally cold shower Aida blinked, murmured, shook her head several times. In spite of all, she didn't quite come to. It was more a puppet than a girl that Omar untied. He had come back with a mysterious box, which he placed on the floor.
He took the young girl in his arms and placed her on a half wheel made of wooden struts, 50 centimeters wide, equipped with handcuffs at each extremity. The supple palpitating body placed on the wheel, the man handcuffed her wrists behind her hanging head, then her ankles so that they were forced wide apart.
Her body was bent so that her stomach, convexly, was flattened. Because of this the jut of her sex slid out becomingly, a little triangular hill. Because of the widening of her thighs and the scrupulous plucking of her groin, it was exquisitely pleasurable to pick out the internal organs, perfectly visible in the middle of the little oval viaduct.
Without a word of pardon, as if he were alone with his victim, Omar rolled up his gandoura, opened his fly, and obscenely extracted his rosy manhood. Contrary to what the young women, who watched with surprise, expected (not really counting on this kind of thing, the morphology of the individual preparing them to observe a case of sexual deficiency and organic atrophy), the sadist could flatter himself on having such a weapon! Unable to follow the curve of the young girl because of his big stomach, he supported himself against the wheel with one hand while with the other he navigated his hard cock between the rosy lips on which the absence of hairs made them resemble a young girl's before puberty.
The arrow penetrated the spread-eagled quiver in one go. Half unconscious, the young girl moaned; one couldn't know if this was for the pain, pleasure, or simply shame to be taken by force, for she was not a virgin. It couldn't be otherwise. Several years in the service of a Pasha well known for his appetites, had quickly turned an innocent girl into an experienced philosopher!
The man thumped hard into the big child. He only thought of his own pleasure. He neither cared if Aida erupted nor if she felt any rare sensations at all. Now that his prick slipped into the mushy corridor of humid velvet by itself, he squeezed her spongy hips between his hands, kneading them with short worm-like fingers.
Olga and her friend had approached the couple, and their half hidden arms under their skirts were animated with significant tremblings. They delivered themselves in a vertiginous exchange of masturbating fingering; their heads, touching, hung over their meeting, striking stomachs. The man, the effort making him sweat, groaned, shoved, breathed noisily. All of that unhealthy jelly which was his body comically agitated his clothes. He would have looked ridiculous except for his virile member, which, by its noble presence, its excessive tension, and its majestic swell brought him respect in the eyes of his contemporaries.
At the moment when he swung into the gaping limbs, Omar violently propulsed his cock into the passionate depths. Impassive, the young girl accepted the lunging cock, her wide eyes staring indifferently at the ceiling. She accepted the rights of man in the way she was taught at the harem, that is, subdued.
Moreover, at the end, the moment that the rapist, his looks clouded with heavenly vapours, jaw hanging, breathing staccato, shouted his ecstatic agony, an imperceptible undulation stirred the prisoner's stomach, a halo of langour ringed her face, a creamy muslin veil altered the bright shine of her brown doe-eyes.
The man, satisfied, stepped back; his prick still smoking, gleaming with spunk, still shaking with nervous spasms, fell slowly toward the ground as if repentant; as if it was ashamed of its act.
Posedly, Omar wiped his full cock with care and put it back in his trousers and declared with great calm, "It's annoying, but I can never finish an interrogation without relieving myself. The flavor of the whip with which I conquer the prisoners gives me such erections that it would be a veritable torture if I didn't satiate myself in them."
"But when it's a man," asked Olga, who liked to hear licentious confidences.
"Well, you know, here, men or women, boys or girls-everything's good for consumption."
Olga stopped herself in time from asking him about goats. For such a long time she had waited to see a man fornicating one of these animals, and as this country lent itself to this kind of pornographic spectacle, she wondered if it wouldn't be possible to profit from the occasion that her mission offered her in North Africa. Her dreams were disrupted by the Arab who warned her, "Step back a little. What I'm going to do to Aida is dangerous."
He took the box after having put on thick leather gloves which covered his forearms. He opened a door in the box, uncovering a grille, held the box in front of the Berber's face.
Aida whitened;; her eyes widened with terror. Nervous spasms twitched the corners of her mouth. Stiffening all her muscles, she pulled on the chains. Of a sudden, beads of sweat appeared on her quaking body.
"Aida!" said the man, in a deep melodramatic voice, "If you don't talk I'll stick this serpent up your hole. He'll bite into your intimate flesh with his fangs, injecting his venom. Talk or I'll stuff you with the reptile."
The sadist was bent over the youngster's thrown back head; her eyes, ablaze with panic, were hypnotized by the horrible triangular head, glistening in the dark, scaly. The forked tongue, spiked quicksilver, darting from its mouth to the grille and the horrible slithering, accompanied by a slight hissing which gave the shakes to the agents as well, terrifyingly fascinated the poor thing.
The girl wanted to talk; her lips formed words but the uncontrollable chattering of her teeth prevented her from uttering an intelligible syllable. What's more her vocal chords were paralyzed by fear; a fear which acted so much on her organs as on the mind, that she began to piss. Omar's sexual needs were so attached to this activity as a sadist that his prick popped out, little by little, from his opened fly. Aroused by the emotional shock that the hallucinating sequence had provoked in her, Olga barked: "Natacha! Suck it!"
And the docile brunette, disapproving the ignoble supplice inside her, knelt down at the monster's feet, breathed in the beautiful organ, holding it straight between her warm hands.
Then Olga, noticing the young girl's facial reactions, warned; "Beware, Comrade Omar, she's going mad. Take the serpent away from her, or otherwise in a few minutes it will be too late to make her talk. She'll be out of her mind."
The man, realizing the truth, closed the trap door. "Well, Aida, are you going to be reasonable?"
She garbled out a "Yes," while her head shook from left to right not to deny, but to continue to refuse the atrocious death as a reward for her silence.
"Have you seen Americans at the Pasha's home?"
"Yes, yes Master, especially one. He came every day for a week."
"What was he like?"
"Tall, thin, blonde, with blue eyes, he enclosed himself with my Master for hours, then after the dinner, he assisted at the dances where I was nude or simply covered with a transparent veil. After, he chose one of us, sometimes even two or three and brought them to the guest room reserved for him."
Olga, listening attentively, narrowed her eyes, she interrogated: "The girls that he chose among you, were the youngest or the oldest?"
"The youngest, most of the time, Madam, even I, who am only 16 was too old. He preferred the very smallest girls-those between 10 and 11 years old."
Olga sighed, lifted her hand to her head. She had identified the American agent. The description of his physique, his taste for very young girls, everything fitted. It would only be John Band, alias OSS O11...her enemy and hereditary lover. "Natacha, remind me how to say 'shit' in Russian!"
CHAPTER 2
The Soviet spy asked, "Tell me, Aida, this American, is he still in Marrakech?"
"I don't think so. From what I understand he has gone home."
The Moslem, who pantingly savored the mouth and ringer services of the pretty brunette, turned towards Olga, "That all you want to know?"
"Yes we'll not get anything more out of her. She evidently didn't participate in the talks with the Pasha."
"Then," said Omar, concluding, and he took his prick out of Natacha's mouth and the naked cock, swinging high in the air, dripping the young girl's saliva, he placed himself in front of the baiting spread of Aida's thighs. Seeing him open the trap door while he leaned over the hairless mound of Venus, Natacha, horrified, clapped her hand to her mouth to strangle the cry of horror and revolt which rose in her throat. The man raised perverted eyes towards her: "Keep a stiff upper lip, comrade Natacha, that girl is cumbersome now, she has to die."
"Right," replied the Russian in hardly audible voice, "but you could do it some other way."
He sniggered evilly. "I like mixing business with pleasure. You'll see how exciting it is to assist at the bitch's agony."
"No! Noooo! I don't want to die!" It was the pain of suffering which revolted against the horrible end in store for her.
The man opened the grill, and with astonishing dexterity, gripped the serpent solidly behind the head. He took it out of the box, brandished it in the air above the nude body of the delirious girl, who, her face bathed with tears, wild-eyed, bulging, suddenly ten years older, fought with desperate energy. Her wrists twisted so rigorously, her feet pulled so strongly on their steel manacles, that her ankles and the handcuffs attaching her hands were covered with blood. She didn't even feel the pain of her wounds, so much her attention was held by that ignoble slimy body, writhing frantically, only a few centimeters from her sweat-soaked breasts.
Delighting in the prisoner's anguish, nourishing his eyes with her disordinate twisting, her pitiful pleadings and her cries like that of a hunted beast, the sadist didn't hurry himself to take the animal which would kill her away from her eyes. "Comrade Olga, take these scissors and be ready to cut the serpent's body when I tell you."
Parting her sex with his left hand, he threaded the serpent into her hole in one stroke.
Feeling the cold head, sticky, like a big olive, penetrate the orifice of her stomach, the young thing slipped into madness. Slobbering and pissing, her nerves taut, stiffened into corpse-like immobility, her skin covered with goose pimples, she howled, roaring a vibrant inhuman clamor, which could end with the extinction of her life.
On her mistress's signal, Natacha had belted the insane girl (prudence required her not to come between Omar's and Aida's bodies). Her arm around enormous masculine thighs, she wanked the vigorous swelling with one hand, kneaded and compressed the voluminous testicles with her left palm.
The victim's body jerked hideously. The spineless participant had just planted his fangs in the deliciously tender flesh. Despite the gushing pain caused by the internal bite, the martyr's tone did not change. It rose so high that it would not have been possible to cross to another octave unless she could go into ultra-sounds!
"He has bitten!" exclaimed the monster, whose prick showed its contentment in the mobile hand, which activated the head lasciviously, by its throbbing pulsations.
"Olga, quick, cut it!"
The Russian spy bent forward, with a single blow, she sliced the reptile's body, which ceased its convulsions and fell on the floor, dripping blood, while Aida was convulsed with agony.
With a surgeon's precision, Omar liberated the dying girl's vagina of the decapitated head. Then he undid her ankles and lifted her legs up to her sides.
The beautiful nude buttocks opened licentiously. In the deep white valley of which the creamy coloring seemed even more milky in contrast with the recently whipped vermillion buttocks, the anus slid open, swollen and lubricated, an offered gift.
Constructed for all the uses that the vile individual could foresee, the apparatus had a kind of footboard which permitted one to hoist oneself until his penis was on the same level as his victim. Omar got on, holding on to Aida's calves. Pressed against her spreading thighs, he needed Natacha's help to guide his cock into the tight mouth of her butt.
Folding the skin well back, the young girl pointed the hard member into the button-hole. The man rolled back his imposing stomach, uncrossing his legs. The cock punctured the tight sanctuary, breaking a segment of muscled flesh, dipping deliciously into the center, while the rim widened progressively, squeezing him. The stake slid effortlessly into the supple tube, which he widened, encasing him, while he panted with joy. His member filled with blood as the veins swelled, appearing blue-black through the filmy skin. The organ disappeared as he shoved the red ochre fucker into the anal entry.
Now that the serpent lay dead on the floor, Natacha could enchant her senses by kneading the virility of the man without her pleasure being spoiled by the disgust that the torture of a few minutes ago had inspired in her. The man could have been totally repugnant, but his enormous cock, well designed to fill the desires of a sensual girl, was there to envelope Natacha, like the talented musician who can make exiles forget, for a moment, the ugliness of their surroundings.
Leaning over her back, her two hands under the twisted skirt on her hips, Olga fingered Natacha's big delightful uncovered buttocks. Leaning to one side, eyes sparkling with lust, she was stimulated by seeing the supple thrust and pull of the majestic weapon.
They were accustomed to the sharp, strident, piercing cries of Aida. They no longer heard, although the screams went on. Their sense of hearing had given way to their sense of touch leaving the way clear to enjoy themselves supremely.
Suddenly, their hearts faltered. An immense gap opened in their intestines. A heavy silence pervaded the room. The screaming had left off, and the only sound to be heard from Aida's lips was a low choking sound, full of significance.
In a bound, Olga was beside Aida's head. Aida's face was masked for eternity. Her complexion was waxy, her lips purple. Her mouth was wide open on the cry which had suddenly died on her lips. Her glassy eyes bulged fixedly from their lids, staring upwards to the green fields inaccessible to mortals.
His breathing hissing, the man, insensitive to the morbid atmosphere which invaded the tomb-Like room, fulfilled his need.
Quickly pulling down her skirt, with an almost prudish gesture, the Russian said: "Hey there, comrade Omar, what's this? You wouldn't be joking would you? Wasn't it enough to fire twice into your prisoner, that you have to rape your allies? Come on, accompany us to Marrakech."
CHAPTER 3
The Oldsmobile rolled swiftly and easily on the route, well sprung. With the windows closed, the two agents felt better, shaded from the suffocating heat which pushed up out of the rocky undulating earth. The car, the latest model was air-conditioned; the temperature outside soared.
Along the route from time to time, a native would wave in welcome. There were hospitable people here, commented Natacha almost to herself.
"Huh! What you take for a friendly gesture only means 'Up your butt'," someone else quipped sarcastically.
"Ah!" she sighed, disappointed. Looking at her companion's body, she smiled. Olga was naked to the waist of her brown suede skirt. She had taken off her blouse the moment the car had left the outskirts of Casablanca. Her naked breasts seen in profile, were those of a big breasted statue, idealized by a sculptor's chisel, with perfect conformation; arrogant in their projection. Fortunately, the light shake of the car's motor pushed to 180 kilometers per hour, and the imperfections of the route, humanized with erratic trembling the bulbous cones of pink flesh.
"Olga," began Natacha, her voice heavy with wonder, which the dawning of exultation made husky, "the firmness of your breasts in proportion to their volume, is an attack against the law of gravity."
"No doubt the exception which proves the rule. The bigger they get, therefore heavier, more 'their eyes' seem to look up to the sky. Fondle them, the tips are itching. It must be the sun."
Natacha slipped her a malicious look. "It wouldn't by any chance be the spanking you administered in front of that guy, while he wanked himself, that hardened your nipples?"
Olga's countenance darkened.
"Caress my breasts and don't ask any questions. You know I hate that."
Her friend straddled the seat, leaned over her neck, which she uncovered, pushing aside the enormous copper tresses, soldering her burning lips to this delightful haven from where captivating odors, made of sweat, of body perfume, mixed to another discreet and subtle, which the young woman used parsimoniously on certain parts of her body.
Olga quivered under the kiss, soft but insistent. Distracted for an instant, she closed her eyes. The car swerved. She managed to right it as Natacha sucked the adorable hollow of her neck. Her hands, fingers parted, smoothed the round shoulders, descended with exasperating slowness to the calm seas of her breasts, making their way towards the fleshy shell of which the warm satin bristled at their approach.
The young girl's spread fingers followed the well filled curves of the teats, surrounded the opulent pears, and squeezed.
"Ah, your breasts, darling your breasts..."
An internal exaltation took them, massaging their secret flesh from the interior. Their ears heard only the same tick-tocking; the same sensual fervour asserting itself between them.
Olga groaned. Fingers had just taken possession of her nipples, rolling them, pinching them, stretching them. The red head was completely overthrown by the delicious electrization which accompanied these ticklings. She twisted her body languorously in all directions, writhing on her seat. Her eyes were veiled with languor; too shaken by the voluptuous waves which crossed her breasts to keep up speed, she slowed down. Despite this, the car still swayed to the left, which was only relatively dangerous because of the lack of traffic. But this worried Natacha. And, as if to add to her apprehension, her friend, completely enveloped in one sole desire, to appease her paroxysmal senses, began taking off her panties. While driving, and at a hundred an hour at the same time!
She had gripped her panties right between her crotch and as her thighs opened, she tugged on it, fluttering like a butterfly, her backside slightly uplifted, the car only swerved more.
The ravishing little pink nylon panty slid down thighs which closed to allow easier sliding. When they reached her calves, Olga left them and buried her hand under her skirt to tickle herself intimately on the top of her cunt.
"Olga, please, let's stop. We'll crash! You can't drive in such a state. I want to relieve you. What's more I've an awful thirst for a bit of fucking or sucking ... That spanking a while ago, which filled me with confusion in front of that fellow, started a fire inside my cunt that just won't be put out. You will have to do your best to put out that fire, you put it there in the first place."
Olga chuckled, "If I'm a pyromaniac, I can't be a fireman too!"
At the same time she stepped on the brakes, the tires squealed; the car screeched to a halt in a cloud of dust.
The cracked and stony earth stretched away to the horizon. Far away some white superimposed cubic buildings rose, humanizing the 'moon scene' a little. Three columns of smoke hung, suspended in the still air.
"Mind you," said Olga, "this immense desert, which makes us more vulnerable than the leafy woods which often hid our frolics, protects us better from prying eyes than luxurious undergrowth!" But they didn't reckon with the Arab's inborn, spontaneous knowledge of when to appear suddenly like so many Aladdins.
The front seat of the car swung back, carrying with it Olga's palpitating body. Her suede skirt, gathered up above her belly button, wrinkled just over the projection of her cypress thicket. Encircling her calves, her roguish pink panties lent a licentious note to the smoky brilliance of her stockings. Natacha fell upon this beautiful fragrant flesh, voluptuously loaded, devouring with the hunger of a man who has not eaten for a year. Hands were everywhere in their roamings, vertiginous explorations, she wolfed the sweet savory honey pot, getting drunk with the aphrodisiac bouquet which seeped from the primordial pole of attraction.
With rascally tongue, she darted in and out of the furrow, enlarged with excitement. Impatiently exacting with a scissor hold, Olga caught her head, tightened her satin vice to force the mouth to incrust itself in the bottom of her melting lips, the tongue to search deeper into her sex.
The first face appeared at the window. Unmoved, Olga threw him a humid, vicious smile, at the same time checking on the door locks.
"What are you doing," asked Natacha, breathless, blinded by the pubescent curls.
"We've got visitors! I just checked doors. Let's bet that pretty soon there will be half a dozen of them, all applauding our frolics!"
Natacha was disconcerted by her friend's coolness. "Oh, please, Olga, let's go away. I'm afraid. They'll rape us!"
"Well, that's a risk that I accept to run, for nothing stimulates me more than making love before an appreciative audience."
"Ohhhh," moaned Natacha, trying to forget her fear in the tenacity with which she licked the frantic chasm of her companion.
A second head appeared beside the first, but Olga was already so lost in the limbo of pleasure that she would have been incapable of saying, so lost was she, if it was really another spectator or just a mirage. Loosening her embrace, she murmured, breathless, arms stretched, fingers spread, enclosing the incommensurable volumes, ready for her touch; "Lie over me. I want to embrace your dear grotto."
Pirouetting, climbing astride and pressing the burning opening of her stomach lewdly rotating her flanks on Olga's face. Before stretching out on the body, which gave itself in a spread of luxurious thighs, the impudence of which augmented the plunging lower abdomen feverishly with other tongued daring, the young girl liberated her bust. Her red sweater slipped over her extended thorax, pulled the oblong fruits which stretched the stitches, delivered them from its compression, rolling them upwards. While the scarlet tissue retracted on her swan's neck, her breasts, suddenly naked, bounced back into place.
Now the same as Olga, Natacha had only her skirt, under the twisted whorl of which the beloved face pressed. That gaping, hole, creamy, emerging from its golden bouquet irresistibly attracted; she dived on the treasure; her fleshy lips stuck to the velvet casket, her tongue finding the pearl, wriggled it maddeningly.
In her hands, the big firm fleshy cheeks rolled and undulated, rising, contracting; open while relaxing.
From their ideal observation post, four adults, an adolescent and a youngster masturbated themselves under their robes. But Olga and Natacha soon forgot them. Soon they were no longer in Morocco, on a road-not even on earth. Groaning, twisting, they drank from the liquor of life; that life which flows in abundance from inner sanctuaries, flowed on their tongues, streaming in their throats. The world could crumble under them, they wouldn't realize it, their bodies would melt one into the other. Two index fingers stabbed the small swollen mouths, digging, violating themselves, drilling right and left, grooving cautiously into the supple, muscled casings of which the pulsations spasmodically squeezed the fingers. The delirium of the two females in heat came to its paroxysm. Their heads eddying in all directions; their bodies undulating in coalition, pitching, writhing.
Deliverance released them, finishing them, pulverizing them. Muscles taut, thighs closed on highly mobile cheeks, Olga went into a trance, arched, trembling, sparkling with joy. Simultaneously, Natacha swooned, fell into the orgasm which closed in on her. She dropped her liquor into her mistress's mouth, while she ardently sucked the musky effluvium springing from the main source. Then came beatified, prostration which follows the explosion of the orgasm, that padded languor which softens the satisfied bodies, still hot from the furnace they have just escaped from, scoured by retarded thrills, shudders which untie the nerves.
Undoubtedly they would have stayed there, wondrous, caressing each other dreamily, waiting until a new wave of desire would overcome them again in another outpouring of love, if an alarming exterior bustle hadn't wakened them from their reveries.
Men's hands furious and ferociously shook the door handles and punched at the windows. What Olga read in all these looks disquieted her.
"Natacha, my girl, I think it's time we gamboled elsewhere!"
Dominating their mounting fears, the two young women, gaining precious minutes by not dressing themselves, remounted the seats to take their respective places.
The moment the starting key started the motor, a big stone crashed against the windscreen. Head bent, Olga accelerated. The rear wheels, spinning, squealed as the car jumped forward in a cloud of pebbles.
When Natacha looked back at the receding group, she couldn't hold back an exclamation of surprise. "What's wrong?"
"The four men are running after the two young boys. They've their cocks in their hands ...!"
"Oh! Pity we can't assist in that," sighed Olga. And she really meant it! After a moment of silence, slipping her hand on her friend's thigh, she added, "Oh to be in the Mamounia, and safe in a room! By the way which case did you put the lanyards in?"
When the traveler discovers the green oasis which surrounds the clear red-ochre ramparts of Marrakech, after having been covered with dust all along the rocky road, he has the impression of freshness. Before passing under the arch, giving access to the frontier town of the Atlas mountains, veritable jewel of North Africa, Olga stopped the car to allow themselves to dress.
Some minutes later, the heavy American car stopped in front of the "Mamounia Palace."
A veritable battalion of grooms fell down on them, took their luggage, then led them to the reception where a porter took charge of them. Their room was immense; the french windows opened out onto a patio overlooking a sparkling blue swimming pool. From this roost, plastered with roses the two girls lengthily admired the gardens of A Thousand and One Nights, which stretched out before them at their feet and at the end of a stretch of white sand, the eternal snow of the Atlas mountains. Natacha stretched lazily, throwing an inviting look at her friend. Her breasts extended; their tips, suddenly inflated, strained at the thin cloth. Her voice husky with emotion, she said, "Would you like me naked or simply rolled up?"
"Take off your sweater!"
And while the pretty brunette freed her golden tits, Olga's hands were busy with her belt. Having unbuckled it, she unzipped the skirt which fell to the foot of the splendid alabaster columns like a licentious parachute.
As soon as Natacha was naked, only keeping her long black stockings and her shoes, she helped her mistress to take off her blouse and her mini-skirt. Attired only in her dark stockings and suede slippers, the red headed spy took her friend by the waist, led her into the room. On one of the twin beds lay a wide range of 'lanyards' the only objects they had hurried to unpack; their utilization never suffered a wait. The erotic pounding of Olga's magnificently developed breasts, the swaying of her full hips, the quivering of her opulent backside, bounding in all its bi-convex prominence under the exceptional curving of her saddle, the sweet milky coloring of her almost transparent skin, were so marvelous that it would be difficult if not impossible to resist.
When the splendid animal lay across the bed with feline movement, on her stomach, Natacha understood what was needed of her.
She fell upon the snowy summits, began to bite them with her little rat's teeth. Olga doted on this incisive way of rendering homage to her backside. Completely abandoned to the drunk charm which invaded her senses, she rolled lasciviously, writhed languorously, squirmed her ass in which little white fangs planted themselves. To increase the effects of her wonderment, the pretty brunette, having slipped her soft hand under her stomach, massaged her clitoris with a knavish finger. Sometimes, irresistibly attracted by the long brown furrow with pink sides which twisted the long tract between the enormous globes, the lover inserted her tongue trying to tickle the tiny secret hole. At that, Olga shriveled, pushing her backside against the face which tried to incrust itself there. Her skin crawled; shivers furrowed her epidermis with the speed of light.
"No!" she croaked. "Not that ... not that!"
Something prudish, feminine, stopped her from giving herself to that insane caress although her senses urged her to do it without holding back. She crossed her legs desperately, preventing the hilly terrain's conquest, enclosing that inexpressible odor which floats from between the thighs when women are 'open' to love. She fought childishly against the perverted tongue's invasion, knowing all the time that she would finally abandon herself to shameful joys, as each time she did when Natacha took her from this side.
Her belly surged on the finger maneuvering her button of love. Heat flushed her face. She twisted faster, her eyelids becoming heavy. Panting, she unloosened her beautiful cheeks, uncrossed her legs. The voluptuousness which assailed her insides, more ferocious with each successive wave, melted her will, diluting it with a scale of idyllic sensations which tore moans from her. Natacha leaning on this weakness, her lips sliding on the bottom of her backside, immobilized on the swelling of the tiny hole; her tongue pointed, vibrated on the socket ringed with soft down, pierced, obscenely shaking behind the spasmodically jerking sphincter. Olga involuntarily gave in. She was exalted, twisted her back, stretching her neck; her legs opened slightly, closed quickly in a last fit of shame, then scandalously became limp. Then the impious mouth inscribed itself in the obtuse angle, licking turn by turn all the swollen oily flex of the sex and the porch of that base so sensitive to slippery fondlings.
"Take me, take me, darling. QUICK!"
Without stopping the polishing of the enflamed jewel, even throwing itself onto the mad sprightly tongue, rejecting sometimes, loving other times, too exasperated to bear the atrocious electrification, Natacha selected a lanyard, and strapped it to her hips. Then as, burning with the same desire as her lover, she climbed into the frenzied body while her right hand, brandishing the enormous ivory artificial penis, polished and yellowed with use, directed it into her ass-hole. For the young girl knew that Olga preferred possession by that hole. Since they had been together, they had no need for words to know what the other wanted. From the fact that Olga proffered herself 'tails up', Natacha naturally knew that she had an anus preference.
The oval prick carved in ivory, primed the expansion of the supple anal passage while the bisection widened under the influence of the progressive elevation of the eager butt, under a trivial penetration. When Olga's knees were coiled back from her flanks, the prick was almost completely sleeved up to the false testicles made of goat skin.
Natacha began the wonderful pumping and her friend became delirious. Her hands full of voluminous breasts, petrifying them with immense satisfaction, the brunette busied herself with the impaled buttocks, driving the member in slowly, withdrawing quickly to tear more mewings and cries of joy from her companion in debauchery. Olga's superior attitude was finished with. She was only a weak girl, dominated by the grandiose pleasure, a bitch in heat, tamed by the flesh's pin pricks, subjected to the exquisiteness which took possession of her body.
Her pantings quickened. The contortions of the backside in the middle of which the stick advanced and retreated, gradually accelerating the alternate movement, enlarging their cycle of rotation; her back arched and dented with jerky fluctuations.
Deafening revolution broke out. After a salvo of profound rattles, the young woman began to throw her butt in all directions, while her strident baying filled the room.
"Fire, my love FIRE," encouraged her fucker, increasing the prick-strikes. In a trance, trembling from head to foot, the Russian slipped into ecstasy, her fingernails clawing the bed-spread, her eyes closed her mouth open, gasping for air.
"Whew!" puffed Olga, turning over indolently, her large green eyes still smoldering with happiness, her eyelids heavy, ringed with the blue mark which denotes the physical excesses. "God, but I'm weary. Natacha, darling. Call the reception and order two scotches."
While awaiting the refreshments, Olga draped her superb nudity in a black lace negligee, which by its transparency, rather revealed than hid her tempting form. Natacha put on a silk jade green pajama top, which was just long enough to cover her round bottom, naked underneath, which impertinently moulded her when she had tied the black belt.
Wearing high heeled shoes and with only that single piece of clothing in the sloping depths of which her breasts pressed ready to burst out, the young girl was terribly enticing. At least that was Natacha's impression of her silhouette when she saw the waiter stop, aghast, blushing to the roots of his ears, on the door step.
"Thank you," said the exciting brunette simply, taking the tray from the young man, whose fly had suddenly been pushed out by an oblique lump. Before the poor boy had closed the door, he had time to have a spine tingling glance at the plump backside, when the young girl, turning her back, bent down to put the tray on a low table.
On a tone of sadism which never left her, Olga declared detachedly, setting down her empty glass, "It's about time we went to visit the Pasha. Get ready darling."
Disappointed, Natacha stammered: "W-what about me?"
"What?"
"Aren't you going to make love to me?"
Already setting out what she was going to wear, Olga replied dryly without looking, "I'm sorry to have to remind you about our mission, Natacha! I think that you are a little frivolous. We have a job to do. A job which doesn't recognize the deviations of the flesh nor any delay."
On hearing these moralistic words from the mouth of she who had just swooned under her caresses Natacha thought she was dreaming. Choked, she replied, "Hey, you're not trying to make an idiot out of me! You are acting just like an old ... old..."
Swinging round, a menacing cat o'nine tails in her hand and, eyes flashing, with a fury she didn't feel, Olga hissed between her teeth, "like an old...what? What is it you mean? Say what if you think you've the courage!"
Saying this, she advanced toward the young girl, who retreated, heart pounding, her eyes already filled with tears, knowing that she wouldn't get out of the room before her backside had been whipped to ribbons. It was useless to look for excuses, nor even to ask her dominator for clemency. Anyway, did she really want to? Did she really want to escape from the inflexible punishment that she feared yet desired so fiercely? And Olga knew that, for her lover, who acted the panting victim just as she played the outraged prisoner that she was not, there could be no more exciting prelude to the putting on of the 'lanyard' than a severe beating.
There was between them that tacit accord which reminded each partner of her habitual role without which their pantomime would lose its meaning if they needed preliminaries. They preferred to dispute, finishing in whipping, to outline their wicked scene. This added flavor to the game. Her blue eyes pleading, Natacha swore that she didn't mean anything bad. She wrung her hands, faking despair.
The whip cracked down on the front of her beautiful conical thighs, the twelve tight cords scratching the soft honey-colored flesh.
"Tell the truth! Spit out the dirty word you wanted to call me..."
The martinet swished a second time. The young girl grimaced with the vivid pain, twisting, inclined, desperately pulling her too short jacket over her thighs, trying to hide them from the biting lashings.
Then her calves, in turn, tasted the rope. Back against the wall, lost, begging forgiveness, the young girl turned, propped her head in her arms. The green silk jacket wrinkled up, her naked backside exposed to punishment. Olga labored them with bright red furrows.
"Ooooooch! Aaaoww!" cried the trembling youngster.
Under the biting lashes of the infernal thongs, the plump globes trembled, cringed. Wishing to make them totally vulnerable to the lashes, Natacha made use of a little evasion which bared them completely. She let her arms slip along the wall while shifting her feet back. Soon, her spine rounded, body squared, she rocked her naked backside in all directions. Her thighs, so widespread that the whipper saw, projected at their junction, the tender lips from which flowed a stream of juice. Full-winded, Olga whipped the rounded masses which contracted under the leather serpent. Sometimes changing the trajectory of the disciplinary instrument she struck up and down, colliding with the delicate sex, angrily biting into it.
At this, Natacha jumped, shouting screaming, sobbing but still enslaved by the whip, she offered her inflamed buttocks, hideously burned, horribly bruised which, paradoxically, stimulated her carnal ardor. The correction took such a proportion, degenerated into a veritable torture which, shaken by tears and the piercing thrill which inundated her cunt with liquid, Natacha slipped down the wall, her arms stretched out in front of her.
Throwing the whip away, Olga helped the young girl to get up, lay her on the bed, feet hanging, tenderly. Then she took the lanyard, still hot from the perforation of her own backside, belted it on. When the ivory prick enlarged her hole, pushing aside the soft thick lips ringed with lacy black hairs, Natacha swung into unprecedented rapture, brought her legs up to her chest. Her radiant face lit up, glowed with infinite pleasure while big tears of pain rolled down her cheeks.
Her crack full of the mobile monster, she anticipated the strikes by pushing her stomach. Her eyes illuminated with nearing ecstasy, her quivering mouth spilled out vibrant sighs, modulated the sucking sounds. She rushed, pushed, tossed herself, relaxed, throwing her legs in the air, fell back strained, retracted and gave herself again with bewildering fury. Her arms beat the bed like a butterfly's wings. Lying on top of her, biting her lips while fondling her breasts knowingly, Olga cleaved her warmly, renting that effervescent flesh with the poundings of the false cock.
Suddenly, split asunder, bridging with her neck and heels, agitating her stomach back and forth, shivering, Natacha rose to edification. Her intimate flesh was lacerated with veritable dagger like blows. Three times she fired, blazed, fell back to earth.
CHAPTER 4
It was too hot for Olga to put on her suede suit. Firstly, she changed her stockings, choosing a pair as transparent but of a lighter color, of which the elasticized tops exempted her from wearing garters. Then she slipped on her pink panties, pulled her practically naked body into a bottle green miniskirt, tight against her ample hips and swelling backside beltless and sleeveless, inside which her milky teats bounced in the free air. She put on boots, of very supple goat skin.
Natacha changed as well, resolving not to support wool on her skin any more. This time, on the entreaties of her mistress she put on a charming little black silk panty, hemmed with black lace of which the bottom opened out to a crack which showed the peek-a-boo pressure of her plump backside. Her black shoes didn't go well with her little pale pink dress in light sail cloth. She changed and put on white shoes.
When she was dressed, Olga glanced over her lewdly. Natacha really looked like a little girl who had grown too quickly, in her tailored dress, which clung to her breasts and accentuated her slim waist, the skirt of which, short, showed off her prominent backside. A large white and pink striped tie hung from her starched collar. Short fluffy sleeves tightened the tops of her tanned arms.
Neither of the girls wanted to drive so they took a ride to the palace in an open carriage. To offset any interest the Americans could have in them, other than what their bodies could inspire, Natacha took photos while her friend jotted notes in her note book. At the palace guard, Olga showed her journalist's card. She asked to be received by the Pasha to write an interview about him, his following and his sumptuous house.
A man, dressed in white European clothes, but wearing "Babouches" and a turban, thin and sickly, wearing enormous sunglasses, came to the guard house for the two women. He was very courteous, a little fawning perhaps, asking them to follow him. The Pasha, "very honored that the most celebrated Parisian magazine should want to publish something about him," would meet him right away.
Before going into the immense columned salon, which resembled the room in which Omar had received them, where the Pasha waited, Natacha and Olga crossed a park full of flowers, blue and white buildings, arcaded interior court yards, patios, fountains, rooms, many, many rooms, rich with oriental furnishings, passed under stuccoed arches, finely worked with geometric arabesques.
Mohammed Iff Hallepah welcomed them simply, almost deferentially. This didn't please Olga, who was suspicious of oriental fallacious urbanity. They would strangle you while asking you to beg their pardon.
He was a tall man with elegant measured ways, spoke excellent French, although he pronounced his words with an accent. Without really being fat, like
Omar, he easily weighed two hundred pounds but his frame carried it better than that of the 'pig,' as Natacha had called him when she talked about their contact in Casablanca.
Olga didn't uncover the object of her mission right away, preferring to study their host beforehand as much as a Moslem's character could be studied from the first moment. Following tradition, mint tea was served. As with Omar, Olga obligingly let the man goggle under her skirt while Natacha tightened her tiny dress as well as possible. Sitting cross legged in front on him, sitting on gold embroidered cushions, they made small talk. Then they passed on to the reason of the visit. Mohammed would show them his 'modest dwelling' himself.
And Natacha photographed everything with her Leica and Olga took notes on the different periods when the palace was built, when during the war it was destroyed, etc. As the group came to the carefully guarded nailed door covered with ironwork, the Pasha bowed saying, "I'm sorry that you will not be able to offer your readers an image of our next rooms. I'm sure they would be enchanted with these the most voluptuous images of our marvelous country. But I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave your camera and notebook with the guardian. We're going into my harem. In principal, no stranger is allowed to enter, but you are so nice that I would rewrite the laws of Islam. Of course, you must promise not to breathe a word about what you see."
"Of course!" assured Olga quickly, in a tremulous voice, terribly excited at the idea that she was going to see many half-dressed women. She, who in love, had a clear Sapphic tendency.
When the heavy door opened a wave of ecstasy hit the two women. A green park, courtyards paved with roses were dotted with girls nonchalantly lying on cushions. Others walked in hand in hand, crooning like birds of paradise.
Bare footed, they were all dressed in large pleated pantaloons, held up on their hips by belts of precious stones and gold. Colors of rose, blue, water-green, black, all so transparent that one saw through them as through a summer vapor, their bare backsides, their smooth cunts, shaved closely. Some had very short velvet boleros, opened on naked breasts, pear-shaped and always perfectly firm. One could not look anywhere without seeing a pair of bulging, trembling breasts, or a belly animated with its dry contractions; a well designed vagina cutting the triangular cunt in two, put Olga in heat.
Ah carried veils which hid the bottom of their young faces, for they were all adolescents. Not one was more than 19 years of age. Amongst them were a good dozen who were still virgins, breasts nicely dappled or nonexistent for those were not yet 10 years old. Gently budding swells peeked as they played, naked under their vividly colored transparent tunics which stopped just above their admirably plump backsides.
One of them, her tunic of orange gauze sticking to her dawning breasts, moulding her roundish thighs, joining the outrageous jutting embossment of her hairless pubes, her thighs spread wide open, was sunbathing. She held her face to the sun, eyelids closed, floating on her back in the centre of a small swimming pool. Her long ebony hair resembled a large black water lily on which reposed her little Oriental head.
Revolving amongst this treasure of lingering flesh, indifferent to their charms, three or four eunuchs, more than six feet tall, Sudanese slaves no doubt, naked to the waist with their skulls shaved and whips sticking out of their belts, watched over all these lovely girls empty eyed. They were fat, immense. Amongst them, however, Olga noticed one, who at that moment came towards their group, who was smaller, muscled like an athlete who wore a long oiled mustache and carried a pair of sun-glasses.
"This is Ali," said the Pasha. "He is the head eunuch."
What a pity, thought Olga, favoring him with a long envious look. The man, whose skin was so much clearer than the others, recoiled imperceptibly before deciding to include himself in front of the two young women.
"He is dumb," said Mohammed. "Oh, on the other hand, not at all deaf. He hears the tiniest whisper of gossip and reports it to me scrupulously. I then judge according to the importance of the fault, from ten to fifty strokes of the whip administered either on the bare backside or on the breasts, or even on the sex if the culprit is really defective."
At the end of a half-hour visit the group came back to the salon; Olga's panties were soaked, her cunt had shed so much. She excused herself and went to the toilets. There, her eyes clouded with emotion, remembering the half naked body of the sun-bathing girl, she masturbated herself to relieve her burning desire to make love. Then, finding it disagreeable to wear wet lingerie, she screwed it into a ball and flushed it down the toilet, and entirely naked under the sheath of silk, she went back to the apartments of the Prince of Marrakech. Before a cup of Turkish coffee, Olga opened the talks unveiling her real identity.
The Pasha turned out to be meaner than a Scotsman and stingier than a Jew! After unprecedented bargaining, Olga was no further than when she had begun. She lost patience. She became dry, premptorily claiming a precise 'yes' or 'no'. He listened impassively, then set off again with his oratory which finished in perplexing the young woman. Later, he excused himself.
"Since it's like that Sir, I'll have to withdraw. I'll come back again tomorrow if you don't mind, to hear your reply. At the moment we are wasting our time."
Getting up, she said to Natacha, "Come on, we are going now."
"Where are you staying, ladies?"
"At the Mamounia."
"I'll send for your luggage."
CHAPTER 5
"Our luggage?" queried. Olga.
"Dear Miss Olga, the honorable servant that I am would be mortified if I ignored the most elementary laws of hospitality by letting you go back to that inn. You shall be my guests for several days."
"Not at all! I refuse. I want to go back to my hotel. Natacha! Get up, we're going."
"In that case, Miss. I'm afraid that I have to insist."
"Which means?"
"That whether you like it or not, this charming young lady and you shall five here until further notice."
"Never! You can't keep us by force."
"Tch! tch! Come now, no more games. You're being uncivil...Guard!"
Two uniformed Arabs, not eunuchs, armed with dog whips encircled the prisoners.
Bowing, with a bitter smile, the Prince, hand on his heart, purred: "Now it is my great pleasure to have you visit the secret part of this humble dwelling, which you don't yet know and which I reserve exclusively for all the beautiful foreigners who do me the honor of sleeping under my roof. If you would like to follow me."
Obliged to obey, Natacha, frightened, and Olga furious, eyes flashing with anger, fell into step beside Hallepha, shivering at the thought of the two body guards who looked ready to use their whips at a mere sign.
They went through more doors, then through one which couldn't easily be spotted by someone uninformed. The guards lit torches; all five went down into the anguishing gloom of a spiral staircase, steep and dripping with humidity. At the bottom of the stairs, the guards withdrew, for two enormous eunuchs, similar to those in the harem, took over. A long trench, where two people couldn't walk side by side, led into a great white tiled room, empty, lighted up almost as clearly as day. When Natacha and Olga crossed into the room they understood the brightness. The ceiling was made of panes of glass set in a metal frame.
Sadistically appreciating his guests terror, the Arab declared, "And you've seen nothing yet! Wait till you get upstairs. A veritable harem conceived and realized by a demented decorator from Hollywood, on an inspiration which Vadim wouldn't disown. Look up."
The beautiful spies obeyed. Legs opened or closed, immobile or walking, sheathed in nylon or naked, fleeting under skirts of all colors. Above the thighs, shadowed, rounded bellies, deprived of undergarments, strutted in vaporous clouds of suave colored nylon, silk, snowy lace. Sometimes, because of an opening of legs, seen in a shortened version, in a flash, the pale lipped flesh of a cunt emerging from a collar of fur, brown, red, blonde or light brown. Sometimes, at the jutting of a fleshier cunt, at its aspect, rounder then the others, also because there was no down and because the crack was tightly closed, one could recognize the virgins. There weren't very many. Olga was giddy.
"Up there you see some of my Europeans, twenty-three in all, who have run aground 'chez moi' after my agents have sent them having promised them (he uttered a little cynical snigger, sufficiently unpleasant)...mirages. Don't we have that monopoly, we Africans."
He gestured toward an ultra modern staircase, made of slabs of glass placed in spiral around a pillar of black wood.
"After you, please. I'm going to introduce you to your future companions."
While she climbed, uncovering all that a woman-likes to hide in her skirts, Olga thought: "To think I haven't got my pants. Anyway, he will see my naked butt before long, so what odds. I bet he reserves one of us, maybe even the two of us, to furnish his insomnia tomorrow night!"
The hall where the Pasha's prisoners wandered resembled a film set. The colors clashed; projectors helped to give an astounding effect. There were armchairs everywhere and strangely shaped divans. A gallery ran around the vast room giving access to the girl's rooms. There was a swimming aquarium as well; one entered with the aid of a ladder. It was absolutely forbidden to swim otherwise than in the nude. At the moment three nymphs were bathing slowly and harmoniously in the green water. All the women were very well dressed, but their clothes, elegant as they were, were rather exotic by the cut, the choice of transparent cloth, the shortness of their skirts.
Piercing screams attracted Olga's attention.
Although stifled, they sometimes came with such amplitude that one could easily imagine how atrocious was the pain the victim felt.
The Pasha directed himself towards the place from where these veritable 'wounded tiger' roars emanated. One of the eunuchs opened a door. Immediately the clamouring became deafening.
In the middle of an average size room, entirely painted in black, a young woman hung by her feet. Two chains, a yard apart fell from the ceiling, of which each extremity equipped with a leather bracelet, held her ankles, forcing her long black stockinged legs apart. The poor girl was just able to touch the ground with the tips of her fingers. She was fully dressed, although without panties. And her violet velvet skirt and her silk straw yellow slip fell over her back and chest. Her black hair cascaded like a waterfall. A single projector lighted the room and its cruel beam was directed between her thighs, horribly proffered to the services of a eunuch calmly wielding a long whip with terrifying efficiency. They must have been at the second stage of the punishment because the bulky well-developed buttocks were covered with sinister, red lash marks from which small streams of blood dropped, proof that before whipping the captive's cunt, the whip-per had given her a taste of the whip on her bare backside.
The eunuch, face impassive, flicked his long lash over his shoulder and with a 'hah', which unleashed his titanic strength, he drove the nasty thong into the crucial fork. The distance which separated him from his victim was measured in such a way that the leather thong, curving into the vaginal furrow, struck the anus with the little knot which formed the extremity. Each blow caused such a sharp pain to the poor girl that she started, swinging hurly-burly, left and right, on the clinking chains. She scraped the ground so hard that her red varnished nails were all broken.
Nervous tremblings agitated her beautiful ivory skin. Between the full lunged inhuman cries she bellowed each time the whip knifed into her tender bleeding cunt, the martyr moaned, whined, choking on her sobs. Boaboa, the Eunuch-in-chief, assisted at the s'ance. The Pasha asked him the reason for such severe punishment. The man, since he was dumb, scribbled some Arab words on a slate.
Mohammed translated for his 'guests'.
"Julia, our beautiful Hungarian was guilty of abduction! With a pleasure machine, which I believe is called a 'lanyard' in France, the viper deflowered a young eleven-year old girl I was saving for myself. I know not where she procured this dildo, or 'lanyard', but I shall find out. Mind you, the youngster has her responsibility in the affair as well. But I'll take care of her punishment myself. Shall I tell you, I adore youngsters. Sometimes I receive some from Europe, kidnapped of course, but they cost a fortune."
Ten times the stinging thong incrusted itself again in the rectangular opening of the young woman's cunt, and in the buttock's furrow, crushing in turn her delicate clitoris and the miniature rose-petaled carnation. The intense burns caused by the whip were so insupportable that the young woman became hoarse with shouting. At last, on a finale, which twisted all of her body, the immense negro ended the hostilities.
But the brown-haired victim was not finished with her punishment yet. She had to endure what the Pasha ironically called the indispensable time of meditation to permit the chastised to examine her conscience, and following, to repent. And to help her concentrate, to remind herself, they attached her to a kind of vaulting horse which obliged her to keep her knees pressed against the sides, head hanging loose, her backside bare, uplifted obscenely divided, her arms enclosing the rough leather trunk.
An apparatus which would resemble a professional's camera, if its lens weren't replaced by an enormous 'lanyard' or dildo ending in big egg shaped lump of varnished wood, was set up in front of the sadistically offered pose. They spread olive oil over it, then approached it and pointed it into the tiny hole, perfectly visible at the bottom of the valley of the buttocks, abnormally enlarged by the body's incongruous posture.
A little electric motor was started, softly purring, spinning the monstrous cock round and round. Then, precautiously pushing the apparatus forward, the slave began to bore into the crevice as if he were using a drill. Screams burst out again, while the ignominious egg dug into her flesh, excessively splitting open the anal crown, improbably widening the sphincter. Tearful, wild with chagrin, with panic and suffering, the young girl, scandalously tied and buggered, in convulsions, yelled stridently. She shook like a leaf. Her body was covered with sweat, her face with tears. She was livid; her quivering lips were bloodless, her brow wrinkled. Her mad eyes rolled in their sockets, were inflamed.
Having cleared the elastic segment, the enormous tube plunged more rapidly into her bowels. One can easily imagine the frightful tension which her intestines were subjected to by the wooden egg.
Thirty centimeters of cock were stuffed into the Hungarian's backside. Perhaps she would have become accustomed to the presence of the phenomenal stuffer if, pushing on a button, the slave hadn't animated the dildo, in addition to the rotary movement, with the push-pull movement of copulation.
"Let's leave her now to meditate, for you and I, dear friends, have things to talk about!"
Mohammed bade them sit down in front of a small desk, behind which he sat. Although stronger nerved than Natacha, Olga herself felt ill at ease. Behind their chairs stood a eunuch and Boaboa stood at the Pasha's right hand. The Prince lit a spot light and directed its dazzling white beam right onto Olga's face.
He began calmly, "As I'm sure you realize, we have the means of making stubborn people talk. So, I advise you answer my questions truthfully, because it would be very painful for me to have to employ certain methods to make you tell the truth...."
His declaration that he didn't like using torture to make people, especially women, talk didn't convince Olga. She had spied the savage light which shone in his crafty eyes while the negro cruelly whipped the Hungarian and she deducted that he would be only too delighted if she told lies so that he could inflict similar punishment on them. They would have to proceed carefully. Poor Olga was far from suspecting just what it was about, of what treachery they would be accused.
"Dear Miss Olga," began Iff Hallepah, "you say that you have been sent by the Russian government to negotiate an arms deal which the Americans have already proposed to supply. Your offer would certainly have interested me if a rapid enquiry about you hadn't revealed that you are in the pay of our beloved Sultan!"
Olga and Natacha jumped up from their seats. Together, they protested their innocence, claiming that they were victims of false information.
"Please, please be calm. It's no use swearing that you are innocent if positive proof is there to prove the contrary."
"What proof?"
"I'm sure you remember a while ago, during our talks, that I went out for a few minutes. It was because of the entreaties of one of my followers who had recognized the two of you! That person, in whom I have complete confidence, claims to have seen you go into the Sultan's palace to converse with the chief of the Secret Police! I asked my informant to go to your hotel to search your luggage. Here is what has been brought back." And he brandished in front of the astonished eyes of the girls, the papers for their mission, duly signed by the Sultan, asking them to bring proof that the Pasha of Marrekech was conspiring to set himself up in power.
"It's--IT'S ... AN ABOMINABLE FAKE!" shouted Olga, springing up.
The eunuch standing behind her leaned heavily on her shoulders, forcing her to sit down.
Nailed to her chair by his beefy hands, she protected herself fiercely: "You have only to contact Omar, in Casablanca. He will vouch for our good will."
"Ah yes, Omar, from Medina, that character swimming in troubled waters, who pretends to support me when, in fact, he is pro-Chinese. He is maneuvering a counter-revolution to replace me after my forces overthrow the present powers! How can you expect me to trust him. He would be only too happy if the Sultan arrested me."
"No, not at all. He needs you, at least until the Sultan is overthrown."
"No doubt, no doubt, but I can't really trust him. For me, he is just a traitor."
"Then send some one to the Russian Embassy in Paris, on which Natacha and I are dependant."
"Phew. Childish. You are only performing agents and like all of your kind, all I have to do is offer a large sum of money to make you change your tune. No, actually, I'm counting on you to tell me the truth. Now, we've played long enough, let's talk if you don't want me to offer you a s'ance which would make you so chatty that, tired out, I would be obliged to silence you."
"But we've nothing to say," sniffed Natacha, who imagined herself hung up by the feet, screaming under the blows of the biting whip of her tender vagina.
Keeping her head, Olga reflected rationally, "If, to avoid torture, which would follow any lies, we told him what he thinks he wants to know, he would torture us anyway, for high treason. If we continue to pretend that all he says is false, we'll be tortured. We'll be tortured anyway, because it's an unavowable desire. He would know how to disprove all our arguments just to revel in our suffering. The best is to stay dumb, if possible." She hoped Natacha would keep quiet.
"But Olga, we can't let this go past without protesting!"
"Poor girl, we're in an awful scrape. Whatever we say we'll be 'questioned'."
"Ah! Now you're being reasonable, dear Olga. Will you tell me now what exactly happened at the
Sultan's," said the Arab misunderstanding Olga's meaning.
The young redhead didn't answer. She had decided to barricade herself behind her dumbness and the Pasha would really have to put all he had into it to get her to utter a word.
"Don't you want to answer? Very well. Hauuia! Attach the prisoners to their chairs!"
If Olga didn't intervene, it wasn't the case for Natacha, who bounding from her chair, tried the impossible. She rushed towards the door but promptly the eunuch grabbed her before she had the time to open it. The thick arms tightened round her waist. They lifted her off the ground as if she were a bundle of straw. Bawling, the young girl fought, legs pedaling wildly, clothes up over her numbril, throwing her little fists behind her in the hope of hammering the giant, who had no trouble dodging the blows.
Before the slave had put her down on her seat, Boaboa gripped her black nylon panties and ripped them off her. The roguish briefs traced a shiny trajectory in the air while the eunuch-in-chief's hands were already tearing at her dress. The collar button burst, the tie brutally torn off. Her naked breasts, palpitating, sprung from the ribboned cloth. The eunuch sadistically took the pink tits, squeezing and pinking them between his nails.
"ENOUGH! Tie her to the chair!"
Boaboa let go of her swollen nipples. Shaken by nervous sobs, Natacha docilely let them tie her hands behind the chair, then her ankles. Olga looked pityingly at her friend. She was more afraid for her than for herself. She was tied as well and could not budge. Her dress was still untouched, but not for long.
"Circa! Undress that bitch Olga." The slave's calloused hands took the fragile braces of the silk dress, pulling them down brusquely over her forearms, skinning her. The two fleshy melons, fabulously expanded, opaline, dashing one against the other in a highly suggestive quiver, under the impulsion of her body, which jumped with disgust and fright, were denuded. Radiantly beautiful they were, and set off by the silver light of the projector.
"Go and get Nicole, the French girl the Hungarian deflowered."
Boaboa left. While he was gone, the Pasha ordered, "You two, get whips and flay these two bitches breasts."
The two slaves chose flat sticks, extremely thin and flexible, almost as supple as leather. Placing themselves to the left of each girl they began the terrible corporal punishment which tore piercing cries even from Olga, who was the more hardened of the two. Under the shock of the stick violently stinging their ripe flesh, the Russians twisted in agony. Their breasts, hideously painful, danced frantically while the dry crack of the cane was blotted out by the screaming.
Natacha's golden apples tossed frantically, jolted, quivering in spasms, just like Olga's enormous ivory pears, only more exciting by their jerky bouncing. Their hair was in their eyes, stuck to their foreheads by sweat and make up, their pupils washed by abundant tears, glistened; the two ravishing captives, stiff lipped became rivals in cries, lamentations and supplications.
The hiding they were taking was dreadful. They had the impression that burning coals kindled inside their breasts; that they were swelling until they would burst.
From time to time, masters of their trade (!) the negroes struck horizontally at the teats. And when the nipples squashed under the metal cane, jumping in the air pulling the chair behind them, they squealed like stuck pigs.
If the distressed little girl's entrance diverted Mohammed's attention, it didn't in any way cause them to moderate the punishment. Indifferent at the terrified child's coming, the two whippers continued to lash the trembling breasts with the same regularity. Now the melting balls of lead weighed heavily on the agitated breasts of Natacha and Olga.
The child who had just come in was a superb little school girl with a rosy cunt, great porcelain eyes, filled with tears of anguish, straight mouthed, naturally red and fleshy like a big cherry. Two long light brown plaits, tied with red satin, fell down her back. She wore a very light bodice, through which appeared the pale nipples of her beginning breasts, just swollen enough to say that she had breasts. A pleated kilt, buttoned by four large mother-of-pearl buttons, curved outrageously on a little round backside, ideally spherical. It was so short that there was no need to lift it up to be aware that she wore no panties, the two rounded rings underlining her plumb belly and one centimeter of curving flesh being visible under the hem of the multi-colored cloth. Her large well rounded calves were sheathed in long red stockings.
"Bring her here, so that I can give her a good spanking."
But the eunuch-in-chief didn't have to drag her, frisking and kicking like Natacha. Candidly, the child ran to the Pasha, fell down on her knees and naively, she humbly begged indulgence in a little quavery voice, hardly audible, punctuated with sobs and sniffs.
In reply, the Lord of the manor laughed: the laugh of someone sure of his power; the laugh of an ape preparing to devour young uncooked maidens. That was an ironical joke!
He had got up and was dominating the feeble child with his enormous carcass. As he bent over the child, who instinctively protected her face with her arms, he noticed that Natacha had fainted.
"Hey, you idiot! Can't you see that she's unconscious-out for the count. So stop whipping her. That's no use, it will only spoil her tits. Good ones at that."
Olga, who envied her companion's physical weakness, thought that it would be a good idea to fake a swoon. Rolling the whites of her eyes, letting her head hang loosely on her chest, she slumped against her bindings, heroically bearing the rude whip by stifling all the normal reactions to pain, vocally and corporally. She won; the second slave, after having been called a stupid bastard, let his arm drop.
Then preoccupied only by the 'white meat', Mohammed licked his lips wolfishly, leaning over the trembling infant.
With a brutal movement, he pulled her to her feet, took her by the waist and lifted her up. His left arm, hugging Nicole's waist, slipped a little; his satyr's hand slipped over the softly curved beach of an adorably sleek stomach, penetrated the moist and deliriously velveted clasp of her hole; his fingers began nervously fiddling the chubby apricot, softer than a nestling's down, very agreeably oiled in its furrow.
With his right hand, he lifted the wrinkled skirt over her arched back, baring suddenly, a pair of rosy buttocks, hard as marble, madly jutting, of which the surface, warm and sanitized, disclosed for him an element, exciting, inexpressible, when he ventured his audacious manual flatteries.
Under his hand, which smoothed the two coupled melons, shriveled with fear, the skin prickled with goose-pimples. Excitement, mounting in him like a fever, throbbed at his temples, clouded his little bright eyes with stupor, became so intense that he felt shaky. He had to sit down on the corner of his desk to prevent himself falling, under the influence of this imperious sensual vertigo.
Her spanking, right from the first smacks, which rang like heavenly music in his ears, was most resounding. He laid down great thumps on the summits of her butt, which twisted swiftly marked with multiple hand and finger prints. Thousands of ants seemed to be at work under the horribly punished skin; two vermilion slabs, covering the surface of the two trembling globes, glared against the milky circumference of her burning backside, stood out more on the two flamboyant cheeks, in contrast with the white line of her butt.
The squalling child, whose arms wind milled in the air, legs kicking so much that she might have been spineless, projected her butt into the punishing hand despite itself, undulated, crawed, threw her pretty, red, full moon in all directions.
She would have liked to cross her legs to prevent the vicious fingers gliding into her ass-hole but the cauterization of her tumultuously animated ass obliged her to keep them apart.
When the Pasha was finally tired of administering the atrociously smarting spanking, he placed his tiny victim on his desk and lying on her body, which disappeared under the folds of his 'gandoura', tucked it up, opened his fly, from which stood out his great member, red and swollen, curved like a scimitar, knotted like a root, furrowed with big blue veins, pulled back the foreskin of which the mauve and carmine knob looked like mushroom. While his hands fiddled with the hot butt which he had just spanked, Mohammed chatted gaily:.
"Dear child, not having left me, in your impatience to know the 'penetration,' what the other tunnel had to offer, you leave me no choice but to pass into the aforesaid tunnel to console myself about the deflowering which was usurped from me, and thus pay off the extravagant investment that you cost me!"
The child didn't understand what he was insinuating.
"What are you doing!" Nicole cried, when she felt the monstrous pillar bury itself in her behind, puncturing the little well of forbidden pleasures. The man, completely given to his devastating work, didn't reply. Holding the unsuspecting crack well open, he thrust with all his weight into the pleasing daisy.
When the enormous prick diabolically enlarged her tiny hole, the girl finally realized that the rapist intended sticking his prick up her butt. Moreover, she didn't understand how a man could bury his member in a tunnel reserved for other functions. That surpassed the innocent child's oblivion of all the refinements of perversion.
"Ouch! Stop it! Please, you're hurting my hole. Don't push so much. Ohh ... not so hard!"
In spite of her tears and cries, which had just burst out, nor of her fidgeting butt, which now, but too late, contracted desperately, trying to push the invading prick out spasmodically, Mohammed delectably persevered with his baseness.
With brisk propulsions, he succeeded little by little in sleeving his cock with the tight sheath, which, with its muscular compression, tried to stop the advance. And the poor child didn't realize that these contractions, the orbiting movements of her sphincter, would delight the satyr all the more, enrapturing him to the point that his spermatic climax wouldn't hold back much longer.
Already an internal frenzy filled his member, half buried in her hole, ineffably warm, he hardened again, swelling bigger. Nervous pulsations flooded it with blood, brought sperm into the urinal tunnel. Drunk with voluptuousness, the man catapulted himself ultimately in the hope of flattening his testicles against the bottom of the raped buttocks, while his pipe flooded the juvenile insides. Hitting the desk with all the force in her little fists, as if the devil were after her, the child's cries of fear and suffering blotted out the rapist's pleasured panting.
Olga, looking on from between her eyelashes, still pretending to be unconscious, found the spectacle horrible and at the same time, incommensurably exhilarating. In the secret fastness of her thighs, she felt the excitement mount. Capsized by sparkling bliss, she wet her dress.
The Arab regretfully pulled out of the anal nest. Olga saw the red sticky monster come out, alleviation curving it little by little towards the ground, still vibrant, shuddering like a fiery stallion which had just won a race. She was moved with new sensations. For she would have been pleased with the Pasha for making her undergo the same treatment.
Unfortunately, satisfied for the moment, Hallaepha buttoned himself up, waved away the child, who, quivering, held her sodomized butt in her hands, and he returned to his political preoccupations.
He had a very efficient method of wakening up his captives. It consisted of simply placing electrodes on their nipples and switching on the current. Natacha, really out, put some time to come round, but Olga manifested herself instantly. This electric torture was the worst that she had endured. And she had suffered all kinds.
Enjoying their agony, the sadist let them twist madly, disarticulated puppets, shouting loud enough for two minutes, to burst their vocal chords. To go longer than that would have been risk to their lives.
"Now I think we'll have a chat, dear friends!"
"But since all that is false," said Natacha in a weary voice, still panting, her wasted face bloodless.
The tyrant's eyes glinted. He thundered: "And I say that you are lying! These papers, undoubtedly authentic, constitute an offence. Well, since you are so stubborn, I'm going to show you a very special fabrication of my own. Dirty bitches! Whores! . . ."
He was unhinged. Red as a poppy as he swore and fumed. Never before had he had such toughened prisoners, so hardened during an interrogation. For the Pasha was sure that Natacha and Olga were accomplices. Perhaps he would have doubted the truth of his agents' report if the documents had not been there to confirm it.
"You open the trap doors. Boaboa, go and have the mixture prepared by the woman."
Quite unexpectedly, the two young women felt a pit open under their behinds. Shouting together with surprise, while their two arses fell into the large cavity in their chairs, they understood now why the seats were larger than usual. They allowed even the biggest arses to fit into the circular rim.
"Bare their backsides!"
The negroes slipped between the chairs and with knives, they cut the outrageously bulging cloth, following the arses median plane, being very careful not to cut the skin. Then with their hands, they tore off the bottom of the dresses. When the two superb pairs of buttocks were completely naked, they plunged long tubes about the same caliber as well proportioned cocks, into their holes. A long rubber tube lengthened the injection tube, waiting to be attached to a stomach pump. A woman brought two glass bottles which the eunuchs took and attached to the tubes.
They opened the taps. Steaming liquid gushed into the supple tunnels, forcing its way into their intestines. The burns which fired their bowels became so intense that the young women thought that hot melting lava spewed into their insides. They suffered atrociously. Their stomachs swelled and still the torrent of boiling water containing cayenne pepper and many other corrosive ingredients, distended their insides. The two of them rocked, shaking their heads, eyes bulging, streaming with tears, pleading.
Mohammed took a short whip, made of five knotted lashes of hemp and, doing from one to the other, increased their suffering by whipping their breasts, repeating:-"Talk, for chrissake, talk and I'll stop your torment."
But try as he would, he tried in vain.
Mad with rage, he threw the whip down and stamped on it. An evil grin deformed his face. Spitefully he announced his sentence:.
"Since it is like that you'll die tomorrow! You will die in terrible agony. I'll make you suffer the agony of the stake in the sun at high noon! Threaded up to your middles on a pointed pale, you'll take hours to die. Guards! Take them to their cells."
Hands tied behind their backs, stomach distended like a pregnant woman's, shaken by ghastly pains, Natacha and Olga were led to one of the cells in the grand hall. There at last, they could relieve themselves in the conveniences attached to their apartments.
When they finished, they helped each other to patch up what remained of their dresses. Then, exhausted, they lay down on their respective beds.
After a moment's meditation, Olga broke the silence:
"All the same, it's incredible, this story of false papers. There is someone in the Pasha's following who would really like to eliminate us, but who? Let's see; someone who knows who we are and who knows why we are here, has denounced us. Hal-lepah, not quite sure, decides anyway to interrogate us, between times. Who is out for us and also had the time to obtain false documents. It's crazy. I wonder if our friend Omar would be behind it. What do you think?"
"Oh, me. I can't think anymore. I only know that my stomach hurts."
"You're not the only one. It's no use whining. Tomorrow if we haven't found a way of getting out of here, we'll have real reasons for complaining. So let us think."
A small click was heard coming from the door. Olga put a finger to her lips to silence Natacha. A key turned slowly in the lock, then the door opened cautiously, just enough to allow a packet to be thrown into the room.
The heavy metal plate closed quickly without the Russians knowing who had acted in this curious manner.
A note was pinned to the packet. "You have what you need here to disguise yourselves as Arab women and to escape. Get to work immediately. It is urgent. Each minute lost could be fatal for you. Your death sentence wasn't only a threat. Workers are now setting up the stakes." It was signed 'A friend who almost wishes you well.'
"Bah! How about that. This country is just full of surprises. Who according to you, could almost wish us well?"
"My dear, I have my own idea about that. And if it is the person I think it is, it is the same one who denounced us. Despite her helping us to avoid death, she'll pay for this even so, the whore!"
CHAPTER 6
The beautiful clear night allowed the moon to throw trails of silver over the foliage, here and then . Far away, the echoes of grinding musical instruments was heard, and the fluting woodwinds, rudimentary, rhythmed by drums of goat-skin.
Naked, sweating, Olga sawed the last bar of the forged grill. Naked as well, Natacha kept her ear to the door to warn of any unexpected intrusion. This precaution wasn't entirely useless, for when, despite this discretion, someone began to insert key into the lock, the brunette alerted her friend, who at once put everything back in place and hid the tools under the bed. Pasha's secretary thought they were sleeping when he entered on tip-toe.
He carefully closed the door behind him, approached the first stretched-out body-Olga's. Contemplating the ravishing girl sleeping 'with closed fists', he undressed himself completely. The redhead, following every movement from between her eyelashes, had to stifle an irresistible longing to laugh; the little skeleton, with its skinny cock, quite long, sovereignly expanded, looked so ridiculous.
His neck was spare, his chest sunken, his stomach hollow, his ribs sticking out, his thighs skinny, and his legs bandy. Truly one of nature's beauties! And right in the middle of that bony frame covered with parchment, rising proudly, pushing out from a compact mass of black shiny hairs, the skinny prick, extraordinarily long, covered with very fine skin, pale pink, seemed new like a boy's, giving the impression that it had been transplanted.
The man, buck teeth gleaming in the dark, bent over Olga's fabulous treasure. His hands, knotted like vine roots, touched that electrifying skin. At the feverish touch of the disagreeably moist fingers, the young woman recoiled a little. Her skin shriveled with repulsion. She opened her eyes, stared fiercely at the little man.
"Get lost!"
Ahmed was shaken by a demoniac laugh, which made his balls dance under his swinging cock.
"Come off it, you sow, tomorrow afternoon, when you feel the stake piercing your stomach, you'll miss my cock, which seems to disgust you right now."
"It's not your cock which revolts me-it's all of you."
"Whore!"
A resounding slap whacked her ass. Olga jumped with shock. She would never have imagined that such a skinny arm could carry such force. An intense burn smarted where the vindictive hand had struck. She placed trembling fingers on the darkening sore spot which spread over the middle of her butt.
"Cunt!" she swore, but her heart wasn't in it. If a seductive man had done the same thing she would have been angry, but this mark of disrespect coming from the little monster accorded so well with his personality that she was deeply, voluptuously troubled. Suddenly she longed for beastly union. She cruelly scratched the Arab's face in the hope that he would give her a good spanking, for a long time, just until he would rape her.
The man stepped back briskly, growling, his hand clapped to the five red furrows. Suddenly enraged, he jumped on Olga who, lying on her stomach, head between her arms, pretended to await a rush of blows to her face rather than to the prominent roundness, which jutted insolently, following the in-curve of her back. She took the blows on her spine with a sigh of pleasure. He was going to give it to her!
Immediately, a thousand squibs exploded onto her butt, hypocritically exposed to his services. Speedily, slaps rained down on her backside, which she swung jerkily, taking on a rotary motion, to make their presentation more exciting. While he hit like a madman, raining a storm of blows on the bounding globes, he slid his hand under the curve of her stomach, took the pubes and, his index finger stuck into the luxurious crack, he lifted her up. Secretly, Olga aided this lifting, which blasted her tingling ass with heat which radiated to the depth of her grotto.
In his hand the man felt the soft pulsations which shivered the internal tissue of her cunt.
"It's giving you a climax, eh? Perverted bitch!"
"That's not true. It's not true!" cried Olga, forcing herself to sob and groan while her face, buried in the pillow, was ecstatic. She held back moans of pleasure with much difficulty. Incisive pleasure, galvanizing, begot by the humiliation of being spanked on her bare backside like a little child.
"Then why are you wetting yourself?"
"I'm not wetting myself. I've got 'pertes blanches' " denied the redhead. Accentuating her "moon jumps," multiplying the fluctuations of her scalding body.
Excited by her butt's harmonious contortions, superbly dancing under the avalanche of slaps, the man felt the storm mounting. Already the sap was rising in his palpitating branch. He must penetrate the oily opening which vibrated under his hands if he didn't want to discharge into empty air.
Natacha, not understanding the passive comportment of her tender friend, resolutely waited the propitious moment to deal a hammer blow on Ahmed's head. She had taken the hammer from under the bed. For she could not believe that Olga could be seduced by the 'charm' of such a hideous being.
However, against all logic, the beautiful spy was consumed by heavenly pleasures. Turning her face a little, she saw the penis of the man who spanked her ferociously, shaking, swinging indolently, straight as an arrow. An insane desire made her want to take the beautiful organ in her mouth, but she braked her appetite, preferring to receive the vain staff inside herself.
With a leap the man was on her back. She pretended to resist by convulsively tightening her legs when the fiery stake plunged its velvet muzzle into the fork bewteen her legs.
"NO! No! Don't thread me! NO!"
But all her quivering flesh cried out the contrary, impatient for the invasion of the waves of thrills. Trembling with too long contained desire, she let her thighs part, contracting just enough so that the rapist would think he was taking her by force, conquering an obstacle.
Brusquely freed, propelled by its rush, the turgid dart filled right into the gaping man-hole, slid on the thick silky lips, widening the spongy orifice. He slipped, trembling with emotion, between the movable walls, torrid up to the collar sticky with sperm.
The emotional shock which this savagely uncompromising introduction caused tore a husky cry from Olga.
Tearing the sheets with her nails, she immediately replied with ass-blows to the vehement assault of the cock. Slapping her butt with his stomach, the man rode her with sustained ardour, spitting filthy words at her. And to keep the atmosphere of rape more probable, the Russian continued to beseech her attacker to stop his lustful activities, summoning him to ebb the tide. She played the victim's role so well that Natacha, listening only to her courage, flew to her aid. While the man was preparing to shoot his semen into the melting tube, while the young woman went into a frenzy, lost in paradise, the hammer tolled the bell of their divine accouplement-on the secretary's head!
Suddenly the felled man interrupted the rhythm of his strokes. Unconscious, he slumped on the un-satiated body of his mistress. Natacha had never had the occasion before to hear such a stream of dirty words in such a short time! Dumfounded, arms hanging, still holding the hammer, eyes wide and mouth hanging open, she heard her superior treat her to a certain choiceness of expression.
"Idiot! Dunce! Didn't you see that I was just about to have my climax? Now you've spoiled everything, and we haven't even a lanyard so that you could relieve me!"
She stamped her feet with rage, crying, bawling, beyond herself, nervously pestering her clitoris in a fruitless movement of rancour, hoping to appease her exasperation.
"Don't be like that, darling, perhaps he's still hard, in spite of all!" And she pushed the man over onto his back. Miracle of miracles! His cock was still magisterially erect! It could still be used as a lanyard since its proprietor was out of order. What's more, he was hardly breathing. Blood, flowing from his broken head, spread like a great dark sea against the immaculate whiteness of the sheets. Immediately Olga forgot her antagonism.
"Quick, help me!"
They pushed the unconscious man to the edge of the bed, legs hanging over it. The redhead turned her back, straddled his thighs and, opening wide the plump lobes of her femininity, she sat down on the stake which Natacha held at the base perfectly vertical.
An animal cry gushed from her lips when, once again, the lance furbished her while she sat on the Muslim's abdomen. Taking her breasts in her hands, massaging them, a vacant look in her eyes, she shouted while her body hopped about.
"Quick love, your mouth! On my button!"
Natacha knelt down in front of the penis-filled sanctuary, put her mouth to the pubes, covered the clod with ardent kisses, inserted her agile tongue between the fleshy lips, seized her stringy clitoris between her teeth, electrifying it with incisive nibbles.
But Olga needed more than that. She reclaimed the blocking of her behind and the young girl, who felt that she had a lot to be pardoned for, obliged by plunging her middle finger into the rosette. Exultant, breathlessly riding the male, devout with voluptuousness, Olga was carried like a leaf in the wind of her ardour.
When she retired, they noticed that the Arab hadn't discharged. On the other hand, his cock still reared up, hard as ever.
"If you want to make use of it," said Olga, getting back to work, saw in hand.
Which is what Natacha did. In turn, she impaled herself on the penis but, more vicious than her superior, she guided it so that it stuffed up her butt-hole. And to the sound of the saw, she swooned into the drunkenness of auto-sodomisation.
It was only after her second consecutive climax that Natacha began to worry about their automatic lover's health. She listened to his heart. Nothing!
"OLGA! Olga! I think he's dead," she burbled, eyes wide with horror.
The redhead rejoined her, placed her ear on the cold chest, saw that his eyes were vacant, in the light of her torch, and blurted out:
"Another fucker less!"
Then in a brittle voice she said, "Hurry up and dress, the coast is clear."
They put on the many veils of Arab women, masked their faces, wrapped themselves up in large cloaks which covered their heads, put on slippers and, one behind the other, climbed out the window and began the long precarious descent by the silk ladder that the mysterious stranger had procured for them.
Fortunately, there was only one guard in front of the portal. Crouching against each other in the shadow of a palm tree-the courtyard was as brightly lit as in daytime by the moon-they discussed their plan of action.
"Natacha, you will neutralize the guard. Your dark skin is better for the job than mine, which would only look European. And besides, the hair on my pubes is red."
"Our eyes could give us away. Yours are green, mine blue."
"Just pull your shawl over your forehead and dip your head. The penthouse will be quite dark. Go on now."
While Natacha walked, openly, straight towards the soldier, Olga silently advanced towards the gates, hugging the wall. Hearing her coming, the guard swung round, brought up his menacing rifle. He barked a summons in Arab.
Without losing her calm, apparently at least, for her heart was pounding, Natacha, silent, and for good reason, stopped two meters away from him, brusquely opened her veils. Her magnificent body, naked, was clearly outlined against the dark background of her brown linen robe, which she intentionally hadn't attached, anticipating this sudden strip-tease.
The man, astounded, not knowing where to look, stayed dumb with admiration. An enormous lump, rising and descending in his throat, prevented him from speaking. He swallowed with difficulty, attempted to say something, but nothing came out.
With Slavonic grace, Natacha spun round on her slippers, undulating like a liana, and when she had presented her tail to him, she gathered all her veils together, lifted them up over her backside without stopping her lascivious swaying. The terribly exciting aspect of her beautiful naked buttocks slipping against each other on the background of multi-colored veils finished him. He thought no more of menacing when, continuing to stir her immodestly uncovered behind, the young girl stepped back slowly towards him. Natacha jumped when the rifle crashed to the ground. She shivered, for she knew that attack was imminent. He was going to assail her from behind and a strange headiness possessed her, rising from the opening in her stomach, propagating itself in her chest, oppressed with emotion, winning over her swelling breasts, their teats sharply erect.
She felt him near. She smelled his quickened breath. A long shudder overtook her. The rough cloth of his trousers scratched against her opulent backside. Two hands buried themselves under her robe, closed over the base of her thorax, slid over the quivering skin, reaching her fleshy breasts prickling with goose-pimples.
Panting, eyelids closed, legs trembling, she arched herself, accentuating the flutters. Her avid prehensory fingers slipped into his fly, lithely unbuttoned it, strayed nervously over the skin, imprisoned the taut organ, and pulled it out, compressing it jerkily.
The man groaned with pleasure, his role of careful-soldier-who-assumes-his-responsibilities was definitely finished with! Such a windfall was worth even the most stern of rules! His sexual confusion was such that he didn't ask himself about the unexpected presence of this woman at such a late hour, who came looking for him and offered him all she had to offer. Right now he was only a big ball of putty who desired this body which offered itself so shamelessly.
Her hands half on his balls, half on the root of his penis, licentiously jutting into her ass, the young woman promenaded the silky gland in the crack of her buttocks, as if it were a painting brush.
The guard let go of one breast, glided on the satin stomach, rose, caressed the undulating curve of one hip, made his way towards the roundness of a thigh, joined the soft swelling, pressed it, incrusted itself between the pillars of the fondant flesh; with the heel of his hand he felt the moistness of the vaginal furrow, the little bush of curly hair. His fingers turned, tightened on the velvet fruit, divided longitudinally on the humid skin as if the August sun had ripened it too much and cleaved its flesh.
Vibrating with excitement, Natacha rubbed the insides of her legs against his hand. She would let herself be wanked before savoring the penetration, only fearing that Olga might disturb her lover before he had time to thread her, inciting her to rush things. So, taken by an imperious desire to be possessed like a beast, she fell down on hands and knees, prostrated herself, head resting on crossed arms, clothes gathered up on her back.
Maddened with luxuriousness, the man lay over her, crushing her with the weight of his body, while his member hunted for the entrance to her grotto, found it, and plunged in.
Gripping onto Natacha's sides, the guard recoiled from the sanctuary, then with a powerful thrust he gloved himself again. Already, heavy voluptuous sensations, piercing and exquisite, accumulated in the young girl's stomach. The slippery stake plunged between the malleable walls of flesh, widening the passage, and splashed in the vaginal juices with a gurgling sound. Panting, out of breath, knees wide apart, butt pointed skywards, the little villain activated her buttocks in a quick back and forth movement; she imparted spasmodic contraction to her sexual parts only to feel the rigid pole separate them again.
Sudden quick pulsations gripped the cock. Its deliverance was near. Natacha swung the bottom of her body furiously. A high tension electric charge poured through her. She ground her teeth and then emitted a long agonized wail while hiccups impetuously agitated the sliding member. Her fingers scratched the earth. Her butt rose and descended quickly on her coiled thighs while, with erratic bolts, the hot substance foamed into her burning source.
The blow that Olga dealt on the man's head was so violent that the rapturous girl felt it. The unconscious man slumped aside.
"At least I had the good taste to let you finish your climax," said Olga acidly. She seemed to have difficulty pardoning her friend for having sabotaged her orgasm back in the room.
The redhead took the key ring attached to the victim's belt. The guard now lay arms crossed, his cock dripping sperm and useless. She opened the little door in the gate.
"Now what to do?" asked Natacha.
"First of all, sleep in a quiet place, if possible. We'll see after."
They walked for a long time and finally left the town behind them. The sand of the palm-grove received their tired bodies. At dawn, Olga woke up her friend.
"Come on sweetheart, you can lie in some other time."
Natacha opened sleepy eyes, smiled languorously, and offered her sensual mouth for a kiss. Olga couldn't resist the call of these two pulpy lips, rounded by love, which offered themselves slightly opened. She crushed them under her mouth, penetrated them with her deliciously mobile tongue.
Then the brunette, moved by this kiss, delivered with such tenderness, stretched voluptuously, arching herself and opening her legs. And when, softly, her friends lips came away from her own, she murmured hoarsely:
"Darling, caress me."
"Not now," admonished Olga, getting up and cleanly breaking all other initiatives she might have taken.
Hiding her disappointment, Natacha asked, "What's the program?"
"I don't know yet. First of all, we'll take stock of this little bag I found in the packet last night."
It was a sort of big Moroccan leather purse. She untied the strings, then emptied the contents on the sand. It contained the car-keys, a hundred dollars in Moroccan money, and a message, written like the other, in block letters: "You will find your car on the road, about five hundred meters from the town. Your luggage is in it. I would advise you to get to Casablanca and then the continent as quickly as possible." It was signed, like the other, with the same laconic phrase, "A friend who almost wishes you well."
Olga hissed furiously: "He can stuff it, his 'quickly as possible!' If he thinks he can get rid of us as easily as that, he's barking up the wrong tree."
"What! You intend continuing?" exclaimed Natacha, amazed.
"Continuing, no. It's finished now-we can't contact the Pasha. No what I want is to uncover this bastard and put him in a situation which would discredit him in the eyes of the Pasha."
"But aren't you afraid that he'll send his garrison after us?"
"Maybe he won't. The best thing is to return to the Mamounia. He'll not dare do anything against us because his movement is underground. To my mind, the Sultan knows about his anti-government activities, so the Marrakech police would be in the way if he wanted to kidnap us in daytime. Anyway, we have to be careful. I hope that our 'friend' hasn't taken our revolvers which were hidden in the bottom of the cases. Come on, let's get dressed and begin the enquiries."
Hidden from curious eyes behind the car's drawn curtains, our heroines undressed themselves.
"Shit! He left us our weapons, but he stole our panties. I know who it is now!"
"Since we've got money, we'll just go and buy others," injected Natacha.
"Yes, if we have time. Anyway, as the shops don't open before nine o'clock, we've got two good hours to be bare arsed!"
With that, Olga put on a very short blue silk polka-dotted dress, slipped on her nylons, and pulled on high kid-skin boots. Natacha, glum because of the lack of undies, put on a very light pale-blue nylon slip hemmed with black lace, a brown blouse and bell shaped tweed mini skirt. As she had no nylons, she pulled on brown socks the same color as her blouse, and flat heeled brown shoes.
"Stop moaning like that, Nat, it's exasperating. It's not the first time you've gone without undies."
"I know," groaned the brunette," but usually it's to please you. Today it's different. Circumstances oblige."
"That's enough! Hurry up and tie your shoes or I'll thrash you!"
"Aaahh!" exclaimed Natacha, lying across her friend's thighs, pulling up her skirt and presenting her butt ready to receive the slaps that she loved so well. "You can start now, darling, for I have no intention of hurrying up!"
"Oh fuck me, you dirty bitch!"
And so, for Natacha's pleasure as well as her own, Olga released a few good slaps on the viciously twisting backside. But the spanking was short-lived, and didn't produce that habitually marvelous prolongment.
Olga first went to the City Hall where, in a few minutes, she had information on all the printing works in town. There were only two. The first was owned by an Arab. At a glance, Olga saw that his apparatus couldn't have printed the false documents in such a short time. The second occupied all the ground floor of a modern building. A very pretty, well-built young woman received them affably.
"We are members of a committee for the defense and liberation of women. We are giving a conference this evening. We need, in less than an hour, some tracts which we want to distribute all over town. Can you manage it?" Olga's manner was quite pleasant.
"Of course!" answered the owner. "I have the most modern equipment. Composition and the printing of two thousand tracts can be done in half an hour. Will you step into my office?"
Olga and Natacha followed the young woman whose venusian butt outrageously swelled under her short velvet skirt. The willowy blonde wore a white silk blouse with lace cuffs. Her long graceful legs were sheathed in smoky-colored nylons. She wore white stiletto-heeled shoes. Her long corn-colored hair, tied at the neck by a big white satin ribbon, cascaded down her back.
Only three people were working in the workshop which the young woman traversed. The noise of the machines brought a smile of satisfaction to Olga's lips. And she literally jubilated when she perceived that the panel of the office was painted with a NO ENTRY sign.
Olga glanced towards the window as soon as the directress had closed the door behind them. It gave out onto a small courtyard. There too, the windows were covered with white paint and the casement was just partially opened. Really, it was a good omen! And the good luck continued when, at the end of her stock-taking, Olga saw lying on the desk the type-set which had been used to print the false documents! The blonde's engaging smile disappeared and she paled when she saw the revolver Olga was pointing at her chest.
"What do you want? I ... I haven't any money here."
"Oh, it's not your money we want, my dear, simply your friends."
"My friends?"
"Yes. I would like to know the name and address of the bastard who ordered some work from you, which you made the mistake of not destroying, since the composition is still there on your desk."
The young woman was perplexed. She bit her lips. She had realized her mistake and didn't know how to rectify it. Nevertheless, she thought speedily. Smiling a smile which was designed to be free and easy, he said, "Oh that! You want the name of the person who ordered it? You should have told me right away. Mind you, I don't know his name or address, but I could give you a very good description of him. He's quite small, about five feet seven, very pale and blonde. He had a big moustache, very 'British' although he had a German accent. He ..."
Inspired, Olga turned towards Natacha exclaiming: "Hey! It might be Hans! It's surely him." Then, addressing the directress who, exhaling a long sigh of relief, relaxed, she said in an elated voice: "Had he a long scar on his right cheek?"
The young woman fell into the trap. "I was just going to tell you . . ."
"NATACHA! Tie that liar's hands behind her back. Now I know that she's on their side. Well my girl, I'll tear the truth out of you whatever it costs. And the suffering and ignoble insults that your boss made us undergo will be paid back in full!"
"You're mad!" howled the girl, jumping to her feet. "Leave me alone! LET GO OF ME! HELP!!"
The revolver barrel sticking into her stomach cut her short.
"Shut up!" rasped Olga.
As the young woman began to shout for help again, a slap on the mouth made her swallow the cry. Tears sprung to her eyes, filled with fright. She passed a trembling hand over her swollen lips, bleeding where Olga's ring had cut them.
"It you shout again I'll empty the chamber into your stomach! And that hurts!"
Natacha, who had pulled off the curtain sash, tied the directress' hands behind her back.
"Her ankles as well!"
"I don't know anything! I swear I don't know anything! What are you going to do to me?" Sobbing, the blonde raised a pitiful face. Hands and feet tied, she quaked with fear. Olga put the gun away, lit a cigarette, took a long drag, then blew a long column of bluish smoke into the young woman's face. Suffocated, she began to cough.
"Natacha! Take off her panties."
When the victim felt two hands slide under her velvet skirt, take hold of her briefs and begin to slide them down her thighs very slowly, so that she would be mortified all the more, she forgot the threats and yelled louder, twisting frantically.
Losing her temper, Olga seized the woman's hair, and catching her by the front of her pretty blouse, she tugged in all directions until the delicate silk ripped. Underneath, she wore only a very frivolous brassiere. The bottom of the cups was nylon; the top part, from the teats up, of red lace. Her large red-brown nipples could be seen through it. Without any consideration for this precious lingerie, Olga took the brassiere by the middle and pulled hard. The fine satin braces broke, and then the tiny button which held it behind. The brassiere came away in her hand, baring the two full tits, lily white, which would have done very well without the superfluous accessories.
"Natacha! See how beautiful her breasts are. What opulence! Such fine skin! And firm, like marble. Real marble. Good Lord! They're so soft to touch!" Saying this, eyes bright with covetousness she audaciously manipulated the enormous pears which, although not so fabulously developed as her own, had a special kind of beauty.
"Mmmmmm. How I'm going to treat myself biting into these big ripe fruits!" She leaned over the slim neck, vigorously squeezing the exciting breasts, and bit one cruelly.
The pain was so vivid, so intolerable, that the young woman let loose a stream of strident yells.
"We'll have to gag her," said Natacha, cutting the saucy little briefs to free the long nylon-sheathed legs.
"Wait! Let's see, Miss Incorruptible, will you talk? If not, I fear that your other breast will have to bear the piercing 'necklace' of my teeth." At the same time, she looked at the two blue semi-circles edged with yellow and speckled with red marks, which now surrounded the brown ring of the nipples.
"Please, please, I beg of you! Don't torture me, don't hurt me! I don't know anything about the people you are looking for."
"I don't believe you. Is that your last word-you know nothing?"
"Nothing. NOTHING! Believe me!"
"Good! Natacha. Piss in her panties."
The brunette lifted up her dress, opened her legs, pressed the nylon and lace undie to her cunt and urinated on it. When it was well wetted, she went behind the blonde, applied it like a gag on her mouth. At that moment the young woman opened her mouth to protest, and the fine silk, damp with piss, slipped between her teeth. Natacha tied it with the ribbon which held her hair.
Again, Olga sadistically planted her teeth in breast which the girl tried to pull away by contorting and twisting her bust. Ejaculations filtered through the gag. When the torturer slackened her teeth, blood formed like red pearls on the snowy outcrop.
"Now have you decided?" she demanded.
Rolling her eyes, temples damp with sweat, cheeks streaming with tears, the young woman shook her head negatively. So Olga slowly took her cigarette from her lips, fixing her victim with eyes hard as diamonds.
"Hold her down, Natacha. I'm going to work her teats a little."
Natacha laced her arms through the girl's from behind, leaning back to point her breasts towards the ceiling. Mad with terror, the prisoner convulsed. She turned, swung her shoulders from left to right-which gave a terribly suggestive oscillation to her breasts, slapping them together violently-and fought to swing her shoulders forward. As if the incandescent end of the cigarette had hypnotised her, she followed it with her eyes, pupils dilated, trying to bury her chin into her neck at the same time. A small bead of sweat ran down the deep ravine between her breasts. Bent over the torpedoes which palpitated with anguish, Olga pulled several times on her cigarette to light it up well. She tapped off the ashes, and, with total lack of feeling, Olga pushed the glowing tip onto the tender flesh, exercising a turning movement. While the burning flesh shuddered, while it calcinated, giving out a grilled smell, the tied body twisted with agony. Destroyed, lost with pain, the girl whimpered despite the gag, then fainted. Poised, Olga took another drag, but this time for her own pleasure, and exhaled at length, considering the panting girl slumped in Natacha's arms.
"Let her fall on the floor. We'll search while waiting for her to come round." The search proved fructuous. Moreover, the hiding place of the arsenal of the perfect 'antenna' type information agent was very ingeniously dissimilated. But, in this domain, few things escaped the redheaded spy. Having easily opened the safe with keys found in a desk drawer, and having found nothing which could implicate the young woman in an espionage affair, Olga furthered her investigation of the safe of which the bottom seemed abnormally thick. For this she used an electric lamp, also taken from the desk drawer, of which the black reflector seemed unusual. Passing the light over the interior of the safe, a mechanism, worked by photo-electric cell, declenched the opening of a cavity. The young woman had only to plunge her hand in to take out a decoding book, various documents, personal dossiers (among which was that of John Band, alias OSS O11), two large calibered Berettas and a list of paid contacts. These compromising elements irrefutably established Judith Kramer's affinities with the CIA. For an hour, our two friends scrutinized the documents without learning anything new for, not being specialized in numbers, it was impossible for them to decode the texts. As for the photos on the personal dossiers, they hadn't met up with any of these people on their journeys. The only itinerant agent they recognized was, of course, OSS 011, but they hadn't seen him around.
"It's a bit strange," said Natacha.
"Sure, but I've got my own ideas about that. Nevertheless, I'd like to be certain of them."
Then, turning towards the pretty blonde who lay at their feet, Olga pointed. "She'll have to talk! Look what I've found! Maybe this will loosen her tongue!" From a saddlebag, Olga took a whip and from another bag a series of pornographic photos in which couples and foursomes beat each other, the participants being mainly women. There were quite a lot of whipping scenes. And, bringing formal proof that Judith Kramer was a converted lesbian, a casket containing a rare choice of lanyards!
"Leave the photos for a minute, please, and help me get this female awake. What's more, I think she's faking to gain time." Olga sat astride the American's chest and, slapping her, tried to revive her. She let herself be slapped without moving a muscle.
"Wait, you'll see how we wake up the dead," threatened Olga ominously. Squatting, she turned the girl's body over and pulled her dark velvet skirt up high, above the fleshy masses of the ravishing, naked backside. The two white globes were presented in a furiously enticing way between the dark mini-skirt and the long black stockings accentuating the pure curves of her plump chiseled thighs and the finesse of her thorough-bred legs. Olga lit another cigarette.
"Darling, open her buttocks wide."
Natacha mounted, sitting well in the small of her back, gripped the great firm cheeks and violently pulled them apart. The deep ravine was opened to the light. The rosette, little flower of vice, pink, slightly swollen, turned out obscenely. Some downy hairs, pale blonde, crowned the tiny nerved mouth. With a sadistic smile Olga crushed her cigarette onto the button. As with the breasts, she crushed the burning tobacco onto the sensitive flesh, turning her wrist from left to right.
Burned in the most intimate part of her person, Judith couldn't keep on pretending to be unconscious. Suddenly she changed from a mummy into a reptile, a wriggling fish. The little hotbed ground into her hole and penetrated. Her naked breasts scraped against the floor. She twisted her body in all directions, arching her back. Her legs, tied at the ankles, coiled and her knees and feet struck the floor hard when she tried to unseat Natacha, who prevented her hard contracted buttocks from closing. When Olga took the cigarette away from her anus, whitish rings had formed on the anal flesh. A few pieces of red ash, dying out, continued to painfully cauterize the enflamed crater ring and its internal tissues for a few moments.
"Well, vermin, will you talk now?" asked the redhead, pulling Judith's head up by the hair.
"The answer is still NO!"
"All right. We'll try to whip!" Olga knew that the whip wouldn't give better results than the cigarette burns, this disciplinary instrument being much inferior to fire, but her captive's buttocks inspired her and she had a prodigious desire to whip them.
She took the martinet and bending over the body, one foot on the ground, the other pressing into the small of her back, thus nailing her to the floor, Olga undertook to spray the opulent backside with vigorous blows. And while the bruising lashes spread an explosive bouquet of fire on the twin cheeks, which twisted on being covered with red welts, Natacha, on her knees between her mistress' legs, head buried under the blue silk skirt, dawdled over her thighs with her hands and mouth.
The pleasure which Olga felt glowing in her abdomen with voluptuous sensations and overpowering her, was indescribable. The felicity which pricked her senses was corning from two distinct sources-the sadistic joy she had in whipping the admirable buttock, and the knowing caresses that the tongue sucking her clitoris and the finger squirming in her butt-accomplishing a perfectly sensual zenith.
Curiously, instead of making her suffer, the whip blows seemed to appease the American. She was heard just to moan and her body's fluctuations were more fluent than when the cigarette roasted certain parts of her person. Her buttocks, subjected to the fire of the lashes, seemed to crave for more. They were only more or less tempting her! Through clouds of vertigo waving before her eyes, Olga saw the naked buttocks dancing gracefully, and with their almost lascivious contortions, she deduced that the whip was more often designed for use on Judith's voluntary buttocks than on her friends. It was undeniable that Judith was an adept at whipping, on condition that she played the part of the victim.
While pressing against the mouth riveted to her secret places, having short, rapid climaxes, the redhead whipped the trembling domes without mercy, lashed them, savoring the dry shudderings, the eminently suggestive swaying.
"Natacha! Feel between her thighs! I'm sure she's wet."
The young girl inserted her hand into the soft vice of fleshy swelling, ran her fingers into the sex's soft furrow, which her tied legs stopped her from opening to her imagine. Nevertheless, the humidity at the center of the crack gave evidence of the young woman's great excitement. Then the index, sliding on the plump oily flesh, touched her clitoris when its proprietor folded her legs slightly to make the widening of her thighs easier.
Electrifying the whipper's passions with her fluttering tongue, massaging the American with her excellently able index, Natacha served as liaison officer for the fleshy communion which established itself between the whipper and the whipped. Enchanting waves were conducted through her body from the two effervescent cunts. And to jack off her companions heightened her own desire. Kneeling between the two bodies, consumed with ecstasy, she rubbed her thighs together as if they were flints necessary for sparking off the flame of internal fire.
"Take two lanyards and masturbate us," panted Olga, whose arm didn't cease the whipping.
Fearing that the ardent fires burning in their stomachs would die out, Natacha quickly chose the two biggest ivory lanyards and came back. She mouthed her mistress' soft lips, sticky with spunk, as she usually reserved the femininity for her mouth and tongue explorations, she plunged the first lanyard up Olga's ass-hole. Then, engaging the second instrument of pleasure between the fleshy lips of Judith's cunt, she plunged it in up to the hilt. Agitating one false cock in an anus, the other in the interior of a vaginal casket, the brunette brought the two women to the fulfillment of delight. Olga trembled on her legs, which served as springs for her body to swing from side to side on the enormous piston which filled her hole. Shuddering thrills came quicker and quicker. She exhaled heavily sometimes choked when a wave of pleasure more powerful than the others submerged her.
Under the murderous lashes-but how stimulating for a devotee of whipping-Judith succumbed to a sublime swoon. At that critical moment, she loosed such a frenetic shaking to the bottom of her body that Natacha understood that she must accelerate the piston movement of the lanyard. She threw herself into it with such enthusiasm that when her two companions orgasmed she felt great sensual emotion. Thrills seized her, shaking her with long and delicious shudders. While jacking off the two girls, she drowned herself in rapture. And her sighs of transport mingled with Olga's cries of pleasure and the hardly perceptible pantings of the gagged American.
With the extinction of the fires ravaging the senses of the representatives of the enemy countries, reconciled during the crucial moments of climax, the "entente cordiale" was also extinguished. As Olga threw the martinet away, she snorted to bring back all her aptitude of secret-agent-uniquely-activated-uy-professional-sentiments. Once again she overturned the conquered one's body and lit a cigarette. Her fingers closed over the pubes' thick wig and pulled at it until Judith's face was wreathed with pain.
"Nat, take off the gag," she ordered brusquely.
When this was done, Olga asked, in a sweet voice, "You liked that, eh Judith?"
"Oh yes-ouch! Let go of my hairs, please, you're hurting me."
"It's up to you! I could transform this pain into divine felicity. Personally, I would prefer to spread my most incisive sucks over your pretty little cunt than hurt it with torture."
A gleam of hope shone in the captive's eyes, altering, for a brief second, the mask of distress which contracted her face. In her little brain she imagined she had seduced the appetizing redhead to such a point that she could compromise with her on the revelations they had asked of her with such vehemence.
I've got her under my thumb, thought the American, who didn't generally sin by excesses of modesty. She's ready to content herself with some unimportant information to satisfy her scruples and let her save face just to make love to me under normal conditions. I have a lot more class than that little sparrow she calls her friend and whom she must have tired of a long time ago ... Poor Judith deluded herself! Her woman's pride led her astray.
"If you wish, dear Olga, just to be nice to you, I'll give you a rundown of my section-"
Olga stared at her stonily and said, "Are you trying to make a cunt out of me? What do you want me to do with a rundown that I already know and which my bosses had a long time ago! You know what I want-the name and address of the itinerant agent who's been following us since we arrived!"
"But I told you I don't know!"
"Listen carefully to what I'm going to say," said Olga angrily. "I'm not going to repeat it. You have admitted, and what's more, I've seen the proof myself, that you are a sensual person. In other words, the biggest joys of your existence are caused by your senses. If you don't tell me what I want to know, I'll burn your clitoris. You'll never be able to enjoy love-making again!"
And to show that she wasn't bluffing, Olga approached her cigarette to the pubes and began to singe the small ringlets, which shriveled and blackened, falling slowly towards the curve of her crack. When she felt her hole being opened by the sadist's fingers and the incandescent tip heating this essential appendix to her body, white with terror, teeth chattering, she blurted out: "I'LL TELL YOU EVERYTHING! Please don't do that to me! I wouldn't survive, making love is my only reason for being!"
"Ahh, about time!" said Olga with a sigh of satisfaction. "Go ahead, I'm listening."
The young woman heaved a sigh of relief, closing her eyelids for an instant. She swallowed hard, as if taking courage to betray, and said levelly, in a small quiet voice: "The person who's following you is John Band, alias OSS.011. He's a top CIA man who-"
"I know, I know," said Olga impatiently. "Carry on. Where is he?"
"Oh dear, what'll happen to me afterwards! I'll be liquidated, without doubt. NO, No, I can't unveil all that! Go ahead, make me a frigid woman.
Anyway, my denunciation would lead to my death. I choose not to betray!"
She closed her eyes again. Two tears squeezed out from her eyelashes. She was as pale as death and waves of shudders shook her body. Olga admired her courage. It was painful for her to carry out her threat, but she risked failure if she cancelled the exemplary punishment. Heart-broken, she placed the glowing tip at the entrance to the vagina. The girl, wonderfully stoic, stiffened, awaiting the ignoble intervention which would paralyze her senses until the end of her days. She quivered, yelping. The hot ashes burned her vaginal lips. She vowed to devote herself body and soul for her country's cause henceforth, since her only weakness would soon be suppressed.
Suddenly the window burst open with the shock of a brown mass which, propelled from the outside, tumbled in the air, rolled on the ground, uprighted itself and faced the group.
"STOP OLGA!" yelled the would-be dumb eunuch-in-chief! "Stop! Please! I give myself up! It's me-John!"
Olga sighed, relieved. Not only had the opportune interruption of the agent shortened her enquiry, but prevented her from destroying the volcanic temperament which she admired so much.
She held her revolver on the handsome male, for whom she had experienced obscure sentiments for years which she didn't even admit to herself. Band took off the thin rubber mask which had allowed him to become an authentic negro for a few days.
When he saw the Beretta pointed at him, he laughed.
"Oh, put that thing away, please. I'm not dangerous. On the contrary! Briefly, here is the present situation and, no doubt, you'll be my ally when you hear everything. These famous arms which my country should deliver here and which yours wanted to buy up the market, will never arrive here."
"What's that?" asked the astounded redhead.
"Be quiet a minute, please. We haven't much time left, if any! Anyway, this arms deal is off. By my fault and yours. My fault because I didn't know that Hallepah's secretary was in the sultan's pay! He kept him informed of all the Pasha's movements. Your fault or Natacha's because one of you killed Ahmed and his sudden disappearance alerted the king's troops. Ahmed had to contact the palace every night by radio. He couldn't do it last night because he was dead. I discovered his radio in his room after finding him dead. I had come to your cell to make sure that you were gone. This morning, at five o'clock, a gendarme asked to speak to the secretary. The guard at the gate informed his superior. Not finding him in his apartments and knowing him to be fond of European girls, the officer proceeded to visit all the cells until finally he found Ahmed's body. There was a helluva fluster. The Pasha, urgently awakened, went to his right-hand man's apartment. On seeing the radio, he under stood. To cover up for himself, he personally telephoned the sultan to warn him that Ahmed had been assassinated by two Soviet agents that he had captured the day before, and whom he had put in prison to deliver to the police this morning. And to clear himself, he promised to deliver an American agent, me, who was trying to sell him arms. Fortunately, I had done a little spying for myself. It's because of that that I was able to intercept his telephone call. So, my beauties, we've no time to lose.
Let's burn these documents and get away. Right now, a plane stuffed with police is coming down to land at the military aerodrome at Marrakech."
"But why did you disguise yourself as a eunuch?" asked Olga.
"I asked the Pasha. I suspected that the Russians might have wind of our transactions and I wanted to be prepared for all eventualities-without counting that the position offered certain advantages. At the beginning the girls were a bit surprised to find such a horny eunuch! But these are girls who have lost the habit of asking questions, because of disciplinary reprisals! They didn't ask themselves for long, being only too content to accept me as their master's assistant."
"That doesn't matter," Natacha reproached him, "you could have arranged for us to avoid the torment and the affronts which we had to bear because of you!"
"Don't grudge me, I saved you from a horrible death! Besides, I think we're quits. For you two haven't been very nice to my compatriot. And if circumstances hadn't brought me here at the precise moment, poor Judith would be definitely lost for the cult of Eros! Come! Let us hurry. Olga, Natacha, ass our documents."
"Ah. Now if that isn't ironic."
"We've no time to act the fool. Do you want them to find us with all this proof on us?"
"Dear chap. Natacha and I don't give a damn. We have our car. We'll just say bye-bye."
"Christ, but you're stupid Olga. Do you think it is such a good idea to take the Oldsmobile? You wouldn't have time to get it started before three or four guys, armed to the teeth would jump you."
"So what!"
"So do what I tell you. Judith will get me some European clothing while I clean off this make-up which has blacked my skin."
"And me?" groaned Judith. "My blouse is all torn and I've no change of underclothes with me. I can't voyage without panties under such a short skirt."
Olga replied for John.
"I keep telling you, sweety, that even if you had some, I would have forbidden you to put them on. Look!" (she lifted her own and Natacha's dresses up) "Neither have we anything to put on to hide our backsides. And it's that big pig who stole them on us. All because it excites him that we be without panties!"
"Hum," said Band, licking his lips greedily. "Pity we're in such a hurry. I'm in great form. What's more, look for yourselves mesdames .. ."
And he took off his Moroccan trousers and pulled down his underpants. Three exclamations coming from three different mouths approved the 'healthy state' of the only male present. He hardened with supreme ardour. And his penis, monstrously upright, stood out even more against the rest of his body, artificially tanned.
"Bastard!" shouted Olga, precipitating on the bewitching cock, which she knew by heart, but could never get her hands on. Then her hands devoured the marvelous instrument of pleasure and began to tease it, while her beautiful fleshy lips got round the big end, like a sucker, and her flailing tongue began a delicious titillation on his savories.
"No, no, Olga. Not now," pleaded John, his eyes drowning in voluptuousness, trying to push her head back from his extended cock.
Her mouth full of meat, Olga gurgled as if she had eaten boiling hot mashed potatoes: "Not on your life. I'm going to suck you until you come. I've been waiting too long for this." And she sucked his splendid organ with passion. The organ, which swelled bigger between her tongue and her palate, beat with joy against the roof of her mouth.
Out of it, Judith and Natacha considered, with envious gleams in their eyes, the woman who treated herself to aphrodisiac savors and the man, who naked, trousers on his ankles, stomach thrown forward, pushed and pulled his tight backside to make his member come and go into the tempting furnace.
Eyes closed, Olga pumped diligently. She breathed between her lips, tightened them as much as possible to heighten the pleasure. She literally maddened the member by curling her tongue round it. After which, she pushed it out of her mouth, pulling her head back, very slowly, relaxing her jaw muscles and again, with a powerful inhalation, squeezing it hard, she absorbed it almost whole. John couldn't stand any more. He panted, shuddered. His nails gripped her flamboyant hair on which he pulled to quicken or slow up his introductions. He attained the summit of pleasure. There was no question of rejecting the salacious presentations of the young woman. From here on he was too deafened by the beginnings of rapture to listen to the voice of wisdom.
With great stomach blows, he rushed towards the undoing. His cock, skin well pulled back by the young woman's insane hands which were masturbating him, feeling and petrifying his balls at the same time, slid out just to its end, catapulting itself brutally, like a ram, smashing against the back of her throat at the end of its journey.
Then he began to quake; his legs weak from passion. Grunting hoarsely, he arched himself and all his muscles knotted under his skin as he began to relieve himself sanctimoniously into the mouth which slurped hungrily as the sap spilled out.
Her lips still frothy, Olga then aided in the burning of the documents.
John rapidly dressed himself in sail-cloth trousers and shirt. Then, from his disguise kit, he pulled on a mask which made him look like an Arab, stuck on a thin, black moustache, and put on a crinkly wig; sun glasses hid his gray eyes. When they were ready to go out, the sudden silence which reigned in the workshop alarmed them. John opened the door slowly. Four men in civilian clothing interrogated the workers. As he closed the door, one of the workers pointed his finger to the office.
"Quick, girls. Jump out the window. They're here!"
Natacha, the last to leave, was still astride the ledge when the 'specials' erupted into the room crying:.
"Hands up! Stop! We'll Fire!"
Bent over double, the four spies ran breathlessly into the yard. Bullets whistled past their ears. Fortunately, no one was hit. They were able to reach the door of the other building without harm. They crossed through and found themselves in a little street where a small lorry was awaiting an 'immediate boarding' as they say in airports.
Band took the wheel while the three gins jumped under the tarpaulin. Unfortunately, the foursome hadn't been sufficiently rapid getting away, for the policemen were able to take the number of the lorry. Moreover, before the Dodge had turned into another street, shots were fired in their direction. Holes in the tarpaulin revealed that if the three young women hadn't lain down on the lorry's floor at least one of them would have been killed. When they were on the open road John called Judith who was chuckling under Olga's caresses. In their fall, the seductive blonde's velvet mini skirt was so enticingly caught up that the red headed girl couldn't help glancing back at her beautiful spheres of flesh still swollen and lined with sinewy weals.
Her hands hadn't been able to resist the call of this involuntary show of tempting buttocks and had burrowed between them to roam the secret recesses.
"Judith! Instead of enrapturing yourself with that perverted bitch's fiddlings, wouldn't it be better to call up the Casablanca central and ask them to send us a helicopter. We'll get to the mountains. On the map there's a little road to the left. We'll take it and stop two kilometers along it. That's where they have to come and get us."
Fixing herself up, unsettled by the enchanting touchings which commenced sensual happiness in her, cheeks hot with fever, the American opened a false tool-box, started the radio, coded a message and broadcast it.
CHAPTER 7
Natacha was sea sick! The little Italian fishing vessel-in reality a small American naval boat disguised-rolled and swayed on the Mediterranean whose legendary calm surface immortalized by poets, was absent.
Two hours before the helicopter had posed the four of them on its bridge, outside Moroccan territorial waters. No diplomatic incidents.
"Natacha! Pull yourself together please! Take that serviette away from your face. It's not polite at the table."
The four were lunching. With them was the captain, a young well-built man, eyes sparkling with malice, who had a full red beard denoting his Irish origin. He smoked a short pipe, scrutinized each girl in turn.
"But Olga," groaned the brunette, "don't be cruel. I want to vomit. At least let me go to the toilet."
"No!"
"Ooohhhh . . ." One would have thought this was a little girl opposing her inflexible mother.
"And stop shaking or I'll give it to you!" She shook her hand in a spanking motion.
Pretending not to understand, MacKum took his pipe out of his mouth to ask, "What do you mean by that?"
"That if that twenty year old bird continues to conduct herself like an eight year old baby, I'll spank her backside in front of everybody." Mac's eyes narrowed; his face twitched. Under his serviette, his hand tried to calm his hardening cock.
Natacha, red faced, didn't know where to look. Eyes filled with tears, she bowed her head, terribly ill at ease to be the target of everyone there whom she knew to be waiting for the moment when her mistress would bend her over knee and administer a humiliating spanking.
"You won't obey me? Is that it?"
"No, I...I . . ." She had another spasm which obliged her to put the serviette to her mouth.
Olga jumped on her. Brusquely, she pulled her off her chair:
"No ... Noo ... Olga! No! Not in front of everybody."
But she was already bent over the table, her breasts, naked under her blouse, crushed a plate full of ice-cream and a fork whose four prongs painful pricked her flesh through the thin cloth.
And in front of the sailor who had shifted to get a better view, Olga pulled up the tweed mini-skirt and bared her backside which tightened with shame. Despite her cries and pleadings, Olga delivered a crackling spanking which brought red patches of blood to the surface of her trembling skin. Lively handed, the red-head distributed her slaps in an infernal cadence, making the voluminous buttocks quiver. Sometimes, the rebounds of the spanked backside were so great that for an instant, too fleeting for the spectators, they revealed the reliefs of the pink-ochre sex, surrounded by its double bush of brown vegetation. Under the skin of her backside, Natacha felt her blood boiling and the heat which it caused sent quiverings right to the bottom of her stomach. The hurt was so that she had now passed the stage where to be spanked butt bare in front of other people didn't hurt her pride anymore.
Each time, it was the same thing. And that had been going on ever since she had known Olga who had never spared her in public. And the slaps dispensed on her opulent posterior very quickly became the most stimulating agent of sexual excitement.
Although still crying, sobbing and pleading in a way that would make one believe that she was in great pain, Natacha swooned in a sea of passionate pleasure. Moreover, all could see that a sticky liquor, almost uncolored, flowed from her cunt.
And the more that the spanks flash across her buttocks, which were now red as lobsters, the more the young girl in rapture felt delicious effects in the bottom of her stomach.
Just then Mac heard someone say, "She's the lucky one."
As he turned toward his left he noted it was Judith. He looked in her eyes to see if she had said it jokingly or if it had been really a reflex of her thoughts. Seeing the tiny trembling at the corners of her mouth, the man deduced she would readily substitute herself for the girl, twisting under the flaming slaps.
"If I can help you in any way, dear Judith, don't hesitate to ask. I'm a master spanker. In Ireland, before signing up for Pearl Harbour, I was school master in a country village! And you know at home, we don't spare the rod. I should tell you that I rarely spanked a boy unless he had done something really wrong. But the girls...When I had no valid reason for satiating my desire for whipping, I made up my own. So spiteful was I at times, that I was ashamed!"
"You're cynical, captain," whispered the panting woman who lowered her arms in a sign of abandon, of defeat which enchanted her more than victory.
The sailor took her by the arm, pulled her towards a chair and sat down.
"Tuck yourself up with your back facing me!"
The girl reddened, but obeyed. Slowly, her fluttering fingers took her velvet skirt while she pivoted on her stiletto heels.
Mac was full of admiration for the opaline color of her skin when the velvet uncovered her naked thighs. He saw appearing, suddenly when the long jutting divine columns appeared, the two circular folds announcing the curve of the naked backside. Then came the two muscled hemispheres, jutting like two big balloons, lily white, on which rested red traces of the whip, heightened by two charming dimples, delicately shadowed, covering the oval cap of the rectangular bisection; secret mysteries waiting to be discovered.
The man spread his legs. "Come between my legs." Judith put herself in profile. Ardent eyes riveted on her majestic circular curve of her butt, subjugated by their indecent projection, before slamming his hand down on the beautiful fleshy masses.
"Take off your blouse! I want to see your breasts wobbling while I spank you."
The girl obeyed as if in a dream. She unpinned the pins which replaced the buttons torn off by
Olga, threw her breasts forward and with a pompous gesture put her arms behind her back to slip off her blouse. Ardent eyes riveted on her majestic breasts, one of which had a burned teat. The spanker placed one hand on her pubes and lifting his right, began a ringing spanking which he sprayed with successive salvoes like a machine gun. As soon as he started to beat her, Judith, holding on to her skirt so that it wouldn't fall down, bent forward, letting her breasts swing freely. And in the middle of the tumult, there was John, his cock reclaiming a conquest.
The only one who could help him was Olga, so the agent came behind her, tasting in advance the pleasure of being able to benefit from such abundant flesh. He pulled the dress up over her fabulous domes. Grateful for this attention, Olga, who couldn't continue the spanking forever, ceased to mistreat the rubicund ass and dispensed her softest and deepest kisses on it.
Natacha, stupefied with mingled pleasure and pain, eyes vacant as if drugged, felt herself whirl in the centre of a typhoon, pulled into the bowels of the earth, and inspired with a contradictory current bringing her back to life, when her lover's tongue began to touch her lightly. Electrifying! A kind of tongue transfusion to revive her. She shuddered lightly, opening her buttocks with her fingers so that the tongue could more easily revolve round her anus.
Leaning over the valley of sodomic perditions, Olga offered her buttocks to John's implantation.
The man, holding his panting prey by the hips, arched on the spine plied by his ruler. His ardent cock became encased in the long furrow, sliding between the snowy summits, bumping into the eye which 'winked' with impatience. He pushed on his rigid pole, the gland forced the passage, dilating the dark collar. Nevertheless, the distension came naturally. Olga's sphincter had already swallowed the biggest human members and lanyards much superior in size to the most robust of cocks.
And while Band was losing himself in the depths of the girl's intestines, the sailor, tired of spanking Judith, began to whip her with his belt.
The young woman crouched on the ground like a dog, dress tucked up under her belt, buttocks swinging left and right as she howled in pain. Face deformed by a cruel sneer, jacking off himself off with his left, Mac thumped the naked ass which dawdled erotically in front of him. The large hard belt slapped into the round crevices with the sound of wet flesh.
"Gallop! Go on, run, bitch. Ah, so you wanted to take a beating on your ass. Well, here you are, you whore. Take that, and that. Ah, if only you could see your butt. It's like a big pumpkin disguised as a tomato.
"Ooowww!" howled the bitch, having the impression that she was sitting on a hot stove.
Natacha and Olga exalted, in trances in the thralls of incomparable felicity as Judith cried with pain and suffering. When, at the end of her resistance, she collapsed on the ground, the sailor whipped her back and thighs as well, ripping her long black nylons. And when, during her disordinate gesticulations, she turned over on her back, he started on her breasts, her stomach and even her cunt, enjoying his beastly action when, profiting from an involuntary spread of her thighs, he thumped right into the inside of her vagina on all its length.
Emphasizing his words with blows, he cried, "Now whore! I'm going to bugger you!"
"Oh, no! Not that, my anus was burned by a cigarette during an interrogation. Your penetration would hurt me horribly!"
"More's the reason to take you from there. Go on, turn over. Show me your hole so that I can stick my tail in it."
Joining her hands, Judith threw herself at her torturer's feet. But he remained adamant, not heeding her pleadings. He had decided to plant his member into that superb hole which he had just savagely punished. And nothing in the world would make him change his mind.
In spite of the American's fierce opposition, she found herself folded in two, the top half of her body sticking out of the dining window, wedged between the casement and the window frame which he had pulled down onto the small of her back. Seen from outside, it must have been sensational! Her naked breasts hanging free, face furious, the young woman waved her arms in the air. From the other side, at the interior of the state room, her legs pedaled furiously, a foot from the ground.
Mac caught hold of her feet, opening her up like a compass and his member pointed at the rosette of calcinated skin, he maneuvered in the violently widened crack to impale the prize.
Judith lived some horrible moments. The penis plunged into her anus making her bear the same pains as if it had been a bar of white-hot steel. And the pants, the sighs of pleasure of the trio weren't enough to cover up her screams.
The boat hove off to Cannes.
* * *
0SS.011 invited Olga and Natacha to come up on the bridge.
"Here we are, my darlings, we say goodbye here."
"What," asked Olga, "are you now getting off with us?"
"No dear, duty calls me to Morocco."
"To Morocco?"
"Of course. I have to deliver the arms which are in the boat's hold to the Pasha of Marrakech!"
"To the Pasha! But I thought. .."
"You thought. YOU thought. You should never believe what people tell you. Little goose. I began to find you a little obstructing, so I made up a little fairy story for you, with naughty policemen to make it more-likely, who, between us, were only vagrants I had paid!"
"And the documents we burned?"
"Anyway, our section was known to your services, so ... Tell me Olga, can you swim?"
"And Natacha?"
"As well."
"Sailors, if you please, throw these two ravishing ladies over the side. They can swim back. Fully dressed."
THE END
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SWEET ... SIXTEEN ... AND SPANKED!!!
by SADIE BLACKEYES
A romance of family discipline. Translated by: Pierre Fortunaise
NEW EDITIONS 39, Rue Etienne-Marcel, 39 PARIS
PART ONE
CHAPTER I
A young girl! Sixteen years of age!
What pretty pictures do these two phrases occasion. One sees immediately a charming portrait, maybe a Greuze, or an English pastel representing a little lady rosy with the glow of health, with beautiful innocent eyes and all the budding coquetry of a young person who knows that she is beautiful and already worthy of drawing in her train a whole string of adorers.
However, in this case you need not search the works of the old masters, even among those of the recognized painters of the young girl, to find the portrait of our charming heroine.
Even were they clothed in accordance with the dictates of the fashion of this present day, old portraits could not depict the type of the modern adolescent girl, whether she be brought up on the lines of freedom truly American, or with the rigorous authority which is still a tradition of some old middle class families shut up in quiet little towns, and ignorant of the progress of the capital.
In both cases the young lady of today does not present the same line as the painters say, they are no longer the chubby cheeked, laughing girls with pretty names like Toinon, Martine or Rose, such as grace the engravings of the eighteenth century.
Having abandoned the panniers of Watteau's ladies for the tailor-made, our young ladies have lost that rather roguish grace of comedy soubrettes, to acquire either the free ways of the young American, or the correct and serious style of provincial girls still at high school or the fashionable boarding school, and who exhibit already all the symptoms of that polished grace, a little stiff, the least bit prudish, which distinguishes the gentlewomen of the small provincial towns from the gentlewoman of the big cities and particularly of Paris.
Here are two portraits which should tempt the artist who wishes to depict a figure of our epoch. On the one hand, the sophisticated girl, independent and flirtatious, on the other, the little white mouse from the country who reads the books of the Rose Library and blushes at the description of the spankings which the General Dourakine so lavishly distributed to the ill behaved little girls and boys.
In this story we shall concern ourselves only with the former type, the sophisticated, no longer blushing and quite capable of accommodating themselves to any situation, even the most risqu', that is provided fashion decrees it in order or even tolerates it.
From these young ladies there are no longer any forbidden books. It may be gathered from hearing them talk among themselves that they have nothing more to learn, theoretically, of the mystery of life and their flirtations may be pushed far enough to allow them to taste of the rose of pleasure without however pricking their fingers.
The young girl we shall study here is the young provincial, whose historian we have deputed our self in this absolutely authentic little romance of life.
When the young country girl sets out to be beautiful, she is beautiful, more than beautiful, for she possesses in addition that exquisite feminine charm, which resembles the bloom on a lovely fruit, excessive modesty. Excessive, indeed, if she is compared with her sophisticated sister. But this defect is in appearance only. What subject could be more enchanting, more attractive, than the modest young maiden, that adorable mystery who is so capable of defending herself against vulgar curiosity and who remains a profound enigma up to the day when, crowned with orange-blossom, under her with bridal veil, blushing and shy, she surrenders to love.
What a mystery is the little white mouse, a mystery which few men are able to unravel. Her timid modesty, her somewhat haughty dignity, her child-like gentleness and her obedience, are so many weapons which defend her against the indiscreet psychologist who would fain search the depths of that bare soul, as a surgeon probes with his scalpel on the dissecting table, the corpse from which he hopes to extract some new and conclusive scientific discovery.
The most piercing glance does not penetrate those eyes, frigid and immediately hidden beneath modestly lowered lids. Nothing discloses even a glimpse of the mass of ideas which revolves in that pure little forehead, beneath its shady locks. The physical grace of woman, the round, full curve of the hips, the swelling of the little budding breasts are united with the soul of the little girl, whose parents correct her still with the stick if necessary.
However, beneath this apparent sweetness of looks and gentle childish lips is sometimes hidden the harmful growth of perverseness, and as weeds are often mingled with the nourishing wheat, the baneful flowers of lust may take root in these virgin souls. It may be that nothing is noticeable for a number of years. Modesty, decency, and respectability are changed into a single word, hypocrisy, which preserves their appearance. The little white mouse is still the little white mouse; in her presence loose conversation always top in time, right up to the day when the scandal bursts suddenly, like a bomb, on the startled little town.
For a few moments surprise silences all tongues, then they are loosed and the gossip flies apace, carried at first from drawing room to drawing room, then to the kitchen whence it reached the street, and then it is that the secret history of the little white mouse is reconstructed in all its details, sometimes in all its horror . .. though this is a harsh word by which to describe the physical longings which are quite natural in a healthy girl who only asks and also procures satisfaction.
We must be forgiven for this too long dissertation on the various types of modern girl. In our opinion it was necessary to a proper understanding of this story, which is simply a "slice of life" as it was termed in the good old days of realism.
In this tale, which is not at all immoral, but merely of an unusual candor, we shall consider specially that sentiment of modesty which is characteristic of well brought up youth; it is a simple study of manners, a veracious picture, and that is why we try to present our subjects as living entities before depicting them in characteristic scenes of their daily lives.
This long preamble was necessary in order to "place" in a manner this little Alice Murray, whose fortunes we shall follow by reconstructing a stage of her life, a period beautified by the vigorous youth of her sixteen years.
The whole of this true story was picked up piecemeal from all sides. Little rumours, picturesque and sometimes lively, like the hand of Madame Legrillon, Alice's aunt, enabled us to reconstruct this sentimental adventure which was initiation into life of a little middle class girl.
The moral of the story is entirely as it should be. The heroine as it were found her punishment in the sin itself, and if some cry out against the form of chastisement, we would tell them that the fear of the birch is the beginning of wisdom, and that our elders, who were often spanked for trivial motives, could appreciate the signification of the family discipline.
This is an achievement, is it not?
We firmly believe, in view of the pretentious originality of our young ladies, who, on the other hand are perhaps virtuous in secret, but who manage to make themselves notorious everywhere with such freedom, that the man who is not acquainted with their families may believe himself authorized to indulge in all sorts of liberties with them such as are more usually sought from ladies of easy virtue. But with our flighty charmers such mistake is quite possible, which was not the case formerly, when little girls were still wearing long panties under their crinolines.
Having said this much, we reach the heart of our subject.
A few years ago this story created a scandal in a little provincial town we will call, if you please, Runancy, and naturally we describe the persons who provided the gossip of Runancy by fictitious names.
Runancy is a charming little town of twenty thousand souls, on the bank of a pretty river which Providence created for the delight of anglers.
Smart society consisted of the colonel, commanding the battalion of light infantry, the sub-prefect, seven or eight doctors, several lawyers, etc.
At Runancy there are two parties in the world of fashion, the Republican, with the sub-prefect, Dr. Ruble, Umais the chemist, the tax collector, the inspector for elementary education, etc., etc., indeed all the local functionaries and two wholesale wine merchants.
The Conservative party is composed of Mr. Legrillon, the solicitor and his wife, Madame Antoinette Legrillon, a superb attractive brunette of thirty-eight, the classic type of the woman of Bordeaux, but in appearance only, for she actually was a native of Runancy itself.
The drawing room of the beautiful Madame Legrillon, as she was usually called, was the centre of the opposition. The army, the clergy, and some of the magistrature gathered round the bridge tables once a month. Every Saturday, these gentlemen's wives called on madame's "at home" day. The gossip was thick and fast, whilst Miss Alice Murray served tea with many airs, handing round the sugar, cream and the cakes on a dish.
Here we are then. Alice Murray? You wish for a formal introduction. Here then, Miss Alice Murray was the niece of Madame Legrillon, nee Murray. Left an orphan at the age of six years, the little girl, after the death of her parents, had been placed in the charge of her uncle, the solicitor, who was to bring her up and administer the very comfortable fortune she possessed until she came of age, when he was to arrange a good match for her since the account he would then render her would constitute a very handsome marriage portion.
At the time that this story begins Alice was sixteen years old. Just sixteen, and the occasion had been celebrated by the present of a superb gold wrist watch.
She was a pretty girl, not very tall, but well made, elegant, with an elegance which was dignified and correct, in keeping with the ideas of her aunt, who was perhaps the most prudish person in the town.
Of a pretty Alsacian fairness, with fine blue eyes, a somewhat large but well formed mouth. Alice was a pretty, quite a pretty girl, still wearing a short tailor-made skirt, although her little body with its supple harmonious lines, was filling out in accordance with nature in the parts where this latter is pleased to produce the provoking curves of the feminine form.
Alice was, one might say, a robust little maiden, healthy and dainty, with the fresh complexion of a new painting, and almost a picture of saintliness by reason of her decorum and gentleness of bearing. As may be seen she belonged naturally to that delightful group of little white mice who are supposed to believe that babies come into the world among the cabbages. Madame Legrillon, whom she called stepmother, ruled her like a stern and just teacher. This good lady recalled her own education in a convent at Runancy, where the last resort of scholastic discipline was administered in a room apart, furnished with a padded leather "horse," and a jar of water in which seven or eight birches were continually soaking to keep them fresh and supple.
This method undoubtedly benefited the beautiful Madame Legrillon in her younger days, for she kept it in mind and had not spared little Alice from the first day that the gentle orphan was placed in her care.
Now that Alice was a big girl these punishments were rare.
What, you will say, were rare? Then, according to you this young girl of sixteen was still whipped. But how? with the hand ... the birch ... the cat on the bare flesh ... on the usual spot, or perhaps, as it is more decent, her step mother was satisfied with beating her, a few cuts with a switch across the shoulders or on the calves, when in her little petticoat the damsel exposed their rounded curves.
Patience, patience, we would reply, don't put the cart before the horse.
CHAPTER 2
THE COUNTRY, THE COUNTRY TOWN AND SOME FAMILY SECRETS DIVULGED
Now that our pretty Alice is introduced to our readers, and they are aware that they are to devote their attention exclusively to this plump rosy and pretty little person, it will be as well to describe briefly the surroundings in which she moved, in order to appreciate her happy position.
We have said a few words about Runancy and Madame Legrillon's drawing room.
Let us return for a moment to Runancy before studying the people who frequented the house of the solicitor's beautiful wife, before we divulge some little provincial customs preserved in old families whose morals could not be questioned and which show that the relations between Madame Legrillon and her niece were not exceptional, and that it is more usual than ordinary people think to chastise grown young ladies by administering on their bottoms that childish punishment which nurse maids sometimes apply to their charges corum populo in the parks.
This chapter will therefore serve as introduction to a little study which we shall endeavor to make interesting on corporal punishment in the family and in the old families whose homes preserve the rigid and severe aspect of convents.
The whole town of Runancy has indeed retained that old and comfortable appearance of ancient towns, with its houses dating from the seventeenth century. A mall, a promenade which encircles the city, serves as meeting place on Sundays for the families proceeding to the concert given by the military band from four o'clock till five.
On this day the young ladies put on their pretty tailor-mades or pink or white muslin dresses, according to the season, the mothers wear their best jewelry, and they chatter, chatter giving birth to the little scandals which relieve the monotony of a daily life which leaves to each only too much time to pry into her neighbors' affairs.
A frequent visitor at Madame Legrillon's as we have said, was Mr. de Bourouet, the master of the wolf-hounds, an elderly gentleman with a florid complexion, who had survived three wives, and was the father of a daughter of sixteen, whose name was Isabelle.
Isabelle de Bourouet was tall, dark, with restless eyes and a sly look. Fine eyes and a wealth of hair gave her a certain charm, that disquieting charm of the vicious girl, whose coquetry sometimes caused her lack of physical development to be overlooked. She was a friend of Alice.
Miss Marie Bordumien was also one of Alice's companions. Marie was a pretty blonde, and marriageable though only seventeen years of age. Her parents were large landowners who themselves cultivate a big farm in the vicinity of Runancy.
Among Alice's friends another we may mention was Claire Girnal, a niece of the abbe Girnal, the family confessor.
Claire was a little person of the same age as Alice, dark, a rather nice girl, pleasantly plump, like a little fat bird, whom the abbe brought up very strictly in the path of virtue.
All these young ladies, naturally, were similarly endowed with that air of decorum which is so typically provincial. They were all pretentious little minxes, whose modesty appeared to be alarmed at the slightest thing. Despite that however, their faces were those of dainty young people, well nourished, healthy and graceful; and, my word, it was evident that the young man who married any one of them, taken at random, in addition to the nice little dowry she would bring him, would not be by any means bored in the intimate company of his young wife.
Here then is a pretty group of charming and gay young girls, such as the passers-by would admire when they took a walk, it remains now for us to examine the life of each of them, and to study the provincial customs which still in these days allow quite big girls to be treated as babies.
Since the time of Tallement des Reaux, who in his Anecdotes has divulged certain secrets concerning the education of girls, habits have scarcely changed.
Today as in the past, in the convent and out of the convent, the whip is the great master educator, before which every juvenile head must bow, and which always has the last word in the little domestic dramas.
True, we do not think that nowadays it is still the custom to spank the chamber maids and whip the lackeys, these would not submit to such treatment.
Besides, even at the time of de Reaux, a certain lady at Vervins aroused the fury of the populace who sacked her mansion because she had whipped one of her servants until the blood ran.
The servants of our days are no longer one of the family as in the past when the mistress took into her service a little wench of some twelve years and rid her of her awkwardness by treating her as she would one of her own children, that is to say by applying the birch whenever she deserved it.
In these days if the old families have preserved this violent method of punishing their girls, it is only employed with the daughters of the house and not towards strangers.
The tradition of these old customs, which entail quite a ceremony when their application is necessary, has even preserved the educational instrument of our ancestors, that is to say the birch, twigs of the birch tree, fresh and stinging. The 'cate' a more modern invention, is also more proletarian. It is only used by mothers to deliver occasional cuts on the calves of misbehaving girls and boys. It does not require the same ceremonial as the birch and is not regarded as the classic instrument of flagellation.
The hand is rarely used in these circles. The contact of the hand with the part to be whipped is not very seemly and then the moral effect is not so great as that of the birch.
The birch rod, it is the very sceptre of all-power, that the father, mother, or severe governess wields over the big and little girls and the little boys. It reigns in a corner of the class room and is never put to use without the solemn practice of the ceremonious ritual attaching to it.
This requires the baring of those parts which a provident nature has so prettily rounded out below the supple loins of graceful young girls, it demands a kneeling position favorable to the ample presentation of these parts, and it calls sometimes for the holding of the culprit in that sorry position by the strong arm of a servant who, by her presence at the punishment, thus increases the confusion of the victim, whose shocked modesty is subjected to a severe trial.
A spanking with the bare hand is less ceremonious. There is the quick tucking up of the skirts, the untying of the drawers, and then pom, pom, pom on the dainty bottom which shrinks and jumps, whilst at the other end the girl screams, rages or pleads in turn.
This manual spanking is a fit method for little girls up to twelve years of age. Above this age the punishment must be more solemn in order to strike not only the flesh but the spirit of the culprit.
We may be pardoned this little digression, which was necessary to a proper understanding of the story.
Our readers will see in it pages dedicated to the stinging renown of the whip, and if we have spoken at such great length of family tradition, it is in order to preface our declaration that these young ladies; Alice Murray, Isabelle de Burouet, Marie Bordumien and Claire Girnal knew in every detail the uses and customs of the cult of Madam Birch.
With differences of setting, they had all performed with skirts in air and drawers pulled down, in circumstances that the scandal-mongers of Runancy were pleased to spread abroad in our hearing.
Although these old fashioned spankings were administered in the privacy of respectable houses with their big windows shrouded by heavy curtains, their echoes reached our ears, and with our customary lack of discretion we propose to relate how four charming young ladies of sixteen each succeed in attracting to their well cushioned seats the thunderbolts of family discipline.
It caused great emotion in the little town. All agreed that the parents were justified and a mocking smile greeted the heroines for some months, when they went out walking. Then no more was heard of it for it requires more to trouble the public conscience for long, than the uninteresting sound of smacks planted on the rebellious bottom of a maiden.
CHAPTER 3
WHICH TREATS OF AN OLD FASHIONED AUNT AND A LITTLE OLD BOOK
"Alice! Alice! Will you answer!"
Madame Legrillon, already gloved, spruce and attractive in her black tailor made, half leaning on the banister of the staircase, a position which admirably exhibited the proud proportions of her seat, was calling to her niece.
A young girl's clear voice replied: "I'm coming, step-mother, I am looking for my gloves."
"Looking for your gloves, how many more times must I tell you to keep your things in better order."
A door slammed on the first floor of the solicitor's house, then, on the landing was heard the sharp trot of high boots, and Alice scampered down the stairs whilst buttoning the gloves which she had at last found, and biting her lips with a charming grimace.
"You are insupportable, my girl. I am tired of talking to you: one of these days I shall use a different argument. There is no need for me to explain what I mean, you understand me?"
A pout from Alice showed that indeed the young girl understood quite well what this threat meant: the blush which crimsoned her cheeks indicated better than any protest the shock to her outraged modesty and dignity.
The two ladies set out. In the street the beautiful and imposing Madame Legrillon again addressed her niece in the same short and peevish tone: "Hold yourself upright, don't look at people like that..."
Imposing in her pride at occupying one of the most envied positions in the town, she dominated everything with her haughty stare.
From time to time they encountered acquaintances. The gentlemen raised their hats with great flourish and our ladies bowed with a smile, always the same, the conventional smile, such as the provincial properties demanded in the presence of one's equals.
"We are going," said Madame Legrillon, continuing the walk, "to Mr. de Bourouet's. He was going out hunting this morning. Your uncle received a letter inviting him, but he was unable to go. Isabelle must be alone therefore with her German governess. That is why I thought of calling for her and we will go for a little walk together. I am glad to see that you are friendly with Isabelle. She is an accomplished young girl, such as we were when we were young, when girls obeyed their parents and did not try to know everything. You can take example by her. She is a very capable little person. I saw her the other day serving tea at home with a modesty and grace that I wish you possessed."
Here Madame Legrillon gave a sigh and continued her way, but Alice lowered her pretty nose as though it were irresistibly attracted towards the centre of the earth.
She knew her aunt's humor, and knew from experience that she must not try to stop that flood of words which buzzed about her ears. The slightest sign of opposition in this respect had always been followed by a slap or, which was more serious, by an imperious punishment with the birch. It was three years since she had received a whipping; at that time she was therefore thirteen years old: but despite the time elapsed she remembered the day and understood that the beginning of wisdom consisted in never again providing a motive for a similar scene, since Madame Legrillon would be quite capable of repeating it without taking any notice of her age or longer skirts.
Alice let her aunt unburden herself and pour out her praises of her friend Isabelle. She knew what to expect on the subject, and had long ago noticed that to parents their children's friends are always endowed with incomparable virtues.
Mr. Boiirouet's house stood at the other end of the town. It was a large plain building of the seventeenth century, in the same style as that of the Legrillons. A large garden planted with venerable trees gave it a superior air of calm distinction, resembling somewhat, however, the rigid and monastic correctness of a convent for young ladies of noble family.
The wrought iron railing, a marvel of art, put an end to Madame Legrillon's flow of advice: after ringing the bell, the porter, an old servant of the family, opened the gate and bowed to the ladies as he admitted them.
On the steps, Maria, the lady's maid was awaiting them: a good looking country girl, red headed, well made, and with a shrewd air about her.
Rumour whispered insistently that, as a good servant, she had compassion for her master since he had lost his wife, but the slandering tongues had not yet been able to furnish reliable proofs of a scandal and public opinion ignored them.
Madame Legrillon gave a patronizing nod in the girl's direction. She did not like this clever maid, whose white skin offended her.
In herself she thought that it was not right that a servant should be so attractive. It appeared to her as an usurpation. Physical beauty and beauty of soul should alike be the prerogative of people of quality.
In the big drawing room, its furniture hidden by covers, Miss Isabelle Bourouet was waiting for them.
The young girl hastened to greet her visitors: "Oh! dear madame, what a pleasure! My dear, do sit down. Will you have some tea?"
The two girls kissed, then Madame Legrillon, a little out of breath, explained that neither she nor Alice would take anything.
"Get ready, my child, we will go for a walk together, that will amuse you. Go and dress quickly."
"Oh, I have only to put on my hat. Alice, are you coming up with me?"
Alice gave a questioning glance towards her aunt.
"Yes, certainly," replied the latter, "but do not talk too much, I will look at this photograph album whilst I am waiting."
Alice rose and followed Isabelle who roguishly pushed her towards the stairs meantime slyly pinching the fattest parts of her plump little person.
"Stop it, stop," whispered Alice," you will make me laugh."
They entered Isabelle's room, and the latter opened her wardrobe to take out a hat.
"Does that hat suit me?" she asked, putting one on and looking at her companion.
"Delightful, my dear, I have one just like it. It was Durosos who made it for you?"
"Yes darling, she has lovely hats: all her models come from Paris."
"Let us go down," said Alice, "My step-mother will be waiting for us."
"You are frightened, dear: surely she won't eat you."
"No, but . . ."
Alice was already on her feet. Isabelle took up her handbag, closed the door of the wardrobe, then changing her mind, looked at her friend, a finger on her rosy lips.
"Will you promise me to keep a secret?"
"Why?"
"Swear you will always keep it secret!"
"Yes, I swear, still why?"
"I am going to lend you a book. You have never read one like it. It is an old book, my dear, the story of a young girl named Cunegond, still you will see. You must mind that your aunt does not find it. Otherwise I dare not think of what would happen. In any case, don't say that I lent it to you. Oh! there is a picture, several even, they are quite naked, my dear."
Alice took possession of the book, a small copy of Candide, and, with blushing cheeks, and head on fire, hurriedly concealed it under her dress, in the pocket of her petticoat.
"I will give it back to you this week," said Alice, "but let us hurry down I beg you."
"You have been chattering enough," said Madame Legrillon, as they entered the drawing room.
"Oh, no step-mother," replied Alice," I was helping Isabelle to sew her ribbon on her straw hat."
"Well let us go."
The German governess remained in the house, Madame Legrillon undertaking the care of Isabelle.
They went out of the town in order to walk round outside the ramparts. It being a Thursday, a crowd of children of both sexes were playing on the grass, in all the innocence of their tender years. Our ladies, after an hour's walk, sat down on a bench, looking on with condescending amiability at the games of the little urchins.
A little nonplussed by the presence of the ladies, the youngsters, fingers in noses, were afraid to go on with their interrupted games. The friendly attitude of the lady and the rich girls restored confidence and emboldened little by little, three or four girls began to bustle and push and roll one another on the grass. One of them, a fair headed girl of seven or eight years, even made a splendid somersault before the spectators of these innocent games, an admirable somersault which revealed in its smallest details the child's fat moon, that the mother had not troubled to cover with a pair of drawers.
Madame Legrillon, Isabelle and Alice missed nothing of the sight, the impudent bottom remaining exposed to their view at least seven or eight seconds. Madame Legrillon rose, incensed; "Let us go home," she said; Isabelle and Alice modestly lowered their startled eyes.
PART TWO
CHAPTER I
THE DEVIL IS RELEASED-FIRST VICTIM
Miss Alice Murray had no sooner returned home than she began to wish with all her heart that she might at last find herself alone in order to enjoy the forbidden book in safety.
But that was not easy. At night, she could hardly remain awake, keeping her lamp burning, without attracting the suspicious visit of her aunt and without risking the receipt of a severe lecture on the consequences of waste, for in spite of her wealth, step-mother was no less keen on the principles of economy. To burn oil for no reason, would only result in exasperating her and that was the last thing Alice wished to do.
She devoured her book, page after page, by waking up early in the morning and then in the secluded spot where usually little girls go to satisfy their curiosity about forbidden books and schoolboys to smoke their first cigarettes.
The adventures of Cunegonde, although sometimes obscure to a well brought up young girl, were intensely interesting to our heroine. Her instinct aided her lack of knowledge and, Little by little, adding bits read in the newspapers, always in secret, and the tales of the servants, she managed to follow the story fairly well.
One passage especially aroused her dawning perverseness. In the chapter which recounts the old lady's misfortunes, she relates how, when she was a young girl, she with others, was captured by Barbary corsairs. She recounts in detail a ceremony which greatly astonished her, that by which the rovers discovered whether or not their prisoners, of both sexes, were hiding on their persons diamonds, rubies or other precious stones.
They went about it in an original fashion, introducing a finger into a place into which ladies only allow the entrance of a nozzle, when their state of health calls for the services of the apothecary or in these days a simple syringe. They thought that it was possible to hide in this spot, the most secret of the human body, stones that it was desired to conceal from the rapacity of the pirates. The knights of Malta, it appears, acted in the same way towards Turkish men and women. It was the usual custom.
Miss Alice, who from time to time, resorted to a Little injection when required, and who Like all young girls, modest or not, was somewhat amused by scatalogical stories, felt within herself a certain emotion which decided her to seek on the morrow that strange medical sensation, with the sole object of indulging a mild unconscious licentiousness.
She pretended to be HI, complained of pains in the belly and carried on so that old Bridget took the enema out of the cupboard, filled it with a warm herbal infusion and approached Alice in order to administer her skilful treatment.
Usually the young lady herself made use of the instrument, but this time she permitted the servant to continue the operation to the end. Although blushing, she made no fuss about exposing the chubby fruit which was generally hidden under her skirts.
It was really a magnificent bottom, was that of Miss Alice. But, let us rather reserve our description for later on, alas, we shall have the opportunity of seeing this dainty behind again, exposed this time in full view, hiding nothing of its beauties.
On this occasion to be exact, the milk white splendor of Alice's bottom was somewhat veiled by the shadow of the big curtains which hung on either side of the bed. It was necessary to be near, quite near, like old Bridget, who, with her nose almost touching the plump fruit she was opening up, proceeded with professional gravity to insert the fine ivory nozzle into the deep centre of this beautiful circumference.
By waiting a little, ladies, you will not lose anything.
At last, the operation ended, Bridget disappeared, carrying off the enema under a towel and Alice gave a sigh.
A strange outcome of a book that Voltaire certainly had not foreseen! Thus it is true that the unknown influence of the best intentioned works is at times never even suspected.
In short, Miss Alice Murray read her book to the very last page. Then, when on a visit, she lent it to her friend, the fair-haired Marie Bordumien, who was delighted with it, without perhaps going to the length of submitting to injections, but who, having read it, made it a point of honor to lend it to her intimate friend, the dark and mischievous Claire Girnal, the niece of the abbe Girnal, the confessor of all these ladies and girls.
And this is where the story becomes interesting, as Rustiphon-the-prude says in his treatise on amorous neutrality in sexual encounters.
Claire Girnal lived with her guardian, the strict abbe Girnal, who was also her uncle, in the pleasant Little presbytery adjoining the cathedral. A lively brunette with beautiful velvety eyes, she resembled a dainty titmouse in this earthly paradise, among the honeysuckle, the wisteria, the clematis and the lilac which surrounded the Little red roofed house of the presbytery.
With a servant named Agatha she kept house for her uncle, who nevertheless always looked on her as a little girl, whom he was bringing up strictly in the tedious path of provincial virtue.
It was Claire Girnal herself who asked Marie Mordumien for the book on hearing of it from Alice. Marie lent the book, on a promise to return it as quickly as possible, and Claire carried it home to sample in solitude, taking advantage of its being one of those quiet days when the abbe was out visiting his flock, whilst old Agatha was busy mending stockings in the kitchen.
Voltaire! She had heard him spoken of as the devil incarnate, a being only a little removed from Anti-Christ, and this was a terrible temptation to her, as the first sin must have tempted our mother Eve. When all alone in her room, she opened the work, beads of moisture stood on her forehead and the blood crimsoned her cheeks.
The draught being poured out, it had to be drunk and without understanding a great deal about it, I must confess, the damsel drank it with pleasure.
What a charming picture, dear readers. Let us go in, shall we, to the room of our little brunette. See her there, half reclining on her bed, the book before her. It is so warm that our lass has made herself comfortable: she can do so, she is in her own sanctum. Just a chemise and a dressing gown which, turned up, exposes her bare well-formed calves, her dainty ankles, and her little pink feet with their delicate nails.
She read on and her inmost emotions were depicted on her face, her beautiful eyelashes throwing a shadow on her full and dainty pink cheeks. Good heavens! a passage has made the red flush rise in the little maiden's face. Isabelle had no need to lend a book like that to her friends.
Claire, quite absorbed by the adventures of Candide, had reached the passage where the Inquisition had the unfortunate philosopher whipped. This passage was well within Claire's comprehension, she was familiar with the subject and thus, no doubt, interesting her intensely, she did not hear the door turn gently on its hinges and did not see the anxious face of the good abbe Girnal as he stood there.
The uncle stopped for a moment contemplating the sight of the bare calves, not as an admirer of pretty things, but with the mentality of Tartuffe throwing the handkerchief over the pretty breasts whose sight he could not bear.
Then a stupefaction which boded no good darkened his already crabbed face. Claire was reading. She was reading a book which at first sight it appeared to him had not been taken from the shelves of his library to which he restricted the reading of his niece, in order to guide her as far as possible in that state of innocence which is the blessedness of the saints. He sprang, like a tiger, and seized the book, whilst Claire, frightened, got up quickly, confused by the surprise and in a state of great apprehension as to what the consequences would be.
The abbe looked at the book. He was not long in realizing the enormity of the disaster. Voltaire! Candide! Indignation choked him, his pale face became purple. Finally he recovered and was able to speak.
"What ... is ... this ... book ... unhappy child? Where did you get this?" He held the volume with the tips of his fingers as though it were an injurious creature.
"Tell me, answer. Where did you get this?" Smack! Smack! Two sounding slaps landed on the plump cheeks, and Claire began to cry.
"I ... I don't know."
"What, miserable child, you don't know! This book did not come here alone. Do you want to lose your soul? To burn in Hell? What is the name of the person who gave you this book!
"I ... I found it."
"You are lying, you are lying!" The choking abbe half opened the door: "Bridget, bring the whip!"
At this word the unhappy Claire, her shoulders shaking with sobs, fell on her knees before her uncle:
"Oh! no," she begged, terror stricken, "not the whip. I beseech you . . ."
"Whose is this book?" demanded the abbe. Then Claire, faced with the awful perspective, lost her courage and admitted all. "It is ... it is Marie Bordumien's!"
"All right," replied abbe Girnal, "that is all I wanted to know."
At this moment Bridget arrived with the whip, that is to say a stout cat-o'nine tails whose supple leather lashes were as thick as the little finger.
"She has been naughty again?" she enquired, showing no astonishment at the scene.
"She is a great sinner," said the abbe, "she is going to be punished as she deserves."
"Give it to her, sir, that is how good girls are made. In the convent where I worked there was plenty given and taken, if you asked for it you got it. And you should see how well behaved those young ladies were. Saints, I tell you, saints."
The abbe Girnal interrupted the old woman, speaking to his niece, "Lay your body across the bed and get ready quickly. I cannot give you absolution until I have driven out the demon which has entered your body and your guilty mind."
The gentle Claire, her face bathed in tears, did not need bidding twice. She knew, alas, that resistance was futile. Accustomed as she was to her uncle's quasi-monastic discipline, she knew within herself that she had incurred punishment and that the punishment would be the whip. She therefore set about obeying, and got herself ready, whilst the abbe stood waiting, the cat o'nine tails in his hand and old Bridget watched the scene through the half open door, ready to lend a hand on the side of authority would the occasion demand it.
This however was quite unnecessary. Submissive, Claire "got ready," which did not take long. Her trembling hands lifted up her dressing gown, her petticoat, and her chemise high over her hips, and the damsel's rounded bottom presented itself in all the arrogance and bloom of a bottom of sixteen.
The comeliness of this beautiful plump bottom, of a golden brown hue, almost that of a creole, this fine voluptuous fruit, like a rich tropical bay, this warm shaded ivory moon, did not mitigate the wrath of the brutal abbe, who was already brandishing over his head the many tailed whip.
Claire's buttocks shrank and the first blow fell, the nine thongs making nine red streaks which vanished only to reappear with the second blow.
The poor girl, her hands clutching at the counterpane, gnawed her pillow. Inarticulate sounds came from her throat. Her eyes, wide open with pain and fear, were flooded with tears. Her body, exposed under the chemise and hght dressing gown, quivered at every blow, wriggled like an eel, exaggerating the opening of the thighs and buttocks, sacrificing all modesty on the altar of acute suffering which maddened the poor girl's nerves.
Poor little plump, dainty bottom. The flagellation was now crimsoning it with the roses of pain. The abbe was striking with all his strength, nothing moved by this tender charm. His vigorous arm lashed the guilty flesh, and he laid on the punishment to this young girl with the same savage ardour that we would have employed to whip the leathery behind of a monk.
"Enough! enough! pardon..." cried Claire.
"Take that, unhappy girl, another one and another; it is for your good there, there . . ." He growled through his clenched teeth, and his arm continued to strike. A ruby drop formed at the top of the right buttock, the flayed tender skin was bleeding.
Claire, mad with pain, not knowing now what she was doing, in spite of the obedience she always displayed when she was whipped, could not much longer withstand this torture. With her two little hands held to her bottom in order to protect it, she turned herself about, absolutely frantic with suffering.
The abbe stopped. The blush of offended modesty mounted in his pale cheek, and he put down the whip.
"Put down your skirts, you will confess this evening . . ." And turning towards Bridget: "She will have only bread and water all this week."
He took his hat, the book, the cause of the catastrophe, and went out they knew not where, moving with long strides, his anger still rumbling in his righteous spirit.
CHAPTER 2
MARIE BORDUMIEN.
THE ABBESS' ARRIVAL
A COUNTRY SQUIRE
THE SECOND VICTIM
A PAGE FROM TALLEMANT DES REAUX
Let us follow the abbe on his way. He stops before the cab stand on the square in front of the Town Hall, signals to a driver and enters the vehicle.
We will take advantage of the privilege extended to authors who, like Le Sage's devil, can move about and enter anywhere without being seen, and clamber up behind the cab, like those mischievous boys whom the red-faced, thick-set driver dislodges with great flourish of whip.
Rattling along over the granite sets, a survival of the ancient royal road, we pass the old citadel, leave the town by the Gaude gate with its two machicolated towers, and there straight before us stretches the white road between its two rows of poplars, as exactly lined up as guardsmen on parade.
We pass field after field, spinney after spinney, then suddenly on rounding a fine wood of oaks, there rise before us the pointed towers of a seigniorial farm, surrounded by its barns, stables and sheep cot: a flock of sheep crowds through the gateway. This is the home of Mr. Bordumien, the Baron Bordumien, a gentleman farmer, the perfect type of the country squire, a great sportsman, a big eater and a great lady-killer.
He himself worked the largest of his farms, together with his wife, a haughty and strong willed lady, of thirty-five years of age, quite agreeable though, whose regular features would not have been displeasing but for that expression of hardness which is always the result of thin lips. Madame Bordumien is blonde, blonde as her daughter, whom we shall introduce in a few moments.
The carriage conveying the abbe Girnal stopped before the steps at the end of the gravel drive. A buxom servant hurried forward and showed the visitor into a drawing room decorated with sporting trophies and bad copies of pictures of the Italian school.
"I will tell madame you are here," she said, offering the abbe a chair.
"Give her my apologies for coming to disturb her," replied the latter.
The servant disappeared, leaving Claire's uncle alone. He had not long to wait: a step sounded on the stairs, the door opened and Madame Bordumien, in a fight negligee gown entered the drawing room, a smile on her lips and her hand extended.
"My dear abbe, I am glad, what a pleasure to see you. How is your little Claire?"
Abbe Girnal did not reply to this question, he coughed to clear his voice, assumed a supremely solemn air and began: "Madame, this visit which at any other time would have given me very real pleasure, happens to be, for the ways of Providence are inscrutable, a most painful undertaking.
"As you see me here, my indignation will not allow me to moderate my phrases, I have just whipped Claire in such fashion as will engrave on her memory the date of this unlucky day."
"But, what has she done, then? Good Heavens!"
"Well, madame, although it is very painful for me to bring an accusation against your daughter, I must nevertheless do so, for she also deserves exemplary punishment. She was the evil genius who tempted Claire by lending her this."
The abbe produced the famous copy of Candide and handed it to Madame Bordumien.
The latter gave a glance at the title page and most fainted as she cried: "Heavens! Voltaire! My daughter had a copy of Voltaire in her possession? But from whom could she have procured this book. You must be aware, my dear abbe, that we are too careful to possess such books as this in the house. Who could have given this book to Marie?"
"I cannot say," said the abbe, "I will leave you, madame, you will return this book to your daughter and I trust you will know how to do your duty as a good mother and a Christian."
"You may rely on that," replied Madame Bordumien, livid with anger.
The abbe Girnal took his leave, re-entered the carriage and drove home to the presbytery.
Left alone, Madame Bordumien's anger became cold and restrained. If by ill luck Marie had been there she would have near killed her. Happily for herself the young girl was out for a walk with her father.
Mr. Bordumien and his fair-haired daughter returned about an hour after the departure of the abbe Girnal.
Mr. Bordumien was the man depicted above, big, strong, and florid, wearing a shooting suit of maroon velvet. Marie Bordumien, the heroine of this chapter, was a tall blonde, elegant and slim, like her mother. Her pretty face with the rosy tint of a healthy girl was a younger and more graceful replica of her mother. The same thin lips, the same gray-blue eyes, hard and cold, the same haughty carriage of the head, but all that made her charming; she was a lovely little maiden, this tall young girl whose supple, well made form showed off well under the blouse and white pique skirt. A wide panama trimmed with a mauve scarf shaded her face and tempered her with a warm softness.
Having presented Miss Marie let us return to our story.
Preceding her father, the young girl ran nimbly up the steps, pushed open the door and found herself face to face with her mother.
"Good day, mamma!"'
"Go up to your room at once!"
"What have I done?" faltered the unfortunate girl chipped by her mother's look. A slap which brought a flush to her cheek was the only answer she received. "Go upstairs, I tell you. You will know why shortly."
Marie hastened to obey! What could have happened during her absence. She turned over in her mind all the possible causes which might have got her into trouble. She could find nothing. The book she had loaned was far from her thoughts. However the uncertainty and threat hanging over her head threw her into an indescribable anguish. She ran to her room and once there, with unseeing eyes looking out on the garden, she stood biting her nails and asking herself the reason for this blow from which her cheek was still tingling.
Downstairs, in the dining room, Mr. Bordumien, no less astonished than his offspring, was seeking an explanation from his wife.
"What is the matter now?" he asked, frowning.
"The matter is...the matter is, my good man, that if we do not put things to rights, our daughter will become I don't know what," finished Madame Bordumien, no suitable expression coming readily at the moment to her worried mind.
"This," she continued, "is what it is about. The good abbe Girnal left here less than an hour ago. He had found his niece, Claire, very busy reading a book and such a book it was. It was Marie who had lent it to her. A book by Voltaire."
"A book of Voltaire!" exclaimed Mr. Bordumien recoiling, "and where did she get that?"
I have not yet had time to ask her," replied his wife, "but we will do s"o at once. It any case, Marie deserves punishment. Claire has received hers. I want you to whip her severely; I am not strong enough to manage such a big girl, and besides, Coming from you it will have a much greater effect."
"My dear, you may be sure that she will get a whipping and a good one. A book of Voltaire ... did you ever. Yes, she certainly deserves something. Good heavens, what shall we come to when our children start reading Voltaire!"
Mr. Bordumien choked with indignation.
"Come up with me to Marie's room, here is a birch," she added as she handed to Mr. Bordumien a bundle of twigs she had just pulled out of a new birch broom.
The two parents went towards Marie's room and the latter felt her heart sink with apprehension when she saw her mother come into her room, and her father, his face an apoplectic red, carrying in his hand the famous birch, whose disciplinary functions she was well acquainted with, having often had experience of them, and not so very long ago.
Madame Bordumien spoke first: taking the little book from her pocket she held it out to Marie, who felt the walls of the room swimming round her.
"Can you tell me, miss, where you found this horrible thing?"
Instead of replying, Marie commenced to cry.
"Will you tell me, where did you get this," insisted her mother.
Marie hid her face in her hands: her mother advancing towards her pulled her arms apart. The young girl, her face bathed in tears, stubbornly looked on the ground.
"Very well! very well! you will not tell us the name of the person who lent you this book. Once, twice, alright, three. Good, your father is going to whip you and in such a fashion that you will remember it all your life.
Mr. Bordumien, birch in hand took a step towards his daughter.
"No! No!" cried the latter, quite frantic at the prospect. "No, papa, do not whip-whip me. I will tell you the truth. It was Al...Alice Mur...ray who gave it to me. She told me not to speak about it. I have not read it. I swear it. I gave it at once to Claire . . ."
"Why did you give it to Claire instead of returning it to your friend Alice?" demanded Mr. Bordumien.
"I-I don't know."
"You don't know. I think your mother was quite right in asking me to punish you and I am going to do it. Get ready. Now then!"
"No, papa, no! Oh!"
This oh! was occasioned by the fact that Mr. Bordumien without more ceremony, had seized the maiden by the waist, bent her in two and tucked her under his powerful arm as in a vice, in a position which held her body in a right angle, so that even her feet did not touch the ground.
Mad with shame, literally overwhelmed by this awful catastrophe, the fair Marie permitted herself to be placed by her father in the classic pose of a child who is going to be spanked.
Ah! She was a very light weight under the strong arm of her father. The knowledge of her helplessness paralyzed her. With her mother it would have been another matter, she would have struggled, would have screamed, thrown herself on the floor, but now . . .
"Ah! No! Papa! Not there!"
These exclamations were caused by the fact that Mr. Bordumien had just turned up her skirt and petticoat. Madame Bordumien assisted her husband by fixing the turned up clothes with a safety pin, then the father raised his hand over a plump, curved bottom, carefully wrapped like an exquisite bonbon, in the dainty covering of a school girls' little drawers, quite plain, with a little lace round the knees.
"Won't you take off her drawers?" asked Madame Bordumien.
"No, she is too big: besides that won't prevent her from feeling what I am going to give her."
And smack! smack! smack! The heavy hand, big as a shoulder of mutton, fell regularly, sometimes on one, sometimes on the other cheek of the filial behind, painfully exposed to the blows.
The thin material of the drawers, if it did to some extent protect the extreme modesty of the little one, was certainly no defense against the blows.
Each smack as it fell on her bottom hurt her horribly, a frightful smarting sensation making her yell, right and left, in spite of her most desperate efforts she did not succeed in protecting her fleshy parts from the rain of blows which with horrible regularity always fell on the same place.
A heavier smack than usual drove her frantic, she gave a piercing scream and, with a mad, unconscious movement, she turned half round and bit her father's wrist.
At the pain, Mr. Bordumien almost let her fall: "She has bitten me! She has bitten her father," he cried. "Suzanne, pass me the birch, she has bitten her father! ah!"
Suuzanne, that was Madame Bordumien's Christian name: without a word she obeyed her husband and handed him the article asked for.
Mr. Bordumien grasped the bundle of twigs in his hand and prepared to whip his daughter's bottom soundly, having replaced her in position with a twist, grasping her waist till she could scarcely breathe.
"Wait a moment," said Madame Bordumien to her husband. She approached Marie, whose pretty white-stockinged legs were waving in the air, and whilst keeping clear so as not to be caught by one of the unhappy girl's lunges, she slipped her hands under her belly, and untied her drawers, which she drew down to her ankles despite the appeals and cries of shame from the lass.
The chemise covered her bottom with its light batiste curtain. The mother raised this last veil and tucked it over the hips of the victim, then she withdrew and Mr. Bordumien had before him, insolently naked, exposing its already scarlet cheeks with an indecent arrogance, the prettiest female bottom that anyone could wish to see.
Before this charming spectacle Mr. Bordumien hesitated a moment, he could not but be affected by the graceful proportions of his daughter. A glance from his wife called forth the necessary energy, he seized the birch in his hand and laid it on with a will, cutting into the appetizing apple, the beautiful, delicate moon, the ravishing buttocks whose central furrow, shaded with warm tones, curved inwards towards the thighs in a darkness full of perfumed mystery.
At the first cut of the birch, striking squarely across her bottom already swollen by the previous spanking, Marie screamed with all her might, so loudly that the servant came upstairs and opened the door. But when she saw it was only the young lady getting a whipping she went down again to the kitchen.
It was a terrible punishment. Never, never in her life could Marie recall having received such a whipping. Hoarse cries came from her throat.
Her behind, red, brown and violet, showed here and there great swellings, and the right cheek was skinned and bleeding.
It was the sight of the blood that calmed her father's fury, and he released her. The poor girl fell to the floor and rolled on the carpet, like a severed snake, holding her hands to her smarting bottom, regardless of the indecent exhibition she made, for she had not pulled up her drawers.
"Do up your drawers," said Madame Bordumien.
Stumblingly Marie rose, put up her drawers under her skirt and recommenced crying.
Mr. Bordumien, greatly upset by the scene, went down into the garden.
"I hope that will serve as a lesson to you, Marie. You have been severely whipped, it is true, but later, you will see that your parents were right. You are of a family that should not transgress."
With these imperious words she went downstairs, leaving poor Marie to roll on her bed, weeping, crying out with shame and rage, finally attempting to calm to some extent the horrible burning which was smarting, you know where.
Later she presented to her mirror the charming spectacle of a tearful young girl turning her head fit to get a crick in the neck in an endeavor to see the frightful traces of the very thorough whipping she had just received.
CHAPTER 3
AT MADAME LEGRILLON'S ALICE'S TURN
THE SPANKING IN FRONT OF MADAME BORDUMIEN
Madame Bordumien did not lose any time before restoring to its owner, that is to say to Alice Murray, the calf-bound copy of Candide, which she herself had been careful to read in order to appraise the extent of the mischief.
"It is abominable, abominable," she murmured in the course of her perusal, "I hope that my daughter has not understood what it means."
We are not able to say to what degree Miss Bordumien understood what she had read, that young lady having neglected to make us the confidante of her secret thoughts. It is however one of those things for the understanding of which no teacher is needed, life can easily be imagined, so natural is it for human beings to go back to the origin of the species and to fall into those actions which contribute to the mysteries of generation.
Having finished her reading, Madame Bordumien pinned on her big straw hat from Paris if you please, and calmly, with the book in her handbag, set out to call on the solicitor's beautiful wife, to whom she was obliged to confide the scandalous discovery she had just made.
She reached Madame Legrillon's about two o'clock in the afternoon. The attractive brunette, advised by letter, was expecting her. "Ah! My dear, that hat suits you admirably. You look charming. But where is Marie though? I had prepared tea for you. She is not ill?" Under this flood of words Madame Bordumien was not able to reply, she let Madame Legrillon introduce her into the drawing room, and there, taking her time and making the most of her effects, with a saintly look on her face she began: "The fact is, my dear friend, that the matter on which I have to approach you is very painful to me, there!"
"But what is the matter?" asked Madame Legrillon, anxiously, her generous bosom heaving with suppressed emotion.
"The matter is, my dear, that my daughter and yours are on the road to perdition. I am really obliged to tell you that yours set the bad example to mine."
"What's that you say?"
"The truth. Besides you will understand. The abbe Girnal called on me the other day, bringing a book, and such a book! A work of that impious Voltaire, my dear, which he had found in Claire's possession. A severe whipping that he gave the little one on the spot made her admit that she had received it from my daughter. You can imagine my indignation when I heard that, I could hardly believe my ears; he left me the book and I showed it to my husband, and straight away we went up to
Marie's room. Her father, beside himself with rage, grasped her under his arm and gave her what she used to get when she was a little girl of seven.
"My daughter then admitted that this book had been given to her by your niece, there is a good deal behind all this. Where did your niece get it? We must find out. Above all, the first wicked girl must be exemplarily punished. I say girl because I want to think that it was a girl. The opposite would be too terrible. In spite of all our efforts, to see our children falling into such a depravation, it is something horrible. Where, good heavens, could they have picked up such examples?"
"A book of Voltaire's in Alice's hands ..." Madame Legrillon kept on repeating. "We will see about this at once. I will' bring Alice down."
She rang. A servant opened the door, "Yes ma-dame?"
"Tell Miss Alice to come down immediately."
"Certainly, madame."
"Have you the book with you?" went on Madame Legrillon, addressing her friend.
"Here it is," replied the latter, "Naturally I brought it to you."
Madame Legrillon placed the volume on a small table and boiling with suppressed anger, awaited the arrival of her niece.
The latter was not long in coming. Smilingly showing her pretty teeth, hair nicely dressed, her face a little ruffled by a dainty grimace, she held out her hand to Madame Bordumien and simpered: "It is not nice, madame, not to have brought Marie with you. I should have been so pleased to have seen her."
"Marie is punished," Madame Bordumien broke in abruptly.
"Oh, mada . .."
Madame Legrillon cut her niece short. Seizing the book, she held it under the girl's nose almost brutally: "Do you know that?"
Alice gave a glance at the volume, turned terribly pale and cried confusedly: "No, but really. I don't...I don't know!"
"Don't tell lies, miss," replied her aunt.
"I swear to you, step-mother . .."
"Swear nothing at all. You have read this abominable book and then lent it to your friend Marie. Not content with corrupting yourself, you corrupt others. Where did you get this book?"
"I ... oh, heavens. I ... I ... I don't know..."
"You shall tell me, even if I have to beat you to death!"
"No, step-mother. Forgive me. I own up. Forgive me. It was, Isabelle...Isabelle who gave it to me the other day. It was she. I swear it..."
"Very good, I shall see Mr. de Bourouet. We have to get to the bottom of this business and we shall do so. As for you, go to the kitchen and ask Felicity for the birch and come back here."
"Oh, heavens. Forgive me. I beg you. Not that . . .not here...pardon!"
"Go, I tell you, you shall be punished and punished here, before Madame Bordumien, who shall witness your shame and your chastisement. Go, or I will call Firmin, the coachman, to hold you."
At this threat, Alice who had thrown herself at her aunt's knees, rose with a bound and, her eyes filled with tears, went to carry out the order she had received.
"How I envy you, my dear, for having brought her to such obedience."
"It is very necessary," replied Madame Legrillion; "at all events, my dear, you don't mind being present whilst I punish her. I warn you that I am going to whip Alice as I would a child."
"I quite understand," replied the latter, "My husband whipped our daughter in the same fashion and in my presence."
"I won't hide from you, dear, that I am glad you are witnessing the ceremony. The presence of a stranger will make my niece blush the more for shame. In my opinion, humiliation is the principle part of this punishment."
Whilst they were talking, Alice had returned, holding in her hand a long birch, the handle tied with red velvet, a detail which shows in what honor this instrument of discipline, now out of fashion, was held in the solicitor's house.
"You know the gravity of your offence," said her aunt," so you know also what to expect; support yourself against that chair and get ready. I advise you not to move about or I shall get the servants to hold you."
"Step-mother, once more, I beg of you. Don't whip me here. Oh, no, not here. You have never before whipped me in front of anyone. I deserve it, I know. But punish me in my room ... I will submit. You can tie my hands so that I can't protect myself...Oh...forgive me. Not here, not before Madame. I should never dare to show myself before my friends, if they know that I have been...been ... whipped ..."
"You will be whipped before Madame Bordumien, she shall see you in the most shameful attitude a young girl can adopt. Since you were not ashamed to read that book, this time you shall know what humiliation is. I wish to humiliate you, you hear me. Humiliate you, before a witness. I want everyone to know that you, a big girl of sixteen, have received a whipping in front of the mother of one of your friends. A whipping! A whipping! Do you understand?"
Her eyes glittering with passion, Madame Legrillon worked herself up, threatening Alice with the terrible stinging birch. The poor girl, her face hidden in her arms, uttered never a word. Only her little sobs were heard, and her pretty plump shoulders rose and fell convulsively under her light blouse.
Seated in an easy chair, Madame Bordumien, calm, cold and unmoved, watched the scene. A gleam of spiteful and suppressed pleasure shone from her light gray eyes.
"Get ready" commanded the aunt.
"Pardon! par . . ."
"Get ready!" The switches whistled through the air; a sharp cut fell on Alice's hands, and her sobs redoubled.
Nevertheless she obeyed.
"Oh! what a cruel humiliation for her. What abominable moral suffering. What bitter shame. The poor girl would gladly have died at the moment, but death does not always come when he is wanted, and he does not disturb himself for such a small matter, to save from humiliation a sweet young girl whose aunt is about to whip her.
Alice bent forward over a chair, with just her hands resting on the seat, but at an angle however which gave considerable prominence to her maidenly buttocks, which shaped in a very provoking manner under the thin material of her blue cheviot skirt.
Her clumsy and trembling hands lifted her skirt at the sides, let it fall and lifted it again, this time raking up also the tussor petticoat, exposing the stockings, fitting well over the calves, nicely rounded by the position, and the lace trimming of the little closed drawers. They were fairly loose fitting, not moulding to the buttocks, which however stood out from the small of the back, bulged backward by tight laced corsets.
"Unbutton your drawers!"
"Oh, step mother, that ... as well. . . it's horrible."
But she obeyed, because in her passive mind, the result of her education, the idea of resistance predicted such cruel treatment that it was not worth while risking an attempt at rebellion, which would be speedily checked.
She obeyed, feeling for the string, and her skirts fell again: Madame Legrillon tapped impatiently with her foot. This finally settled it.
The skirts were this time rolled up round the waist, and the drawers fell in a snowy heap around the boots. The chemise, carefully tucked between the legs, still hid the bottom.
"Now then," said the implacable punisher, "now then, lift up your chemise also, you know quite well how I whip you." Alice drew out her chemise, raised it, rolling it like a string, and held it with her skirts with one hand whilst the other she supported herself against the chair.
At this, Madame Bordumien, who was placed opposite, that is to say before Alice's face, got up and went and seated herself on a sofa which was behind the young girl. She therefore had before her eyes the charming spectacle of two rather rosy buttocks which the stooping position presented in a most provocative manner, in a delicious curve, at once the purest and most superb of that treasury of lines which composes the female form, especially in a girl of sixteen, already developed, but conserving still some of that graceful and plump prettiness of the young girl.
Plump Alice certainly was. Two little dimples indented each cheek of her bottom, and indeed, this big fat behind positively seemed to defy Madame Bordumien and Madame Legrillon who, standing a little to the young girl's left, was getting ready with the air of a person who was accustomed to this kind of exercise.
From that to saying that the lovely brunette was a flagellant is only a step. Indeed, a flagellant she was, but coconsciously, like Mr. Jourdain making prose. Herself a victim of her education and her family tradition, brought up under the domination of the whip, she unconsciously took pleasure in administering this punishment, enjoying the uneasiness, the humiliation and the suffering of the guilty one.
Without realizing it herself, she felt the attraction of this bare behind exposed to her blows. She raised the birch and her little teeth-they were one of her beauties-biting her full red lips, she struck the first blow with such force that Alice gave a piercing scream, stood up and let fall all her skirts.
There was a momentary eclipse of the moon, for it did not last long. With a trembling hand, Madame Legrillon turned up the clothes again, uncovered once more Alice's bottom, and this time herself holding the garments in a heap on the loins, she thrashed away with incredible vigor.
"Oh . . .oh dear!" cried Alice. "Ohhhehhh stop! I won't do it again . . .!"
The poor girl stamped, twisted her legs, hollowed her back, withdrawing as much as she could, without moving from her place, that she dared not do, her fat little behind.
"Oh, wicked girl!" said the solicitor's wife, still whipping, "ah, you will read books by Voltaire...take that! and that! and that! ah! you lend them to your friends. Take that! don't move and that! and that!"
The dainty buttocks were rapidly becoming scarlet. One blow, harder than the rest, penetrating the opening between the legs, made the victim fall to the floor, rolling about in agony.
"I shall never be able to whip her properly," murmured the step mother. "Someone will have to hold her.
"Can I be of any assistance to you?" asked the visitor slyly.
"Oh yes. There. Keep her bent down and hold these skirts in your hand."
No sooner said than done. Madame Bordumien seized Alice who was on her knees and pushed her head down onto the drawing room carpet, presenting her to the blows in the posture of a believer adoring Allah.
She lifted up the skirts and when the bottom was uncovered for the third time, the young girl experienced all the horror of the ignoble situation in which she found herself.
Her outstretched bottom accentuating the furrow between her hindmost cheeks, hid nothing of what nature, judging it undignified to exhibit the minor details of her work, that is to say the most secluded point of the lower digestive system, had been at great pains to conceal in its deepest part.
Poor unfortunate Alice, conscious of this horrible blow to her modesty, tried to struggle and overthrow the one who held her thus. But Madame Bordumien was strong and the stinging shower recommenced to fall on the two mountains of now scarlet flesh, striping with their brilliant red the immaculate white of the loins and thighs.
She received at least forty strokes, and when at a word from Madame Legrillon, Madame Bordumien released her, poor Alice crouched on the floor, without thinking even to hide her moon now that it had been so intimately inspected.
CHAPTER 4
IN WHICH THE DREAMER APPROACHES
THE SOURCE OF THE MISCHIEF
AT MR. DE BOUROUET'S
THE SERVANT MISTRESS AND THE
THIRD VICTIM.
On the morrow of this memorable day, whose date had been so unpleasantly registered on fair Alice's bonny bottom Madame Legrillon ordered her carriage and drove to Isabelle's home at an early hour so as to be certain of finding Mr. de Bournouet in.
Madame Legrillon had her journey for nothing and met with a deception, she was received by the pretty red-headed servant who informed her that Mr. de Bourouet had gone away for a few days shooting at a friend's.
She delivered the book, carefully wrapped up, into the fascinating servant's hands, with strict injunctions to give it to her master immediately on his return. In addition she would herself let him know all about it by letter.
She returned home and at once took out from her little Louis XV writing desk the necessary materials and inscribed these few lines, which were to bring down on their subject the thunders of paternal wrath:
Dear Sir:
Although the writing of this letter is to me a painful duty, it is nevertheless a duty, and on this account, it is impossible for me to avoid it.
Your daughter, in a moment of culpable misconduct, lent my niece a book by Voltaire, which you will find at your house, in the keeping of your servant.
It is not necessary for me to tell you that I believed it expedient to immediately inflict severe punishment on my niece. At sixteen, these girls think that they are too big to be treated as children. In front of Madame Bordumien I showed her that she was not too big to be whipped. Since yesterday, on a diet of bread and water, she is reflecting on her misdeeds. I think that she is not likely to repeat such an offence. We have perhaps treated her severely, but believing that we have acted in her best interests, my husband and I consider that we have carried out our entire duty.
With kind regards from my husband and myself, Yours sincerely, Henrietta Legrillon.
Dignified in the accomplishment of her act of justice, the solicitor's wife sealed the letter and gave it to the coachman who hurried to put it in the box at the post office of Runancy.
Madame Legrillon was content. She did not doubt but what morality would be avenged and that Mr. de Bourouet, whose tolerance regarding certain principles only concerned his own doings, would not miss the opportunity of impressing on his daughter that as big as she was, her skirts were not however, yet too long to be turned up.
She promised herself to go a week later and learn what had transpired and the thought that Miss Isabelle was about to bow herself bare before the whip instilled her with a great delight, although she did not admit it even to herself.
It was three days before the bomb exploded, owning to the fact that Mr. Lucas de Bourouet remained away for three days.
His daughter, in his absence, paid a visit to Madame Bordumien, who received her somewhat coldly, she was not even able to speak to Alice who was confined to her room under punishment, so Madame Legrillon informed her.
Vaguely uneasy in her mind regarding the visit of her friend Alice's aunt and because of the punishment of the former, of which she had learned no details, Madame Bordumien not having told her that Madame Legrillon had severely whipped her young niece, Isabelle returned home with the apprehension of a misfortune hanging over her head.
She was right, although, in this instance, it was not exactly over the young lady's head that the sword of Damocles was suspended, but indeed over the other end of her person, over those plump parts which nature graciously and lavishly provides just below the loins of pretty girls of all ages and stations.
Her father returned the following day, kissed his daughter, took off his shooting boots, and his feet in comfortable slippers, went into his library to sort out his correspondence.
Some letters from local political committees claimed his attention, and then he opened that from Madame Legrillon, and whilst reading it he changed from a bright pink, his usual color, to the purest carnation, which was his color when greatly moved.
"What's this? What the deuce! What is this? Voltaire! Isabelle had a book of Voltaire! Where is this book? What the deuce! That the deuce!"
He hunted on his desk, saw a sealed packet and unwrapped it savagely, disclosing the little volume, already the cause of so much weeping and gnashing of teeth.
Wetting his thumb he turned over the pages, looked at the pictures, sometimes rather free, but without infringing the canons of good taste.
"What the deuce, what the devil!" he growled again. "Who could have lent this book to Isabelle? I am going to ask her about it."
He rang and Maria, the pretty red headed girl arrived, an ironical smile on her lips and a coquettish air about her of a servant who is permitted to do very much as she likes.
"Is Miss Isabelle there?"
"Yes sir, she is in her room"
"Very good, tell her to come down, at once. I have something to say to her."
Maria went up to Isabelle's room. She found the young girl ready to go out, her white gloves on, and a large gray felt hat covering her brown hair.
"The master wants you at once, Miss, in his study."
"Ah," said Isabelle, suddenly uneasy, "he did not say for what."
"No, Miss."
"Very well, I am coming down."
The young girl followed Maria, without troubling to take off her hat. She put on an innocent and cheerful expression, which did not by any means reflect her inmost thoughts. Without knowing exactly why, Isabelle felt horribly worried.
On opening the door of her father's study, she faltered. Her legs grew weak, and she had to summon up all her courage to turn the knob of the door. She went in. Her father was seated at his desk, his back turned towards her.
"Ah! There you are," he said. "Perhaps you can tell me what that book is."
"Poot, that's done it," thought Isabelle to herself, "that's done it. That is the book I lent to Alice. What a little fool that girl is."
"Well, do you know this book?"
"It's ... it's ..." stammered Isabelle.
"What, it's what. Where did you get it?"
Isabelle leaned against a table. Really, she did not know what to say. Of course, she knew who had lent her the book, but should she give away Maria? Maria had needed so much urging before lending the volume, and she Isabelle, had insisted so strongly.
"Now then, answer, for heaven's sake!"
Mr. de Bourouet was getting impatient. He had risen and turned his flashing eyes on his offspring.
"It was Maria," stammered Isabelle.
"It was Maria, was it. I will see about that. Aren't you ashamed of yourself. What am I going to do. You are too big to be treated like a child, and yet, that is what you deserve, to be treated like a child. Go up to your room and out of my sight. I don't know what stops me from thrashing you."
Isabelle did not ask for anything more. She disappeared quickly, feeling somewhat relieved. Evidently, things were going better than she had expected, for a moment she had had a terrible fear that her father was going to treat her as he had suggested, that is, like a child. like a child, she knew what that meant, and at the very thought of the punishment, blushes of shame reddened her cheeks.
Alone, Mr. de Bourouet continued to give vent to his wrath, his "what the deuces" and "what the devils". His anger was rising against Maria. Not content with having seduced the master, this indolent girl was now leading the daughter astray.
"By Jupiter, I won't stand it," cried Mr. de Bourouet, "I'll give her a week's notice!"
He rang the bell feverishly.
A quick step sounded in the hall. The door opened and the smiling and provocative face of the pretty servant appeared in the opening.
"You rang sir?"
"Come in, Maria, I want to speak to you."
Maria came in, closed the door and waited, lowering her eyes modestly. She really was a fine girl, tall, well built, nothing vulgar about her, and as supple as a cat was she. Dressed in black, which showed off to the best effect her milky skin and wealth of coppery hair, she stood twisting in her well-kept hands a corner of her dainty little white apron.
The artful girl had overheard behind the door the conversation between father and daughter. She knew what was coming but did not show any signs of alarm. She possessed to a supreme degree that dangerous strength of the coquettish woman, the knowledge of her beauty.
An actress to her fingertips, this artful pleasant girl saw already through her long eyelashes how her master lost his self-control at the alluring sight of her healthy, well cared for beauty, set off as it was by her neat maid's dress.
"Look here," said M de Bourouet, searching for words, "look here, there is a regular scandal in the town. One of my friends has found this book in the possession of his daughter. The latter, when severely punished, ended by confessing that she had had it from Isabelle. I sent for Isabelle, two minutes ago, she admitted that you had lent this book to her. So..."
"So you have whipped Isabelle?" asked Maria, with affected innocence.
"I have not whipped Isabelle because ... because," shouted Mr. de Bourouet realizing that the girl was laughing at him, "because, confound it, if there is anyone who wants whipping it is not she, it is the one who is the cause of all this mischief. It's you, by the Lord Harry!"
Maria, laughing inwardly, made a pretence of wiping her eyes with the edge of her apron.
"Yes, I don't know what prevents me," continued Mr. de Bourouet, measuring the room with long strides," I don't know what prevents me."
"Ah, sir," whispered the sly servant, "it's very true, I deserve it, if my poor mother had been here, she would have turned up my skirts long before this."
"Eh! What's that you say? And if I were to do like your mother ... eh?"
Maria threw a wicked look at her master, then, provokingly, with a gesture of charming shamelessness, she stuck out her buttocks towards him, quickly pulled up her skirts, showing her stockings moulding her superb calves, her drawers, of which he pulled open the slit, making the beautiful fat cheeks of her imposing moon stand out boldly, like a great milky pearl in the black setting of her turned up skirts.
Before this attitude of the culprit, Mr. de Bourouet felt a great agitation seize him. All his good resolutions to punish her melted away at the sight of these beautiful fleshy roses. He approached Maria, raised his hand, threatening the big bottom which did not flinch, but which, on the contrary, offered itself, rounding itself suitably to receive the whipping. He brought down his hand, which clacked on the bouncing flesh.
"Oh, oo, oo! oh, oo, oo!" cried Maria, imitating the sobs of a little girl being whipped. "I won't do it again ... please ... stop!"
M de Bourouet went no further, he took the lovely girl in his arms and impressed a long kiss on her lips. Maria whose eyes were moist with passion, made no resistance, giving utterance to a cooing like a dove, the twin globes of her breasts rising and falling under her tight blouse.
Maria took up the locks of her disordered hair, and rearranged it, a hairpin in her mouth, standing with feline grace before the study mirror. M de Bourouet had lit a cigarette. A worried wrinkle furrowed his forehead, whilst his eyes followed the graceful movements of the young woman who exercised so powerful a sway over his senses.
"After all," he said, "that is not everything. Isabelle must be punished, it was she who lent the book. Her friends have had their share, she will have to bear the punishment of her wrong doing. I don't know what I ought to do. What would you do?" he asked, turning familiarly to the servant.
"Why," replied the other with a quiet smile, "in your place, I would give her such a thrashing that she would not be able to sit down again for a whole week."
"You are mad. Isabelle is sixteen. Anyhow I can't whip her. That would not be decent.
"Well, and me a few minutes ago?"
"Don't be stupid. That's not the same thing."
"I have an idea," said Maria, approaching her master coaxingly.
"What is it?"
"Why, cede me your rights. That is to say, order the punishment and I will undertake to administer it. I am used to it. At home, when my mother was absent, it was always I who whipped my brothers and sisters, it did not take long and I swear that if you permit me to whip Isabelle, I shall not want any help to give her what she deserves."
"Will that give you pleasure?" M de Bourouet asked her, turning frankly astonished eyes on her.
"Pleasure. No," replied the girl, who would not admit the vicious satisfaction she would feel in humiliating her lover's daughter, this young girl of another class than herself after all, and whose distinction and birth she envied. "But she has to be punished," she added.
"That is my opinion. Go and fetch Isabelle at once." This time he was speaking to the servant, the role of mistress was finished.
Maria needed no second bidding. She exulted as she went upstairs talking to herself, "Now I'll give you something! My hand itches."
Isabelle was waiting for the servant on the landing. "What is the matter?" she asked.
"Go downstairs. Your father will tell you."
Isabelle went down with Maria at her heels. The two girls, Maria still behind Isabelle, entered the study.
"My dear, I have been thinking," said M de Bourouet, addressing his daughter, "I am quite willing to believe that right through this business you have acted from pure childishness. It is as a child therefore that I am going to treat you. As you are too big to receive your punishment at the hands of a man, even though he were your father, Maria, on my orders, will administer to you the chastisement which you used to receive when you were a little girl in short skirts. You understand what I mean. Be reasonable and accept your sentence with humility. I trust that the shame of such treatment at your age will preserve you in the future from the wicked inclinations of your mind. As for you, Maria, since I have given the order, I beg you not to spare her, do as you wish, but do not use a whip, nor a birch nor a cat o'nine tails. I wish to wound the pride of this young lady, but not to injure her physically. It is not proper for me to be present and see it done. I am going out. When I come back I trust that all will be over to good purpose."
He took his hat, slammed the door, called the coachman and went out with him. He led the man away from the suggestive sounds of the little drama that was about to be played.
When the two girls were left alone Maria advanced towards Isabelle: "Now then, miss, you heard what your father said. Submit yourself. You will have to do so."
"Idiot!" replied the big girl, looking the servant up and down.
"Idiot! that is perhaps your idea, miss, but nevertheless you are going to receive the whipping."
"You dare touch me!"
"Oh! We will see about that."
The struggle commenced. Maria threw herself on the young girl and grasped her in her arms, lifting her off the ground and bending her backwards. They both lost their balance. Isabelle fell on her back, dragging with her Maria, who immediately tried to turn her over in order to lay her on her stomach.
Without uttering a word they continued to struggle; as soon as Maria made her turn half over, Isabelle, quick as lightning, re-established herself in the defensive position destined to protect her buttocks from the degrading fate which menaced them. The young girl was pale with rage. The servant, on the contrary, was red from the result of the efforts she made.
The contrast between these two girls was as pretty as could be, but at the moment, neither the one nor the other gave a thought to the aesthetics of her attitude. The brunette-struggled to defend herself and the other to overcome her. After several unsuccessful attempts to get Isabelle into position, Maria adopted a brutal stratagem. It had to be accomplished somehow. Seizing Isabelle's arm vigorously, she began to turn it round. The young girl gave a shriek of pain. She tried to resist. Maria continued the movement and little by little, Isabelle was obliged to give way to the pressure applied by her torturer.
She lay down on her stomach. Without releasing the arm, Maria took up a leather cushion which had fallen to the ground during the fight and slipped it under the young mistress's belly, which had the result of bringing into prominence the behind which shaped clearly under the light, thin material of the clinging skirt. All was ready. With a bound, Maria straddled her victim backwards, her face turned towards the goal she wished to reach, settling her big sit-upon on the young girl's back she pinned her with all her weight to the carpet. Isabelle felt that she was beaten. She resigned herself and did not attempt to struggle when she felt the hands pull roughly at her skirt to turn it up. The drawers were immediately underneath. In order to be thinner, more in the fashion, the girl was not wearing a petticoat. Maria attached the frail envelope which covered the condemned parts. She did not take the trouble to open the slit, but proceeded to remove the drawers entirely.
First of all she unhurriedly piled the skirt over the loins, then she searched around the waist for the string of the drawers: when she had found it she untied it carefully, then slipped the dainty drawers along the thighs. She next lifted up the chemise and looked at the little plump bottom, with its deep crease, almost a boy's bottom, rather more rounded though, with a bold line that gave it an impudent air.
The white silk stockings and same color garters set off admirably the duU golden skin of the lovely brunette. The cushion placed under the belly threw up the bottom which opened out, emphasizing its furrow of warm shade, proffering itself in its most favorable amplitude to the thorough spanking which it was fated to receive.
"Look out, my beauty, I'm beginning."
The warning, to say the least, was unnecessary. The first smack sounded clear and joyful, the hand bouncing from the young and elastic bottom. Then there came an uninterrupted shower. Slap! Slap! in the middle and across. Marie's robust hand spanked with a desolating power. Isabelle braced herself, alternatively opening and closing her buttocks, but still without uttering a sound. Her moon reddened under the blows. With her slender thighs still white and the bottom of her loins also untouched, visible under the edge of the turned up marine blue dress, this crimson behind resembled a brass kettle drum. The heat made it shine, completing the-likeness of this somewhat unbecoming comparison.
Isabelle had already received about thirty slaps. She did not cry out. Her breath came pantingly, her body bounced on the cushion, her knees were gripped tightly the one against the other, her feet contracted in their little white kid high heeled boots, scraped the floor. Sometimes, under a more spiteful blow, the victim weakened, her muscles relaxed their tension, the bottom opened like a big rose in the sun, the knees grew limp, and the young girl seemed to surrender herself, forgetful of all decency until, quivering again, she stiffened herself once more in a short-lived effort of ah her nerves.
Maria, with dilated nostrils, conscientiously applied the spanking she was charged to give. She soundly slapped Isabelle's behind about fifty times, without wringing a cry or a moan from the obstinate victim.
At last, the big red headed girl's plump hand began to hurt her, she stopped, rose nimbly to her feet and put up her hair which had come down in the course of the struggle.
"Now then, Miss, that's over; you can do up your drawers. Aren't you ashamed to stay like that with your moon in the air?"
But Isabelle was not ashamed. Now that her hindmost mystery had been so thoroughly exposed to view, she saw no particular object in hiding it so quickly; with her face in her hands she gave a glance between her fingers and replied: "Since you took them off, put them on again yourself."
"Very well, come here," said Maria smiling strangely.
Isabelle got up, turned her back on the servant who, kneeling behind her, put up her drawers. Suddenly, by an awkward movement or for mischief, Isabelle leaned quickly forward and her bottom came into violent contact with the servant's nose, so that she almost fell over.
Thereupon Isabelle burst into a merry laugh and did up her drawers herself and looking Maria in the eyes, made a face at her.
What mysterious fluid, what invitation, what secret thought was expressed in that smile? At all events Maria in turn smiled and blushed to the very roots of her hair. Without a word, Isabelle ran up to her room, turning two or three times to see if Maria were following her.
"Miss," said the latter lowering her eyes with an hypocritical air, "if yon would like me to tend you, I will apply a soothing lotion if you wish."
"Come up then, stupid," replied Isabelle, "but another time, when you spank me, I beg you not to hit so hard, because you have hurt me."
And they both burst out laughing like the two little mad caps they were.
Conclusion
This adventure finished by being noised abroad in Runancy, that is how we came to hear of it. This, in our opinion, was the most humiliating phase of the punishment which fell on each of the culprits. The spankings received had been given in private, that did not happen outside the family circle, and the witnesses, by reason of their relationship had the right to be present at the somewhat unusual spectacle.
By becoming public property, the story brought additional shame on the Misses Claire, Alice, Marie and Isabelle.
On their walks abroad, heads were turned, ironical faces looked unspoken remarks, and the eyes of the gossips and of the men of all classes inevitably became fixed on those rotundities which the fashionable dresses outlined with sufficient precision to allow of an exact estimate of those graces which were hidden under the tightly fitting skirts.
Of that the four girls were perfectly aware. They kept their eyes lowered modestly, and their cheeks crimsoned many times in a single day, whenever any allusion was made to their famous adventure.
Then the affair was forgotten, as are other things.
Although their nicknames of "the four smacked bottoms of Runancy" survived amongst the lower classes, other subjects occupied the public attention especially as two of these young ladies, Alice and Marie, were engaged.
As for the others, there was no further need for the use of the whip. It is possible, we think, but we do not affirm it, that Miss Isabelle de Bourouet continued, as in the past, to receive whippings from the hand of pretty Maria. But you may believe that in this case there was no shadow of punishment. She did it, or rather they both did it, merely as an amusement and it is here perhaps, at the moment that we bring these pages to a conclusion that the real scandal commences, if scandal there be, for the walls of the Bourouet mansion guard their charming secret jealously.
