Robin had never seen anything like this before. A parade of girls was passing in front of his eyes, tall girls, short girls, slinky girls, rounded girls, fair girls, dusky girls, in an array of clothes, exciting and stimulating, that he would have believed could exist nowhere but in his dreams.
He was sitting in a sidewalk restaurant on Eighth Street in the heart of Greenwich Village. A tall, broad-shouldered man in his late twenties, with neatly-tended fairish hair, he had arrived in New York from his native Nebraska only two days earlier. This was his first visit to Greenwich Village, hangout for New York's bohemians, beats and hippies, part of a leisurely tour he was making of the city, with a view to understanding better the many moods of the city he hoped to make his permanent home.
The tables were crowded closely together. Directly behind him, at a dime-sized table, sat a quartet of girls. Robin almost had a pain in his neck from craning around to stare at them. One of the girls, a honey-blonde whose hair was piled high on her head, was wearing a narrow ribbed band above her waist, what passed in these parts for a sweater, that reached to just above the points of her full bosom, leaving the tops of her bust and her shoulders fully exposed. She wore this with the tiniest of shorts in skin-tight blue denim, that exposed the fullness of a pair of perfectly tanned thighs, delectable to the eye and evoking in Robin dreams of sensuous tingling pleasures. Her neighbor, a brunette with short hair cropped almost as close as Robin's, was the exact opposite. She was as overdressed as her blonde friend was underdressed. A golden-brown sweater in some thin woolen knit, reached tightly above her neck, encasing her almost to the chin and ears. She wore with this a pair of pants in chocolate brown serge that were fastened with a mass of gilt chains. The only thing she seemed to have in common with the other girl was the fullness of her bosom, another girl-Scandinavian by her accent-wore a gaily printed dress that did little to hide the contours of her body, and ended high up on her creamy thighs. She was very fair and had a rosebud mouth meant for kissing. She had on flesh-colored tights that were decorated with red arrows pointing straight up her legs to the region of her crotch. The fourth girl he could not see, only hear. Her back was directly to him, the tiny chairs on which both sat were touching. She must have been about the same height as he and he knew she had masses of long hair that cascaded down her back for he could feel it on the back of his head as he moved, and he could take in her heady perfume, and he knew too that her shoulders were virtually bare for every now and again when he turned he could feel part of his body rubbing against the bare skin.
He had never seen anything like this in his life. It was more stimulating than any dirty movie he had ever seen, even though none of the girls was as nude as those in the movies he used to have shipped to his home in Omaha. His cock was bulging out of his trousers, straining tight against the zipper, and Robin wondered whether the tiny table of the cafe was large enough to cover his embarrassment or whether any woman passing by on the sidewalk could glance down and see the projection of his big tool. "Let them," he thought to himself. "What do I care. If they don't want men to get excited, they shouldn't walk around like that, anyway."
His eyes kept switching from the group behind him to the diners and gossipers all around in the sidewalk cafe and to the passing parade as girls walked by, stopping and dawdling to talk to acquaintances they saw in the cafe. He had chosen an excellent spot. He was within a few hundred yards of the campus of NYU-New York University-and this was obviously a favorite hangout for the university's coeds.
A stately black girl caught his eye. Her skin was a burnished bronze and she must have been six-foot two in height-without her five-inch heels. She wore a tissue-thin halter-top one-piece playsuit of a dark shade of lavender, that barely concealed anything. As she approached he could make out the bulge of her crotch straining against the thin fabric and the nipples standing proudly at the tip of her breasts. Her waist was clinched so tight in the short playsuit that he could even see the declivity of her navel. "My God!" he thought to himself. "She's not wearing a stitch under that, not a stitch. Just that one bit of thin fabric, maybe a yard and a half of it, maybe an ounce in weight, certainly not more than two. That's all a girl needs to wear here in New York."
Her hair was puffed out into a massive Afro that made her look as if she would totter over on her spindly high heels. Actually she wore a lot more than Robin had noticed at first, for around her neck and around her arms, her wrists and her ankles, she wore tiers upon tiers of golden bangles that must have weighed ten pounds or more altogether. She advanced, almost directly toward Robin, her eyes growing large as she approached, and her lips were soft and moist, inviting lips, seductive lips, lips that called for deep penetration with one's tongue, lips that suggested that were made for wrapping themselves around a big juicy cock.
Could that smile be for him? Were those lips inviting his response? Robin froze with excitement and an admixture of anticipation and what was almost fear. He didn't know how to respond. He tried a smile but he felt its coldness and a chill suddenly ran through his body, a chill of fear, he could tell. The chill ran down his spine and as it reached the base of his spine it suddenly reached out for the base of his cock and suddenly cooled his ardor that his erection disappeared as it by magic.
The tall black goddess stopped right in front of him, turned, swiveled her hips, and bent forward to greet someone at a table on Robin's left. To do so she had to push her body right against Robin, and when she bent down to talk to her acquaintance, she pressed her ass right into Robin's face. Instinct made him move back for a fraction of a second but he overcame the reflex immediately and with a mixture of common sense and hunger, he pressed his face back into her bulging butt. It was taut and yet soft and he could feel the left side of his face as if it was sunk in deep between a pair of enormous tits. The black girl moved animatedly as she spoke and in doing so gave Robin what was virtually a message. She was wearing no perfume except the natural scent of a woman who is all woman, alive and vibrant. It was a musky, sweaty, animal smell and as he relaxed into it, he shut his eyes and let his mind take in the sensual erotic pleasure.
"Hi!"
Robin, startled, opened his eyes. He had quite forgotten where he was for a moment. A girl was smiling down at him, another one of those fabulous Greenwich Village chicks.
"Hi!" she said again, flashing her smile through two rows of large lustrous teeth. "O.K. if I sit down?"
"Sure." What else could he say? What else would anyone want to say?
She sat down, and as she did so, Robin undressed her in his mind. He could imagine the firmness of her tits young and adolescent, that still had enough tension in their upper muscles to pull the gorgeous full globes into ski-run contours. In his mind he saw the wide cleavage, below it the flatness of her unstretched belly, the light brown hairs beginning hesitantly just below the sunken navel, gathering number and length, and he could imagine below them the inviting, hungry cunt, its lips closed for the moment but requiring only the lightest pressure of his experienced hands to open and display their glistening, quivering lips to his pleasure.
He'd been so intent on his own imaginings, as he still reached back with his head to enjoy the pleasures of the long-haired unknown behind him and of the invitingly soft ass of the statuesque black woman on his left, that he had not even noticed what the new girl was wearing. Now he looked more carefully and found she had on a short tweed skirt in heather tones with a matching short-sleeved sweater of mauve angora that showed her peaches-and-cream skin and complexion off to perfection. She seemed somehow incongruous in this setting, more of a high-school cheerleader somewhere in the Middle West, than the sort of girl who fitted in with the depraved erotic mores of this part of the Nation's sex capital.
"I haven't seen you here before," the girl said. "No," Robin said. "I'm new in town."
"Doing post-graduate work."
"No, I m in advertising, just landed a job here. I'm starting next week."
"Got an apartment."
"No, I've just started looking."
"Got a girl friend."
"Well, sort of, a few."
"In New York?"
Robin couldn't get over the girl's friendly, innocent openness. She looked so wholesome, so good. He was almost disappointed. She was like the girl-next-door, the quiet sedate kind he had hoped to leave behind in coming to New York. Perhaps he'd marry somebody like her one day. But not till he'd done a lot more fucking first with chicks who put out. This one didn't look that type.
"No, back home. In Nebraska."
"Then you can come up to my place with me now and we'll screw. ...O! Hi there Coryn!"
Robin didn't know what had happened. He was sure the girl opposite had invited him home with her to screw, but it seemed such an un-likely thing for a girl like her to have said, and such an un-likely way for it to be said, and entirely too improbable. Ana, furthermore, she'd treated it so lightly and offhandedly. Moreover, just as she was saying it the tall black goddess against whose soft ass-globes Robin had been resting his face had suddenly turned around and greeted the girl facing him, making her break off what she was saying to him.
"Hi, Honey? What's cooking? How's tricks?" the black girl asked, just as Robin was phrasing a polite "I beg pardon, what was it you said?" so that the cheerleader, as Robin had labeled the girl in his mind, had to tackle both questions simultaneously.
"Oh fine, a bit dull you know but...I said we could screw in my place. So what's happening in your life Coryn. Drop in sometimes, won't you. Maybe this evening, could be fun. O.K.? "
Robin wondered who the O.K. was aimed at.
"Well, yes," he answered, drawing out his words, not wanting to seem unappreciative yet trying to hide the surprise and eagerness that might mark him for a hick in a place like this. "Yes, thank you. I was thinking the same myself. In fact I...."
Just then a waitress came to take their order, interrupting Robin's words.
"Lets not bother," the girl at his table said, tossing her head so that the long tresses flew back over her shoulder. "We can fix something up at my place later. I feel like getting laid before I eat. Well, good seeing you, Coryn. See you tonight? Come, let's go." This time she was addressing Robin again. "Our loft's over by Broadway. I'll pick up a carton of milk on the way. Say, you do fuck girls, don't you? You haven't said anything yet."
CHAPTER TWO
They walked off together down Eighth Street. Robin was at a loss for words. He'd learned all the right things to say under most circumstances but this was a new situation. Never in his life had he been propositioned by a girl. Never had he even been successful in picking up a girl and gaining her complaisance in so short a time. What could he say to the girl? He was afraid that anything he might say would mark him as somehow inexperienced in these ways of the metropolitan sex-hungry crowd. The weather was clearly out. So was talking about her job or asking where she lived or where she came from.
Robin decided to maintain his reputation for silence. His mind went off on a trip of its own. His senses took in as much as possible for the girl walking so casually at his side. She wasn't tall-she barely reached his shoulder. Her hair was long and thick and fell down to below her shoulders. Her forehead was high and rounded-rather like her breasts, which were high and rounded too but in a demure sort of way, just as her lips presented a feeling of demureness despite a certain full sensuality. He was dying to get his hands under the sweater and on to those luscious looking tits, and another hand up those sheer nylons she was wearing and up her long thighs and under that little tweed skirt that hardly hid anything.
"We'll get milk here," the girl said suddenly and turned into a small delicatessen. They had to wait in line while various student and hippie types were getting orders of sandwiches and coffees to go, and in the relative dark the girl turned to face Robin and moved close to him, pressing the full length of her body against his. Robin felt his cock give an immediate twitch as it started to rise out of the relative inactivity of the previous five minutes. His cock became hard, still slightly bent inside his zipper, and bulged out against the girl's belly. She noticed it, smiled, reached down, opened the zip, and took hold of his cock.
Would this girl never cease to surprise him?
Obviously not. He found his right arm held by the wrist and then his hand was guided, up past a stretch of nylon, under a short length of silk-lined tweed and against a silk-covered mound of flesh. Robin needed no encouragement to explore further. His fingers slipped under the elastic of her bikini panties, groped and stroked their way, touched a resilient mound of curly hair, passed on, found moistening lips, pushed and entered.
The girl Drought her face up to his and Robin made as if to kiss, but she opened her lips only to whisper: "Put them all in, get your whole hand in, push it all the way in, make me come."
The line in front of them was shortening as customers received their bacon-and-pastrami on rye or eggs-cheese-and-tomato on white. "Go on!" the girl urged. "Bring me off here. I can't wait till we get home." She pushed her body even tighter into Robin's so that his hand was jammed up her dripping cunt up to the knuckles. Her breasts projected into his midriff, her thighs were between his as she jerked her torso and her ass in time with the grasping, groping of his fingers in her cunt.
"What's yours?" the counterman in a white paper hat and stained apron asked.
"Half-and-half, a pint, keep on, don't stop, I'll be ready soon." Some of the words were directed at Robin, some at the counterman who didn't quite seem to understand.
"Here's your pint of milk, lady," he said. "What was the other thing you wanted?"
But the girl was too deeply engrossed in what was happening to her. She was thrusting her haunches wildly against Robin. Her lips were on his as she greedily sucked in sensations from his tongue and lips. Her cunt was wide open but she had tight muscles in it that gripped Robin's fingers firmly, as if she was trying to milk those, too. She was in a positive frenzy as she thrust herself backwards an d forwards against Robin's body.
The delicatessen wasn't in complete darkness and the girl's activity certainly couldn t have passed unnoticed, but Robin was too excited and engrossed to pay much attention to what others might be thinking. The girl obviously knew the place and if she thought it was a good place to get jerked off, she must Know what she was doing.
"Hey lady, your milk. I'll put it on the counter here. When you're quite finished what you're doing...." and he went on to serve the next customer.
The juices were dripping down Robin's hand from the greedy cunt he was groping, and the cunt started getting up a rhythm of its own as the muscles tightened and contracted spasmodically. The girl gave a moan, her body shuddered, she gave his straining cock a final hard squeeze, and then slowly she subsided. She kept clinging to Robin a few seconds longer, then gradually she relaxed, her well-lubricated cunt disgorged Robins fingers, she took her hand of his cock, pushed it back into his fly and zipped him up. At the same time Robin withdrew his dripping hand from inside her panties, raised her miniskirt slightly as he took away his hand and wiped it unceremoniously on the back of her sweater, and they pulled apart.
"Give him a quarter for the milk," the girl said aloud to Robin, and continued in the same breath: "I like the feel of your cock. Mmmmm! Can't wait to taste it. Now we have some cream for the coffee, good." She raised her voice only slightly to say "Bye!" to the counterman and customers of the deli, picked up her carton of milk and left the store with Robin.
Robin's mind was in a whirl. He kept glancing at the girl. "God!" he thought. "I don't even know her name and I don't know now I can ask her now." She seemed so pure and innocent, he couldn't figure it out. They walked on, together, unconcerned, not even with their arms around each other. It all seemed so unreal. The warm afternoon sun of late spring beat down on them, emphasizing reality with its harsh lines, but for Robin, nothing seemed real. They crossed Eighth Street together, turned up Mercer Street, continued for half a block, then the girl groped in her purse for a bunch of keys, selected one, and opened the street door of a dingy loft building. They started to walk up the stairs, but before they'd gone more than a few steps, the girl suddenly plunged for Robin's fly, pulled down his zipper, groped for his cock and balls, bent down quickly to take his still soft cock into her mouth, rolled it around, fingered his balls, then straightened up and continued walking up the stairs with a complete air of unconcern.
The cool air hit Robin in the balls and he bent to do up his zipper but delayed it for a few moments,, luxuriating in the sense of freedom it gave him to walk up the public stairs of the loft building with cock and balls hanging out.
At the top of the stairs, dimly lit by a grimy skylight, the girl got out another bunch of keys and undid four locks in quick succession, then she pushed open the heavily buttressed door, held it for Robin, let him enter, and closed it after him, locking the door from the inside with the same care she had used unlocking it from the outside.
"She must want to make sure I'll stay to fuck her,"
Robin thought to himself, and the thought made him rather proud.
It was dark in the loft. If there were any windows, Robin could not see them. The walls seemed covered with various exotic hangings and strange implements whose purpose he could not guess. Other implements were hanging from the ceiling. Light, when the girl had turned a few switches, came from behind other-worldly shades and covers. There were paintings of either an abstracted oriental school of art or of an ultra-modern surrealistic bent. A button pressed by the girl flooded the loft with exotic drum music in an incessant beat that worked its way out of the confines of a hidden speaker system.
The girl, having made various arrangements and adjustments in her room, the while leaving Robin standing aimlessly by the entrance, now returned. She looked, if anything, even innocent and more wholesome than she had when he had first met her at the outside cafe in Greenwich Village all of...could it be? .... just twenty minutes before.
She had changed her clothes. Now she looked like a little girl, twelve perhaps, in what might have been a tiny flounced party-dress or a seductive nightgown. It was scooped low at the top, shirred around the shoulders, pinched with elastic at the waist, and ended a bare six inches below the waist, a flimsy something in a transparent lime-green nylon, that could not cover the tiny bikini panties of the same fabric she wore underneath. On her feet, incredibly, she wore a little girl's patent-leather shoes, shining black. In her hair she wore a big bow.
And on her face she wore the most wanton, most abandoned, most lustful expression a scheming twelve-year-old could wear.
As he stared, with mounting tension and desire, she waved her hips from side to side. She ran her hands down her thighs, then up again, displaying the length of her legs, the tiny bikinis, transparent so that the dark hair around her cunt showed through. She pulled at her panties, pulled them up tight, splitting the mouth between her cunt lips, emphasizing the cleft of her cunt opening. He could even see the thin green fabric moistening as she ran her fingers over it around the cunt lips. With her skirt raised, she rubbed her smooth flat belly, pressing her hands on it, finger tips together, then slowly and lasciviously drawing them apart and up.
For a moment he thought that she was going to take the dress off, but not yet. She undulated her body like a belly dancer of the Orient, then she slowly lowered her hands again, made an "O" with them around her cunt, stroked her way down her thighs-and smiled at him with her look of innocent depravity.
He wanted to rape this child-woman. He wanted to get her on the ground and tear off her childish clothes and shove his prick into her childish, teasing mouth, shove it in until she choked. He wanted to tear those ridiculous childish and innocent-teasing clothes off her back and beat her with his belt until she was black and blue and screaming for his mercy. He wanted to beat her and pinch her and kick her until the blood flowed and the look of innocence was wiped off her childish face. He wanted to shove his cock up her baby twat until it came out of the other side. Was that what she wanted, he wondered, because if it wasn't, she'd be getting it soon, anyway, if she kept up like this.
She let her skirt drop-as far as it could which wasn't very far, and faced him, her weight on one foot, looked at him with little-girl eyes, put the tip of a finger to her lips and said, in a little-girl whining voice; "You haven't asked me yet what my name is."
Oh, God! How he wanted to ram something-anything--his fist, his cock, a lump of shit-down this innocent girl's throat. He'd come here to fuck, not to play games, and certainly not to be teased.
"All right," he started to say, but his voice was strangely hoarse and choked so that he could get the words out only with great difficulty. "So what's your name, then?"
She turned on one leg, put her weight on the other, inclined her head to one side and lisped: "I'm Elithabeth."
"Pleased to meet you. Now stop this game and let's fuck!"
She continued as if she hadn't heard him: "But everybody calls me Lithbeth."
"I said, let's fuck!" He wanted to make his voice sound authoritative but he couldn't get his command past the constriction in. his throat with any degree of conviction."
"What'th your name? You haven't told me yet."
"Robin."
"Can I call you Robby?"
"No, I'm Robin. And stop this game. You're not a little girl. Let's fuck and get it over with. Wasn't that what you wanted?"
She struck a hurt pose and pouted.
"You're nasty. If I'd known you'd be nasty I wouldn't have invited you here to play with me. I thought you were nithe and we could play together and have fun."
She hung her head and continued undulating her hips. Then she cupped her full breasts, one in each hand, and pushed them up and out.
"You think I'm just a silly little girl, don't you? Well, I'm not. I'm a big girl. My mummy says I'm too big to walk around without a bra. Do you?"
"Cut out the silly game!" He started taking a step-towards her to put action into his words, but something held him frozen to the ground.
She rolled her breasts around and around in her hand, swiveling her hips and looking at him in her evil-innocent way. "My breasts are big, aren't they? You'd like to suck them, wouldn't you?"
He nodded, voicelessly.
"I bet you'd rather suck my breasts than a lollipop, wouldn't you?"
"Lollipop!" it was all he could get out.
She smacked her lips. "Lollipops! Yes, I love thucking lollipops." I'll give you a lollipop!" Robin roared. "Here, take this!"
He had unzipped his fly and his cock, red and angry, shot out at the same instance. It was a big cock with a large velvet tip of a purplish shade, and along its length bluish veins stood out and gave it a slightly knobbly appearance. Released from the restraining folds of Robin's pants, the cock quivered and throbbed.
Lizbeth opened her eyes into huge circles of surprise. "Lol...." she started saying and then the muscles in her throat were working feverishly and her tongue rolled over her lips and she took one step forward and then another and another as her knees weakened and she fell to her knees in front of him. Her hands seized his cock and her mouth swallowed it hungrily.
"That's the lollipop for you," Robin said, a smile of satisfaction on his face. Her mouth was an experienced one. It formed a mild vacuum that sucked in the skin and the tissues. She thrust her head backwards and forwards, rocking on her butt, and she alternately took in the whole length and let it slip out almost to the very tip.
"Not too fast!" Robin admonished. He didn't want to come too quickly. He had other plans for this weird chick.
She slowed down her rapid movements and instead used her tongue, slowly and sensuously, working her way in lapping, spiral movements with the tip of her tongue along the entire length of his cock. At the tip she took her time and with the very point of her tongue she penetrated into the tiny cleft from which his piss and his sperm make their issue. She moved her tongue slowly around the ridge of the crown, where the velvet tip swelled to its maximum and then fell away to the smoother, softer skin of the shaft. She tongued and laved him all along the shaft, her tongue joggling over the knobbly projections of the veins; she went along to the very end, not stopping where the hairs tickled her nose, then worked her way back again to his swollen tip.
And then suddenly she stopped. She let the tip of his cock slip wetly out of her pursed mouth, jumped to her feet, took a few steps back, looked at him coyly, cupped her breasts, smoothed her dress down, then lifted it up, like a little girl about to curtsey.
"Do you want to suck my lollipop?" she asked.
She wiggled her hips, then she thrust her pelvis forward, the lips of her cunt, under the thin covering of her bikini panties.
Robin had been angered when she so unceremoniously had abandoned his cock and gotten to her feet. He wanted to curse, perhaps even to beat and kick her, but the seductiveness of her pose overcame his angry intent. His mouth drooled.
"You'd like to suck my lollipop, wouldn't you?" she asked again, her lips and her posture inviting.
Her fingers worked away through the nylon at her crack. The crack deepened and widened between the "O" she created between the joined thumbs and forefingers of her hands. The middle finger of her right hand kept stroking at the dark valley. The moisture oozing from deep in her cunt stained the panties a darker shade, a stain that spread as she excited herself and the juices flowed ever more strongly.
"I have a lovely lollipop," she announced. "It's tasty, too." She tugged at the elastic by her right leg and pulled it up her thigh and over to the left, so that first the dark golden hair at her triangle became visible and then the dark pink flesh of her cunt lips. She thrust herself even more forward and upward and then she dug three fingers up her twat and rolled them around and when she took them out again, all dripping and glistening with her juices, she stuck them into her mouth and sucked, first all three together and then, as if to get the last drop of her cunt juice into her hungry mouth, she sucked each finger, from its root slowly to its tip.
"Yum!" she said. "It's tasty. I bet you'd like to lick my lollipop."
She kept sucking her fingers and now the fingers of her other hand dug deeply into her twat. Robin was beside himself with desire. He moved forward, as if hypnotized.
Lizbeth had dug both hands into her twat and now it lay open and exposed, the deep pink lips glistening.
Robin was down on his knees. He grabbed the cheeks of her ass in his hands to bring her cunt even further up and forward, and he planted his mouth right onto her crack where her own fingers had pulled aside the fabric. He worked his lips eagerly over her lower ones and grabbed tight at the flesh and the nylon caught up in his grasping hands. His nose buried itself in the child-woman smell of her triangle of hair.
Lizbeth groaned and ground her hips in ecstasy under his stimulation. He opened his mouth and pushed his tongue into the opening of her twat. He wanted to get his whole face inside her, his head, his entire body, shove all of himself up into her eager, yawning cunt.
His hands worked their way under the elastic at the back of her bulging ass, and found the crack between the cheeks. His fingers inched forward until they reached the rear edge of her cunt. Now he worked at her simultaneously from front and back, with his mouth and with his fingers. His cock was throbbing between his legs, but his thoughts were not on his cock but on his insatiable yearning for the dripping, eager cunt flesh of this strange child-woman.
And then, while he was sucking at her cunt and licking deep inside it and titillating her cunt from the back with his fingers, the girl started coming with long, involuntary thrusts of her whole body and a groaning and sighing that came from deep inside her.
CHAPTER THREE
Robin's excitement could no longer be contained. The girl's excited thrusting in the throes of her orgasm aroused him to unbearable desire. He caught hold of her ass with his hands, squeezed, lifted, brought her up, rose to his feet carrying the girl with him, lifting her right to her feet.
His desire was urgent. His energy was uncontrolled. He was no longer master of his passions.
He picked up the girl, like a weightless bundle, and threw her down on her back on an area of the floor covered with rugs and mattresses. Quick as a flash he was down beside her. His feverish hands tore at her flimsy clothes. One, two-he had torn the dress right off her body, torn it into rags and flung it across the room. In only seconds more he had torn her panties to shreds. He divested himself of his own clothes in a moment, without being aware of it even.
Then he flung himself on the girl's body. Instinctively she had drawn up her knees and brought them together. He pulled them apart but left them raised, then he sunk his long lean body between hers and in the same thrust he shoved his cock deep into her crack.
The girl's cunt had been liberally lubricated-first from her own self-manipulation, then from Robin's assiduous work with his tongue and lips and fingers. Now, for a moment, fright tended to dry up her juices so that his cock, after having slid through the opening of her cunt as if it were greased, now found itself retarded slightly by muscular tightness that served only to increase the excitement he was feeling. His cock lunged, despite the temporary tightness deep in her cunt; he withdrew an inch or two and lunged again. This time the force of his thrust would have been enough to settle the cock deep in the girl's cunt even had it been as dry as the desert but she, having recovered from her temporary fright, now began to regain her earlier sexual passion and from high in her cunt the juices started flowing copiously again. His cock slithered in and out of her cunt, his balls jangling against the back of her slit. She raised up her knees and grasped his waist tightly between her thighs, digging her heels into the small of his back.
Robin lunged forward and backward, in and out. His chest slammed against the firm mounds of her breasts each time he plumbed her depths, and each time as he rose on his haunches, her breasts bounced back into their shape.
The excitement was mounting in his cock, spreading through his balls and from there throughout his body. Rays of pleasure were shooting out through his toes. His back was aflame. His head wore a crown of golden daggers. His eyes saw with a piercing whiteness. "Fuck you! You goddam bitch!" he yelled. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Godammit you Fuck-Fuck-Fuck!"
Elizabeth, the child-worn an lying underneath was reacting to each of his strokes. She was thrashing with her ass like a woman crazed, whipping her pelvis from side to side to the extent that it was free despite the thrust of his massive cock that held it impaled. She was heaving backwards and forwards and her shoulders were rolling from side to side. She tried to form words but only gurgles came out: "Aaaguh! Ouytrugh! Ayotyortyo!" Her eyeballs were turning in their sockets. She was as excited as he although she had come only a few minutes before. She kept trying to formulate her words, trying to make meaningful sounds out of the gurglings that arose from her throat.
At last they came.
"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck me hard! Fuck!"
Robin's motions were speeding up. He could feel the hot fluid boiling up in his balls and beginning to spill over the top of the dam. His toes dug into the rug and he became a veritable battering ram, a relentless cock at the end of a body that had only one aim.
"Fuck! Fuck! Fuckacku-u-u-u-k!" Robin yelled.
And then the two bodies thrashed together in discordant unity as the sperm spilled over the dam and his consciousness dissolved into the animal gratification of desire.
His head sank slowly and came to rest between the delicious mounds of her breasts, cool now to his fevered head. His breath came slowly and slowly, too, his cock emerged, limp now but still long, glistening and dripping wet, from the yawning chasm of her cunt. It slid out, trailing behind it slippery slimy tracks of spent semen and sex-lubricant from the commodious twat in which it had been fucking for the previous ten minutes.
Robin's breath came in short gasps. His eyes, which had opened into a paralytic stare as he was going through the throes of orgasm, had shut closed and now he closed his mouth, too, relaxed at the breast of the woman he had just fucked, and in a few minutes he was asleep.
He awoke with a kick in his side. He looked up, disbelieving, and instinctively tried to cover his nakedness with a non-existent blanket.
Towering over him was a woman!
But what a woman!
Robin rubbed his eyes, trying to drive away the sleep. He was sure he must be dreaming. This was unreal. This could not be happening to him. He shut his eyes and turned his head and rubbed the knuckles of his hands in his eyes and tried to drive away the demons of his sleep. Then as he felt another kick in his ribs, he turned around once more to look at the apparition.
She was real. There could be no doubt about it. The kick in his side hurt too much to be the work of something which was only the product of his imagination. This was no illusion. She was real.
She was a woman, a tall woman, statuesque, standing well over six foot in her spiked heels. Her head was adorned with a close-fitting helmet of black leather that was strapped under her chin. Her dress-if it could be called a dress-was-likewise made of black leather. It had a halter top cut low under the armpits and above the breasts with a gap, reaching almost to the navel, that was bridged with laced leather thongs. The skirt fell away in a slight flare from the waist, not too much of a flare though since it was obviously tight against the powerfully muscled thighs of the woman. To top it all, or rather to serve as underpinnings, she wore a pair of soft glossy black boots, set on high spike heels, that rose to well above her knees and were fastened with strap and buckle around her thighs, a bare four inches below the hem of her skirt.
She was kicking him with those spike-heeled boots.
Robin gasped.
What was that woman doing here? How has she got here? How, for that matter, had Robin gotten here? He tried to throw his mind back, tried to recollect what had happened.
He was in New York, that he could remember. He recalled having gone to Greenwich Village, recalled the girls he had so much enjoyed seeing there-some of them dressed not quite un-like the woman who was impatiently kicking him in ribs and midriff now. He recalled the "innocent" girl with the soft complexion, Elizabeth or Lizbeth as he later found out, Lizbeth who had lured him to this place, Lizbeth whose strange perverted tastes had given him so many strange surprises from that moment she had sat down at his table to the moment when he had finished fucking her-one of the most thrilling and satisfying fucks he'd ever had-and had withdrawn his weary cock from the relaxed clutches of her cunt.
Where was Lizbeth?
Surely this wasn't Lizbeth now, in another transformation that denied the innocent air she kept trying to maintain. No, Lizbeth was fairer and much shorter, too, and it didn't seem to Robin that Lizbeth, even at the depth of her perverted soul would transform herself like this and treat him in this manner.
This, obviously, wasn't Lizbeth.
In that case, where was Lizbeth?
Robin raised himself on one elbow to look around, but immediately he was kicked sharply in the ribs, so that he fell back on the rug-covered mattress.
"Pig!" the strange woman yelled at him. "Swine!"
Her voice was naturally deep, a deep contralto, and even raised into an angry shout it remained deep and commanding.
"Pig!" she yelled again. "Swine!" and with that she kicked him, first in the ribs, then when he rolled away, right in the groin.
Robin roared with the pain. It seemed he blacked out for a moment. When he came back to his senses, he felt a lash stinging across his bared ribs. The woman had produced a bull whip from somewhere and now she was laying it across him, raising angry red welts.
This was certainly no joke. Robin had no idea what the woman thought she was or what she was after.
"Look!" he started saying. "Look, look...er...er...there must be a mistake."
"Mistake! You rotten wretch! You're a mistake!" With each word she laid into him with her leather whip.
Robin tried to get to his knees but a well-aimed kick from the woman forced him back to the ground. He crossed his hands over his cock and testicles to protect his vital and sensitive areas.
"Please. I'm sorry. Whatever it is I'm sorry. Now please stop. Please stop." It was not an order, it was a plea, a request, an earnest entreatment.
"You're damn right you ought to be sorry. And you know damn well what you've done. You'll pay for it, don't worry. This is just a foretaste."
With that she commenced a barrage of kicks and blows, both from her high-heeled long boots and from the whip she was wielding. There was no escaping for Robin. He was completely at her mercy. Blows rained on him from all directions, striking every available surface of his body. There was no way to turn, no way to escape, no way even of mitigating the force of the blows.
At first Robin was terrified of the blows. He screamed and screamed from both pain and fright, and the sweat poured off his body and mixed with the blood that was oozing out of the cuts the kicks and lashes were opening up. After a while, however, the surprise went out of the attack and so did the novelty. He was almost getting used to it. And, getting used to it, Robin discovered not only that the agony of the pain was not as insufferable as it had been in the beginning, but that in a perverse sort of way he was actually getting a measure of pleasure out of it. It wasn't so bad at all. Of course it hurt, hurt devilishly, hurt as much as at the beginning and even perhaps more for now the blows were landing not on fresh skin but on bruises and welts and cuts that had already been laid open by earlier blows. But strange as it seemed, there was pleasure in the blows, the more they hurt, the more they seemed accompanied by a perverse sense of pleasure.
Kicks from the long legs of the stately woman kicked at his ribs and at his back. Since her first blow into his crotch when it had seemed he would forever be paralyzed, she had apparently taken care not to injure him there any further and he was grateful to that. If she kicked him again, he knew, it would cause irreparable damage for now his turgid cock had by some strange transmutation become fully engorged and erect so that it stuck out, an inviting target, straight and firm, seven inches of vulnerable flesh.
She spared his cock, though, both from her heels and from her whip, but the rest of his body bore the full brunt of her blows. Then she seemed to tire of kicking and instead placed her high-heeled boot squarely on his chest, pressing him down to the floor with utter humiliation. He was her prisoner, pressed down under the high spike heel and under the flat of the narrow sole, but even more held down by the simple and majestic mastery of the woman.
She held him down, now, with the full weight of her boot on his chest, and with her whip continued flailing at him. His cock, standing vertical, gave an indication of the transformation going through him. This woman aroused him. This woman excited him. These blows were giving him pleasure!
Robin thought he was in a nightmare. Only in a nightmare could he experience these pains and consider them pleasures. Only in a nightmare would he surrender like this to a woman. Only in a nightmare could he consider such humiliation and such pain as being any way pleasurable.
But now he was enjoying it. Really and truly enjoying it. Enjoying it. Enjoying it for all it hurt--nay, the more it hurt the more the pleasure. He wanted to kiss that boot that was pressing him down, kiss this symbol of his subjugation, kiss this symbol of a woman's mastery over his masculinity. He wanted to worship this boot and what it symbolized, the woman now raining down blows on him at her will.
A perverse thought went through his mind. He wanted to peek. He wanted to look under her skirt. Her leather clothes were moving with her body, glittering and rippling with every movement, moving with every blow she landed on him and with every motion of arm or leg. The softly clinging leather left little to the imagination as to the workings of her body, and served if anything to emphasize and exaggerate the action of her body. Her thighs, under the restraining leather, seemed unbelievably powerful, her bulging bosom heaved like twin mountains, her belly under the leather cover seemed to rise and fall with each breath.
But he wanted to penetrate her secret, he wanted to see her fully as a woman, he longed to see her cunt, her hairy sweaty cunt, he wanted to see the gaping gash as her legs moved in accord with her lash. He could imagine it, a huge, dark, hairy monster smelling high, dripping with sweat and excitement, directing the eyes and the senses to that which was contained therein, her twat, her hairy, gaping blood-red, sweaty cunt.
Despite the pressure of her boot digging painfully into his chest, he strained and moved his shoulders and his neck. Now he had a better point for viewing, painfully won but worth the effort and the pain. He could see up her skirt, see up the darkness under the heavy leather covering, look along the length of the thigh that was planted vertically and see up to the point where it joined the other thigh, the thigh whose leg was pressing down on him.
He looked up along her boot and her thigh and saw what he had sought. Her twat was, if anything, hairier than he had imagined. The hairs swished and swayed as she whipped him and he watched them with studied fascination. Each time she rained a blow the gash of her cunt opened wider and he could see the varying contours of the flesh inside, layered like a delectable cake, stripes of pink and red and purple alternating, all moist and glittering.
The smell that hit his nostrils was largely that of his own fear and his own pain mixed with sweat. But some of the smell, he knew, was part of the odor of excitement this masterly woman was exuding, and part of the sweat was hers and part of her smell must come from that cunt. And all of it seemed wrapped in the heady smell of good leather, rich and supple and exciting. In his imagination he saw the woman sinking down on him, enveloping him in the folds of her leather skirt, shutting out the light, covering his face with her leather skirt as she slowly squatted.
Her boots, long and limber and black and glossy, were folding themselves-in his imagination of course-along the length of his body, pressing him down in agony and helplessness but at the same time transmitting to him the pleasures and excitements generated in her animal power and her feminine mastery. She lowered herself-still in his imagination-so that the folds of her narrow skirt covered ever more of him and as she lowered herself even further, the smell of enveloping leather gave way to the overwhelming smell of her woman-ness. Her cunt came closer and closer to his mouth and his lips-in his imagination the leather skirt had long since blotted out the light and he could not, therefore use his power of sight-and the smell of sweat and cunt-juice, of stale piss and farts, of everything that made this woman smell like a woman, became an overpowering one. She sat down heavily on his chest, the lap of her skirt focusing the smells into his mouth and nostrils, and then she slowly moved her haunches along his body until-in his imagination-she was sitting fully athwart his face. Her cunt was all over him.
It was a strange mixture of sensations. In reality, in life as he was living it now under her blows, he could see clearly the object of his veneration: the cunt, the enticing triangle of thighs and hair and slit. He could see it in fine detail, all the hairs, all the drops of sweat, both stale and fresh, every glistening opening and fold of her twat, even the twitching point of her now erect clitoris. He could see it all in reality, but he could neither smell properly nor taste nor feel. In his imagination, on the other hand, the sense of sight was denied, but instead he could sense everything else-the heady, overpowering aroma, the sour-sweet taste, the fluid-soaked flesh and hair. He could feel it pressing on his eyes and nose and mouth. He could feel his tongue impaled in her cunt. He could feel the dripping hairs prickling him all over. He could feel the full weight of her body, transmitted through her ass, her haunches and her cunt, pressing him down and humiliating him.
And he experienced nothing but joy and triumph.
Reality was whipping him, cutting him, bruising him. Reality was so intense that it brought on fantasy, fantasy of such an intensity that reality faded into the distance. The more blows that were directed at his helpless body, the heavier the pressure of the woman's boot on his chest, the more he was pressed and suppressed-the more his senses fled from reality and entered the realm of fantasy.
Fantasy became enjoyment. Every blow thrilled, every dig of heel and sole gave joy. He was thrilling to every moment. Each lash of the whip seemed to be like a thrust of sperm from his balls into his cock and from his cock into a non-existent cunt. Every blow was a caress, every whip a kiss of love. He was excited beyond belief. He was crying now and sobbing but it seemed to him he was crying not with pain but with pleasure, with pleasure so unbelievably great that he could not control it. He was crying from a surfeit of joy, joy at being held down by this woman, joy at being her slave and worse than her slave, joy at being entirely powerless, joy at being humiliated to an extent he would have believed impossible, joy at being tortured and pained beyond the level of tolerance, joy at being allowed to experience a sensation that went to the very limit of the experiencable-and then beyond.
Fain was joy. Each wound became a source of erotic pleasure. His whole body was one large erogenous zone. He could no longer feel one part separately; even his cock had dissolved in the anonymous unity of his whole body. He was all sensation, all feeling, all pleasure. His body was one, his pain one, his suffering one and his pleasure one.
And as his pain mounted and become one in pleasure, and as his cock, now only an insignificant and anonymous part of him, weakly and unknown to him spurted and throbbed and splattered out its few weak drops of colorless fluids, and as the woman above him continued to bear down with her boot on his chest and with her whip all over his bruised and pained body, his mind turned a metaphysical somersault and marked the transition from bare consciousness to full unconsciousness.
Robin had fainted but the blows on his body did not cease.
CHAPTER FOUR
Much later he awoke.
"Awoke" wasn't perhaps the right word. He stirred. He tried to move. He tried to open his eyes. It seemed impossible. The pain was overpowering.
He decided to concentrate on his eyes. The lids were heavy and swollen. With much effort he opened them, opened them a crack, just enough to-see the light by, not enough to see anything. Then he closed them again.
The events of the past few hours flashed through his mind. He remembered another situation, another time when he had woken like this, but he had no idea how long ago that had been. Then, too, he had not known at first where he was or what he was doing or even what had happened, but then he had woken with a body refreshed by the pleasures of a recent fuck, a damn good fuck too. Now he woke up with a body racked with pain, and he slowly remembered the blows that had been rained on him. He could feel those blows now as one gigantic blow that covered the full and entire surface of his whole body. The joy and pleasure he had felt in the pain and humiliation towards the end of his conscious awareness of that event no longer survived and he could barely imagine, let alone believe, how he could at any time or in any way have found them pleasurable.
He groaned with the pain. His lips, he discovered, were swollen and distorted. They seemed numb with the bruises. His eyelids gradually opened and he could see slightly more of the room where he was. It was still the same loft, he assumed, though he seemed to have moved or been moved. A bright light was shining from the ceiling, bright, stark and unshaded. It threw the area of ceiling and wall that was within his field of vision into stark shapes and outlines.
He tried to move his head and found it was possible, though his neck was stiff and every muscle hurt. Some suspicion told him to seek out his crotch, to see if his cock or his testicles had been damaged in any way; he thought he should be able to feel them without actually touching them but the whole area seemed numb, seemed part of the general numbness that overlay the pain of his entire body. He managed to move his fingers and then his hands; his wrists moved and so with great pain did his elbows, but the muscles were too weak at first to move on the command of his befuddled mind. With a supreme effort he moved his whole arm, moved it down from the shoulders in the general direction of his cock. It was difficult to direct it and even more difficult to find the precise location of his tools of masculinity, but eventually, groping painfully along the walls and bruises of his belly and of his thighs, he found his cock, small and soft but apparently un-bruised and unharmed, and further groping found his balls, too, both of them. He tried rubbing them, tried evoking all kinds of erotic tableaux so as to arouse his cock to a hard-on in order to see whether it was still functioning the way it should, but all seemed hopeless. His cock was numb, his balls were numb, his entire body was numb. Try as he would he could not stimulate them into excitement.
It was hopeless!
Then he heard a whimper. A sob in the distance. Muffled crying and moaning.
Strange things were happening here!
Robin wondered what the owners of this loft were up to. Owners? He didn't really know who they were or what or how many. That girl who'd brought him up here, that innocent-looking one who'd picked him up, that child-woman who had tempted him so lasciviously and whom eventually in the full thrust of his aroused manhood he had fucked-could she be part of this plot? It certainly would not surprise him. And who was that other woman who had beaten him and lashed him and crushed him under her boot? What was she doing here? What was her relation to Lizbeth and what was Lizbeth's relation to her. Where was Lizbeth for that matter, and where was the woman-in-boots-and-leather?
Further sobbing changed the direction of his thinking. It sounded like a little girl, a sad little, lost little girl, in the throes of utter despair.
Robin stirred himself painfully. He rolled to one side, reached out an elbow, raised himself, tried to get his legs functioning. He couldn't stand but he could tuck his legs under him and by pressing on the one arm he could raise himself into a near sitting position. Now, through his puffed eyelids, he could see more of the room. He tried to focus his eyes.
What he saw aroused both his passion and his compassion.
In front of his eyes was the girl he had fucked way back in time when he was still strong and hale and well. It was Lizbeth, unquestionably Lizbeth, naked as the day she was born. No, not quite naked: she was "wearing" ropes and bonds that had her completely and helplessly trussed up.
A leather strap had been fastened around her neck. From here a length of chain dropped down the front of her neck and between her upraised knees and was linked to leather straps that encircled her wrists, under the back of her thighs. The wrists, fastened together, formed an circling bracelet that forced her thighs up close to her face, and they were fastened, in their turn, by another length of chain to straps that encircled both ankles and held them close together. She was thus drawn up in a squatting position, her head and neck drawn down to her knees, her wrists forcing her knees close up to her chest and her ankles drawn tight to her thighs and her hams. Her hair was disheveled but there seemed no sign of bruises.
"Lizbeth," Robin tried to say but it came out "Buh-buh" from between his swollen lips.
"Buh-Buh, a' 'u 'er?" His mind formed the words: "Lizbeth, are you hurt?" but his lips could not form it.
From the opposite corner came a sigh and a groan.
With a valiant effort, Robin raised himself to his knees and, using his hands for locomotion, he slowly covered the five or six yards that separated him from the trussed up girl.
The girl noticed his approach and lifted her head to the extent that the restraints permitted this. He approached her, inch by painful inch, and when he finally got to her he slowly raised one hand and stroked her tied-up thigh.
The girl flinched, whether in pain or surprise or disgust Robin could not tell.
Slowly, painfully, carefully, he got out his words: "Are you hurt?"
"No, not yet." And she broke into new sobs.
"There...I'll try to help. You mustn't cry. What happened?"
"She came back and found us...O God! We shouldn't have...I was naughty...I know it was wrong...and she's going to punish me now."
Her phrases were interspersed by sobs and crying.
"She? Who's she? What's her business here?"
"Oh you must know who she is. It's Arbella. I love her and she's been so good to me and she's taken such good care of me and every now and again the devil gets inside me and I have the urge to go out and cheat on her with a man.... O God! I can't help myself. What can I do? I'm a woman after all and I need a man sometimes, but I love her and I've cheated her and she's going to punish me."
Head down, she was crying and sobbing. Gone was the innocence she had worn when they first met, gone was the poise and self-assurance of the young lady, gone was the teasing nymphet whom he had fucked. All that was left was a self-pitying, woebegone, loveless, hopeless, damsel-in-distress. Where once she had aroused desire in him she now aroused nothing but disgust. He should have been able to pity her in her dejection but pity at this moment was an emotion alien to him. He wanted neither to love this woman, this abject, self-pitying wretch of a woman, nor to pity her. The only desire he had for her at this moment was to kick her and beat her and see the tears flow more copiously.
"Stop sniveling!" he ordered. He suddenly found his strength returning. His body still hurt, but as the blood coursed through his veins in mixed anger and disgust, he found he was able to bring all his limbs once more under control.
"What's your game?" Robin demanded brusquely.
"It's...it's no game. I wanted you. I got turned on by you. I thought we could.... I thought we . . .I mean I...I mean we could fuck. She wasn't supposed to be here. She's supposed to be on the Coast for another week. I didn't think she'd be back."
"Are you a lesbian?"
She sobbed.
"Are you, yes or no?"
"I suppose I am."
"What do you mean 'suppose'. Either you are or you aren't. Are you a lesbian."
"Yes."
"Is Arbella your mistress."
"Yes."
"Are you her slave."
"Yes."
"How long have you been her slave?"
"For a year, I think. For a year, since I started working on my M.A." She burst into renewed sobbing and for a few minutes Robin could get no sensible words out of her.
"Who is Arbella?" he finally asked for the umpteenth time.
"Arbella! I love her! She's everything to me. She's my sun, my stars, my god!"
"You're being silly. I don't want to hear your hysterical exaggerations. Tell me who she is or I'll slap you hard."
His words sounded convincing.
"Arbella. She's an...She's very wealthy. She's very well connected. She's an artist and she stages plays and works in television."
"How did you get to her?"
"She had an ad on the notice board at N.Y.U. Something like: Free accommodation in home of wealthy artistically-inclined professional woman for attractive young graduate student, 'willing and able to help with sundry chores.' I fell for it. She already had two other girls staying in this loft and I fell in love with her. Now I cant get away from her. I'll do anything to make her let me stay here and to let me serve her and love her. Oh, I'm sure you can't understand...."
"Do all these girls live here?"
"Yes, both of them, much of the time."
"And Arbella?"
"She has a home on Washington Square but she spends much of her time here, too."
"And I expect all four of you get up to your lesbian tricks together?"
"Sometimes."
"And when the big cat is out of the house, the little pussycats go wild and pick up men."
"Sometimes."
"Is that the only time you can get fucked by a man?"
"No, quite often Arbella lays on parties, and then we all get to fuck all kinds of ways."
"Parties."
"Well, orgies."
"I see. Tell me, does Arbella always walk around in that crazy dyke outfit."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, that helmet for instance. And those boots." He felt disloyal calling it "crazy" since he had really been excited out of his mind by it, but he wanted to put a distance between his feelings and those of this girl. There was no call for him to let her know that he found excitement in the bizarre. "And those high heels. And all that leather and stuff...."
"No, she has all kinds of outfits. That's what she wears out on the street. She wears more interesting things at home."
Instinct was telling Robin he should cut short his conversation but curiosity made him stop and ask for more. He should run and escape from this crazy, perverted menace before worse things befell him but now he was captivated by the very mystery and perversion he knew this contained. He wanted to run and escape-and at the same time he wanted to stay and experience more.
Tm getting out of here," he announced, totally unconvinced by his own words.
"The door's locked."
'That's absurd. There's sure to be a way out. At least there must be a fire escape. I know New York City laws are very stringent on that. If I can't get out of the front door like a gentleman, I'll simply climb out of the window and down the fire escape."
For the first time since he had discovered the girl crying in the corner, he heard her laugh.
"Down the fire escape!" she said, not hiding her amusement.
"And what's funny in that?" Robin wanted to know.
"In your birthday suit?"
"Of course not, I'll get dressed."
"Some hope! She's locked us both in this room and all the clothes are in the other room."
"I'll break down the door."
"Four inches of solid oak. Sheathed with quarter-inch steel plates. I know the specifications here. Think people before you haven't tried to run away?"
"But she can't keep me here. That's kidnapping, slavery, involuntary servitude. I don't quite know what but I bet I could throw the book at her. I only have to get out and then . .
"Has it ever struck you, buster, that once Arbella has worked her way with you, you may not want to get out. And if you should get out when she's done with you, you might be too much enamored of her to want to lose her love-and besides, far too embarrassed at what you've gone through and what you've learned to enjoy, to ever want to run and tell the cops about it." something about what the girl was saying seemed to ring a bell with him. Something in what she was saying made sense. He could already feel the tugs of desire and admiration for this strange, masterful woman who had beaten and degraded him to within an inch of his life.
At the same time, however, his logic tried to intervene. It couldn't be possible. This couldn't be happening to him. He was masculine, virile, strong, powerful. He could never submit himself to domination and mastery by another, least of all a woman-and a woman as crazy and absurd as Arbella the Queen of the Lesbian College Set.
"Look, Lizbeth, I don't know what sort of tricks this Arbella woman has played on you, but she's obviously got you quite entangled. Now don't get me wrong: you re young, you're impressionable, you have quite a bit of the hysteric in your make-up, and you probably had a sheltered sort of childhood and youth that made you ripe to be this woman's victim. But not me. I'm a man, I've experienced a lot, I've seen and done a lot of things you wouldn't even dream of. Now I'm not going to stay here and play this woman's game. When she gets back to let us out, I'll tell her exactly what I think of her and then I'll take my leave and if she tries any funny business, she'll find that I'm quite a one with my fists. I used to be an area amateur boxing champion and I can certainly take care of myself."
"Arbella is a black belt karate."
"Nonsense, that's what she feeds you on. Look, I'm clearing out as soon as she gets back. If you like, you can come with me and I'll help you get away from her clutches."
It was strange. Just a few minutes before he was despising this girl for her abject servility and her self-pity. Now, somehow he began to like her again. He saw her as a fellow victim, an ally even in case of need. If they could escape together, he could maybe work out something with her. They might get back to the sort of fun relations they were developing from the moment she had picked him up to the moment just before Arbella had entered the picture with her spike heels and her whip. He could have fun with Lizbeth under the proper conditions, for a few days at least, and if Lizbeth really had the subservient attitude that she now declared for Arbella-so totally different from the roles she had been playing with him-he might, even, allow Lizbeth to become his slave. Having been in the role of victim for a brief while here, it would be nice to turn the tables on a woman and become the master.
"I don't want to get away from her. I love her too much."
"I'll get away."
"Maybe."
"Just let me get my clothes on . .
"No, just stay the way you are. I like the way you look, all bruised and sore and beaten with your cock hanging down so tired and so limp."
"Funny! Look, let's stop this nonsense. I'll undo your bonds and then if you like you can help me when she comes. I'll make a grab for my clothes and...."
"No, please don't undo my straps. It'll only make it worse. We can't get away in any case. No, she wants me to be trussed up until she gets back and I have to take my punishment like a Stoic. I don't mind being tied up, I really don't. On the contrary, I find it very exciting."
"I don't believe you."
"Look for yourself! Can you see my nipples, how hard they are? And my cunt's all a' twitching and aflame. I bet you can see it dripping."
He looked. Indeed, she was right. Of course, he thought to himself, a typical masochist. And then he remembered his own excitement while he was being whipped by Arbella just a few hours before.
"I'd enjoy it if it wasn't for one thing."
"What's that?" Robin asked.
"I get so excited I throb all over and I'm dying to jerk myself and get an orgasm to stop that incessant itch. Only Arbella is clever and she knows it. She's got me trussed in such a way that I can't possibly reach myself anywhere I could do myself some good. Be a sport Robin, make me come."
Robin needed little bidding. His cock was already showing its willingness by rising to the occasion. He reached one arm down the front of Lizbeth's face, between her breasts and her knees until he reached the erect clitoris, and with the other hand he reached her from the back, letting his finger dig deep into her cunt. He found the surfaces wet and slippery, easing his work. His fingers dug in and out and around and around. He pressed his nude body against the fiery body of the excited girl and found that the contact of flesh upon flesh considerably eased the pain and soreness he had been suffering.
His body snuggled against hers, his hands were at work, they rocked together in unison, and in only a few minutes he was able to bring Lizbeth to the heights of her passion from which she found release in a loud, moaning, shuddering orgasm.
CHAPTER FIVE
When Lizbeth had calmed down from the violence of her orgasm, she thanked Robin from the bottom of her heart.
"I wish I could do something for you in return, like sucking your cock or making you come or even just stroking you, but you see...the way I am...it isn't possible."
"Thanks, I had fun making you come."
"But look at your cock! It's so big and hard. It must be very painful for you, wanting to and not being able to."
"I enjoy it this way. Besides, I want to keep it back, I may have an opportunity to use it later on your mistress. I want to reserve all my strength for whatever it is I'll need to do with her."
Despite his resolve, he found himself irresistibly drawn to action. His hand fingered the length of his shaft. The skin on it was taut, drawn smooth and thin and taut. It was excruciating. He needed relief badly. His cock was sticking straight out, pointing at the girl. Where could he stick it? Her mouth was unavailable, unless he was able to bend his cock into a fish-hook shape. Her cunt was even more hidden.
Or was it?
Tin going to fuck you again," he announced, quite matter-of-factly.
"Don't be silly. How can you fuck me? I'm all trussed up."
"Trussed up and ready for me."
"I don't...."
But he was already on her. He picked up the tied and bound body and threw her unceremoniously on her side. She lay there as he had placed her, unable to stir. Her knees were drawn up close to her chest, her head was pulled down to her knees, her ankles were close to her hams.
"Where my hands got, my prick can get to, too," Robin said.
He held his cock in his hand and advanced on her. Her cunt was presented to him, a dark chasm ready to open, neatly framed by the cheeks of her ass and the soles of her feet. He stretched himself at her side and tried to ease his big tool up her crack.
No dice! The angle was wrong. Her flexed hams were too strongly curved, and forced his body to keep a certain distance. From this angle he could never get to shove his cock up her cunt.
Without much ceremony, Robin tipped the trussed-up girl on her face. She was in a kneeling position now, her hands between her legs and her thighs, her head forward and down almost to her knees. He could tell she was uncomfortable, damned uncomfortable, but he didn't give a shit. He wanted to fuck her, he wanted to stuff her hole, he wanted to drive his prick in as far as it would go. That was all that mattered. He didn't give a shit whether she was comfortable or whether she was in excruciating pain.
He got behind her and mounted her. No good. He couldn't get it in from here either. He pushed his fingers up her cunt, lubricated it, widened it, tried to flex it in his direction. Again he presented his cock at her opening and tried to get it in. It still wouldn't work. He got it just into the moist part of her lips, just far enough to feed his urgent desires even further, but not far enough that he could do himself any good.
"Your position's wrong," he said angrily to Lizbeth. "You'll have to stretch more."
He pushed her head forward so that it came down to the rug, tugging at the chain that held her neck. She moaned with the pain but her moaning only inflamed him further. He pulled at her feet, first one and then the other, and tried to flatten her hunched profile. The lips of her cunt, deeply inflamed, were tilted further towards him now. He mounted her from the back again and his weight on her body helped to flatten her further and tilt her pelvis and with it the opening of her cunt, an extra few degrees in his direction. He leaned his weight heavily on her to flatten her. She screamed as the straps bit into her neck, her wrists and her ankles and the chains pulled them tight. He ignored her.
He had only one thought at this point, only one desire. He wanted to bury the full shaft of his cock all the way up into the recesses of her twat. If it hurt her, so much the worse for her-and so much the more exciting for him! He pushed harder, she screamed more. Her body was pouring out in sweat. She begged and cried and sobbed. His cock knew no mercy, his cock was urgent.
But his cock got nowhere. Maybe an inch inside, just to give a foretaste of bliss to the swollen purple bulb, but not enough to promise any release.
"Godammit!" he cursed. "Let me get into your cunt, will ya!" He beat her on the back and head with his clenched hands, so great was his rage and impatience.
She responded with moans and sobs.
He pressed harder with the full weight of his body, trying to flatten her body down to the floor. His cock slithered at the edge of the crack, strained, sought, searched a way in-but to no avail. His cock slipped and slithered, found a soft spot, kept pressing, gained an inch, gained two inches. ...Stop! Please stop! You're in the wrong place," she cried.
He ignored her. The entrance was constricted but it promised entrance, comfort, a wrap-around massage for his urgent ramrod of a prick.
That's not my cunt, that's my anus," the girl sobbed, piteously now.
"I don t give a shit."
"Please, please, you're hurting me."
"Just relax and it won't hurt.'
"But I can't, I can't. I really can't help it. Oh please don't. I'll do anything for you. Leave me alone now. Please leave me. I'll help you when Arbella comes back. I'll do whatever you want. But let me go now. You're going to hurt me. You'll tear me."
His answer was an angry jab of his cock up her ass. He gained another inch-and-a-half.
"Robin, please, I beg you. By everything that's holy. Don't hurt me any more. Don't push your cock in there. I've never been fucked up my ass before. I'm too small. You'll never get it in there. I'll bleed. I'll tear. You can't. Oh my God! Please! mother! Help me. Ayyyieee!"
Each word egged Robin on to a new frenzy. He pushed and shoved, putting his whole weight behind it. It was in two inches now, three inches, four. It was true, her back furrow had never yet been plowed.
"My God, Robin! Stop! I'm going to shit! I can feel it! Please. Please! Ayyyyyieeee!"
Four inches. Four and a half. Five.
"Ayyyyieeee! Aaargghhkh! Owwweeeyyy!" Her screams no longer formed words.
Five and a half inches. Six!
The going seemed easier now. Had she started lubricating? Had she learned to relax her sphincter? No the sphincter was still tight, still gripping the shaft of his prick, holding it tight and massaging it with pressure, holding it so that it could neither slip out-nor slip in except with difficulty.
Then why was it easier now?
Robin looked down, felt around with his hands. It was slippery and slightly sticky. He brought his fingers up to look at them.
Blood. Thick blood. That was too bad. If she chose to bleed that was her problem. He hadn't asked her to hold her muscles in tight. All she had to do was to relax. If she held on and made him tear her, that was just too bad.
Just too bad!
He drove on harder, his senses roused at the sight and feel and smell of her blood.
Six inches, six and a half, seven!
He was almost all in now. Now it was easier. He swung back on his hocks, hinged at the knees, allowed his cock to slide out an inch or two, then shoved it back in.
She had a really good hold of him with her ass muscles now. They held his cock in a sturdy grip, pressing, squeezing, urging, gripping. His cock was moving easily, in and out with the movement of his hips and his knees. This was an absolutely fabulous bit of fucking. He couldn't remember ever having had his cock held so well and sturdily.
Elizabeth was sobbing and moaning but Robin wasn't concerned with that. Her cries were evidence of his power, proof of the size of his cock, its thickness, its length and its hardness. Each sob and each moan was a mark of tribute to his prowess.
His movements in and out of her ass became flowing and easy. He moved on his hips and on his knees in long steady thrusts. Out, so that only the swollen velvet tip remained buried inside her ass, then in again, in all the way, in so far that his balls banged against her cunt, so far that his pubic bone jammed up against her coccyx.
The movements were long and easy flowing and then became faster and shorter, faster and shorter as he hit what seemed the top of her rectum, as her cries and moans rose to a new crescendo, faster and shorter and more urgent. And then the sperm boiled in his balls, bubbled over, rose, spilled into his cock and spurted out in a long thick stream, deep into his victim s rectum.
He had come and his passions were released for the moment but the sensation was too exciting a one for him to let go immediately. Under the hard massage of her sphincter, his cock remained as hard and as long as it had been before he ejaculated, and as full of sensations. Nay! His sensations were even more acute now that the blood had distended the fibers of his cock and the sensitive nerve-endings had been stimulated to their climax and beyond. The lubrication afforded by his recent ejaculation was an added pleasure. His cock slithered in and out as he again lengthened his motions. The combination of the hard pressure and the slippery slide was unbelievable. He was in the throes of ecstasy. It was pleasure, pure sensual pleasure, that combined to the ultimate point the greatest of all possible thrills. His nerve-endings were reaching new and unimagined heights of pleasure that verged on the painful so intent was it.
He kept pushing and shoving, digging and withdrawing, sliding his stiff cock in and having it massaged by the firm sphincter. The pleasure was insufferable. He knew he couldn't come now and that was good in a way but it also hurt him. He could go on like this for ever but he had to stop before he burst with the pain of the pleasure. This must have been what Lizbeth felt when she was creaming and becoming excited under her bonds and under the pressured pleasure situation in which her body had been bound--yet unable to find release until Robin had given it to her with his fingers.
He had to stop now. He just couldn't go on. He wanted to go on, he just couldn't stop.
But he stopped and pulled it out.
His cock was still massive. He looked at it and the slimy coatings that clung to it, a smear of many colors: sperm from his cock, blood from where he had torn her, yellowish fluid that must be from her mucous secretions, and smeared into it, especially just behind the ridge of the still-purplish tip, the revolting stains of brown that showed that he must have gotten really deep into her, as deep as the lump of shit from her last meal.
Elizabeth had become more or less composed again and she had stopped moaning.
"You'd better wash quick," she said, "and me too. Otherwise if she comes back and see what we've been doing we'll both be in for a lot of trouble."
"How? Where?"
"There's a little basin in that corner behind the drape. It's only cold water but it'll do. And you'll find a jar of ointment above it, better bring that and smear me with it, and use some on yourself, too."
"What kind of ointment?"
"Something special that Arbella gets one of her admirers to make up for her. It's supposed to contain antibiotics and hormones and stuff. We use a lot of it. Spread it on your body after you've been beaten or bruised or scratched and the pain goes away almost immediately and you heal up in a couple of hours."
Robin washed himself thoroughly at the little sink, wincing as the ice-cold water hit his bruised flesh. He soaped his cock, his balls and his crotch especially well, swilled the soapy water around them, then dried himself thoroughly. He found the large brown jar and smeared his body generously with its contents. Lizbeth hadn't exaggerated. It was everything she said it was. The aches and pains and bruises that covered his body, and which had reappeared in their full intensity once the excitement of his latest fuck had worn off, disappeared like magic under the soothing cream.
He dipped a towel in the water, wet it thoroughly, and used it to wipe down the girl he had so brutally abused. She too was covered with the drippings from her bowels, her rectum, his cock and her torn tissues, and he washed her down well. He twisted one end of the towel into a thick wad and pushed it up her ass, despite her moans: it was necessary to clean her out thoroughly before her mistress came back and discovered her condition. When he had wiped her out completely, and washed down her cunt, too, for good measure, he dried her, then applied the ointment to the parts where his ramrod cock had attacked and breached her. She sighed with relief as the cream wiped away the stinging burning that her recent lover had left there as his memento.
"When will she be back?" Robin asked finally.
Tm not going to answer any questions so long as you leave me like this. You didn't find me this way and it hurts."
"Sorry, I forgot."
Robin lifted her back to her knees. She gave signs of tottering to one side, her muscles having suffered severe cramps, so he moved her close to the wall and helped her prop herself against it with one shoulder, then he squatted down opposite her and continued with his questioning.
"When will she be back?"
"Soon I guess. I think she's just gone to make preparations."
"Preparations?"
"Yes, she has to punish me. She'll want other people around to help her and to share in her fun. And she'll want to punish you too in some way and make use of you. Oh, I shouldn't have, I know I shouldn't have...." and she once more started crying.
"Oh stop crying, won't you! If we have to wait for your lady and mistress, at least we don't have to wallow in tears while we wait."
"But there's nothing else to do. I'm all tied up and all I can do is think of what she's going to do to me."
"Well we could tell each other stories while we wait, couldn't we."
"What about."
"Sex, what else?"
"And then I'll get all excited again and it'll all start over again and then I'll get into even more trouble."
"No, I won't fuck you again. Not now. Now I'm going to preserve my strength so that I can stand up to whatever it is her ladyship has planned. And I'm not in a mood for spinning stories about sex myself. So I'd like you to start."
"I can't," she sobbed. "I don't know where to being. I don't know what to say. I don't know what to tell you. I'm...."
"Start at the beginning."
"Beginning?"
"When you first got fucked."
"First got fucked. By Arbella?"
"By Arbella, by a boy, by a stallion...What do I care. Just start. I want to hear."
"I'm scared I'll get all aroused and then . .
"You'll get all aroused whether you do or you don't anyway." To add emphasis to his threat, Robin reached out with his open palm and slapped Lizbeth hard on her exposed thigh.
Lizbeth sobbed.
"There'll be more of this," he thundered. He tipped her over once more on her face, so that her buttocks were raised up in the air, and administered a resounding slap to the left cheek. It turned red immediately, the five fingers of his hand and the open palm leaving their crimson imprint in the tender flesh that had been under continuous tension for some hours and so aroused to special sensitivity.
He followed up the first blow with a second and with a third and a fourth. Each time his hand landed, the slap rang out resoundingly through the room and mingled with the girl's startled scream of pain. She writhed and twisted as he reddened her ass, bringing both cheeks to a bright crimson. He was feeling arousal again but now, somehow, arousal seemed to be not something special for odd, surprising moments of the day, but something he could and should experience as a continuing, ongoing joy.
He rained more blows on the upraised bare bottom until his own hand began stinging too much.
"Now will you start telling me about your first fuck?"
Lizbeth almost whispered it: "Yes, but please put me into a sitting position first."
CHAPTER SIX
Elizabeth tells her story:
It happened when I was twelve. He was, let me see, he must have been about thirty-eight.
We were away at our summer place, early in the vacation. There was a pool that we shared with some other vacationing families and I was splashing around in it, just having fun.
He was in the water, too. We raced each other in the water and he dunked me and he let me dunk him. A lot of contact. It was fun. I'd always admired him in his masculine way and I'd even had dreams about him, I felt very disgusted when I had dreams like that. But I liked it when he held me like this. It made me feel a real woman.
My mother and my sisters had been at the pool, too, out they had to go into town to make some purchases and get my little sister's braces adjusted on her teeth and do a few more things and I knew they wouldn't be home before dark. There was food in the refrigerator and my mother had told me to me to make myself something for lunch and for dinner, and for my dad too, if he was around.
They'd gone now, and I was playing and splashing in the pool by myself, and at every opportunity I got him involved in my game, too. We danced and jumped some in the water, then I asked him to let me sit on his back while he waded and then swam, then he took me on the middle diving board, me sitting on his shoulders, my legs around his neck and over his shoulders, and his head shoved tight against my pussy. It was fun and felt good and I tried to pretend to myself it was all innocence. He dived off the board with me sitting on his shoulders and we separated in mid-air. He came up first and I came up after him-but I made sure to surface between his legs, and I forced my way, starting at my head and ending with my whole body and eventually my feet, all the way through his spread legs. He tried closing his legs on me a few times as I was coming up and I can tell you, that felt really good when he clasped me.
I told him I wanted to practice swimming under water and asked him to stand with his legs spread and I'd swim through them. We did that a few times, each time he closed his legs on me so that I had to squirm through, and I felt myself tingle all over held between his thighs. When we'd done that a few times we reversed position and now I made him do the same thing and I clamped my thighs on him. That felt even better!
So we did that a few times, changing positions every few turns and I felt myself getting more and more excited, but the excitement had another effect on me too, by draining the blood from vulnerable parts of my body, and I started shivering.
"We'll either have to give it up and sun ourselves on the grass," he said, 'or else we'll have to go in and get the proper equipment."
I didn't want to give up the fun in the water and I trusted him implicitly.
"Let's not stop swimming yet," I pleaded "Get the equipment or whatever it is." I had no idea in my mind what he meant.
"Come," he said and climbed out of the pool. I watched his broad-framed body with admiration. I shook the water out of my hair and followed him, our footsteps leaving wet traces on the flagstone path and the water running in rapid drips from between our legs. I held the tip of his hand as we walked under the shady trees the few hundred yards to the cabin. He opened the door for me and held it while I went in, then he shut it and, I noticed rather surprised, locked it.
He walked straight to his bedroom, his feet making dark wet imprints on the rug. I followed directly behind him.
The drapes were closed in his bedroom. He switched on a bedside lamp that threw subdued light on the richly furnished room.
"Here!" he said and threw me a large fluffy towel. "Dry yourself on this and slip out of your swim suit. Don't worry, I won't peek."
He got himself another towel and I watched with rising pleasure as he dried the water off his broad shoulders and his narrow waist and then, with a towel around his waist, he slipped out of his bathing trunks and I watched as he dried himself carefully between his legs. He moved his cock and his testicles to one side as he dried the other side of his crotch, and then he moved them back over, and dried that side. His cock, as he moved it, seemed fairly big. Not really big, but big enough.
He knotted the towel around his waist and went to a closet. I dried myself, slipped out of my swim-suit slowly, hoping to delay the moment, so that he would catch me naked when he turned around. The idea of letting him see my naked appealed to me. I wasn't any longer the little girl he thought I was. I was big now, over twelve, I'd started menstruating, there was quite a lot of hair on my pussy and my breasts were getting a good shape. I'd soon be wearing a B-cup-if I felt like wearing a bra rather than let my breasts poke their natural way out of my sweater.
My timing was good. I was standing there stark naked, my body silhouetted to perfection against the lamp, when he turned around from his searching in the closet and faced me.
I gave him an impudent smile and slowly, sensuously, continued rubbing the towel through my crotch, holding an end of it in each hand and pulling it across my cunt, from front to back.
"Oh!" he said startled. "I'm...."
"What is it?" I asked I was already then capable of wearing that little-innocent-girl look that drove you crazy, and I knew how to put seduction into it, too. I pretended I didn't know what startled him.
"I thought you'd be covered." Pause. "You know, you're getting to be quite a big girl. You'll be as pretty as your mother one day."
I knew about him and my mother. They'd been sweethearts in high school and had had a reputation for torrid love. Then they'd lost track of each other in college...until they met again. Marriage hadn't dulled their feelings for each other in any way and they were often seen necking together like teenagers, in private situations as well as in glaring public. He had a taste for teen-age love, that was very obvious to me. And I knew how excited my mother sometimes became when she was around him.
"I didn't think you'd mind," I told him sweetly, slowly and emphatically pulling the toweling between my thighs and undulating my body as I spoke. I looked so innocent, so sweet-and so depraved.
"I've got a wet suit here you can wear. It's a smallish size so it may be a bit tight, but it's the very thing, tissue-rubber type, so it'll easily stretch to fit-and cling to your curves, too."
It was a firehouse red, thin and supple and rustled sensually as he held it up for me. It really did seem small but I could imagine getting into it and having it stretch around, gripping me tight in the crotch and nipping my waist and pressing my tits to make the nipples stand out. Just the thought of getting into that and having it squeeze me and caress me made me feel excited all over.
"You'd better dry yourself a bit better, first," he said, "otherwise you won't be able to slip it on for the moisture."
He started getting into his own suit, now. It was a glossy black, an all-enveloping black rubber suit. He started by pushing one foot into the one leg of the suit, unrolling it and stretching it as he went, then he put his foot into the other Teg. He kept the towel around his waist-not very helpful or useful since his big tool had become very hard and was pushing the towel up like a flag. Standing on one leg, while trying to get the other leg into the rubber suit, wasn't easy either.
"Here," I said. "I'll help you on with your suit now. You can help me with mine later."
I got him to sit down on the bed, one leg encased from ankle to mid-thigh in rubber, the other struggling to get into the suit. I rolled, pulled stretched, smoothed, until I got his right ankle firmly seated at the edge of the leg. Then I got down on my hands and knees and slowly, but slowly smoothed the thin rubber up his leg. It gave me an excuse to massage and stroke him, slowly working my way up over his knee and along the thigh to the place he kept firmly covered with the towel.
When fd done that leg, I did the same to the other leg with the excuse that I was smoothing out the wrinkles he had made.
I could see he was beside himself with excitement.
"I'll pull it over my hips myself," he said, and fumbled with the black tights under the towel.
"Here, let me finish that for you," I said. I snatched the towel from him and worked my way up the black tights. "Stand, won't you."
I slipped my fingers between his thighs and smoothed the thin rubber membrane all the way up each of his thighs, on the inside. I tugged at the rubber and cupped his basket with it. The balls were resting snugly. I worked the rubber around them, giving them a good feel. He'd pushed his cock down between his legs before he put on his tights and I could feel it, like a hard lead pipe, pressed down the front over his balls. It made a huge ridge and must have been very painful, so I stroked it gently to show I understood.
The waist of the black rubber tights wasn't fitting too well. He tugged at it but he was sweating and the rubber adhered.
"Let me do it for you," I said.
I first smoothed the rubber up over his taut buttocks, outlining the split between the cheeks of his ass with my fingers. I put my fingers under the edge of the waist band and settled it smoothly all around the waist, then I slipped my hand in lower and pulled the rubber up, away from the skin, and up. I pretended I had to start pulling lower down and gradually worked my way down to his crotch. My fingers were in his curly hair. I had one hand on his hair, under the rubber, and with the other hand I was smoothing out the rubber from outside, caressing the balls and the cock. I pushed the hand inside lower still and in one movement I liberated his cock from the tight constraint into which it had been bent and let it assume its rightful position, pointing straight forward.
What a magnificent cock!
"Oh, I'm sorry," I said, pretending to be terribly embarrassed. "I don't know...Let me put it back."
Before he could protest I had hold of his rigid shaft in my hand and, pretending to try and bend it back and downwards, l managed to slide my hand along its smooth skin that glided slippery-like over the hard gristle underneath. The tip of his cock, big and broad, had distended the front of his rubber suit so much that it was virtually transparent. I kept holding that prick and massaging it, burning with excitement, and all the time I was pretending innocently that I was just trying to fold it away neatly!
He couldn't contain himself. I knew what he wanted: he wanted to fuck me of course, but knew he couldn't permit himself this "outrage." I had him neatly in my power. I was seducing him and forcing him to defend himself against me!
There was only one thing he could do.
With an inhuman roar he picked me up in his powerful hands, holding me by the waist, and flung me down on the bed, face down. The towel I had tied around myself, over my breasts and covering my cunt, got ripped away. He flung himself on the bed and then...
Crack!
He rained down a heavy blow on my bottom. Slap! Bang! Slap! Blow after blow. I thought he was going crazy. He just wouldn't give up. Blow after blow after blow. I was in tears. I was screaming with pain but even more I was screaming with disappointment. This wasn't what I wanted. I'd wanted him to treat me like a woman, gain his arousal from me as a woman and react like a man-by making love to me.
Instead he was treating me like a naughty little girl, spanking me on my bottom. I was furious. How could I get him to see I was a woman, now, not a little girl anymore to be beaten on the bottom.
"You scamp!" he was yelling at me as he slapped me, once he'd got over his first rage and was able to respond with words. "You're trying to make trouble you little whore. What sort of upbringing have you had? Who set you this sort of example?" And he kept slapping and hitting and spanking.
I made a firm resolve. It needed a lot of strength under the blows he was raining down on me. I turned my body around on the bed, turned around so that I was lying with my back to the covers-and all my front exposed.
It won me two points. For one, I knew he would hesitate to hit me so hard now I had all my tender parts exposed-my face, my tits, my belly and my cunt and all that went with it.
Moreover, in this way I reminded him I was a woman. A little girl has a back and a bottom; when she gets spanked, she's only a little girl. But when a girl of twelve, with a full-grown cunt and lots of hair around it and all the right curves in the right places and breasts like ripening melons-well, I mean, a man can hardly think of her as a little girl who ought to be spanked.
And of course he couldn't see me as a little girl anymore. And the smile I was putting on, a seductively innocent smile, was hardly a little girl's smile, either.
He stooped suddenly. His face went white. "I don't know what...I'm sorry...I didn't mean to hit you like...."
I put up my arms to him.
"Will you forgive me?" he asked.
I nodded and tried to pull him down to me.
"No!" He shook his head emphatically. "None of that now. Let's go right on and pretend nothing's happened. It'll be our own little secret, right?"
I nodded. he helped me to my feet. His erection, I saw, had gone down and he tucked his cock down again between his legs and into the crotch of his rubber tights.
"You'd better slip into your rubber suit," he said. "You shouldn't be standing around nude like this."
"I'm too sore to be able to pull it on myself. You'll have to help me."
The red suit was in one piece, un-like the black one. It had short legs that ended at the thighs, a couple of inches below the crotch, and long sleeves and came up to the throat. I stepped into it through an opening in the back that could be zipped down all the way to the crotch and around and up the front so that you could piss through it without having to take it off.
He helped me as I had helped him-though without the same amount of exaggerated touching I had used. But he had to work harder than I had worked because it was really tight on me and because my bottom was so sore. I made him smooth it all along the thighs and kept complaining that it was wrinkled so that he had to go over it again. Then I complained about the fit at the buttocks and made him go over the soft red rubber at least a dozen times until he had it stretched over my bums to my satisfaction. Then it was too loose on my crotch and I made him pull it tighter up into my cunt, with the zipper fastened, of course. Next it was my waist-but I spent most time getting him to adjust the thin rubber around my budding breasts. Nothing was good enough for me. I kept complaining about pinching here and binding here-I really felt it and I must say that pinching and binding from the rubber was a really heavenly feeling-and I kept making him adjust the rubber over my tits-a bit higher here, a bit lower and so on.
I was in a fine sweat now and the sweat made the rubber cling the more to my breasts. My nipples, needless to say, were very hard and they poked their points through the rubber-like his cock had pushed out his tights earlier, only of course not as big by any stretch of the imagination. I made him smooth my breasts from above and from below and still I wasn't satisfied. And I kept him for ages smoothing the rubber down each of my arms.
"Well, will that do?" he asked. "Can I put on the top of my suit now?"
"No," I cried, suddenly pained. "It hurts here. I don't know what you've done. I can hardly stand." I pointed to my crotch and, to keep my balance, I put my rubber-clad arms around his broad nude chest.
"There?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "That's better. Just there." And I clasped my rubber-sheathed crotch tightly over his groping hand. At the same time I had my arms, in their red-rubber sleeves, over his shoulders and around his chest and I brought him close to me. I pressed my crotch into his and felt the hardness of his cock. I pressed his manly chest against my young tits. I brought his face to mine, my lips to his...and my tongue in his mouth. He melted and we kept up the torrid embrace.
Suddenly he pulled away from me. His face looked creased with anger.
"You're not going to slap me again?" I begged, making my eyes big and my mouth into a plea.
He stopped, said nothing.
"You've already punished me once. You can't punish me again for the same thing."
He opened his mouth but said nothing.
"Remember we promised each other we wouldn't tell a soul, didn't we. I really won't tell."
Pregnant silence.
"It won't be your fault if...."
I had conquered him. He was all mine. I pressed his mouth to mine and this time it was his tongue that shot into my mouth. I stroked his masculine back with love. I pushed my thigh into his crotch. I reached down with one hand, and grabbed his cock.
This time he picked me up gently and deposited me on the bed with love. I rolled down the thin rubber from his waist, just far enough to let his prick out. He unzipped my crotch and muzzled my cunt with his lips. He sucked out my cunt and made me come that way and then when he had me fully lubricated, he took my maidenhead.
He pushed in his cock very gently. It went in a couple of inches or so and hit my hymen. He stopped slowed, kissed me, murmured words of love and then very gently pushed his cock in again. I could feel the tearing, there was pain for a moment but then all dissolved in the pleasure he was giving me.
He fucked me beautifully and I came again and he came at the same time, and then we started all over again.
We were still at it when my mother suddenly walked in and surprised us.
Lizbeth finished her story in silence.
"I bet your mother gave you hell for that," Robin said. He'd found the story very stimulating and all the time she was talking he'd found it hard to stop himself from fingering his cock and stroking it. "And I bet she was furious with him too."
"You bet right. She sure as hell was. She laid into both of us with a golf-club she picked up in the hall and she kept hitting us, sometimes him and sometimes me, till she'd completely bent it."
"Were you sorry?"
"Me? Of course not. I loved every moment of it. I loved it when I was seducing him and when he was seducing me and when he was hitting me and when she was hitting me and even more when she was hitting him. Maybe that's where I got to like being hit and watching people getting hit. It turns me on. I always associate a beating with pleasure because there's always enjoyment for someone somewhere."
"What about your father? Was he very angry when he found out?"
"Found out? What do you mean 'found out'? Who the hell do you think that was fucking me?"
CHAPTER SEVEN
"Ahah, my scoundrel! I see you've recovered consciousness."
It was Arbella, back again. She was dressed as before in short, sleeveless leather dress and high-heeled boots that came half-way up her thighs. She was wearing the leather helmet, too that fitted closely to her skull and was buckled under her chin but allowed her black ponytail to hang out through an opening at the back.
She was brandishing a short whip that ended in a bunch of cruel-looking leather straps, rather like some grotesque fly-whisk.
Tm surprised to see you recovered so soon. I thought you'd be out for the rest of the day."
Robin, at first surprised by her intrusion, drew himself to his full height and tried to face her with authority and determination but he found it difficult, bereft as he was of clothes and embarrassed by another one of his massive, throbbing erections.
"This is ridiculous," he said, drawing himself to his full height which left him almost a head short of the statuesque Arbella, aided as she was by skyscraper heels on her boots. "I demand you stop this absurd charade. Give me my clothes now and let me go. And before I go I want you to release this girl and I'll take her with me for protection."
Arbella gave a sarcastic laugh. "I demand...! " she mocked. "What right do you have to demand? You want to go, go! Go this minute! You can have your clothes, too. As for taking this girl into your protection, I think she's perfectly capable of protecting herself-even from scoundrels like you."
'You're a heartless woman chaining her up like that!"
"A heartless woman! I see. And you're a ball-less man!"
"What do you mean?"
"If you'd had any balls you'd have untied this so-called sweetheart of yours while I was gone. Well, why didn't you. You were conscious, weren't you?"
'I . . .I didn't...well, you see, I thought
"Just what I said. A ball-less, cock-less, sexless apology of a man. Makes excuses and stammers when he's asked a simple question. Worm! Worm!" She fairly roared at him.
Robin realized that it was incumbent on him to make a display of his manhood if he didn't want to appear damned in her eyes and confirmed in his lack of masculinity.
"This is quite enough," he said, firmly. He had to take his eyes off the stern, tall, leather-clad woman as he spoke for he found that whenever he looked at her his masculine resolve trembled and dissolved. "I demand you give me my clothes and let me leave. And I demand that you let Elizabeth leave with me if that is what she wants."
"Ha! Fool! Imbecile! Ask Lizbeth indeed! Well Lizbeth, do you want to walk off with that apology for manhood?"
Lizbeth was still trussed up in her corner and she could not raise her eyes to look at her mistress, but from her voice it was absolutely clear where her loyalty lay-and also the depth of her devotion to the woman who dominated her.
"No, Arbella, I'm yours. I'm never going to go off again with any man, and certainly not with this one.
I love you Arbella and I owe everything I am and everything I've become to you, and I'll remain yours for ever."
"And are you sorry for what you've done?"
"Yes, Arbella, I'm sorry for having deceived you. And I'm sorry for having hurt you. And I'm sorry for having degraded myself by letting this man touch my body that I'm permitted to use only with your permission. And I'm sorry I've been naughty. And now I deserve to be punished and I hope you punish me hard so that I'll be a better girl in the future. I know you're going to hurt me and I'm very scared of the pain because I don't like pain and pain always makes me cry, but I hope you re going to hurt me hard anyway so that I'll learn my lesson."
"Well?" Arbella drew out the question, turning sarcastically to Robin. "Still want to take her away and protect her?"
Robin wanted to put a brave front on it. He wanted to come across as a man of determination, a man with balls and courage. "No. And what's more, I'm staying. I'm staying until you've finished the punishment whatever diabolical idea you've developed. I'm going to make sure you don't abuse this poor girl more than she can stand. If she wants to stay to be punished, that's her right, though I think it's strange. But once she's been punished by you, I think she'll change her mind and I'm going to be here when that happens."
"Spoken like a man!" Arbella said and for a moment Robin though she was complimenting him-until he saw the sardonic smile at the corner of her cruel lips. "A man, Ha! Well I can use you. You'll stay here and participate in the ritual of punishment. And when it's over...."
She posed for dramatic effect.
"...if Lizbeth decides she'd like to leave, she's free to go, even with you. And when it's over...."
She paused again.
"...you, too, may leave, if you still find the desire to want to leave me."
Robin gave an involuntary shudder. There was something about the way she was talking, something in the air of mastery she was assuming as she talked to him, that made him feel as if life was about to change for him, as if somehow, things would never, ever, De the same again, as if this woman had some magic powers, as if she could cause him to undergo a metamorphosis that would leave him for ever changed.
He knew it was a significant moment. The woman was threatening him and the threat was no idle one. He looked into her face to see what message he could read there. He saw a forbidding look that inspired fear and suddenly it was covered with a fleeting something-no, not a smile, but an expression that suggested the possibility of warmth and comfort and even joy.
If he wanted to get away he would have to leave right away. If he stayed and let her work her powers or her strange charms, the same charms as had enslaved Lizbeth.
The choice had to be made right away. If he lingered he would find himself in her clutches, in her power, in her powerful embrace, locked, imprisoned, never to get away. As each phrase went through his head, Robin could feel a strange melting in the pit of his stomach. It was seated near his pubis a feeling that seemed to grab him and hold him by the crotch, a feeling of power and of fright and of some beautiful, strange, melting joy. He looked up once more at Arbella s stern face hidden inside her helmet. He wanted to see again that fleeting look he had seen before, a look that betokened understanding and welcome. He saw it or thought he saw it but most of all he wanted to see it.
And in his mind's eye he saw the elusive look on the statuesque leather-clad woman in front of him. He seemed to see it in her face and he saw it in her proud bust thrust out through her black leather dress and he saw it in the angle of her hip thrust through the tight skirt and he saw it in the line of her thigh and in the way she stood on those long, tight boots and the way she put her weight on her skyscraper heels.
And he knew that if he didn't leave right away he would be lost....
And he stayed.
"Very well," Arbella said and her voice sounded a little softer. "You're a man of courage after all if you're willing to stay. I need a man for what I'm planning so you might as well dress as a man."
"Yes?" Already Robin found himself listening eagerly for her command.
"Go into the first room on the left. You'll find some suitable clothes lying over the back of the chair. I'm sure you can adjust them to fit."
He was gone instantly.
There was only one chair in the little room she had indicated and on it there was only one outfit.
There was no underwear, no socks. He found a pair of leather shorts, something like a Bavarian's lederhosen, made of heavy antique tanned leather. They fitted quite snugly to his haunches and came about half-way down his thighs. There were straps and lacings in various places, at the thigh, at the back and down the sides, and he found that by adjusting the right buckles and thongs he could make the shorts fit loosely or tightly. The tight fit seemed the more pleasant. It gave him a sense of masculine protection and reassurance and also, at the same time, he found that it gave him that melting feeling in the region of his pubis that he had found so exciting while he was making up his mind whether to stay or go.
The shorts were also equipped with various other straps, rings and buckles, whose purpose Robin could not even guess. These were fastened to the leather with sturdy steel rivets and reinforcing straps at strategic places, heavily saddle-stitched to the body of the shorts. There was a detachable panel at the fly that could be strapped on or off at will and another panel, like it, at the back. It was held at the waist with a heavily-studded three-inch-wide belt.
When Robin had finished getting into the shorts and adjusting all the straps and examining the way the various parts fitted together, he examined himself in the full-length mirror. He liked what he saw there, a sturdy, massive, masculine man, the sort of man any girl could go for. He noticed the bulge at the crotch where his equipment was stored behind heavy leather protection. It felt good resting in there and he knew that his cock was astir again and felt pleasure in the way the restraint of the leather was putting pressure on it.
Beside the chair stood a pair of boots. Cavalry boots they were, a high-glossed leather, brown, dark brown. They came with massive stacked heels and spurs. He got his feet inside them and found to his pleasure and surprise that they fitted, not too well, a little tight, just the right amount of tightness in-fact. He bent down, the leather of his tight shorts creaking and squealing as he bent and the muscles of his ass and of his thighs straining against the leather. The tops of the boots came to just below his knees. He buckled them up the back, the way they were designed, and soon found himself standing firmly in the power-giving boots, once more facing the mirror and examining himself.
So far so good. He felt a surge of strength. Just let Arbella try something funny with him and shed soon see what a powerful man she had in front of her. He flexed his biceps and admired their rippling strength, looked at his heavily-developed muscular chest, saw the sinewy thighs that were visible between the top of the shiny cavalry boots and the bottom edge of the dark leather shorts. A man! A man to match any woman in creation-even one as strong and powerful as Arbella. He was a match for her, any time, a good and fitting match. He saw himself as her consort. It was a role he found to his liking.
Now for the jacket. It, too, was of leather to match the shorts. It was a motor-cyclist's jacket, heavily studded and with the same buckles and laces as the shorts to make it fit snugly to his body at waist, at shoulders, down the arms and across the chest. It zipped up the front and closed around the neck with a strap that could be pulled just tight enough to hold him proudly erect. The jacket, too, was reinforced in various places with heavy saddle stitching and steel rivets and it had the same straps and rings attached for some unknown and unfathomable purpose.
Arrayed in boots, shorts and jacket, Robin looked at himself in the mirror again. He'd never been able to understand homosexuals before but now as he looked at himself and his powerful virility, he could see how anyone-a woman or a man, even a man as masculine and as heterosexual as he was-might fall in love with the sort of person he saw portrayed in the mirror, might crave some of the strength that this figure projected.
"That's me," Robin said to himself with some pride, and he felt a surge of pride and love for himself that welled from the region of his cock and spread with blushing warmth through his chest and neck and face.
The helmet, an aviator's helmet, completed the ensemble. He had learned by now which straps looked relevant and needed adjusting so as to make the helmet fit closely to his face, and which ones were simply added hardware like the steel D-rings. He discovered to his great pleasure that there was a series of straps from the helmet that corresponded with buckles at the collar of his jacket and by adjusting these he was able to make helmet and jacket into one piece.
He buckled the cuffs of his leather jacket, slipped his hands into the wide-cuffed leather gauntlets, tightened the straps and he was set.
One more admiring look in the mirror. He stood with his chin thrust out, strength and determination in every gesture. He turned around and admired his reflection as seen over the shoulder, especially the lean hard line of his buttocks. He looked full face in the mirror again and practiced a superior, commanding sneer. He would make a fine villain. Just for practice he stamped heavily with his right boot on the floor and ground his heel into the face of some imagined enemy. It was a good and powerful feeling.
He was interrupted by a shout. "Are you going to stand there all day admiring yourself?" The voice was Arbella's, a deep, melodious, powerful voice. It insisted on instant obedience by its very tone. "Come here Robin this instant!" she ordered, calling from the other room. "Your first job is waiting for you."
Robin turned to leave. On the way out he saw hanging by the door a short leather whip with a sturdy handle made of plaited leather. He took it off the hook, swished it a couple of times for effect then stuck it into a loop of his studded belt.
He marched off for his first job under the direction of the fabulous Arbella.
CHAPTER EIGHT
He was back in the room where he had spent the afternoon with the trussed-up Lizbeth. The room was now streaming with harsh bright lights. Lizbeth was still squatting trussed in a corner as she had been when he last saw her-and as she had been when he first woke up after recovering from the beating that the statuesque Arbella had inflicted on him.
Arbella was in the room, too. Arbella had changed. She, like himself, was dressed all in leather, but un-like Robin and un-like her earlier appearance, she was dressed in leather from head to toe now.
She was wearing a one-piece suit of supple black leather that had many straps and lacings, rather like his own. One line of lacings ran down from the tip of each pointed breast in a vertical line that ended at the line where thigh and belly joined. The breasts themselves seemed encased in detachable cups judging by the line of fasteners that delineated the line where the bottom of the jutting breasts merged with the line of the tunic. The lacing terminated at the top of the vertical slit at a point that corresponded with the nipple of the breast underneath, and the knot of the lacing formed a sort of tassel that vibrated and shook with her body.
The suit ended at the top in a turn-down collar, rather close to the chin, and from the collar lacings ran down under the armpits and around to the back terminating at the waist. There was a line of lacing down the outside of each of the tight sleeves. The line of lacing that came down the front from each breast changed at the thigh-line into a fine zipper that reached to the hem at the ankle, and the line of lacing that went from under the collar at the front and diagonally under the armpits, continued at the back in a vertical line, again to the ankle. A triangular piece of well-reinforced leather covered the crotch and was fastened in place with massive straps and buckles.
The feet were thrust into glossy boots that fitted snugly. They were black but at the front, where the lacing was close and tight, there was a scalloping of red leather. They had five-inch pointed heels and finished just below the leather-covered knee. On her head, Arbella wore the same helmet in which he had seen her earlier, a close-fitting piece of glossy leather that added a frame of harsh authority to her stern face which was if anything heightened by the proud thrust of her dark pony tail from a hole at the back of the helmet.
"Get to work!" Arbella thundered at Robin as he entered. She emphasized her words with a flick from the long whip she was carrying, hung from her wrist, for instant availability, on a leather thong.
Robin looked in the direction she was pointing. Lizbeth was still squatting there, trussed like a chicken.
"Undo the chain from her ankle straps to her wrist straps," Arbella ordered. "Nothing else."
Robin found the fastenings without too much difficulty and undid them.
"Hang the chain from your belt. It will come in useful later."
Robin did as he was bid.
"Don't waste my time. Make her get up!" Arbella's voice was one of impatient demand.
"Get up," Robin urged the naked girl, holding out a hand ready to help her.
"What sort of a chicken-shit way is that to make that strumpet get up? What are your boots for? Your spurs? Your whip? Go ahead and use them!"
Robin did as he was told. Tentatively, but with a sense of first-time achievement, he let the whip flick across the trussed girl's back. She whimpered and rose shakingly off her heels. Her wrists were still fastened behind her but now that the chain no longer connected them to her ankles, she was able to slip them over her buttocks and hold them, shackled close together, just below her waist at the back. Her feet and knees were apparently numb from having been cramped immobile for so many hours and it was with great difficulty, encouraged by occasional light flicks from Robin's whip, that she rose to a kneeling position and then to a wobbly stand.
"Get her into the other room!" Arbella thundered. "We're waiting."
Lizbeth didn't walk on as Robin had expected. Instead she hung back, unnecessarily it seemed to him, ambling and much more slowly than her physical condition required. She must have known she'd be in for. a beating if she didn't move quickly. Why was she so deliberately slow?
Robin knew what to do. He gave her two light swinging slashes that covered her back and her buttocks.
Arbella cracked her whip in disgust.
"I think we have to get one thing clear, young man. We're not playing games here or personal sentiment. What I want is discipline. I want to see you lash this pretty miss properly because that is what she needs and that is what I demand. I don't care a tinker's cuss what your personal sentiments are, you may love her or hate her or despise her, that should not influence the force or the severity of the lashings you give her under my order or at my instructions. You don't have to hate her to lash her well; you are just as free-so far as I am concerned-to lash her hard in the fullness of your love. Lash her with love, if you like, it's good for her and good for you. Now git!"
She flicked her whip, hard, and its lash stung Robin at the back of his legs, at the bare space between the top of his boots and the edge of his leather shorts.
"Perhaps you were wondering why I chose a boy-scout outfit for you with little-boy pants. Now you know. Nothing I do is without a design."
She lashed at his bare legs again to make him realize what his position was in the scheme of things.
"Get moving!" Robin ordered, falling into his appointed role. He lashed out at Lizbeth, letting his whip curl down her belly, from just below the breast to the cleft of her cunt. He saw her wince and saw, at the same time, the look of sensual joy with which she seemed to embrace the lash and the pain.
"Forward!" he ordered again, warming to his role. She stumbled forward, head down, feet shuffling across the floor to the extent that the straps that bound her ankles together permitted this.
He let her pass by him and then he followed up behind her, lashes on her bare back emphasizing his orders.
"That's better," Arbella said grudgingly. "You're beginning to understand what I expect of you. I'll go on ahead. The others are waiting. Straight down the hall; the door is open."
Shuffle-shuffle the nude shackled girl made her dejected way barefoot out of the room and along the long and ominous corridor. Slash, slash Robin punctuated each step with his whip. It was getting to be fun, he enjoyed playing his new role. He noticed with much satisfaction how easy and how rewarding it was to do his thing in complete detachment. His feelings for Lizbeth were one thing, his need to lash and the enjoyment he got from it were something else entirely. Nothing personal, just good, cheerful joy at wielding his whip and exercising his power.
There were lights blazing at the end of the corridor and a murmur of voices. Laughter, tinkling glasses, animated talk. The makings of a party.
Robin entered, Lizbeth hobbling in front of him, fully nude except for the bonds on her ankles and her wrists. There was a moment's hushed silence as she entered, heads were turned in her direction, then the talk started again as if the appearance of a naked girl, tied and hobbled, with welt marks down her back, and a whip-wielding leather-clad man urging her on, were matters of no consequence.
When his eyes had adjusted to the light, Robin looked around. The room was large, furnished in a harsh, ultra-modernistic style: glaring colors, sharp angles and corners, polychromatic clashing, neon constructions, polished steel structures, leathers, plastics and acrylic paints. Furnishings consisted of inflated plastics, free-shape leather recliners, black-leather-and-chrome saddles suspended from the ceiling, and the people in the room-a round half dozen-wore clothing to match.
But before Robin could take in the people or even determine what sex they were, his eyes were riveted by the equipment featured at one end of the room.
From the ceiling dangled hooks and chains of various lengths. The floor was equipped with hooks and rings, too. There were clasps and brackets attached to the wall.
The whole of this area was brightly lit with spotlights. One spotlight was focused on a long low table that looked something like a carpenter's bench, with vise-like devices, hooks, rings, clamps. It was a little longer than a man's length and had a helical device that looked as if it was meant for increasing the length of the bench. Near it was another table that looked like a gynecologist's examination table. It was covered in shiny white plastic and edged in chrome and various parts could obviously be raised or lowered or tilted according to need. One unusual item whose use he could not immediately establish was a sturdy wooden frame made of six-inch timbers. It was about eight feet square and stood vertically on a large swivel screwed to the floor; a similar swivel attached it to the ceiling and inside the frame, apart from braces at each corner to keep it square, were various hooks, bolts and rings.
"Over here! At the double!" It was Arbella. Drink in one hand, she was pointing with the whip held in her other hand, in the general direction of the area that Robin's quick mind had told him was meant to serve as a torture and punishment area.
Lizbeth seemed to hesitate when she saw the fittings readied for her punishment and made as if she wanted to turn away from the direction in which her stern mistress had pointed. Robin knew what to do.
"No you don't f he snarled and he headed her off with a slash of his lash.
Lizbeth resumed her hobbling. She was bent forward, her wrists painfully behind her bare bruised back. She looked the picture of absolute dejection and ultimate hopelessness. How different she was, Robin mused, but only for a moment, from the innocent, fresh, cheerleader-type who had picked him up that sunny afternoon at the outdoor cafe in Greenwich Village.
"Here!" Again the deep voice of the leather-clad mistress rang out and her whip pointed. Lizbeth seemed to know where to go. headed there, hesitated, got a new prodding from Robin's lash and slowly shuffled forward.
"Undo the straps!"
Robin realized she was referring to the leather thongs that bound her victim's ankles. He bent to the task but found the binding was tighter and more complicated than he had reckoned with; perhaps the girl's shuffling from the room in which she had been kept had helped to tighten the knots.
He bent over her feet and ankles. Her bare legs and thighs stood over him and the smell of fear and pain mingled with the sweat from her thighs and crotch and assailed his nostrils. It roused his passions and he found his cock straining under the tight shorts. It was ludicrous going through with this charade under these conditions when here there was a girl-beautiful, naked, sexy, willing, urgent to be fucked. A girl who aroused him, a girl he could desire once again to either use or abuse for his sexual ends. And instead, at the orders of the strange monster-woman, he was going to help in some outlandishly orgiastic rite of punishment and degradation for the delectation of the hostess's weird band of perverted guests.
He struggled with the straps and-perhaps she moved, perhaps he inclined his head-found his forehead in fiery contact with her smooth leg. He worked on the leather, lingered, found reason to let his hand slide and stray slightly, felt the high arch of her foot, rubbed his hand along the instep, allowed the ball of her foot, plump and soft, to rest awhile in the palm of his hand. Tie was fascinated by this foot, that was tied to its mate by the knotted leather.
His ringers traced the outlines of the heel, worked their soft way up her achilles tendon, encircled her slim ankle, took in the bone, wandered down and back along the instep. A leather strap cut into his skin at the back of his knees. "You're here to work, not to indulge yourself in your infantile fetishistic obsession with this slut's feet. Get going!"
Robin felt the sting of the lash but even more deeply he was stung to the quick by the mistress's tongue-lashing. It wasn't just that he was falling down on his job, but that he was somehow failing her in the task for which she had selected him. He was...yes, at least a weakling, giving in to cheap eroticism when he had a task to serve this demanding mistress. He was...he wanted...no, he couldn't find the words...only images...bound to this woman, this demanding woman, bound to this woman who would be his mistress, this woman who had promised him nothing, who had given him nothing but kicks, beatings and lashes, who promised him nothing, and stood only for pain and torture...and yet, with this woman he could gain a sense of being, of existing, of acquiring strength and mastery.
Yes, mastery through doing the will of this imperious mistress. Mastery by mastering his own desires and his own needs and carrying out her wishes for her ends.
It was true. Robin was not there to enjoy his private pleasures with the naked Lizbeth but to enjoy the much wider pleasure of being nothing but the instrument of Arbella's own desires.
Arbella desired now that he untie Lizbeth with as much dispatch as possible. Ergo, that was his desire, too. He redoubled to the task and found himself swelling to the sense of achievement when at last he had accomplished what his mistress had set him to do-small task though it was.
"Foot restraints!" Again the order issued from the demanding mistress of it all. She had sat down on a tall stool to watch the proceedings. Her body was half turned toward him and her long, booted and leather-enclosed legs were visible to him in profile, one slightly higher than the other, its toe tucked in behind the ankle of the other. Robin found himself filled with a surge of desire for her-not to possess her, not to abuse her, not to form with her an erotic union but simply to be allowed to remain in her presence and to win her approval.
He examined the square frame and discovered a pair of steel shackles spaced about three feet apart in the base of the frame. They were attached to spring-laden cables and could be tugged up and out of the frame with a moderate pull. Lizbeth knew what to do; she hobbled on her pained feet to the frame and mounted it. Robin snapped the shackles around her ankles and left her standing on the frame, her legs spread apart in the steel, her hands still fastened behind her back with leather thongs.
"Undo her wrists, then shackle them to the top."
The voice of the mistress was issuing the next command.
Robin started to get up. Lizbeth, who had been standing upright as well as she could on her pained and cramp-bound ankles, tottered forwards. Her thighs fell against his shoulders as he was rising to a standing position, and as he continued to rise, his head, encased in its leather helmet, plowed a path along her body. His head slid along the gap between her legs, his face scraped up her pubic hair and along her wet cunt-slit, along the ridge of her belly, up the hollow in her rib cage and between her ribs. He put out his hands to steady her as he rose and by the time he had come to a virtual standing position he had her, in effect, in a close embrace after having traversed her nude body with his face from crotch to hair. But something had happened to him in the transformation during the past half-hour: her body, her skin, her form, her erotic appeal-none of them meant anything to him. She was just a body, a mass, an object that had fallen against him and had impeded him and inconvenienced him in the proper performance of his duty. He picked her up, therefore, not as a woman and not as a potential sex object but simply as an unavoidable task or duty, held her roughly in a standing position...
"Dancing?" The question was both a mockery and an implied threat. It was furthest from his mind to see this naked Lizbeth as a woman even, but he realized that not only must he reject other person-directed eroticism at Arbella's insistence but he must take pains to avoid all semblance of such involvement or desires.
He pulled at Lizbeth's shoulder with an obvious display of roughness, then grabbed her by the wrists, pulling her backward so that she fell down on the ground with a resounding bang. She was facing the group in the room, sitting on the floor with her bare um, her feet held in the clamps three feet apart, and raised perhaps eighteen inches off the floor because of the structure of the frame and its supporting mechanism. Her thighs were thus widely parted as was her cunt and the pink young lips were wetly parted too in full view of the audience, putting on display the pulsating mounds of darker flesh inside her cunt.
He knelt down behind her and tugged at her thongs. One hand was freed and he prepared to untie the other one . .
"Don't waste time. Hitch her up. You can do the other hand standing."
He found the correct clamp from the upper beam, pulled it down against its spring-laden resistance, shoved Elizbeth to standing position, and fastened her hand into the clamp. It left her arm extended above her body at an angle and she was unable to sag back.
The other hand took him a couple of minutes to untie, then he put it like its mate through the appropriate clamp and left her, spread-eagled in space, held firmly by wrists and ankles into the wooden frame. He felt satisfied with his work and stepped back, a warm glow of accomplishment through his body and a smile of satisfaction on his face.
There was more work for him.
"Turn the frame. Let everyone have a good look at her."
The guests, sensing that something worthwhile was now going to be enacted, left their idle chatter and gathered around the torture frame. Robin found the pin that held the frame locked to the pivot, undid it, and slowly moved the frame on its pivot so that the spectators were offered a view of the spread-eagled young body from all aspects.
"Hey, whatya planning for her, baby?" one of the men asked Arbella. He was a tall muscular Negro with a fuzzy Afro hairdo. In one ear he had a large gold hoop and over one shoulder he had draped a robe in exotic shades of orange and purple. The other shoulder was bared and snowed off a magnificent physique. The robe reached half-way down the thigh on each side but it was draped in such a way that it left his tight black ass exposed at the back and at the front it left the last three or four inches of his massive dong fully visible.
Tm planning nothing," Arbella announced. "This isn't designed as a public spectacle, this is simply a punishment that must be meted out on Elizabeth so that she may be taught the elements of discipline. There'll be time enough later to devise some fun and games-with Lizbeth or without."
"I want to shove my cock down her throat," the black giant responded. He grabbed hold of his uncircumcised prick and waved it at her, with his lips thrust forward, to give her an idea of what he had in mind. Robin looked up at Elizabeth's face at that moment and watched her eyes dilate-in fear, in surprise and anticipation.
"I want to eat her," said a plumpish, well-rounded woman of an indeterminate age. She wore a tiny waist-clinching corset made of leather and reinforced with chains and straps, a leather half-bra that pushed her rather weather-beaten breasts into full high prominence, frilly panties with a lacy black border and a garter belt with black elastic down her thighs holding up a pair of black-mesh opera hose. Her feet were encased in high-heeled pumps of black patent. She wore what looked like a double-strand pearl necklace, long pendants hung from each ear, her hair, dyed a cruel red, was piled high on her head in a rather cruel and out-dated style and on her face she wore-with the help of paints, creams, rouge and unguents-an expression of utter hate and cruelty.
"Yes," she repeated after a brief pause, "I think I'd like to eat her...." she left another dramatic pause. ". . . Eat what's left of her after we've all had our joys and pleasures of her."
There was a tittering of laughter among the audience. Robin continued slowly turning the frame for the edification of the guests.
"I think we should marinate her slightly," a thin and rather swishy-looking young man expressed. He was wearing a black silk shirt with turtle-neck collar and skin-fitting white kidskin tights. "Girls are never good when they're too fresh, not for anything, not even for punishment."
"I've had her trussed up all afternoon," Arbella told him.
"Yes, but she doesn't look quite ready yet. I suggest you leave her hanging a little while longer before you start whipping her."
"I want to see her whipped now," demanded a very young and very lovely-looking girl who couldn't have been older than eighteen. She had a huge mop of straw-colored hair that fell to almost cover her breasts, a three-inch wide studded belt that hung somewhat loose so that it drooped almost to her clitoris, and gold-colored Grecian sandals that were strapped all the way up her thigh, ending in bows on the outside of each hip. Beside that she wore nothing else and her magnificent figure with its melon-shaped breasts was unmarred by so much as a stretch line or an uneven tan.
"Yes, you're right, she should be whipped now," Arbella said, smiling sweetly at all assembled there. "It would be cruel to have her wait for her punishment. And besides, I want to see how our new apprentice assistant can wield the whip, so I think we should give him a chance straight away. On the other hand...." and now she put on a special smile. ". . .on the other hand it would be much more pleasant if we had her wait in anticipation for her punishment. So what's going to happen at this point is that our young man here will give us a demonstration of his abilities and will help break Lizbeth's-a-hah-suspension if you don't mind the pun-and then we will let her marinate a bit, as you termed it, Milton. We can devise something else for the marinating period, and then we can get down to the real punishment."
"Robin!" she thundered.
Robin pulled himself up and stood in awe and in readiness.
"His name is Robin," Arbella explained, a sardonic smile across her cruel features. "Robin-Hood Robin, perhaps, or Batman-and-Robin Robin, or perhaps Cock-Robin Robin, or perhaps Robin-Redbreast Robin. Which do you like?" and she poked Robin in the belly with the end of her whip handle, to the combined laughter of all those there.
When the laughter had died down, Arbella started her orders. "O.K. now, Cock-Robin Robin, turn her around for three-quarter view. That's right. Turn your head my way, Lizbeth, I want to see your face when he whips you. Good, perfect. Insert the pin Batman to keep her from spinning like a top. Here, I'll select a whip for you, that utilitarian model you have in your little fist won't do for the real thing."
She strode over to one wall where whips and lashes in all sizes, all styles and all different materials were on display in orderly racks. She selected one with a tubular steel handle like a golf-club and twin lashes made of two-inch wide strips of leather, four feet long.
"Here's a fine one," she said, handing it to Robin. "It's just right for warming her up and it won't cut her up too badly to force us to take time off, later, when we're ready for her."
CHAPTER NINE
Robin took the whip in both hands, raised it above his right shoulder and gave two practice swings through the air. It had a pleasant swish and the handle, too, gave it a springy whip. He spread his legs, left leg slightly forward, right leg back, and again whipped the air.
Almost, but not quite right. His leather clothes were too constricting for full movement. He loosened straps in his shoulder and down the back and undid the fastening that kept his helmet down on his jacket collar. Now movement seemed freer.
He advanced towards Lizbeth, paused three paces behind her, brought his left leg forward, raised the whip in both hands, swung it behind the right shoulder and then let go. Swish!
Two broad straps of leather flashed through the air as one and landed within the same split fraction of a second on the right shoulder of the spread-eagled girl, tracing their double path down her back to her left buttock. Her body contracted as the blow fell and the powerful springs that tensed at her ankles and at her wrists, gave and then contracted again and the girl's nude body bounced for a few seconds up and down, up and down, as if she was attached to harp-strings, and for a moment her twitching, bouncing body was a gentle blur, then her motions slowed.
Robin surveyed his work. Down her back, running from right shoulder to left buttock, ran a twin-track of rose-red blush with unbroken skin. Robin shifted his weight the better to gaze at her front. Her breasts were heaving up and down, from the pain, from the twitching, from the spring-powered bouncing, and from her current deep breathing. Sweat was coursing down the valley between the ripe full mounds, running toward her flat belly that she had drawn in tightly, and losing its way in the great prickly bush of her under hair. As she pulled in her tummy she thrust out her hips presenting her pubis to the onlookers in fine fettle, and the tightening of her buttocks under threat of the lash, had made her open up correspondingly at the front so that her twat-seldom closed, anyway-was now yawning wide and pink folds were pulsating outward. From her cunt and the area around it, other pools of sweat were coursing down her legs.
Her head had been thrashing from side to side with the pain and now as it came to rest it hung down limply. The eyes were dilated and the mouth was open with the tongue protruding. She seemed the picture of dejection and yet there was something in her face, the memory of a leer, that spoke of wantonness and of lust, that seemed to rejoice in its current role, that seemed to suggest both innocence and seductiveness, both pain and joy, both anxiety and pleasure.
The look on her face goaded Robin to new strength. Again he raised the whip above his right shoulder, this time as he faced her from the front. The twin lash descended on her left shoulder and encircled the left breast before it descended her belly and buried its ends in her crotch.
She arched backwards as he slashed this time, so that her buttocks were pointing away from him and the belly and cunt seemed to form a receptacle for the final stings of the double whip. She quivered a moment, her can thrown back and down and her bottom in pulling her body away pulled down the wrists in their binding and pulled up at the ankles so that her body formed a shallow angle. And then, as the pain at her bruised cunt made its presence known in her brain, her body quivered and rebounded with the doubled reaction of the tensed steel springs and of the tensed nervous system. She jerked and bounced, her body thrusting alternatively backwards and then slightly forwards, the "V" formed by her limbs, opening and closing rhythmically so that Robin half imagined she would come to an orgasm in her whole body.
There was a murmur of approval from the watching group. The spectators drew closer to have a better look. Lizbeth bounced for a few seconds longer, then came to rest. She was drooling from her open mouth.
Robin looked around at the spectators. He stuck his whip down on the floor, resting on the handle as if it was a walking stick, and he surveyed the others in the room. His first time, and already his work was earning the approval of these seasoned experts. He must be doing something right, he mused.
The frontal lashing had won approval. Robin decided to give it another try. This time he faced the suspended and spread-eagled body of his victim from the other side and lashed at her, aiming more for the belly and the area of the gaping cunt where, he was sure, her reaction would be more electrifying.
He was not wrong. She had sensed it already as he was lifting his arms for the swing, and had withdrawn her frightened ass as far as she could reach-making the target area into an angled vault that seemed to resemble an archer's target to his lustful eyes, with the open red cunt as the bull's eye. The double lash hit her right in there, hit the bull's eye, and he was positive that for a second one of the lash-ends actually lodged inside her cunt, buried deep in like a love-crazed punishing leather done. She screamed and her whole pelvis rocked, backwards and forwards in rhythmic spasm, alternately swallowing the leather deeper and disgorging it. Her body kept quivering and bouncing as if in an obscene dance of fornication with the whip and the lash and the pain it engendered.
Robin could feel a sympathetic stirring in his own entrails. He felt as if his cock, straining and urgent, was an extension of that whip, as if his cock, like the whip he wielded in his powerful arms, served as the cruel messenger of the powerful tall woman whose ends he was serving, as if both he and his cock and his whip no longer belonged to him exclusively but were the property, the servants and the agent of that woman whom he craved to serve. He felt warm contentment in that role-and an urge to excel ever more in that service. He wanted to lash on, to slash harder, to make every blow harder than the one before it until his whip-or his cock, for they both seemed the same to him at this point in his wild excitement-finally quivered to its climax and its spent ending inside the violated and lifeless body of this victim of his mistress's passions.
He would have gone on but a word stopped him.
"Stop!" The voice of the dominating Arbella cut through the strained hubbub like the crack of a whip on a cold clear day.
"Enough!" She barked the order with a violence and a passion that made Robin tremble both with fear and with admiration.
"That will do. I asked you to demonstrate your skills, not to pursue your own erotic or sadistic ends. You're not here for your enjoyment; you're my servant. Now drop that whip."
The whip fell from his hand almost automatically. At the same moment his cock, that had been swollen inside the grip of the tight leather shorts for what had seemed like an eternity, drooped and collapsed. It happened in a split fraction of a second and was so sudden that it caused a sudden inrush of cold air that hit his balls with an ominous chill.
His heart froze and he stood for a moment, paralyzed, awaiting the orders or the acts of the demon-mistress. And then he felt something melt inside him, something warm spread from the base of his shrunken baby-sized cock through his tight-swaddled buttocks and through his belly and groin. It was a melting of subjection, a joy of surrender, a relaxation of passions that let him know that there was Another who controlled him, Another who gave the orders, Another who would take responsibility for every act and every thought he would oe allowed to own.
"You have overstepped your bounds, Cock-Robin my lad!" The derision in her voice was unmistakable. It reminded him of when he was about six and he had been called into the principal's office for punishment after infraction of a minor school rule. The principal, a tall stern woman with muscular body who had seemed to him then like a towering giant, had shouted at him and when that had made him cry she bade him hold out his hand which she swatted hard with a cane.
It had stopped his crying but had caused something else, something much more shameful, much more frightening, much more deserving of punishment: his little peter had boiled over and streams of hot piss had issued from it, filling up his small-boy pants, soaking him in its warmth, spilling over and out, running down his legs, cascading on the carpet of the principal's office.
The principal had been livid. She stopped the cane, pulled down his soaking clothes with brutal brusqueness, had him hold up the tail of his shirt and then she had laid him over her knee, his head in the warmth of her lap, and she had whipped his wet, shamed bottom with the flat of her hand till she had raised it to a raspberry hue and a warmth of flesh that threatened to boil him alive.
And when she had done, she had smiled at him, as if to say that in the completion of her satisfaction or the completeness of his dejection he had gained both forgiveness and the fullness of her love.
And now, standing in his dejection facing the tall powerful mistress whom he desired with all his heart and all his might to serve, he once more relived that self-same feeling.
"He thought he had some special grace and favor," Arbella spoke of him to her friends, treating him like a nothing. "Allow him a slight privilege, ask him to do a little service, tell him to demonstrate his skill and already he thinks he has earned some special place of honor among us. He'll have to be taught a lesson. He has to understand that he's just a slob, just a nothing. He is lower than the lowest; he isn't ready yet to reach even so high as the soles of Lizbeth here."
The crowd murmured its assent.
"How do you intend to prove your humility and servitude in the future?" Arbella asked Robin, turning to him but not caring to mask her disdain.
Robin found his lip quivering. "I'll do anything, anything! I'll lick your coots, I'll serve you like a dog. I'll lick out your cunt and lick your ass and beg you to soil me with your piss and with your shit-and I'll lick that up too. I'll show you my loyalty and devotion."
Arbella laughed, a laugh so deep and so powerful it made the chamber ring.
"Wretch!" she screamed with the full power of her lungs. "Imbecile! I propose to punish you and you ask to be allowed to satisfy your perverse desires instead. I ask you to prove your subservience and instead you want to suck me into catering to your further appetite. I must punish you for this. You must be taught to understand your utter worthlessness here among us. Take him!"
Her guests needed little urging. A dozen hands seized him roughly, pummeled him, shoved him, dragged him, and pulled him. There were kicks and punches that he could barely feel through the thick protecting leather and there were others that penetrated him through and through. His bare knees scraped along the floor and someone kept kicking him with pointed boot right in the exposed soft flesh of the backs of his knees. They dragged him to the heavy wooden bench and brought him up, off his knees.
The end of the bench had a U-shaped cut-out. The cut-out was bridged with a steel bar. He was pushed hard against it and doubled up over the bar which pressed into his belly directly above the pubic bone. His arms were stretched out and in a minute both wrists had been hitched to spring-laden hooks that were fastened into the rings built into the leather jacket he was wearing.
With a sinking feeling, Robin realized the sinister purpose for which the rings and straps on his leather suit had been designed.
As if to confirm it, other spring-laden restraints were hooked into the rings at his ankles. Another set of tensed steel cables was snapped into rings at his thighs so that his legs were forced and spread out in a bow-legged horseshoe shape. His legs were pressed against the legs of the bench, his belly against the steel bar and his chest and head were stretched out by tension on the arms, and were pressed to the length of the bench. Other hooks were snapped into him and he could feel his whole body stretched with force and tension.
It had been the work of only a minute or two thanks to the providential placement of the rings on his jacket, shorts and boots and the obvious familiarity that those present had with all the equipment in the room.
He felt the tension and the humiliation, the harsh pressure of steel into his belly, the straining of his flesh and bones and muscles where the tight-fitting leather clothing molded it under tension. All of him was pressed against the bench, all except his ass which was sticking out and up, and his crotch which faced the cut-out space between the legs of the bench and below the steel bar.
A silence descended on the guests as they waited, apparently, for the mistress of the ceremony to give the next set of instructions.
It was the voice of the effeminate man, Milton, who broke the silence.
"A beautiful hump of a ass, that one. Seems a pity to keep it strapped down under those absurd little leather pants."
His remarks were met with guffaws and applause. Robin felt the blood of shame rise to his head and he felt that under his little leather shorts his bottom must be turning the same beet color with the embarrassment.
"You'd like to bare it, wouldn't you?" The supreme mistress asked, her statement a seeming invitation to the thin swishy man.
Robin had always had a strong aversion to homosexuals and their ilk. He found all forms of effeminacy in men distasteful, all contract between two males repulsive. Now he felt his skin creep at the threatened violation of his masculinity.
"Yes," the man named Milton lisped. "I want to see whether he's a man or a...."
He left the last word unstated but it evinced a titter of laughter from those present.
"Go ahead, he's yours." the haughty mistress of it all was disposing of Robin's person as if he were some trifling object of no importance. He sensed the shame, the infinite shame, the total and abject humiliation to which that exposed him. He was willing to be a slave, willing to be tied, willing to be hers--but hers to serve, hers to remain hers, not hers to dispose of as if his personhood meant absolutely nothing to her-or to the recipient.
CHAPTER TEN
The man named Milton knelt down at Robin's rear. He ran two hands appreciatively over the tight bulging mounds of his buttocks and Robin felt himself wince with revulsion. He stroked more firmly and pressed. Robin thought something catastrophic would happen. Something had to intervene to stop this, perhaps he would faint, perhaps die, he couldn't remain conscious while this was happening to him.
The effeminate man was feeling Robin's buttocks and then slowly he brought his hands up his legs, from the top of his boots, over the inside of the knees, up the inside of the thighs. He ran his fingers around the cuff of the leather shorts but these of course had been drawn tight and now the straining steel cables added to the tightening so that he found it impossible to get so much as a fingernail between flesh and leather. But the coursings of his soft fingertips, contrasting with the tight pressure of the rim of leather, served to raise feelings of such delicate exquisite tension in his skin that he thought he would....
And then suddenly the man kneeling behind him brought both hands up tight against the crotch. He finished up into the folds of leather and while the left hand kept up the pressure, the right hand moved back and up, deep in the groove between Robin's buttocks.
As if the humiliation wasn't enough, Milton now made a sudden grab for Robin's basket. He caught it in the full of his left palm in front and pressed up and squeezed. The shame for Robin was unbearable, the aversion was polar. He struggled at his bonds to get away but all that happened was that he fitted more snugly into Milton's obscene embrace and that the leather that held him became even more tightened and more restricted, compressing the blood that flowed through his veins and that suffused his skin.
The outcome was inevitable.
Robin's prick started hardening. It got harder and harder and longer and longer and forced its pressure against the leather and against Milton's hand.
Milton of course noticed it straight away. Undoubtedly that had been his obscene intent-or at least hope-right from the start.
"Ahah, what have we here!" he exclaimed with triumph. "Cocky-Robin's robin-cocky wants to say hello!"
His fingers traced the outline of the growing and lengthening member along the distended crotch. He rubbed his fingers backward and forward along the hard member under the skin-tight leather and Robin feared he could not control himself much longer and that sooner or later he would spill over with an ejaculation-under the caress of a man!
But Milton spared him that humiliation of his manhood-for the moment, anyway. He groped for the straps that held the triangular codpiece in place in the front of Robin's shorts, and with a bound Robin's cock jumped forth.
From long containment against the rough leather, Robin's cock had become red and engorged so that its color was fiery and angry. The perspiration that had been building up while he had been so tightly arrayed, to which added perspiration had been added while he was exerting himself physically whipping the spread-eagled Lizbeth, and the perspiration successively of his fear, his humiliation, his binding and finally this perverse assault, had caused his cock to be deeply bathed so that in addition to its redness it was now wet and glistening along its entire length. In that position, hunched forward, with his cock protruding red and slimy from his breeches, it looked just luce the penis on the larger of the canine species and those present in the room could not fail to see the startling similarity to the cock of an aroused St. Bernard and uttered words and phrases to that effect-to Robin's additional humiliation.
They let his cock hang down and out like that for ten minutes or so and-each time that it seemed to be flagging and possibly shrinking in size, someone in the group immediately applied pressure-with finger or knee or foot or boot-to the area of his crotch and his cock immediately assumed its previous length and hardness again.
"We haven't seen his darling botty, yet," Milton said after a while. He knelt down again, once more caressed the tensed buttocks with one hand and with the other hand he groped along the length of Robin's cock, starting at the tip, and holding it in a ring formed between thumb and forefinger. He slowly worked his way to the back of Robin's cock which was throbbing and jumping as if it had a soul of its own and had no connection with Robin, as if it was immaterial to it whether the hand that caressed it was male or female or human for that matter. Robin more and more felt his humanity slipping away from him and he saw himself now as a dog, a cur, a canine.
When Milton's hand had reached the root of Robin's cock, he spread out the fingers and groped the balls, feeling them through the wrinkled scrotum, rolling them against one another, bouncing them in his hands as if to judge their weight. He caught hold of one of the balls and, edging it between the tips of thumb and forefinger, he guided up the scrotum into the bony socket of his pelvis. The thumb followed its path and pressed at the entrance to the socket, keeping the testicle tightly in place and adding extra pressure that aroused an animal lust in Robin that he would at that moment have been willing to satisfy anywhere, whatever the sex or age or species or nature of the object that would have afforded him such a release. As if that were not enough, the effeminate Milton, with skillful fingers, proceeded thereupon to guide and push its fellow testicle into its appropriate socket and to apply pressure now to each testicle with thumb and finger.
Robin whimpered. He wanted to come. His sperm was boiling deep inside him, his sperm wanted to void itself into the hands of this man, into his mouth, into his anus, into any receptacle he could offer. His sperm knew it wanted release, his body was dying for the discharge of its tensions and the satisfaction of his lust.
But he couldn't. Robin was governed by inhibition. His inhibition told him that e could never, must never, dare never, achieve sexual release under the stimulation of another male, and his inhibitions effectively put a lock on his functions. His desire was bursting, exploding, tearing through him, but his inhibition, his knowledge of right and wrong, his fear of his own potential for perversity, constrained him. His moral censor would rather see him dead than give way to his animal needs under such circumstances.
He whimpered with the agony and the pain, the tension and the frustration. He sobbed for something to happen, something, anything...anything short of the ultimate in humiliation.
Milton continued the exploration of Robin's body with his gossamer-weight finger tips. He traced his way back and up from the buttocks, into the mass of hair, into the wrinkled folds. He touched the soft skin surrounding Robin's anus and Robin's body twitched with the essovatrition of the nerve ganglia, bucked and arched and sought to rise up and away from it-and into the pressure too, for his desires and his emotions were by now so confused that he bucked in two directions simultaneously: into it and away at the same time, rejecting and eagerly demanding.
But Milton's fingers did not grope into Robin's anus as he had feared and in a perverse way hoped, but further back and around and at the same time the fingers of the other hand were busy too, and before he knew it, Robin's ass stood fully exposed to the eyes of the beholders for Milton had deftly unfastened the buckles and straps and had removed the leather triangle that had strategically covered the rump area.
"And a pretty bottom, too," Milton said amidst much twittering laughter and ribald joking. It wasn't really: like Robin's cock it had been too long encased by the leather and had become both chafed and sweaty. A powerful smell arose from Robin's posterior, the sweat mixing with the fine smell of virile leather, the fear, the rage and the anger all adding their own flavors, plus not a small amount of musky sexuality-all of it seasoned to a gamy aroma by dint of staleness and the onset of microbe putrefaction.
It was a smell that might have been considered repellent to ordinary mortals but to those present in this room, who had themselves engaged in the past in all kinds of erotic excesses and who were arousing all their senses at the present instance by their observation and passive participation in the obscene rites, the masculine smell arising from Robin's loins served as an aphrodisiac. They crowded closer to poke and jab, to laugh and snigger, to grab, stroke and fondle.
Robin retched from the stomach and might well have thrown up in the excess of his disgust and self-disgust had not the pressure of the bench under his chest and the tightening of the leather straps around his torso acted as an effective inhibitor of his reflex muscular reaction. He retched and felt his head swim and tried to believe that he was falling into unconsciousness but nothing so fortuitous came his way. His senses remained acute-nay, they were heightened and each sensation in his body became magnified entirely out of proportion.
"A nicely bared ass, dear Milton." The voice was the voice of Arbella. It seemed ages since he had last heard her voice and Robin realized that, without realizing it, he had believed himself abandoned by her. To hear the voice, even in its mockery, restored some of his self confidence. "A nicely bared ass indeed. I think I shall take it on myself to take its virginity. No, no, dear Milton, not in the way that you would take it, that's hardly my way and anyway I think he needs more-as you, was it? Said-marinating first. No, I shall take his virginity in my own way."
Robin shuddered and thrilled at her words. His body tensed in fearful anticipation. His back arched to the extent permitted by his fetters. He felt his anus throbbing and images of Lizbeth's cunt swum in his mind. He could see the pulsating of the inner workings of her cunt, thrusting and pushing and straining as she was hung suspended from the frame, and he imagined his intestines must be pulsating in similar fashion, wet and pink, in and out of his distended ass-hole. He could imagine how they would be laughing and snickering at this sight.
"What!" He was shaken out of his thoughts by a line of fire that burned itself into the hemispheres of his exposed ass. His ears pricked up and he could hear the swish of a cane wielded at short distance and he knew that the imperious goddess herself, Arbella his chosen mistress, was about to land another stinging slap across his buttocks.
"Wham!" it came again. He pictured her at work, despite his pain, conjured up a vision of that fabulous woman in black, tightly encased from head to toe in her suit of glossy leather, teetering on her high pointed heels. He saw that magnificent figure in his mind's eye, took in the way she bent, saw the swellings of her powerful muscles and the heaving of her breasts under their leather laces, saw the thrust of hip and thigh, the stance of boot, the raise of shoulder, the swing of arm. He saw the leather rippling with each motion, saw the reflection of light on the glossy black surface. He saw her in all magnificence and he regretted that in his position he found it impossible to see her in reality too. But what he imagined and what he could project was enough to raise his passions to a new height. He was being punished by the mistress-at last-and to be punished by her was in itself reward for there was no punishment without acceptance and where there was acceptance the basis of love was maintained. She punished him therefore she loved him. He was her slave, therefore he owned her love.
"Whack!" another swish of Arbella's cane. Robin's bottom had risen up to meet it like a lover purses his lips to greet his beloved. His bottom tingled all over and by the strange alchemy of the tortured soul, the pain was instantly transmuted into pleasure, the agony into joy and the fear into desire. His bottom glowed, his balls danced and his cock jutted forth and heaved up and down rhythmically.
Another blow and he could feel the pulsations starting in his groin. His balls were churning, his cock lay expectant, his whole being waited to express itself through the medium of his cock. Throb, throb, rhythmical throb. He was going to spend, he was going to thrust it forth, it would be a tribute to HER, a libation to the goddess herself. There was, he realized with the joy of abandon, no better way to serve her, no better way to express his love and his servitude, than by spilling his sperm as he writhed under her blows, spill it on the ground without demanding that she become the receptacle for him. He would do it for her, for love of her, for love of her domination and love of her power and love of his position of slave and victim.
For her, only for her.
And suddenly the blows ceased. His frustration knew no bounds. He felt the grief of his abandonment. She no longer cared, she no longer bothered, she was no longer concerned enough even to whip him. He wanted to worship her, he wanted to climax for her, he wanted to have an orgasm at her command. He was poised, he was ready.
Suddenly soft fingers were at his cock. Soft fingers were stroking and milking him, soft fingers.
He shut his eyes firmly and tried to believe that they were the fingers of the woman whom he wished to serve, but no stretch of the imagination, no desire however great, could make him conjure her hands in the place around his cock.
The hands were the hands of Milton. It was a man who would milk him of his tribute to his woman. A man would degrade him where the woman should have elevated him. He sobbed in his agony, sobbed with the betrayal, sobbed with the ultimate in frustration.
He tried to hold it back and let it come forth. The struggle was on. A decision would be hard to come by.
And then he felt a kick in his fundament. A boot in his backside. A resounding kick that jarred every bone in his body. A kick that was motivated, that could have come from no ordinary mortal, a kick from the boot that was the very extension of the noble Arbella. A kick of love. To her he could offer up his love, to the caress of her boot he could his semen, for her he would let it come.
A sharp heel dug into his anus. Dug in deep and joyfully rent the tender tissues. A sharp heel dug and tore and the boot twisted, the delectable black heel at the end of that incomparably beautiful boot that served as the extension of the woman he craved.
His anal virginity was being brutally taken in a manner that could not have been bettered, could not have been improved on. Voluptuous thoughts crowed into his head, and his body heaved and was suffused with love and passion and desire. He was coming for her, for her, only for her.
And suddenly his cock was taken into a soft hand that stroked and caressed it with the tenderness of a woman but that worked with the self-awareness and body-wisdom that only a male, a male who knew the secrets of his own cock, could bring to it.
His semen was spilling, his semen that was intended for a female. It was spilling, it was flowing, it was throbbing, it was coming. He wanted to rejoice, he wanted it to express the identity he felt with, the love he felt for, the admiration he felt towards, the woman who had made it all happen.
And at the last minute, after so many disappointments had been overcome, after he had applied so much restraint, after he had sublimated so much desire, it was being sacrificed not for her but for Milton, odious Milton, Milton the fag, the pervert, the eunuch.
And something fundamentally, something deep, told Robin that there was more than the purely symbolic in what was happening, for in surrendering himself to Arbella he was surrendering himself to some deeper instincts, deeper desires, perverse wishes he would not acknowledge.
And those feelings that had now surfaced-as the semen itself had surfaced after so much toil and repression-made him Milton's brother under the skin.
Milton's brother-or Milton's sister? It was all one.
And a secret part of Robin rejoiced even as the rest of him collapsed into uncontrolled sobbing at the loss of his innocence.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
After a while someone threw a large horse blanket over the collapsed body of Robin and he was grateful for the gesture. The blanket hid his body from prying eyes and left him to savor his pains and humiliations on his own, in his own world, shut off and away.
Through the blanket he could hear laughter and the sound of rejoicing. At times he thought he could hear the sounds of a riotous orgy and his imagination created the weirdest of couplings and re-couplings, triangles, squares and circles in all conceivable combinations of all the conceivable and unconceivable sexes present there and anywhere else.
The world outside was closed to him and he shut the rest of the world outside his being. He went into himself. He dug deep into his psyche. His mind created for him the structure of a new and different reality that was meant to preserve his sanity and to prepare his concepts for the new reality of his being and his sexuality.
Wrier had it all started? He cast his mind back into his earliest sexual experiences. A memory came to him of suckling at the breast of his mother who symbolised not only love and woman but Earth itself. That was...pictures formed in his mind and various theories he'd heard and various articles he'd read but all that was irrelevant.
His first overt sexual experience. Three, maybe four. Playing in the shed at the bottom of the garden. A neighboring boy a year older. Stuck his finger in Robins asshole and then told him he had to smell it and Robin smelled the stinky finger and it made him cry. The other boy-what was his name now? They'd been close friends through first grade but then there'd been some scandal with the Boy's parents and they'd suddenly moved away-the other boy was troubled by Robin's crying and in order to placate him had pulled down Robin's short pants all the way and taken hold of Robin's little cock-Robin could visualize it now, could feel it, could feel again that special stiffness that only little boys' pricks have, stiff and stretching and the feeling that they'll keep stretching on and out and more and more and become infinitely elongated, such a feeling of delicious tautness and delightful expectation that he had not experienced since his early childhood-the other boy had done what seemed so natural and so real, he had taken Robin's little cock in his mouth and sucked it like a lollipop.
The memories crowded back, the full feelings. Under the blanket that covered him now, with his bottom bared and projecting and his cock exposed under the bench, he felt himself back there with the other little boy, felt the delicious thrill of having a boy suck his cock, felt the desire come on him as it did then, when he finally persuaded the other boy to pull down his pants. Now he caught it, the full desire, the full erotic arousal, the oral satisfaction of taking a prick in his mouth, a thin, hard, long prick, a prick like an extended finger, the prick of a little boy in the shed at the bottom of the garden.
Another time playing nurse and doctors. Trying to push his cock into a girl's mouth. Her fear and anger. Her threat to tell her mother. She made him give her all the money from his piggy bank. His first whore, all of five, but certainly not his last.
Another girl more accommodating. Stripped naked. Feeling her breasts. Sucking at the tiny baby nipples as he'd seen his little sister suckle at his mother's breast. The examination. That large, bare bulbous projection with the straight vertical cleft that looked as if they'd forgotten to equip her with a cock. Watching her pee as she squatted. "Taking her temperature' first with a pencil, then with his finger. And it hadn't stopped with his finger but he'd gone on with the obvious object, the corresponding organ that, if he but lent it to her would make her whole. His penis, stiff and straight as a finger, tensing against the thin skin covering, pushed against her crack, trying to get in, getting in.
A desire came over him suddenly. He must have a little girl. A really little girl. Six years old and innocent. With a hairless pussy and a vertical smile. A little girl lifting her dress. The dress over his head. Enveloped by her dress as he was now enveloped by the blanket, he would suck at her pussy, suck at her hairless virgin pussy, enslave himself at the altar of her childish innocence and by turning her into the child-whore would buy back for himself the innocence he had forfeited.
The virgin child as an act of purification. Could he start all over now with such a child, he could erase the pollution he had sustained in his basement to Arbella, worshipping at the altar of the babe instead of the mistress. Could he worship at the girl's little twat, he would erase his memories of his first sex encounter, that with a prick, and thereby erase his latest stain when he had poured forth his seed for Milton's hand.
A fire burned within him. He wanted a little girl. A virgin-pussied little girl with no hair and no menstruation and no adult wiles. He wanted to feel her up her little legs and run his hand between her thighs, and have her pull up her skirt and whirl around so he could take in the gorgeous look of a little girl, knickered. He'd pull down her tight little panties and give her a few smacks on her little botty, and then he'd pull her panties down all the way and run his fingers into her crack and suck his fingers. and then have her raise her legs while he put his face right up against her plump little thighs, and dug his tongue deep into her hairless twat and have her legs press down on his face. Oh what bliss!
It would end...Yes, he could see it. There sits Robin on the chair. The little girl, her skirt raised and her panties off, sits on his lap. His cock is hard.
"What's that funny stick you have there, Uncle?" She'd call him uncle, of course, a nice touch.
"It's called my joy stick. You hold it when you want to get somewhere and you move it in whichever way you want to go. It's magic. Do you want to feel my rigid joy stick?"
Her little fingers pull at the zipper to uncover the surprise goody and he watches her eyes and her mouth as she makes the discovery.
"Would you like to hold it now, dearie?"
Of course she would and she runs her hot little fists up and down the shaft and she looks at that funny big thing at the tip and why does it have that little hole there?
"That's just like your little twattie, dear. Do you see that shape of the slit? And when you open it it's wet and pink inside, just like yours. Would you like to put your little tongue in there as I put my tongue in yours?"
No, he wouldn't shove his cock up her cunt. That's something he wouldn't do, something too...to...Well, why not? It would be nice being able to push his cock up a little girl's twat. If he could do it one day, without hurting her, without fear of punishment. In Mexico, they say, you can buy six-year-old virgins, or in Egypt or India perhaps or even Puerto Rico. But that comes later. Now she's licking the top of his joy stick. She's taking it all in. No, her mouth is too small, but she can lick it down the side, run her mouth vertically down its length.
"Look, honey, you're getting heavy on my lap. Let's both get down on the rug like this. I'll kneel so you can take my cock-my joy stick I mean-in your mouth more easily and I can lift up your skirt and put my finger up your little twattie and make you feel good all over."
Yes, good all over, all over. Let her suck it in her mouth, suck it, the little girl, suck it in her innocence until it is all over, all over her, all over, finished.
"What's that funny tasting white stuff, Uncle?" as it runs down her mouth and down her dress and down her innocent little legs and on her patent leather shoes.
"That's nothing, honey, little girls shouldn't ask questions like that and better wipe it off quickly and don't tell your mummy, that's our little secret, you and me, and if you ever tell her I'll pull down your little panties and spank you hard like this...and this...and this...and this...."
Yes, it would be nice to violate a little girl, a real little girl, not just a woman who acts like a little girl as don't they all?
It was a girl had violated him. He was twelve and she was-what? nineteen? Twenty? Fresa her name was, a buxom Swedish girl. She'd been their maid for about four months, straight out of the old country.
His parents were away for the night, visiting a dying aunt. The younger children were in bed. He was watching television, lying on the bearskin rug on his belly.
Fresa came in and lay down near him. Questions, all sorts of questions. He wanted to watch the show. Asked him about school. About his friends. Had he any girl friends? Were they good to him?
'What do you mean good?" Something told him she didn't have in mind what he had in mind. In his school, when a girl was being good to a fella, she let him take her to the soda fountain for a sundae-and slipped him the money for the both of them under the table. Or, being good was when a girl sat next to you in class during a test and slipped you the answers.
"Does she do things to make you feel good?"
So she did think of the same things. He told her about Jenny who had given him her whole collection of bubble-gum cards when she'd stopped collecting-and she'd had some super cards given her by her big brother when he'd stopped collecting. "That made me feel good, real good."
Fresa laughed indulgently, and with understanding.
'Maybe is my English not is good. Make you feel good is mean make your body feel good. like this."
She was more adept at body language than with the intricacies of English syntax and idioms, and she showed him what she had in mind in no uncertain terms.
"like this is feel good?" she asked, stroking his back. She drew herself closer to him and her face smiled and seemed to ask him a question, a wordless question.
"And this?" She drew closer still and allowed her hand to stroke him further down his back and knead his buttocks.
"like this?" and as she stroked his thighs, first the back and then the insides, he didn't know which of the two meanings the word "like" had when she posed her question-and it didn't really matter.
"like this?" This time her hand went up his thigh, very softly touching, and rested where the fleshy part of his thighs came together, and he opened his thighs for a moment so that she could slip her hand in deeper, then clamped them, and Fresa, her hand imprisoned, started twisting and turning it and reaching higher and stretching for untold regions with her fingers.
That was exciting! That made him feel good. Now he knew what she meant. He let her draw him closer to her and turn towards him. She put her trim nylon-clad knee between his thighs, working her thigh up until they lay crotch to crotch.
Her mouth reached for his, she opened his lips with her hot tongue and pushed it in deep. Her tongue penetrated the hushed cavern of his mouth, danced a tango with his tongue, explored the deep dark reaches.
An experienced hand fumbled at his fly and knowing fingers handled his cock which had been stiff almost from the moment she had first touched his back.
A hand in need seized his hand in friendship and placed it on the bulging mounds of her sweater, and then encouraged his hand to lift the sweater, and reach under the edging of the bra, and squeeze out a big full breast that was soft and doughy, and made him knead it and massage it.
He unstuck his mouth from hers for a minute and admired the full ripe breast, the large pink circle with its soft pointy center, watched it as the pink became darker and contracted and the point became puckered and hard and long. Then she d pushed his face down and it came to rest against the luscious soft mound and she pressed the mound together in her hand and pushed it at him until he opened his mouth and chewed it, inch by inch, up to and including-and especially including-the nipple.
The hand in need reached out again and took his other hand. It went under the frilly lace apron and under the black poplin dress and touched the sheer edge of her nylon stockings, felt around at the contrast between the flesh colored nylon and the silk-textured leg, reached under the nylon and felt around, felt the naughty frillings of the suspenders and reached up toward the garter belt.
Made him feel around to the lace of the panties and under the lace of the panties and between her soft, full thighs and the lace of her panties and in among and between the hairs where the texture changed and he knew he was in a new holy-of-holies that was something special.
The vertical crack. The cunt. A real cunt, his first real cunt, a fur-trimmed cunt with curly hairs along the edge and a man-sized slit that took his hand and a deep hole that called for his fingers and sucked them in hungrily and bathed and soaked and massaged them in its delicious cunty warmness.
Her white apron raised and her black poplin dress raised, his pants lowered, belly to belly, thigh between thigh, hand on stiff cock and round balls, hand in tight wet crack and deep warm hole, face in breast and mouth on neck and tongue in ear.
She whispered something-in Swedish or in love-talk or any other incomprehensible language, whispered a word every five minutes, no need for more and he said nothing whatsoever.
They needed to say nothing when she and he stirred at the same time, kissed for a last time on the living-room floor, embraced, picked up their scattered clothing, tiptoed up to her room behind the locked door and the closed drapes and into her big soft feathery down bed she'd brought as her major possession from her old home.
There in that bed he spent the first night of bliss. He crept happy as a little child-and wasn't he one, really, at twelve-under the covers and down among her soft down-filled tits and further down to her soft commodious belly and further down to the down-covered triangle and the slit he had hungered for in his search since in imagine, the slit he hadn't found in little boys' pricks and hadn't found in little girls' slits.
This was it, this was bliss, lying between those warm and comforting thighs with his face pressed deep into her warmth and his nose smelling the exciting smells of her cunt and his lips tasting that delicious taste of woman in heat and his tongue in deep, in deep, deep, deep, curling into her hole and searching around and sucking it out and licking the honey out of it.
He thrilled as she tightened her plump thighs around his head and crossed her legs over his back. He thrilled when she had him enfolded in the wet and dark and warmth, wrapped by her generous body, covered by the all enveloping covers as now he was covered by the blanket.
In his mind he was back there again. His face pressed down against the bench was his face pressed down in her twat. His arms stretched out by the shackles were his hands reached up to stroke her breasts, his thighs and body pressed down by the restraints was his body pressed to the downy mattress by the weight of Fresa's body and limbs.
He felt her body heave and the lips of her cunt quiver. Her body rocked in rhythm and long, low moans came out of her mouth, rumbling somehow through the tissues of her body to reach his consciousness for under the blanket and under her thighs his ears could hear little.
The moans, the sighs, the mewling. The heaving of her thighs and pelvis. The cunt opening up and swallowing and chewing on his tongue and lips in convulsive urge. The ever-increasing speed of her urgency and decreasing amplitude of her motions until the final spurt, thrust, jump, twitch, and her body subsided in calm and a long-drawn-out sigh.
A sleep-time later he crawled up out of the warmth, back up her body. He kissed her lips with his cunt-flavored ones and brought the twat-honey still on his tongue as a gift to the deep caverns of her mouth. Her thighs opened up and his pelvis lodged between them and his cock reached in and got swallowed by the accommodating cock-sheath of er cunt.
He felt the muscles of her cunt grab his cock and squeeze it and milk it and pound it and pull it. Her thighs closed themselves around his waist and her heels met on his back and then it was bucking up and down, up and down, faster and faster, pushing it in and up and straining to get further, straining to get his cock all the way up, up to her navel and up to her throat and out of her mouth. Shove in his cock with joy and desire and some spark of anger because she was a woman and he had to get his anger into a woman.
That was so long ago. When he was less than half as old as he was now. Proud now of himself as a little boy, not so little, twelve years old and old enough to fuck, old enough to make her come, and come again, and come again.... and ask for more.
He'd been surprised when he started ejaculating and a little frightened too, worrying that he might burst somewhere, afraid he would not be able to stop whatever it was that was happening to him, and when he had ejaculated a giant load of sperm into her cunt, he was afraid that it was warm piss that he'd leaked out in his excitement and was afraid of what she'd think of him when she found out, but she hadn't seemed to notice-or if she noticed she obviously hadn't minded.
She'd invited him down under the blankets again later, and he'd tasted her new taste, the taste that he discovered later was the taste of his own come, and he'd developed a liking for it that still hadn't left him. Then up again for another joust of cock-in-cunt, and so on through an exciting night.
A day of bewilderment and wonder and surprise and questions of had it really been true. School in a maze and a haze of unreality, but every few minutes he'd taken his fingers to his nose, his unwashed fingers, that preserved her smell and his and told him it had been for real.
His mother called that night to say the aunt had taken a turn for the worse and they would have to stay, could Fresa handle the children and the home and she'd said yes, of course Mrs. Stedland.
So that allowed another delicious night in Fresa's bed learning new games and new angles and new excitement. The aunt was worse, she was dying, dead. His parents stayed for the wake and for the funeral and stayed on to mourn with the bereaved family and for the reading of the will.
Robin spent two weeks of bliss with the buxom Swede of the insatiable tastes and looked forward to further nights of stolen bliss and exciting trysts. But it wasn't to be. Fresa was dismissed under a cloud and she left in tears carrying her big feather bed and kissed Robin a last tearful good-bye but as a mature woman with a little boy, not as a hungry sex-bent wanton with her love.
No one told him what had happened and Robin had to pick up his own clues and jump to his own conclusions. What he guessed or found out over the weeks was that his parents had come to know that the relationship between Fresa and her oldest charge had not been the model of propriety they had expected to prevail.
Robin suspected that it wasn't the first time that Fresa had indulged her sexual needs in his home. Had his father been there before him to comfort the big-busted girl with the commodious cunt? Had he wanted to enjoy her again after the funeral? Was it then he found out that his son, only twelve but already a man in all those respects had been tending the oven in his absence. Was it jealousy on his father's part, of the approaching adulthood of his son-or was it perhaps his mother who had discovered the increasing adultery by her mate? He never found out for sure but he had his suspicions, and he nursed his disappointment.
They never haa a young and attractive maid in the house again after that. The new maids-and none stayed more than a few months-were old and ugly and his parents must have assumed they could never appeal to their son.
They were mistaken. He used to lie in bed at night, fantasy transporting him into their beds. However old, however stern, however mean, he would be in their beds in his mind, loving them up and loving them down. As he beat off-and he sometimes beat off as often as six times in a single night before he fell finally asleep, or he'd fall asleep and wake up with a dream and a hard-on and whack off again, and again and again.
He beat off thinking about the current maid. Dressed in her black poplin, tight to her figure, grasping him tight between her legs, forcing him down into her piss-smell cunt, pressing him down with her veined old legs, pressing into his back with her laced-up boots.
They were ugly as sin, bent, crippled, mean and nasty but for Robin they were the women he conjured up in his fantasies-not the pretty plump teenagers from school he was taking out for cokes and ice-creams-and feels and fucks with an amazing frequency that he kept secret from his mates and a success that would have put any self-respecting Don Juan to shame.
Robin had as many girls to fuck when he was in high school as he wanted, and later in college, too. He developed a technique in seduction that seldom found him refused. But when he beat off it was with visions of one of the ancient ugly maids his parents kept hiring one after the other, ugly hags that he couldn't possibly touch in real life, away from his fantasies.
All except one. Chloe. A large, warm, ample woman in her early forties with a smiling face and sensuous thick lips and a complexion like polished walnut. He got at Chloe once, got her in her room, got himself drawn into her embrace, found his thrills in her deeply-cushioned bosom and her amply-contoured thighs, and thrilled as she almost throttled him in the climax of her orgasm.
But she suddenly walked out of his parents' home the next morning without giving notice.
CHAPTER TWELVE
He dozed off eventually in his bondage, a refreshing sleep that restored some of his fatigue and was accompanied by dreams of comfort and promise and erotic excitement.
He woke up when they took the blanket off his head and untied his shackles, and he wasn't too happy about that. He had enjoyed his dreams and was reluctant to come back to cold, cruel reality. And though he should have rejoiced to regain his freedom and to be released from the excruciating pain and humiliation of his bondage, he found he didn't cherish his freedom as much as he'd enjoyed the constraints that freed him of his need to take responsibility for his decisions.
He stood up on tottering feet and a chill blast of exposure hit his balls and bared ass. He felt ashamed and vulnerable. He wanted to cover himself and seized the blanket, almost instinctively, but coarse laughter of derision made him change his mind and he dropped the blanket to stand shivering and embarrassed. His cock was small and wrinkled and dried and his ass-hole was puckered with his ass-flanks drawn in and the exposed skin broke out in goose pimples.
He adjusted his eyes to the unaccustomed light. An orgy was in progress, an ordinary, straightforward, garden-variety orgy with couples lying here and there, fucking and licking, kissing and sucking as the imagine took them. The crowd had swelled in the measureless hours he'd been shackled on the bench and asleep in the arms of Morpheus, and it seemed there must have been about twenty people including those standing around him and those gathered up in tangled heaps of flesh and lust.
He looked at the frame in which Elizabeth had been strapped. It gaped bare like an empty tomb. He was disappointed. Lizbeth was his contact with reality, his only connection with the world outside. Now she had disappeared and he was all alone. Or perhaps they had simply finished the punishment without him and he felt himself cheated that he, who had been used to bring Lizbeth's body to the brink of desire and had thereby helped provoke the jaded appetites of the perverse audience to the point where they were able later to disport themselves with him and now in their wild abandon with each other-that he had not been vouchsafed at least a spectator's role in the ultimate whipping and torturing for which Lizbeth had been prepared.
It made him realize how unnecessary and dispensable he was in this scheme of things. Lizbeth didn't need him, Arbella-ahh! the magnificent Arbella, where was she now?-Arbella didn't need him, no one here needed him. They had done with him what they wanted and now he was nothing and a no one.
Where was Arbella? Ah there, he could see her bucking and heaving in her suit of leather under the form of the black giant whose physique he had admired earlier, and he felt the full fury of his envy rise from his belly to his gorge. He wanted Arbella, he wanted to serve her, he wanted to fuck her, he deserved to fuck her after all he had done and all he had had done to him. But Arbella had not a thought for him as she thrashed in the throes of miscegenative fornication.
Arbella was otherwise occupied.
Not so the plumpish older woman whom Robin had taken note of earlier, the one with the hair dyed a firehouse red in a high pile on her head. Wearing leather waist-clincher, leather half-bra, black-lace panties and garter belt with black mesh opera hose, she had a cruel, venomous expression painted on her face. She, it became obvious to Robin, was now in charge. It was under her orders that he had been released and Robin wondered, shudderingly, what she might be planning for him.
"Strip him, Ann?" A perspiring middle aged man, entirely nude, asked the woman.
"What else?" asked the woman called Ann in a withering tone.
Robin quaked in her presence. She had an infinite capacity for cruelty. It wasn't tempered, as it seemed to be in the case of Arbella, the dominatrix, with any esthetic sense or balance. Arbella's cruelty, Robin felt, was part of an essentially positive drive, something that led to achievement, mastery, satisfaction, a joy of strength and the wielding of strength. She could and would inflict pain with pleasure, but the ultimate end of the pain was pleasure and there was beauty in her pain and an esthetic balance in her cruelty. Not so this Ann. She seemed to be an evil woman whose only aim was evil. Robin could see no possibility of joy in her except the joy of spite and cold animal hatred.
The fat man, balding, with gold-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose and rolls of fat around his belly, waddled over to Robin and started unbuckling his leather clothing. Robin had a passing urge to fight him off but he felt too tired of the game to want to resist at this point. It would happen, it was happening, it had to happen, he raised his arms where the man required it, lowered them, turned around, submitted to his plump hands and fingers. His helmet was taken off his head, the jacket off his back, the shorts off his torso, the jackboots of his leg. He stood naked, abjectedly naked, in front of an indifferent audience that had shrunk to two. "The revolver?" the fat man asked.
"What else?" was Ann's reply. Robin trembled.
The fat man had a whip-the very whip that Robin had used earlier-and prodded Robin with it in the lower ribs. Robin shuffled off, to meet his doom.
They approached the frame that Lizbeth had once occupied and now abandoned, passed it, and came to another contraption, a circlet of stainless steel, seven foot in diameter, supported in a quadrant gimbal between floor and ceiling. They paused in front of it. Robin stared at it, trying to understand its purpose and mode of operation and realized that it was probably an advancement improvement on the square frame that had once held Lizbeth. His guess was soon confirmed.
The fat man pressed a concealed button on the frame and the whole frame tilted up in its quadrant. He made Robin put his feet on a certain spot of the large circle and immediately pulled out a clamp and fastened it around the ankle. A push of the button, the frame tilted forward, Robin was made to put up his hand and that too was immediately shackled into place. The frame was tilted again carrying the partly suspended Robin with it to a vertical position. Now the other foot was shackled and then the frame was swung down again so that the stout man could shackle the second wrist without needing to exert himself by stretching.
The stout man pressed the button and the frame went to full vertical. He pressed another button and the circle spun slowly through the air. At one point Robin was standing spread-eagled in the frame, in a vertical position, then he found himself being turned slowly to the left, tilted further and further until he was in the horizontal. The pull on his right arm and right leg was excruciating. Then the frame revolved further and Robin felt a certain relief as he hung suspended upside down. The man adjusted some buttons and levers and Robin felt the tension increasing in each of his limbs, then he was revolved to hang suspended from his left arm and left leg.
Then the man went crazy with his electrically operated toy. He spun Robin around very fast in a circle in one direction, stopped it suddenly and reversed the direction. He repeated it with the mechanism tilted at various angles, then introduced a double spin that had Robin spin on the axis of his torso even as his torso was being revolved on the circle's azimuth plane. All perceptions became confusion.
The orgiasts had gathered from their various preoccupations to see the revolving steel circle in operation with its hapless victim. They stood below him now and watched or crouched on their naked limbs and gawked. Robin saw them as blurs of flesh, naked and raw, heads, cocks, cunts, boots, hair, tits, balls. He seemed to be flying through a heaven whose constellation was all sexual parts. His mind seemed a detached object, half a celestial buttock, hurtling through space, crashing past planets of tit, past comets of cock, through milky ways of sperm. Faster and faster as his soul was centrifuged out of his body and became detached in some madness of the tormented eternity.
He came to a stop at last, a dizzying stop of bone-jarring suddenness that made him wish the spinning had continued for now, like a loose crate hurling through a truck that has been suddenly braked, his mind kept whirling at sickening speed even after the frame had come to a halt.
When he could see again he realized that he was again suspended with his head at the top vertical position but tilted forward now so that his cock hung clown and all the blood was rushing into it, distending the tip to a fearful red.
Milton, the effeminate one, dressed as a painted Roman transvestite in purple-edged toga and painted face, approached him with a leer. His soft hands were out and he took Robin's cock between their soft palms and rolled it between them like a child rolling out modeling clay to create a wiener. His cock seemed to get longer and longer and thinner and thinner and he was afraid that the manipulations of the man would lead to permanent deformation and perhaps loss of his virile power.
Milton removed his hands, looked at the cock, inclined his head as if in momentary doubt, rolled up his mouth, then suddenly let forth a fob of spittle that landed directly on Robin's cock. Now he took it again in both his palms and rolled it in frothy spittle, glistening and slithering and sliding slipper-Milton rolled Robin's stiff cock between his hands for perhaps five minutes, but he was not the only one impinging his perversions on Robin's sensitivities. Someone whipped him from the back. Someone else thrust a huge steel rectoscope, ungreased, into his rectum and painfully distended the screws. Someone tread on his toes. A crazy idiot suspended himself from his shoulders and well-nigh pulled his arms from their sockets.
Ann cried "Halt!" and immediately all ceased whatever they were doing.
"Well Milt," she said. "Do your bit. Consecrate your electric revolutionary spit in your own inestimable way."
A smile of pride and pleasure crossed Milton's face. Under his toga, his prick rose significantly. He approached the frame, righted it, turned it upside down so that Robin hung with head down and feet in the air. He climbed into the frame facing the spread-eagled prisoner, clamped in his feet, reached up and eased his hands into a stirrup. His mouth was at a level with Robin's cock...and then his mouth was on Robin's cock and swallowing it.
The stout man pressed a button and the frame swung slowly counter-clockwise. As he did so the skirt of Milton's toga fell away to around his waist and his cock jumped out; it was long and thin, as if it had for years been subjected to sucking and rolling by over-eager hands and mouths. His cock seemed to hang and quiver and then, as if directed by a powerful set of muscles, it went unerringly at Robin's lips.
Robin closed his lips. He pushed away against the loathsome object, but the cock seemed to have a life and power of its own and us he felt the increasing pressure on his lips some inner spring of perverse desire took over and he opened his lips hungrily and eagerly and allowed the cock to enter.
Milton did something with his feet, the brackets holding them opened, and Milton wrapped his legs around Robin's head. The steel circle spun once again, the man called Milton slipped his wrists out of their stirrups and wrapped his hands around his victim's thighs, doing obscene things with his ass and balls. The circle gathered momentum and all the while Milton moved his body on that of his victim, forcing his cock in and out of Robin's mouth and forcing his mouth on and off his cock.
He seemed to hunger for that cock. Robin felt his cock sucked and devoured, as if the weak effeminate man was trying to pull his virility and masculinity out of him through his cock-and at the same time, with his own strangely thin and long prick he seemed to be forcing his own epicene qualities into Robin.
At first Robin revolted. He could feel only the disgust engendered by this obscene act performed by this obscene pervert. He could sense his debasement as a man and as a human. He felt the thin hard cock in his mouth and tried to deny its being even while his lips were hungrily enjoying the oral delight of the sucking movement. He felt the alien mouth on his cock and, in order to repress his sense of disgust, he pretended it was a woman's mouth that was paying him tribute at the tip of his prick.
As the circle of steel revolved, Robin was again on his head with his violator hanging to his body in the opposite direction. He was sucking cock and he was having cock sucked but pretended he wasn't and it wasn't. The folds of Milton's toga swung around, covered Robin's head, brushed against his cheeks. Memories flooded back of cunt lapping under the maid's bedclothes, of pussy-licking under a calico dress, of cock-chewing under a boy's shirt tails. Especially cock-chewing.
Memories of chewing little boys' cocks. That's what he had now, just as hard and tight, just as strangely thin and elongated. It brought Robin's mind back to those little boys with whom he'd played at the forbidden games when he was five and six and seven. Cocks just like theirs. Mouths just like theirs on his cock. Glorious childhood, glorious days, glorious fun, glorious cocks.
Nostalgia for the little boy flowed into him. The cock was in his mouth. Hard cock, tight cock, thin cock, smooth cock. Little boy's cock, three times as long and three times as good but still with the same proportions.
Robin was so engrossed in the childhood memories and their attendant emotions now suddenly revived, that he forgot his predicament, forgot where he was, forgot even the human leech clinging to his body and trying to drain him, forgot the numbing strain in ankles and wrists and shoulders and thighs where his body stretched under the tension and the double burden it was carrying. He was unaware that the steel circle had been slowly inclined so that it-and its human cargo-was now horizontal, that it was revolving in an equatorial plane now, that he was being spun slowly in horizontal position.
Then the horizontal spinning was ended and a new motion took over Robin, stretched tight, his body seemingly being torn apart, was stretched in the rack, face and belly up, back and ass down. On top of him, clinging to him and riding him, was Milton, with his head at Robin's cock and his own cock in Robin's mouth. The controls of the stainless steel rack had been pressed by the fat man-apparently Milton had trained him in the proper operation of the complicated machinery-and now a gentle rocking was being imparted to the frame. It rocked on its axis like a see-saw: one moment Robin's head was dipped below the horizontal and Milton, riding on top, was forcing his cock deeper into his mouth; the next moment, Robin's head had risen and now he was reaching up and up to maintain its grip on the long thin slippery cock. One moment Robin's cock was up above the horizontal, driving itself high into the roof of Milton's mouth, and the next his limbs were low and Milton was scrabbling after his cock with seeking lips.
But Robin, insensible to the location, insensible even to the excruciating strain in his limbs and joints, was aware only of a rocking, a rocking and bobbing like that of a ship bouncing on rhythmic waves. He was conscious of the rocking and of the twitching and heaving of the cock in his mouth and the legs wrapped around his head and neck and shoulders. He was conscious of the embrace that massaged his cock warmly and wetly and lovingly. Of the coming together of belly on belly and face with crotch and limb against limb. Of the insertion of cock into mouth and of withdrawal, of the embrace of lips on cock and sliding and gliding. He was conscious of a warmth and a comfort engendered by the rocking and holding tight, the oral satisfaction occasioned by the rigid prick he was sucking, the genital pleasures he was deriving from the mouth on his cock and the anal thrills from the fingers digging into his buttocks and his groin.
He quivered and thrilled and reached climax after climax of thrilling paroxysms, one mightier than the previous one but none of them exhausting. The tension in his limbs, or perhaps some other psychological or physiological factor was inhibiting ejaculation but it did not prevent his building up of excitement and pleasure which raced through his body and rocked his limbs and sent him into unbearable ecstasies.
He must have had a dozen climaxes in this way, the way he had had girls under him climax a dozen times while he was fucking and sucking them. He had never himself been able to do this before, climax without ejaculating, climax in an orgasm and be ready for the next one, and the next, and the next. It was glorious. A feeling of mounting and continuous passions that need have no end, that would mean no ultimate loss. Fuck on and on and on.
Again his body heaved and his limbs thrashed to the extent they were able to, tensed inside the giant steel ring with the body of the perverted lecher clinging to him. Again his body bounced and heaved and the thrills of pleasure coursed through him. But this time something changed for the man above him, the lecher who was clinging to his body and had been trying to drain it of its virility and its manhood, now heaved too and in a similar way. The controls were pushed again and the rocking was speeded up, faster and faster, and Robin felt the man s body convulse and felt the twitching in the knobbly protrusions of his prick and as he Kept on sucking, sucking hard and hungrily, the thin cock in his mouth jerked and vibrated and then it pumped into his mouth, deep into the roof of it, gob after gob after gob of semen.
It was as if all of Milton s semen, throughout all the years of his life, had been stored up for just this moment. It poured out in seemingly never-ending profusion and poured into Robin s mouth and trickled down his throat. The taste of his own sperm after he had fucked the maid Fresa, had been rather like this and his memory bade him lap it up and suck it in and drink it down.
The pleasure was immense and Robin wanted to immerse himself in it fully. He felt his cock growing even bigger in the sucking mouth and he felt-with a mixture of regret and relief-that he would at last ejaculate. That it was a man who was bringing him to this pleasure didn't in the least bother him any more; he was completely oblivious to the gender of the person, and even the presence of an ejaculating cock in his own mouth seemed to be disconnected from the fact that it was a man.
He was about to come but the man clinging to him convulsed with one last convulsion, rolled off Robin's stretched-out body, and jumped to the ground.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The steel frame was spun again, back to the vertical, then in planetary orbit. Robin's head spun, he was confused. Cocks, cunts, tits, twats, balls, belly but-tons followed each other through the expanse of his jumbled mind, bouncing up and down like gaily-colored balls, impinged themselves on the retina of his senses.
Robin was going crazy.
Sex crazy.
He could think of nothing but sex but sex disjointed and disembodied and entirely disconnected. Crazy sex involving himself but no one else, bits and pieces of sex following on each other in crazy abandonment and seemingly attacking him and smothering and choking him in an avalanche of wild and disjointed sex.
The frame was brought to a halt with bone-jarring suddenness. Robin's whole body was aflame from the strains and tensions and also from the craze of built-up desires that could not be satisfied.
They halted the frame and undid the shackles and allowed him to step down. He felt old and weak, broken in spirit and body. His cock had shriveled to almost nothing, his balls hung loosely as if trying to run away from his body.
A toothless old hag with wild gray hair and sagging breasts helped him down from the frame. She had her lips circled with bright red smears of lipstick and her wrinkled parchment cheeks were rouged. She was virtually naked. Her breasts, thin and wrinkled like an alligator's skin, hung down almost to her waist. She wore a tiny bikini bottom on her bony hips; the bikini was made of gold fabric. Her spindly legs were enclosed in gold-colored boots with square toes.
She leered at Robin. "Come kiss your Granny, dear." She held him in a bony embrace and forced her wrinkled lips on his. He couldn't be revolted any more. His sensibilities had been assaulted. He was unable to feel any further sense of outrage.
"There my dear," she said through her toothless lips, "What a pretty little girl," and she rubbed her gnarled hands all over his unresisting nude body.
Perhaps she was also part-blind, he thought, or she was getting senile. There was no telling what she might conjure up in her demented mind.
"Come little girl, you have to have a bath. Get all that sweat and dirt off your pretty body. Then we'll dress you up like a little girl should."
Cackling to herself, she seized Robin's hand in hers and led him off unprotestingly.
She brought him to an old-fashioned bathroom. The high narrow tub was supported on cast-iron clawed feet. Steam was rising from the water. She led him to a worn wooden step by the bath, let him stand on it while she attached a bright-red rubber apron around her waist.
"Mustn't let my clothes get all wet now, must I?" she said in explanation, ignoring the fact that all she wore beneath the level of her sagging breasts and above the tops of her gold boots was a tiny golden bikini panty.
She encased her arms in amber-colored rubber gloves that reached to the elbow, then she dipped one pointed elbow into the water to rest its temperature.
"Just right," she said, and then she poured a generous cupful of bath salts into the water. Vapors flavored with lavender assailed Robin's nose. "In you get my dear."
The old hag "helped" her charge into the water and when he was lying down and covered, she swirled the water with her hand.
"What a pretty girl," she said. "Such a pity your mummy won't let you grow your hair longer. It would look so nice tied up with a nice pink ribbon."
The water was hot and soothing. Clouds of steam were swirling through the room. A heavy vapor was assailing his ears. His body felt strange and unrelated to himself. He seemed to be floating in a cloud of unreality. The old hag kept passing her fingers over his body under the water and it felt like some sort of futuristic reducing apparatus massaging his tissues. She droned on and on and her voice came over to his ears, far and distant, floating in, tinny and scratchy, like an old, old 78 r.p.m. record on a hand-wound Victrola.
The warmth was soothing and hallucinating. He couldn't tell where his body ended and the water began. It got to the point where he couldn't tell what was her voice and what were his own inner musings. He couldn't tell what were her fingers and what were the sores on his body thrilling to the relaxing water.
She had a big squarish bar of old-fashioned laundry soap and she rubbed it into his hair and worked up a lather, then rinsed it off and then she had him sit up and she lathered his chest again.
Suddenly she whipped out a straight razor and, without warning, she shaved the hair off his chest. He didn't know what to say or do. It was all too crazy anyway, it was all a nightmare. When she'd finished she wiped off the soap and looked at his chest with what might have been admiration. "Such a pretty little girl," she cackled. "Such a nice little, pretty little, girl. Such lovely smooth skin. Such a little girl. Won't be long though and before you know it, just like that, you'll have grown a nice pair of tits, just the right thing to be a pretty young woman."
On and on she drawled in the nightmare that was swirling around Robin's head and body.
She made him raise his left leg and after she'd washed that she lathered it and shaved it with the straight razor, muttering appreciation for his soft girlish skin, and then she washed and razored the other leg. Now she took the bar of soap and worked her way with it up the insides of his thighs and around his belly, making ever smaller circles that eventually centered on his cock. "Nice little girl," she kept muttering. "Good little girl, be nice to your Granny now." And so she went on, and on, and on.
"You'll get the surprise of your life," Robin wanted to say. "Just wait a moment till you hit me dead center and then you'll see my cock and you'll know I'm not anybody's little girl."
He wanted to be amused by the whole situation but he found it difficult to maintain an air of amusement. It was all just too silly, this woman and her silly chatter. Let her just touch his cock and she'd soon have all the nonsense knocked out of her doddering old head. Then, when he was ready he'd get up and find himself some proper clothes and walk out of this fun castle and go back to his hotel and have a good sleep and forget all this nonsense. ...
His head was in a swirl and he could hardly feel his own body. Perhaps something they'd put in the water. The old hag had just turned on the hot tap some more and she'd poured in something from a tall glass jar. His skin seemed kind of numb and his body seemed as weightless as his head. She was making these circles with the soap around his belly and under his ass and between his thighs.
"Pretty little girl, growing up, aren't we." And her soapy fingers got nearer and near his center. She dug her soapy fingers into his asshole and it did nothing for him. "Pretty little pussy," she said and Robin wanted to laugh at her senility.
"There, honey, you shouldn't have this sticking out, not a little girl your age," and Robin could have sworn she was somehow pushing his cock in on itself and making it disappear up into his body. What an incredible fantasy! Such craziness.
"Oh and there, shouldn't have those, either," and the way her fingers were going on his crotch, Robin imagined she might be pushing his nuts into their bony sockets.
"There, honey, that's better. Pretty little girl. Pretty pussy. Pretty as a picture."
Now she swirled her hand and the soap all over his crotch and Robin felt hardly anything, except when occasionally she slipped a finger or two up his ass.
"There now, honey," she said at last. "Got you all washed and soaped. Now you git out of this tub like a good little girl and your Granny will dry you all over."
Dazed, he did what he was told. He stepped out of the bath, stood on the worn wooden step and let the old hag wrap him in a big warmed towels. She dried his face and his eyes and then she dried his arms and chest and legs. He had a tiny urge, hidden far, far away, to open up his legs and reach down for his cock and wave it at the doddering old hag and say "Lookit that, yer silly old crone. See that cock? Know what it is? That makes me a boy, a little boy...."He caught himself suddenly and realized it should have been "Man" not "little boy" but it really seemed so immaterial and inconsequential after all.
He stepped off the wooden step and she rubbed his body in the big towel and then she opened the towel at the front and wiped him around his ... his cock! Where was it? Not only couldn't he feel himself having a cock, he couldn't see it and now when he brought down his right hand, he couldn't touch it. Where his cock used to be there was nothing, just a lot of wet hair and a little bulge and yes, there it was, a sort of little slit.
He was going crazy. He WAS a man. He wasn't a woman or a little girl whatever these perverts here and this old hag right here wanted him to believe. He had a cock, a good cock, right here. And a pair of fine, juicy, bouncing balls, right...
His balls had disappeared too. This was too much! Absolutely too much! He groped himself. The scrotum was still there, though very shrunk and up close to his pelvis, and he thought that if he searched he'd find his balls, perhaps they were stuck up in their sockets. He groped and searched-yes, perhaps they were there, but if they had, they were settled, they wouldn't come out. And his cock? That seemed to have turned in on itself and shriveled away inside him leaving only the little opening in the skin.
It was preposterous.
And the worst thing about it was that he didn't really mind, his cock had been the cause of so much trouble ever since he'd let that girl Lizbeth pick him up, and it seemed good and right to have lost it. Cockless Robin...
"That's a pretty little girl." The old woman was at it again. "Can't understand why your Mummy chose such a boyish name for you like Robin, or why she's got you up to look like a little boy, but we'll change all that soon. In fact...
She stopped her chatter and probed his crotch.
"Heavens to Betsy, I do declare! I think you're beginning to be a regular young lady soon. Got your airs all over your pussy, that you have, and soon's as a cow's bells is a-twinkling, you'll be having yourself your red-letter days. Well, we'll take care of that.
From the mahogany cabinet over the marble sink she took down a sanitary belt in pink elastic and a sanitary pad and fastened them deftly in Robin's crotch and up around his waist.
She got a large downy powder puff and dusted Robin's back and chest and belly and thighs with violet scented talcum powder. Next she took a pair of frilly French panties in white with lace edging and made him step into them and pulled them up his thighs and over his buttocks and covered the sanitary pad with a great amount of appreciatory comments. A black-lace bra without straps, heavily boned and padded with foam rubber was fastened to his chest, a boned waist clincher, also in black, went around his waist. A black garter belt. Sheer nylons. They were a soft black and the old woman had Robin sit down on a cork-topped stool while she rolled them up his leg. First she made Robin put his left toes into the rolled-up stocking, then she unrolled the stocking and eased it along his foot and over the heel. She pulled it at the back of the heel to straighten it, rolled it up the calf with both hands, straightened it, rolled it over the knee, then pulled it up the thigh, a hand down each side to widen the top of the stocking and make it slide easily up the rest of the thigh. The straps were pulled down from the garter belt, two lace-covered Mack-elastic straps, and the tops of the black nylon stocking snapped into the snaps.
The other stocking went on the same way, with the old hag's fingers hungrily feeling and probing their way along Robin's soft girlish skin.
"There now, and before we put on our nice little dress, just let's put on our shoes so we won't catch our death of cold on this bathroom floor-heavens knows why they don't keep it warmer-and then we'll have a look in the mirror...."
The shoes were black patent leather pumps with low-cut vamps and very high heels. The old hag slipped them on Robin's feet and Robin felt them pinch at first but hold firmly. It was very difficult standing up in them and Robin tended to teeter. He found it gave a definite tilt to his body bringing his bosom forward and upwards and making him feel more and more estranged from the old Robin he had known.
The old woman walked him over slowly to a pier glass. He looked into it hoping to see himself; his eyes were caught suddenly by a very tall and shapely young girl in daring underwear. She had very snort hair and there was no make-up on her somewhat too-bony face that gave her an attractive boyish appearance. Her bosom was full and high, peeking daringly out of the top of her black strapless bra. Her waist was pinched and tiny. The white frilly panties were cut daringly to expose much thigh and crotch and the black nylons were held in place with a black garter belt.
Robin looked at the legs, fabulous, long legs with well-turned calves and delicious thighs, legs that were incredibly long. They terminated in black patent pumps cut low at the vamp and on very high heels.
"My God!" Robin suddenly realized that all this time he had been looking at a reflection of himself. Himself! He should have been shocked . . .but he wasn't.
He liked what he saw. He liked this boy-faced girl with those great sexy curves and those incredibly sexy legs. And if it was himself that he saw there, he liked himself, in a sexy sort of way. Yes, that girl turned him on. Yes he got turned on to himself as a girl. Yes, if he was honest with himself-and after all this, why shouldn't he be?-he was turned on by the thought of himself as a girl.
He could feel it as an awakening of thrills in his belly, spreading out of his crotch. It was exciting to be a girl. His logical mind tried to check him, tried to correct his thinking, tried to bring him back to his senses. But he couldn't resist the satisfying sense of excitement. It was coming from his...no, not his cock, where his cock had been, where the old woman had made it somehow shrink and disappear.
How strange. As a man he should have been outraged. He should have panicked at this loss of manhood, but he didn't mind. It was so strange. He felt completely numb at the idea. He was a girl now, apparently, a girl as long as these strange people here in this strange loft wanted him to be a girl. He was an attractive girl and it turned him on to be an attractive girl-and he didn't mind the loss of his cock-if indeed he had really lost it. As long as he had no cock he'd be a girl.
The thought was really exciting. He felt a tensing and stirring deep inside himself and imagined it might be his cock coming to life again and making its presence felt, but when he reached down he felt only his panties and inside the panties, among the hairs, a wrinkled slit with a hard lump at the bottom of it. He pressed the lump and felt it pressing back with pleasure. Logic told him his cock must be hidden in there somewhere inside the folds of his skin, but his desires over-ruled his head. His cock was gone his new perverse identity as a woman told him. He was growing a cunt and soon he'd be a woman.
"Naughty little girl," the told hag said interrupting him and giving him a sharp stinging slap on the wrist with her bony fingers. "Mustn't play with your little pussy or you'll get it all bloody. Now put that sanitary pad back and straighten yourself and we'll finish getting you dressed."
The dress was a simple one-piece black poplin affair with a short stand-out skirt. It was buttoned at the top where it had a white Peter Pan collar and puffed sleeves that ended half-way down the upper arms in white cuffs. A white frilly apron was tied around Robin's waist.
"Now sit down over here, Robin dear. We'll have to do something about your face to make you presentable to your mistress."
She had him sit down at a dressing table, fastened a large protective cape around his shoulders and proceeded first of all to brush and style his hair. It was short, but the old hag's skilled fingers were able to work miracles with it, brushing some of it forward, and some sideways. Soon he had a line of blonde bangs across his forehead and ample amounts of hair covering the tops of his ears, she sprayed it and teased it to give it more volume and then she put a starched white caplet into at the front.
She next applied mascara to his lashes, long, beautiful sensuous lashes under her fingers. Shadow on the eyelids. A touch of rouge on the cheekbones. Lipstick, a thin line, carefully applied. More shadows worked into the cheekbones. Something to soften the line of the chin. The chin! Robin realized that there wasn't a trace of stubble on his chin although it must have been twenty hours since he'd last shaved. Was that another one of their devilish tricks? Well, never mind. That would be all right with him if he never had to shave again in his whole life.
He looked good. Pretty face. Strong, sensuous features. A good nose. Real good-looking chick.
The old hag was giving her own version of approval in her inimitable way. When she had finished working on Robin's face she whipped of the capelet and let him see the full results in the mirror.
Stunning! Absolutely stunning!
"Robin, you're a great chick; She couldn't keep back the compliments from him. "You're going to wow all the fellers." Somehow that seemed important. It seemed important that if he was going to be a woman he'd be a damn good one, really damn good. And he was, no question about that, not a one.
"Come, honey dear,' the ancient hag admonished. She took off her rubber apron and stood up in her gold bikini panties and her gold boots and put her arm into Robin's arm. "Let's go back and join the crowd."
The old hag walked with mincing little steps, shaking her withered ass so that the empty and flaccid breasts jounced against the gaunt ribs of her chest. She barely came up to Robin's elbow and she tended to pull him down to one side as he tried to walk. It was very difficult on those stilt heels with his pelvis swung up and his breasts stuck forward and he was glad that he had to take only very small steps at a time and had the old hag to lean on for some sort of support, however unstable.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Arbella, the goddess of them all, was holding court in the large room. She was dressed, as before, in her head-to-toe suit of leather. She sat in a futuristic chair of chrome and black leather, situated on a raised platform, and around her and below her sat her fawning admirers.
"Ahah!" Arbella announced with deep satisfaction apparent in her voice. "We have a young maid to serve us. And what is your pretty name, may I ask."
Robin could have used the opportunity to assert his manhood. He could have screamed his defiance. He could have thrown off all the absurd feminine clothes in which the old crone had draped him. But he did none of these things.
Robin blushed under his make up and crossed one foot in front of the other and fumbled with fluttering fingers at his waist and did a little curtsy and said: "Robin, Madam," as polite and as deferential as you please.
"Well, Robin, all I can say is you look a lot better than when we had you here earlier in the evening and you were pretending to be some sort of a man."
There were loud peals of laughter and some clapping that was quickly taken up around the room.
"Yes, madam!" Robin lisped and curtsied again.
"Stop that silly 'yes-madam, no-madam' and get on with your work...The place is in a mess. The guests want to be served. Quick! Quick!"
Robin was in a daze. He didn't know what to do first. He started by emptying all the ashtrays and then one of the women demanded he bring her a cigarette and when he forgot to light it she called him "silly wench" and that made him blush. Then someone demanded a drink and complained of his stupidity when he put in the wrong amount of ice. The canapes he served to another guest were thrown down in disgust. Robin fought hard to keep down his tears. Nothing he did seemed to be going right.
He went into the serving pantry and came back with ice. The guests asked for champagne. He went out to get the champagne and got shouted at for opening it the wrong way, then for spilling a drop, then because it was too warm. He went to fetch some more scotch and club soda and got called back to take away the empties. He came back, arranged the drinks, served everyone, and got reprimanded for a dozen new infractions.
He brought nuts. They were too salted and the woman who'd asked for them threw them on the floor in disgust.
Robin was in tears. The mascara was running down his face and streaking the rouge. He got down on his hands and knees to pick up the nuts one by one. When he'd finished and put them all into an empty bowl someone threw down a bowl of potato chips. He made a 'broom' with both hands to bring the chips into a manageable heap and the woman called Ann stepped up, scattered the chips and crushed them into fine powder. Robin wanted to cry and he felt the sobs building up at his waist under the tightly boned waist-clincher and felt the heave of his breasts inside the heavily padded brassiere. He dutifully picked up everything.
As he rose to go with a bowl full of crushed potato chips a pretty ankle was thrust out and he was tripped. He fell forward right into the lap of his mistress and the crumbs flew in all directions.
Arbella gave instant expression to her rage. She pulled the hapless servant girl in her black uniform and white apron over her leather-clad lap. She pulled up Robin's black poplin dress, seized the white panties in one hand and pulled them taut so that it grabbed his crotch.
Then she hit him on his upturned bottom with the flat of her hand.
"Naughty careless girl!" Arbella said, punctuating each word with a slap on his buttocks.
"Careless and inconsiderate!" And she slapped his thighs some more.
Robin was crying. What embarrassment, what shame, what a let-down! He had wanted to love this stern woman, he had been willing to become her servant, her very slave-but as a man. Now he was serving her as a woman, a chippy, a silly girl, and even as that he was incompetent to the nth degree. He cried with warm tears of despair and disappointment.
"Silly goose! Abominable girl! Wretched maid!" The slaps rained down on Robin's upturned bottom as fast as the insults were rained down out of Arbella's angry lips. His botty, under the tight-pulled panties and the upturned dress was sore and fiery. The sanitary napkin was pushed tight into his crotch where once his cock might under entirely different but yet so similar circumstances have proudly protruded, and the strap of his sanitary belt dug painfully into the skin.
Arbella varied the spanking she was giving Robin's reddened bottom. At her request one of the women passed her a wooden paddle and she applied her blows with that. Robin's face was pressed into her leather breeches and his senses took in from them the power and mastery that the mistress exerted over him. It increased his shame the more to find himself so humiliated before and by this powerful woman.
When Arbella had quite finished the spanking, she brusquely shoved the beaten "maid" off her lap, and told Robin to go on with his work.
Serve here, serve there. Drinks, ice, soda, cigarettes. Sweep, clean, wash, bring new. Then it was time to serve the cold buffet-roast turkey sliced and put back on the frame, ham, smoked Nova Scotia salmon, potato salad, knishes (this, after all, was poly-ethnic New York), Chinese egg-roll, smoked viands, exotic cheeses.
Robin, the maid, was kept running hither and thither, serving, taking away, picking up trash, giving seconds and thirds, lighting cigarettes, filling up glasses. He was starved, absolutely starved, he hadn't had a bite to eat since breakfast.
Breakfast. That seemed like a week ago. He had no idea how much time had elapsed since he'd walked out of his hotel in the morning, how long since Lizbeth had seduced him away from his sidewalk table just as the waitress was about to take his order for lunch. He was starved but the only food he could allow himself was the occasional scraps of food left on the plates that he took out to the kitchen-many of them with cigarette butts stubbed out in the middle of the choicest morsels he wanted to eat to assuage his ravenous hunger.
Serve, serve, serve. Walk around with downcast eyes. Serve in all humility. Wipe back those tears as they flowed. Absorb the kicks and abuses of everyone. He was nothing but a skivvy, a drudge, a wretched serving girl whom everyone could abuse at will.
He finished serving and then he cleared away and took the dishes into the kitchen. Passing a mirror, his hands weighted down with laden trays, he caught a reflection of himself in the mirror: a bedraggled girl, her white maid's cap askew in her short blonde hair. Her face smeared with tears and washes of mascara and eye shadow. The lipstick smudged. Stains on her white collar, her white apron dirty. Runs in her black nylon stockings. Was this the girl that had turned him on a couple of hours earlier? Was this what he had been willing to exchange his manhood for?
He went on into the kitchen and while he wiped the dishes on behalf of his imperious mistress the tears coursed down his face without respite.
Before he had even finished the dishes, the old hag was back for him.
'Come girl, be quick, don't take all year! They're waiting for you. Quick! Ice! Champagne! Scotch! Brandy!"
But she wouldn't let Robin go in to serve the ladies until she'd helped him fix his make up and straighten his white cap and then she insisted on changing his stockings, spending endless time rolling the smooth black nylons down his softly skinned legs and then up again, clearly obtaining her obscene pleasures from this act.
While she was helping turn Robin once more into an attractive presentable maid, the calls kept coming in from the large room. "Where is that wretched maid? Where's my drink?" and so on, so that the moment the old hag in her obscene three-quarter nudity had finished with Robin, he rushed into the main room to see how he could serve his bosses.
He almost dropped his tray with surprise when he entered the big room. Everywhere, wherever he could see, couples were stretched out in lecherous poses. But-and this was what shocked him and surprised him-there wasn't a man to be seen. Every single one of those present was a woman.
Lying back, in the center of it all, he saw the magnificent Arbella. She was reclining on her back on a huge water bed that sloshed around underneath her and set her body a-bouncing with its wavelets. She had opened some of the fastenings of her suit: her breasts were exposed, full ripe cups of loveliness encircled by the leather around them that forced them into blood-gorged fullness and delectability and set their nipples to vertical points. Her legs were up and the zippers down the front of her thighs had been opened. The crotch piece, triangular in shape, had been removed to that now Robin could see her clearly, her legs raised and spread, the opening in the leather revealing the dark red wetness of her gash set in its triangle of hair, and the creamy soft thighs that seemed to act as a pointer to her hungry twat.
Sitting between her legs was an apparition in transparent chiffon, an angel with fair curls, a creamy complexion and luscious lips. She had full thighs and slender legs under the almost transparent chiffon that shaded from yellow through gold to pale orange. She was looking at the glorious Arbella with eyes that combined the childish innocence of a little girl with the cunning seductiveness of a born wanton.
There was no mistaking those eyes or that expression.
It was Lizbeth.
Somewhere inside the maid that Robin had become, there was shed a tear for times long passed and opportunities long-ago missed. It was past, it was done. Lizbeth belonged to another period and another epoch. Lizbeth belonged to a time when there was still a Robin and Robin was still a man.
That was all gone now, all gone! At best, Robin could hope to turn into a more efficient maid, could learn to please her mistress better and do her work more efficiently. Perhaps, one day, he might learn from Lizbeth and others like her and become an attractive woman who could attract the love of others.... One day, perhaps...
Perhaps even in a setting like this. In a lesbian scene, making love with other women....
Robin couldn't afford to let his imagination wander. Arbella had called.
"Grapes!"
Robin picked up a silver bowl and filled it with grapes. Luscious grapes bursting with juice and sweetness. Dark purple grapes and sturdy green ones. He teetered over to the reclining figure of his mistress, walking as delicately as he could on his high heels.
"Peel me a grape!" Arbella ordered. "No, a purple one!"
Robin did as he was told. He passed the peeled grape to his mistress who held it up between thumb and forefinger and fed it sensuously into the pursed lips of the girl kneeling between her raised thighs.
Lizbeth brought her lips forward, parted them slightly, allowed them to be touched by the grape, then slowly and sensuously closed over them as if in slow motion.
Robin had peeled another grape and handed it to Arbella; that, too, was pressed gently into the young girl's posed lips-and so it went on until she had consumed a whole bunch.
Robin found it difficult to focus on his task, peeling grapes and passing them on to Arbella. His eyes wouldn't focus on the grapes. His eyes were on another grape-sized object, purple and glistening wet like the grape.
His eyes were looking elsewhere. His eyes were focused in the direction pointed to by Arbella's legs and thighs, towards the triangle surrounding her cunt. He was looking into that triangle, into that slit, watching Lizbeth dexterously use the fingers of her left hand. like Arbella she was using thumb and forefinger to hold the purple-grape-like object, rotating it just between those rich moist lips that formed Arbella's cunt.
But whereas the grape in Lizbeth's mouth needed replacement as soon as it was swallowed, the grape that Lizbeth teased between Arbella's pouting nether lips was forever regenerating. It disappeared into the cleft between the lips but just as quickly reappeared each time.
What Lizbeth was holding between her thumb and finger was none other than the seat of Arbella's passion: her clitoris.
When Arbella had pressed the last grape into her young lover's mouth, she waved Robin away. Robin turned-but stayed to watch.
Elizabeth had swallowed the last of the grapes.
Swallowed it and then, as if by reflex action, her lips were posed and pouted for more. She reached out expectantly for the offering fingers-and found none. Without pausing she continued pressing her lips forward, forward and down, forward and down.
Her lips were poised in erotic expectation of the sensual grape. They kept on reaching in expectation until they had fastened themselves unerringly on the red, wet, purple-swollen bud between Arbella's leather-covered thighs, until they'd fastened themselves hungrily on the glistening clitoris at the very top of Arbella's pouting cunt-lips.
And there they stayed, sucking and suckling, chewing and mauling the quivering clitoris of the stately Arbella.
Robin looked on with envy and longing. This was how he wanted to serve his mistress. This was what he wanted to do for her. He felt the longing rise up like fire from the empty spot in his groin. He felt himself longing for her and felt his longing to replace the young girl worshipping orally at her cunt. He wanted to get right in there and take over the role of that girl, that Elizabeth, and worship in there at that fountain of Arbella's masterly sensual-
Down there he wanted to be. Kneeling between Arbella's upturned thighs. He saw himself getting down between those thighs, adjusting his nylons so they would not run, hitching up his black poplin dress, getting down on his nylon-clad knees between those beautifully booted thighs and legs and placing his red-lip stick painted mouth at the rose-red petals of her portal, getting his teeth on that quivering grape of a clit. His face in there, soaking up the juices and the aroma while the masterful mistress clamped her thighs around him and over him and pressed the heels of her boots into the back of his dress, into his shoulders and wasp-thin waist.
He'd be serving her there. A maid serving her mistress the way a mistress ought to be served.
While gazing in longing and admiration at the lesbian scene being enacted before him, he became aware of a subtle truth, a subtle change. He was beginning to see himself as a woman, a woman in erotic situations, a woman in servile situations. His imagination was already making him into a woman and seeing himself primarily from a woman's point of view. His intellect told him to rebel; his instincts told him to acquiesce. They had turned him into a woman, into a maid; it hadn't been his doing and it wasn't his fault, they'd decided his fate for him; he might as well accept it. It seemed to fit. He could be a woman, he would be a woman, he was a woman. He wanted to make love as a woman, he wanted to be loved as a woman. He bit his lips with resolve and swallowed back the lump in his throat and smiled valiantly through the tears that had caught in his long curving lashes. That's how it was, that's how it had to be. That was O.K. with him; he'd be a woman from now on . . .if only he'd be allowed to serve women as a woman his wishes would be fulfilled.
With envy still gripping his throat he turned away from the fucking-sucking couple on the water bed. He gave one last, long, lingering look. Arbella was on her back, her leather suit squeaking over the bloated plastic that contained the swirling water. Her pony tail, sticking out of the back of her leather helmet, was spread out behind her on the bed. The seams at the front of her suit were opened to reveal her full ripe breasts. The seams at the top of her thighs were opened to reveal the creamy whiteness of her thighs. Her crotch-piece was removed and in its place, covering what there might have been to see of her cunt and its hairy triangle, was the golden head of the Elizabeth he had once beaten and had once fucked, the Elizbeth who had once seduced him and had caused him to be here. He wasn't angry at her. If that was preordained duty to bring him to this spot and find his new identity here, so be it.
He took one last look at Elizabeth, his Lizbeth, eating out the cunt of Arbella, his Arbella, his mistress, and the sadness again clouded his eyes, the longing again arose from his empty groin. He saw the heaving thrashing bodies and he knew that the pleasures they were deriving from and giving to each other were pleasures he would have liked to give and take-and pleasures he would not be granted.
There were impatient shouts for the maid's service. Everyone was calling him. "Robin!" here, "Robin!" there; "Robin!" high and "Robin!" low. Fill up with champagne here, with scotch there, with rye there. An apple, a banana.
"No, idiot, a harder one. This is too mushy! Peel it for me!" said one fat woman with rolls of fat bulging all around her body and thighs. A sprightly nude girl, a glorious brunette, was sitting on her chest, flattening the ballooning breasts with her rounded ass, and facing forward, toward the fat woman's bulging thighs. "A peeled banana!" she screamed under the weight of the young girl that compressed her chest.
Robin peeled the banana as ordered and gave it to the fat woman, she gave it to the girl above her who plunged it deep between the fat woman's thighs, right into her layered cunt. The woman smiled as the girl pushed it in and out until the jaws of the woman's cunt had entirely masticated it. Then the girl slid her ass back, right on the woman's face. The woman started lapping at the dark hairy twat right over her fat face, and the young brunette bent forward, letting her long straight hair cascade over the woman's thighs, and applied her face to the lumpy space between the hideously fat thighs that had come up to meet her. The two of them humped like that, mouth in cunt, cunt in mouth, and Robin saw with a mixture of excitement and disgust how the fat woman underneath practically swallowed up the thin girl on top in the layers of her blubber, saw her huge elephantine body heave and wallow and then slowly subside as she reached orgasm.
Robin was forced to interrupt his absorption in the sexual couplings of the fat woman and the young girl. Someone else was clamoring for the maid's service. Robin, in his starched cap and white apron, walked over on his high heels to take the order.
"Ice! Two buckets! Quick!" The woman who had given the order was dressed in boots and leather shorts rather like those that Robin had worn earlier, so much earlier, when the orgy had first gotten under way. The crotch piece had been removed from the woman's shorts and in their place she had strapped a wicked looking dildo. It was made of heavy black leather, stitched all around with prominent stitches. It was black and glossy as if it had recently been deeply immersed in a runny, gooey cunt. It must have been two and a half inches in diameter and eight or nine inches long. Beside her, with legs and arms and bodies intertwined with hers, was sprawled a young hippy-looking girl whose features could not easily be distinguished since she was covered in body paint from head to toe. The only features that could be readily noticed-in fact noticing them was inescapable-were her breasts and her ass, which had been turned into eye-catching targets with concentric circles of day-glow paint.
When Robin had returned with the ice, he found the two women already fucking. The painted hippy was crouching on all fours, her target-painted ass sticking out at back. Behind her was the woman in the leather shorts and the dildo, who was humping her doggy-fashion with her giant dong dug deep into her cunt from behind, while she held each of the painted breasts in her hands as if guiding her mount. They were humping at great speed and Robin had to admire the painted girl's stamina and fortitude to be able to take so gigantic a simulated cock into her cunt.
Under such humping and thrusting it didn't take long before the painted girl came in a wild orgasm and the woman on top, in sympathetic reaction and helped no doubt by the pressure of the dildo, one end of which was located inside her own twat, soon came too with a wildly rocking movement and loud yells and screams.
Robin looked on humbly and politely as was his job as maid, holding out the buckets or ice for their needs when they were ready. The woman in the leather shorts did indeed deign to take a few cubes and she used them to cool off her brow after she had first sucked at them, then she cooled various parts of her body with the ice after she had withdrawn from the girl beneath her. She cooled off her twat around the end of the leather dildo with a handful of ice and then presented the ice to the other girl, letting it cool her lips and forehead, then her circled breasts and other parts of her anatomy.
They lay apart for a moment, panting, then the older woman once more mounted her partner, but this time from the front. The painted girl put up her thighs and Robin watched with admiration the look of ecstatic pain that crossed the girl's face as the woman on top inserted her fake cock inch by loving inch into the dilated cunt, dilated and delighted, both. When she had the leather cock in, all nine inches of it, she spread her hands under the painted girl's ass, lifting it and molding it and opening it to her fingers and her nails. She dropped her chest toward the girl's and her long pear-shaped breasts, deeply tanned all over and with flaming red aureoles seating her pointed nipples, she brushed against the targets of her companion's breasts that seemed to point and rise up to meet hers. They slowly closed the embrace and Robin, still holding the buckets of ice, stood by watching as they pressed their mouths together slowly and sensuously and poked out their lips and thrust forth their tongues to curl them in ecstasy inside each other's oral cavity as if they were cunts to be lapped.
After a while of sensuous kissing and tiny little humping movements that couldn't have moved the black dildo inside the painted girl by more than an inch at a time, the women disengaged their mouths from each other but continued their kissing sucking and biting, roaming over each other's faces-nose, eyes, cheeks, ears, throat, forehead. Then the woman in the leather shorts and boots sat up a little and she took the painted breasts in her mouth, chewing first this one then that one while the owner of those breasts moaned and groaned in unintelligible sounds.
From kissing and biting the breasts, the woman on top again came to a semi-sitting position and, with her hands raising the other girls bums, she started fucking her in long, slow, easy movements, just like a man with lots of patience and lots of experience.
The girl underneath brought up her painted thighs to grasp the woman above and as she tightened them around her waist the woman gradually lowered her body again against the painted girl, chest against chest, breast against painted breast, face against face, mouth against painted mouth. They continued fucking, the girl crossing her painted feet over the tight leather shorts of the other woman. Their fucking got faster and the range of movements longer.
Suddenly they paused.
The woman on top raised her head and said to the 'maid' in imperious tones. "Quick, the ice! Can't you see?"
Robin went down on nylon knees and held the two buckets of ice within convenient reach, not quite knowing what to do.
The woman with the dildo scooped up a full load of ice in her right hand and closed her fingers over it. The painted girl picked up a load of ice too. The woman on top put her mouth back down on the other girl, covering her moans and sighs.
Suddenly the fucking got fast and furious. Both women seemed to be almost out of control. The painted one was thrashing her head from side to side and kicking with her painted legs; the other one was bouncing up and down, up and down, in and out. The one underneath started screaming and at that moment the woman on top took her fistful of ice and thrust it straight and unerringly into the crotch of her partner, right between the ass cheeks, tight in the depth of the groove where the cunt ends and the ass begins.
The girl underneath seemed to go completely out of control. She screamed loud in the agony of delight. She thrashed and kicked and flayed. But she had presence of mind to do one thing: she took her own ice-laden hand and thrust it right into the crotch of the woman above her, into the area bared in the back of her leather shorts by the missing crotch-piece, right into the root of pleasures between cunt and ass.
The woman on top, screamed too. She screamed and yelled and whammed up and down on her boots and her thighs. Her head flew up and her hair scattered loose. Her face was distorted. She bounced up and down and Robin could see the glistening leather tool between her legs as it emerged to almost its full length dripping with juices and emissions, then plunging right back again into the gaping gash of the painted girl's cunt. Again the woman on top grabbed a load of ice and thrust that at the girls crotch and the painted girl did it back to her, and both reached new heights of ecstasy.
Robin waited around politely with his buckets of ice until both women's passions had subsided and then the one on top signalled to him that he might go. She was panting deeply and the muscles on her body were still twitching of their own accord. The painted girl was lying flat out, her legs straight and rigid, her arms thrown out at either side behind her head, and her mouth was open with protruding tongue while she gasped for air, and her eyes were glazed over.
Another woman was calling angrily for Robin's service, and he walked rapidly on his elevated heels to do her bidding.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It was the old hag in her gold bikini panties and her gold leather boots. She was with Ann, the bitchy looking woman in the waist-pinching corset of leather with the chains, with her tanned-parchment tits thrust up by a ridiculously tight bra, and the black-mesh hose. The old hag had a vicious looking whip in one hand and with the other she had hold of a strap that was tying Ann's wrists behind her back.
"Oh, Robin, my sweet girl," the old hag cooed. "You are so helpful. I knew right from the start you'd make a wonderful maid. One of these days you're going to make an old woman like me very happy."
Robin didn't know how to respond so he simply smiled.
"There now dear girl-Oh, I say, you have grown up since I saw you last-I need your help sweet girl. This young girl over here"-and she indicated with a toss of her hairy old chin the middle-aged Ann in front of her-' this young girl has been very naughty and I need you to help me punish her."
The old hag gave her instructions and Robin helped her take the woman named Ann to the steel frame in which he had been spun. He figured out how to strap her feet into the proper place. Then he undid the straps at her wrists, brought down the spring-laden shackles from overhead, and fastened her wrists into those. He started looking over the controls to see how to do things right, but quick as a wink he found someone to operate it. It was the portly man who had operated the revolving monster when he had been strapped to it. The stout man was dressed now, very unconvincingly, as a woman with flared ballerina dress and dainty dancing shoes fastened up his fat legs with satin ribbons.
The stout man took over and soon had the woman called Ann going through the various movements as the steel circle spun once in this plane then in that. The old hag cackled delightedly.
The stout man stopped the spinning circle and at her request Robin helped the old hag climb into it the way Milton had climbed into the circle with him. The old hag cackled, wrapped her spindly legs in their golden boots around the neck of the tortured ex-torturer and wrapped her arms around the woman's thighs. Her golden panties had come off earlier and now she pressed her rank cunt into the mouth of the woman, Ann. Her hands meanwhile pulled at the other woman's panties and when she had ripped these off she glued her lips to the woman's crack.
Robin turned away.
There were more men in the room again. He saw Milton in drag and took steps to avoid him. He saw the big black giant, now wearing a tiger skin over his shoulder and a studded club in his hand. The record player had been turned on and now there was loud rock music blaring forth stereophonic ally from concealed speakers. Lights were flashing and turning from a series of projectors and light machines. The place was bathed in eerie colors and sounds.
The crowd had started dancing. They danced in various styles, the erotic dominating. Tall and short, thin and fat, men or women or in between, in groups of one or two or three or four, they raised themselves off the floor and off the cushions, off the sofas and off the mattresses and joined in the dance. Some interrupted for a moment as he passed, to demand fresh drinks or a sandwich or a piece of fruit. He served them all. He was happy now. It seemed like a gay and happy party and he was in his element serving them.
Arbella danced with the big black giant and he admired and envied them both. His longing glances cast around the room in search of Lizbeth. He couldn't see her for a long time and then he saw her dressed in a jerkin and mini-skirt of shiny black vinyl that clung tightly to her figure. She was dancing in a circle of fight, by herself Robin thought at first, dancing wildly and flinging her body around like a savage. Then he realized she was dancing as partner of a statuesque black woman whom he hadn't noticed before in the swelling crowd.
The black girl wore what amounted to just a thin long shawl of stridently bright, tissue-thin silk, that seemed somehow fastened at the right shoulder and draped from there in two loose folds down either side to the ground. She had on thigh-high white leather boots with high heels but under what passed as a dress she wore nothing, absolutely, but absolutely nothing.
She had a magnificently molded body. Full and ripe and curvaceous, luscious and inviting. A body made for love and loving. Her breasts were huge but firm as they bounced in her erotic dance. Her thighs were long and firm and ripe. Her belly was small and her bottom was like two huge water melons, juicy, inviting a bite or a refreshing suck.
He stared at her with awe and desire. There seemed to be something familiar about her, something terribly, terribly exciting, something that appealed both to his present desires and to his memory of past pleasures. Then his eyes took in the huge fuzzy mass of her Afro hairdo that stood eighteen or twenty inches around her beautiful ebony head, like a fiery halo of dark lightning. And then he remembered her: the girl he had admired on Eighth Street that long ago afternoon when Elizabeth had picked him up. The girl in whose generous bums he had rested his head while admiring the view and then entered into conversation with Lizbeth. The girl whom Lizbeth had called Coryn-and had invited over for the evening. It all seemed so remote now and so strange and different.
And this was Coryn, and she'd taken up Lizbeth's invitation. She was one of those too, obviously, and Robin wasn't at all surprised. In fact he was quite glad.
"Hi! You! Girl! Waitress!" It took Robin a moment to realize she was addressing him. He approached her through the dancing shuffling crowd that threatened to knock him off his high-heeled shoes with each step that he took.
"Gimme a drink! That's right. A screwdriver. A double one. Don't spare the vodka!" Then she went back to her wild sensual gyrations.
Robin brought it back as quickly as he could. The black giantess took one look at it and threw it into the brick fireplace. "What sort of a screwdriver is that?" she asked, fixing Robin with an angry stare. "You'd think you were new to this. Don't you remember how I like mine?"
The anger and authority of her voice thrilled Robin-the-parlor-maid to the quick. "I-I-I-" he started stammering.
Lizbeth, perhaps out of some feeling of loyalty, some dim memory of what had transpired between them so long ago, came to his rescue.
"Oh no, she's new," she told her partner, indicating the sad-looking maid with the white caplet on top of his short blonde hair. "She only started with us today. Her name is Robin."
Coryn, the big black giantess, stuck a cigarette into a long diamond-studded ebony holder and brought it slowly to her lips. Then she lit it casually, inhaled, and blew the smoke into Robin's face. He coughed and the tears welled in his eyes.
"I've seen you somewhere, though. I'm sure of that. You must have waited at enough orgies in the past to know what I want."
"I-I-I-"
"She's a new one," Lizbeth laughed. "Used to be a he. Met it at Eighth Street during lunch. Hey, you must remember. You were there, too. That's when I invited you."
Coryn screwed up her eyes in thought, applied the cigarette holder to her full luscious lips, took a deep puff that made her twin boobs quiver, then let out the smoke again in Robin's face.
"Why! Now I remember. It's you!" Her voice was larded with venom. "You're the sneaky so-and-so who was trying to cop a feel all the time! You're the one who was trying to sucker up to my hams all the time I was bent over. You no-good conniving son-of-a-whore!"
Robin blushed under his make-up.
"Pretendin' you was some kind of a man who can make it with chicks, eh?" the black beauty kept up her taunting barrage at Robin.
"Now they got you doin' what you ought to 'of been all your life. O.K. my pretty little ex-masher, my nice little serving maid, now bring me another drink and mind you put that slice of orange just on the edge of the glass, NOT in it. And quick!" She gave her last order with a snarl and turned back to dance with Lizbeth.
Robin shuffled off, dejected.
When he brought back the drink, Coryn seemed satisfied. "Well," she asked Lizbeth with a mocking tone. "Has our naughty boy become a good maid? Does she do what you want of her? Does he give you much lip."
"No, no lip. Not that kind of lip."
Both women laughed.
"Oh, that kind of lip," Coryn repeated her friend's phrase. "I think I prefer that kind of tongue. What the hell! It's been laying for me for so long-eh baby Robin?-and I'm in a fine sweat, I think I'll put me this maid to some use. Here, Robin, come and service me. I feel sweaty all over."
For a moment Robin thought he must have misunderstood the request. Service her? All over? With his tongue? The thrill spread up from his groin and grasped him by the throat so that he choked and couldn't say anything.
He didnt have to say anything or to ask. Coryn had flopped back on a leather reclining chair with her booted legs forward and her thighs widely spread. Her thin gown was completely parted and her body was entirely bare. She parted her thighs where the sweat had made them stick together near the top. She parted the hair and she parted the lips of her cunt. The glistening pink folds of flesh inside contrasted sharply with the dark of her skin and the white of her boots.
Robin adjusted his black nylons and the skirt of his black dress and knelt obediently between the proffered thighs. His tongue was ready and he probed deep into the cunt that was gamy from much dancing and perhaps much fucking during periods that Robin hadn't noticed. His tongue probed deeply and licked out all the hidden flows and fluids and then, with tongue and lips he coursed all around her crotch, his nose buried in her prickly black hairs. He roamed all over, luxuriating in the soft flesh and the heady odors, licking along the thighs, licking up the belly, licking into the crack further back, between her luscious round buttocks.
Coryn slipped off the recliner onto the carpeted floor and raised her thighs high. It brought her round bums into fuller view and exposed the full long line of her pinkish-purple cunt. Her legs, in white leather boots stretching half-way up the thighs, were thrust high into the air and she kept them there with her hands pushing from the back of her hams.
Robin knelt again between her thighs. Now he could get at it all, see it all delectably spread in front of him. His tongue reached out again to dip itself in the honey-pot at the center of her cunt. Then, with the steaming nectar he had picked up in her twat, he applied his tongue to its task, running slowly down and backwards, a fraction of a delectable inch at a time, tongue left, tongue right, tongue full in, tongue make circle. The taste, both bitter and sweet combined, like a thick gamy gravy, with an accompanying smell. The luscious feel of voluptuous flesh. Tongue going back and lapping all round. The new maid learning her new job to please her new mistress.
Tongue laps back further and further. Taste and smell become stronger and stronger. Tongue finds round wrinkled hole and licks around it. Coryn moans. Robin circles hole.
His tongue went in and pressed the inside of Coryn's ass. It was tight but slowly his tongue glided in, deeper and deeper, as he swept it around and licked up her special smells from here. He sucked deep and hungry, then he withdrew his tongue reluctantly and continued with his tongue-grooming of his new black mistress.
Coryn brought her thighs down. They caught Robin's head in their tight embrace. She wrapped them around his neck and brought her boots down to lie crossed along his back. She pressed tight. Robin felt his head spin. He was going crazy with desire. He brought his hands under and around her thighs and squeezed her bums and then worked his way up her glorious torso, past her waist and took hold of her enormous breasts.
There was a strain in his groin. A struggle that felt like bursting. The tight agony of restraint. He could feel the glow that seemed centered in the new hole that the old hag had created in his pubis, and it seemed to demand escape. Pressures were building up. He tried to see himself as the maid simply servicing her mistress but the image of himself as a woman was becoming difficult to visualize.
It was straining at his groin. It was straining past the folds of skin and past the sanitary pads and past the belts and hooks and fastening. It was...it seemed odd to think of it again in that way...it seemed like a cock, like his cock reborn.
He had an urge to find out and make sure but he knew that his present service to his black mistress permitted no such curiosity and no such luxurious extravagances. He remained the maid, devoutly devouring her mistress's altar of erotic desire. He remained between her thighs, tonguing her clit, sucking her cunt, licking her thighs, burying himself in her massive, masterful womanflesh.
He was doing his job well, judging by the moaning and sighing of his mistress. Her thighs rolled one against the other imparting a heavy massage to his head and cheeks. Her boots beat out a tattoo along his back. Her hands were grabbing for him everywhere. She sighed and moaned as if she could never have enough. Then she seized his head in both her hands and urged it up her body. His tongue traversed her cunt again, through her hairy triangle, up to the belly button as she tugged at his head with both hands. Her legs were still gripping him tight and as she pulled the dress was torn off his back, the caplet ouf of his hair. Her heels caught in the belts at his waist and tore them. The sanitary pad fell away and he could feel his prick jump into full readiness with the erective force of long-term disuse and pent-up energy.
Coryn's hands pulled Robin up her belly and to her breasts. He rested his head between the huge mounds, bringing these together with is hands to form an enveloping cushion from left and from right.
His cock was hard and ready. Her cunt was wet and open. When Robin had been pulled up to the right level, his cock automatically sprang into the open greased funnel of her cunt. She gave a start. So did he. He reared himself on his knees and started pumping his cock into her slippery exciting cunt. He was making long easy strokes from his knees and his cock kept going in and out while his face remained buried in the great mounds of firm black flesh that were her tits.
Suddenly a heavy weight pounced on him from behind. He felt the touch of a tiger skin. He knew it was the giant black man he had admired earlier with Arbella. Robin's heart shrank, cold with fear. He knew he was in for more torture but his cock refused to stop. It kept pumping in and out of Coryn's cunt as if with a will, of its own.
The black rose off his back for a moment, then rained a flurry of blows and lashes on his bared back. Robin's cock went in and out. He was a man again, taking a woman in a man's way, and no one could stop him now.
Then Robin felt the cheeks of his ass being spread. A load of grease was slapped into his asshole and then he felt the ramrod pressure, the awful, frightening, ultimate weapon that would take his manhood.
The black giant drove it into Robin's ass, drove it in all the way while Robin screamed and moaned with the excruciating pain. He was sandwiched in between the two giant ebony bodies and he was as no-one to them, just an amusing insert between them to heighten their enjoyment.
For Coryn and her man were humping, humping as any couple might hump, fucking straight missionary style, with the only exception that between Coryn's cunt and the cock of her mate they had inserted the insignificant body of Robin, once-proud male Robin, lately inefficient-female maid, now just an object for others' lust.
The man fucked, the woman fucked, and Robin got fucked in between. He was nothing. Not a man, not a woman, just something in between a real man and a real woman.
And something told Robin that this was how it was, this was how it should be, this was how it would henceforth and for ever after more be.
The couple fucked with Robin in between them and reached a wild simultaneous climax and Robin, with a cock up his ass and his own cock up the cunt, rejoiced and felt happy and let it all mount up out of his balls and spill from his cock into the woman's cunt while the cock up his ass was spurting and the muscles of his ass went into a dance of their own.
This was how it would be. There was no going back. He could wash and dress and walk out of there and go back to his old life but life would never be the same again.
He had been made a prisoner by these wanton men and wanton women.
They might let him go but he would forever be a slave to the new realities they had created for him. He would forever remain a prisoner of the new bizarre life.
