Gay beneath its colour scheme of cream and green, the luxury bus seemed to be a part of Spring itself.
Sunshine flashed and coruscated from its immaculate paintwork.
The Corona Tour bus moved down the winding pass of the Vorarlberg. At the wheel, relaxed and competent, sat the driver. His name, on his travel document, was Georg. Georg Helsponte. Nationality: Swiss.
Georg smiled when he thought of it. Georg. A name. What was a name? He had many names, this big, genial, easy-going man. He had as many names as he had loads of passengers. The Italians called him Gianni. To the English and to the Americans he was Georg. Big Georg. Good old George. To the French he became Georgi. If he happened to be driving tourists from the Balkans he heard them calling him Georgus.
But on his papers it said: Georg.
He had switched on the radio, not so much for the music as for the silence that music permitted. Conversational silence, that is-because his bus, at that stage, was empty of tourists.
It carried only the Greek-born hostess-guide, Cristina.
In the balm of the forenoon sun she sat in the seat across the engine-cowling between herself and her driver, Georg. One thigh was slung over the arm rest. Her skirt was bunched around her middle. Her right leg was thrust straight out against the bulkhead.
The June sun was warm and aphrodisiac. Cristina, exquisite creature of Nature herself, often felt sexy when in motion. She was randy now. It was pleasant dreamily to sit, bathing her crotch in the sun's heat.
For this reason she had exposed herself, splaying her thighs, offering those exquisite columns to the caress of the sparkling, dancing sun-light.
Georg could see the spread of her pubic hair, close matted, in a triangle beneath the wispy transparency of the white net nylon panties she wore.
She was beyond his reach. She seemed oblivious of the effect she was having on her driver, lost in some private fantasy.
From time to time, beneath the nylon net, her labia would twitch deliciously, provoking Georg to the very limit of endurance.
That is why he had switched on the radio. The music, he had hoped, would provide a diversion. He knew that conversation would have been fatal. To have spoken to Cristina then, would have meant entering her thoughts-and to have shared her thoughts would have meant sharing her mood as well. And it was this that Georg, busy with his driving, was striving to avoid.
He frowned in concentration as he realized that Cristina was proving, with every passing kilometer, far too distracting. Eyes closed in her rapture, she now had one glorious thigh slung over each of the armrests of her seat. Georg might not even have been there-and that is what provoked him most. She had reclined the backrest to its maximum and, dreamily sprawling, she had began to finger herself through the glistening moisture of her panties. Every so often she would twitch in a little jerk of randy pleasure as her clitoris reacted to the stimulation she was affording it.
It was this-the deliberation of her sexual reverie-that fascinated Georg.
Damn the girl he thought. Why couldn't she hurry herself to her orgasm, if that was what she was after? Of what could she be thinking, sprawling there in her seat, that she could be so deliberate, so dispassionate in her drawn-out, delicious orgy of self-gratification? Of which touring-bus driver out of the many with whom she had ridden could she possibly be thinking now?
Georg would have been delighted could he have known the thoughts of his beautiful guide at that precise moment. For they were thoughts intimately concerning Georg himself; thoughts of the previous evening together in their hotel overlooking the night-time loveliness of Lucerne's lake.
Now she had slipped her fingers down inside the waistband of her panties, the better to savour their contact with her slit. With blissful deliberation she kept the centre finger upon her clitoris, allowing the others to probe idly through her generous bush of curling virile hair.
In the welter of moisture from her vagina she found adequate lubrication to set those fingers feeling up her labia, darting in and out of her vagina itself, or dancing lightly all together upon her now-rampant clitoris.
But she was in no hurry to experience the orgasm that was so near.
Idly, the better to savour the delight of her fantasy, she had opened her uniform shirtfront, and with her free hand she was busy tweaking the rock-hard nipple of her ample, unbrassiered breast.
The sight of that bosom, rosy and soft-textured, proved the last straw for Georg. So well he remembered it from the previous evening, that his palms, firm upon the wheel, were nevertheless still able to transmit its firm softness up his arms and into his thoughts. Within the confines of his fly his tool was now fully erect as he stole glances at the delectable woman on his right. Nor could he discipline this machine of his a moment longer. By God, he thought, but she was lovely! And it was not that she was abandoned, or in any way coarse, as she lay back there. Not Cristina! She was just so supremely a child of Nature. What she was doing to herself now was the simple act of securing relief. She was acting as naturally as she would have acted had she squatted to take a leak for the relief of distended bladder.
Unable to endure the sight any longer,. Georg snapped off the radio button. There was silence in the bus, sudden and stark. Cristina opened her eyes and sent a languorous glance towards her driver.
"For Christ's sake," she heard him say. "How can I go on driving, when you provoke me so?"
He tore at the buttons of his trousers. His tool, red and engorged, sprang magnificently into view, freed of the worsted that threatened to snap it in the frenzy of his desire for the body of the woman.
"Look!" he cried.
Cristina looked. Looking, she remembered. Last night ... Its entire randy length, plunged up to its very hilt into her crotch. And then she became all sudden, sweet feminine concern.
"Poor Georg," she murmured. "I had no idea. Forgive me, I beg of you."
She immediately ceased frigging herself. But Georg, knowing her sacrifice, broken in:
"Don't stop. Oh God, Cristina, I know how close you must be to coming. It's just-just that the sight of you was too much for me. You're so utterly lovely-so bloody natural!"
Cristina raised her eyebrows quizzically, maddeningly.
"How else then?" she said in surprise. "I was thinking of us ... last night, together there in Lucerne. It was so lovely, Georg. And the motion of the bus-and then, there's the sun, so warm-and I got randy again. That's all there is to it."
"Forgive me," he implored. "It's just that ... that the sight of you, lost like that in what you were thinking about, was too damn much for me. You'll never know, kitten, how exciting you are-how bloody provocative you can be."
"Poor man! Shame, then-shall we stop the bus?"
Georg looked down to his lap where the might of his masculinity jutted up and out through his fly. A great globule of oily, pre-coital fluid oozed from its reddened helmet. It built up, up-then trickled down the curving head.
"Damn it!" he swore. "I hate being so little in command of myself. A man should be able to exercise more control!"
"Poor Georg! Perhaps-you are over-controlling? I know your strength-now. Now-after last night. Shall we stop? This minute? I'm more than ready for you-right now ... you know that!"
But Georg, late already on the run into Innsbruck, was loath to lose any more time. A halted bus, a bus without its swarm of tourists milling round it like bees round their queen, draws attention. Were his bus to lie abandoned at the roadside the news would flash along the grapevine right into his Zurich headquarters. And Georg would be held to account for the incident.
"I can't," he growled. "Damn it, Cristina, much as I want it-we're late already. Ah, what the hell! Let's forget it!"
With that he jabbed viciously on the throttle and the bus lurched forward, jolting his rampant tool back against the material of his trousers. As it rocked back again, a strand of spunk looped down from its tip to the top of his pants.
"Poor Georg," breathed Cristina for the third time.
Quickly she bent forward, removing her hand from her panties in the same motion. She eased out of her seat and crossed over to Georg's cockpit.
Her hand went out, cool and caressing and smooth against Georg's feverish tool. Perching herself on the engine cowling that separated their seats, she began to soothe that raging cock by drawing the loose skin beneath his circumcised flange gently upwards, then downwards again. Each time she did so, another globule of spunk would be released so that within seconds the whole massive shaft was a gleaming, oiled piston.
"You wonderful child!" Georg shuddered in pleasure.
Instinctively he had released his foot from the throttle the moment Cristina had commenced her ministrations. Now he lay back in the seat, his eyes never leaving the road ... yet he was given up, inside, to the pleasure her experienced fingers were causing him. He let one hand steal into her opened blouse, and Cristina, feeling his palm cup one boob, obligingly undid all the buttons to reveal the other as well, in all its rounded glory, jiggling deliciously with the gentle shaking of the bus.
He moaned, in the grip of exquisite pleasure.
Cristina smiled. Never once did her fingers cease their titillation of his rod. And never once did that rod cease to provide its droplet of spunk on each forward motion. There was a froth, now, over her fingers. God, she thought deliriously, how I would love to suck it for him! She loved the salty, warm taste of a man's lubrication. And nobody, she reflected, nobody gave so much of it, so generously, as did Georg. But today she could not. The flat setting of the steering-wheel was between her lips and his tool. And, in any case, the continual spinning of the wheel, as Georg adjusted for curves, was between her lips and the tip of his tool. It would have prevented her mouthing of his machine. Still, that could come later, she thought, with a fierce determination that stabbed right down to her kitten.
There was so much fluid now that Cristina switched her tactics. Instead of prolonging the to-and-fro motion she was using, she grabbed the slippery head tightly in her palm. Then, gripping it tight, she let it slither on its own delicious oils, into and out of her clenched fingers. Occasionally she would let its vibrant head escape through her tightly-clenched first two fingers, then through the second and third finger. Then she would brush fiercely over the entire helmet with her whole palm.
Georg, meanwhile, felt his bowels melt within him at the unendurable delight of her masturbation. Christ! What skill the woman possessed! From whom had she gotten all this knowledge that only a man himself should know?
He looked down in sheer delight, from time to time, fascinated to see how the head would emerge blue at the tip, and white where her strong fingers choked powerfully at it on its slithery way out of her grasp. Of all the shags he had ever had, none had been as fantastic as this. This, demanded, delicious Cristina! How had they kept so long: apart?
And then he knew that the spasm was upon him-that his orgasm would soon occur.
"Don't stop!" he whispered, urgently, giving himself to her, as he tightened his grasp over her one titty. "Ah, for Christ's sake, Cristina, never stop now, kid! Because-" and he shuddered-"because I'm coming, I tell you! Ah, sweet Jesus! I'm coming-any second now-aah-h-h!"
"Then come, in the name of Christ, my Georg, come! But what will you do with it-oh-h-h, God! stop the bus! Stop it, just one moment-so that I can swallow it for you-ah, give me that, at least! Nobody'll see us, Georg ... Georg!"
She spoke, pleading, simultaneously with her man. But it was too late.
In great jets the white semen spewed forth, the first a full two feet into the air. Out it came in vast streams which Cristina greedily sought to scoop up until her cupped palms were full of his semen. What escaped, ran down his staff. It splashed over his fly. Furiously Cristina cupped her hands around the base of his tool, never ceasing her masturbation until the unendurable delight actually began to cause pain to Georg. He squirmed in his seat, desperately seeking to escape the agony of Cristina's gripping fingers. Then, with one mighty heave, he burst out of her clutches, leaving her only with a handful of white, amorphous, dripping sperm.
With a cry the girl fell forward upon her knees. Greedily, perversely, she smeared it over her face till it frothed over her features, degrading herself in her agony of unfulfilled lust. Then she splashed the rest into her crotch massaging it through the nylon of her panties in moaning, sobbing frustration, primeval striving to return to her vagina that which should have been its rightful due. She groaned in lust, her orgasm approaching.
Frantically she tore at her twat, with both hands. Georg was powerless to aid her as he sat and watched her demoniac climax rack her in its grip. She writhed in her lust upon the floor.
Long luxurious minutes later, Cristina began to recover, a blissful languor coursing all through her limbs. She struggled, not wearily, but reluctantly, to a sitting position.
"Oh, Georg," she breathed softly. "We're so good for each other, you and me ... so very good! How have we been kept apart for so long?"
Georg darted a quick glance over his shoulder at the woman behind him.
"Don't tell me now," he said, "that you're going to plan another attack!"
"Another? Oh, Georg-I couldn't! I'm so completely satisfied now, my darling-I don't think I'd care if I never got laid again, ever!"
"You'd care. And you will be," grinned Georg, easing his whole body with the bus into a sharp right-hand bend.
Cristina rose, the still-wet semen matting the hair of her pod, flowing gently, coldly down the insides of her thighs.
She passed down the centre aisle to the tiny toilet in the rear. Leaving the door ajar, she took Kleenex and hoisted up her skirt to wipe away the sperm. Her every movement was visible, in his rear-view mirror, to Georg. He grinned, suddenly triumphant at the havoc he had wrought.
Her toilet finished, Cristina made up a pad of Kleenex, moistened it, and came back to wipe Georg's trousers. Obligingly he spread his thighs and quickly, competently, the Greek girl went about her task. When all was to her satisfaction, she returned to the toilet and flushed away the soiled tissues.
"You want to eat lunch, maybe?" Georg called down the aisle.
"When you're ready, Georg. Personally I could wait till we get to Innsbruck. Aren't we too late on our run, already?"
"O.K. -we go straight through!"
Quickly, then, and with sure, feminine movements, she buttoned her unbound breasts back into her blouse. She smoothed her uniform skirt over sleek, perhaps over-generous hips, and finger patted her blue-black hair into order once again. A hitch and a twist of her stockings, a dab of powder and a touch of lipstick, and she came forward once more to her courier's seat, fresh as the Alpine flowers themselves in the meadows speeding by.
CHAPTER TWO
In a stately old brownstone residence about a mile from the centre of Innsbruck, the Countess de Baroni laid down her pen and rang for a servant.
When the footman appeared she ordered a bottle of the cool, dark Bavarian beer which, on a warm day, she loved to take before lunch.
She was looking over her correspondence.
Her cheque to Corona Tours, of Zurich, was attached to the statement covering the hire of one luxury-class bus, to seat twenty persons, for one fortnight from that very day-with an option on a further seven days.
The bus, said a letter accompanying the statement, would arrive from Lucerne. It was hoped that the personnel would find favour in the eyes of their esteemed client. The driver, Georg Helspoute, was undoubtedly the finest in Europe. The hostess, Cristina Danapoulos, had been especially chosen. She would accompany the driver for the first time; if she proved satisfactory it was the intention of the company to team the two permanently.
The countess smiled. Could the managing director have any idea, she wondered, why she had specified that the crew chosen should be both young, and with, as she had phrased her request, "minds that have been broadened by much travel. It is my intention to assemble several selected guests, picking them up en route-so the personnel you select should be capable of mingling with my friends without focusing attention, unduly, upon the fact that they are crew members.
The second letter was to one of the countess's oldest friends, whom she addressed simply as Karl von Schneider, though he was, in fact, one of the oldest remaining members of the onetime Austrian aristocracy. Born a Hapsburg, and a prince of his line, in his own right, von Schneider had long dropped all use of his title when he moved from Austria to a chateau he had bought in the Rhone Valley, down the slopes of which ran his terraced vineyards.
In her letter, the countess intimated simply that she would be arriving for a long-promised visit within ten days or so.
"There will be a dozen-perhaps more-of my guests travelling with me," she concluded the letter to Karl. "This, my dear Karl, should not unduly strain your establishment, so I am sure you will be ready to receive us. Indeed, if you val-us still the things of a refusal of your hospitality."
The countess took another draught of beer. She smiled speculatively. The letter said no more than what she intended it to say. She signed it, slipped it into an envelope, and rang for the footman to mail it for her.
Then she lit a cigarette and sat back in quiet contentment.
She was a fine figure of a woman and, despite her forty-five years, endowed with a grace that would have been the envy of many a girl in her twenties. With her inbred nobility went that aura of refinement that wealth alone can give. She was beautifully coiffured, simply yet exquisitely gowned, groomed with refinement in every detail. And she was a widow.
She awaited now the four guests whom she had summoned to her home. She had bade them arrive that afternoon. In anticipation, for they knew the fabulous hospitality of the countess those four guests were speeding, that very moment, toward Innsbruck.
So, too, were Georg and Cristina....
As they rolled toward Innsbruck, now only a few kilometers ahead, Cristina reached forward and snapped off the radio. She looked up at the comfortable mass of Georg, relaxed, yet rock-like in his strength, behind the wheel.
"Just what sort of trip is this one, Big Man?" she asked. "You said, last night, you'd tell me-remember? I'm really in the dark till you do."
Georg shot her a look, liking what he saw. She was quite a courier, this Cristina. Newly assigned to him, she had met him for the first time in Lucerne the previous day. Up to then, she had been known to him only by reputation.
But that had been yesterday....
Now he knew her as few men ever would-a woman beautifully sculptured of body, rich in culture, but, above all, a woman so obsessed by sex that it seemed her very intelligence stood in danger of being choked by her excess of libido.
And is that so bad? he thought.
"I don't know very much," he said, smiling down at her. "But what I do know, I'll tell."
"Big of you."
"Nuts to that sarcasm. Or I'll beat you."
"You will? With a real whip? Lovely!"
"Tramp! O.K., then. I had to phone the boss from Lucerne. This is what he told me-that I'd have to pick you up, and get on over to Innsbruck. The Countess de Baroni. She's doing the hiring. But not even he knew much more than that."
"The Countess de Baroni," murmured Cristina reflectively.
"He told me we'd been specially teamed for the job, you and I. Something about the old girl wanting a 'presentable' crew."
"Presentable? What's she mean by that?"
"No clue. But nothing surprises me any more. Not in this game. Could be a load of Dominican nuns. Could be a bunch of sex perverts, for all I know. Or the Innsbruck Boy Scouts off on a flipping jamboree."
"I'll plump for the sex pervert, me. I've heard of this Countess de Baroni."
"You have? What was the word. What's she going to turn out to be?"
"No monster, I don't think. I don't know a lot, except that she's stone rich. And they talk about her all over Europe. Not her, so much as her parties. Paris, Rome, Copenhagen-there isn't a city where there isn't a handful of the elite who'd cut off an arm to be invited to one of her parties."
"That so? I begin to see ... but, like I said, nothing surprises me any more."
"Anyhow, let's wait till we get there, hey? Before we start getting wrong ideas. We could be wrong, you know. No good getting there all sexy on the dolly, and find out we're taking a load of Scouts on a trip. What's the route, incidentally. You been told yet?"
"Not a word. That's all the boss told me. Two weeks-and she gives the orders. But I got two hundred pounds for expenses, so it seems as if it's going to be some ride."
"I don't mind. I get it with you, don't I. The ride, I mean."
"Aren't you lucky!"
"Like yourself?"
"You got me, pal. Actually it's me, Cristina, who's in luck. If they never split us up again, you and me, it's too soon. I've heard plenty about you-"
"Plenty good? Or plenty bad?"
"Good. And bad. Mostly good-bad."
"Men," she said, "talk too damn much."
"Only about superwomen. And you're supreme, compared to most of them."
"I'm honoured the shareholders think so well of their company."
"Shareholders? Then, here and now, I appoint myself chairman of the Board of Directors. There'll be no more meddling."
"With?"
"With internal affairs. From now on, I run the show."
"I'm in your hands. And, for your information, I find them pretty capable hands, too. Held a few boobies, those hands, in their time. So I don't see why you hold a few other fellows against ff me..
She paused a while, then asked:
"You married, Georg? I heard that you were, somewhere along the road."
Georg felt as if a whip had laid a sudden scourge across his heart.
Six months ago, he had purposely changed route to drive through the little Swiss town where he lived. Gaston, the restaurateur, would appreciate the unexpected busload of luncheon customers. For himself-he'd walk in and surprise his wife, Verna....
He'd surprised her, all right. In bed. His bed. Naked. And in the arms of his best friend!
He'd dragged the wretch off the sweating body of his wife, and had beaten the shit out of him. Then he'd walked straight out of his wife's bedroom, out of his house, and out of her life. He grinned, wryly.
"Was married. It went phut, though, right in my face!"
"Pity," said Cristina quietly. "Divorced?" she added, after a moment.
"No. Don't know, rather. Maybe she's doing something about it. I'm not. Lucky there weren't any kids." He patted the engine cowling. "But this is my baby now. This is the only wife I've got."
"Hard to get it to bed, though," said Cristina. "So big. So unyielding. So unfeminine-and, I'd say, so cold in winter."
"But she does what I tell her to. Doesn't talk back, either. Grateful for every kind attention-and she isn't unfaithful."
"Unfaithful? So, it's Georg the Jealous, then?"
"Something wrong with faithfulness?"
"No...."
Georg looked down at her.
"I was faithful, Cristina. Once. And for a long, long time." He spoke levelly, quietly.
She left the mocking banter out of her voice. "I see," she said. And then, after a pause: "Yes, Georg. I believe you could have been. Faithful. You, perhaps, of all men. Because you're a strong man. Not like some of the others I've known. Oh-but don't imagine I'm regretting them, now. I took them for one reason-because I enjoy being laid. I was pretty selective, out of what was on hand. But I took them, knowing that men are, for the most of them, slime. I may have to be laid by them-that's a biological necessity-but I don't have to go overboard about them. Love them, I mean. I owe no man anything in that department."
"So you condone infidelity, then?"
"For me,-yes, Georg. But if I were married, I would be very faithful. If I were married to somebody like you, for example. Like you were faithful to ... to her...."
"And if I'm faithful now?"
"Then you're not Georg the Jealous any more, either. Besides, why be faithful now? Faithful-who to, for God's sake?"
"Exactly," said Georg.
And they were silent then, each with their own thoughts, until the bus drew to a halt outside the countess' residence.
CHAPTER THREE
The Countess de Baroni received them in her study, offering them armagnac, and setting them at ease with a charming, spontaneous affability. As they sipped the golden velvet of the brandy, the countess inquired about their journey from Lucerne, listening entranced to the description of their nomad existence on the roads of Europe.
"Forgive me, Madame," he said, "but is it permitted we be informed of your plans? I'm afraid that so far I'm rather in the dark about this trip. Haven't even been given an itinerary."
The countess smiled.
"In good time," she said. "I don't want to be committed to time schedules. I detest them. But the route will be roughly from here down to Venice, then on to Rome, up the west coast of Italy, across to Cannes, and from there up north to a chateau near Montelimar-do you know the place?"
"Where the nougat comes from?" Georg grinned.
Quickly, Georg's trained mind visualized the route as if it had been mentally superimposed on his maps. Two thousand miles. Ten days. Say a-bout two hundred miles a day. Nobody could call that strenuous traveling. And, if the countess chose to operate on no time schedule, who was he to object?
"And now, I expect, you'll be wanting to change and freshen up a bit?" asked the countess, solicitously.
She rang for the footman, who took Cristina and Georg in a tiny elevator to the fourth of the five floors in the countess's mansion. There they were allocated bedrooms.
Opening the door of his apartment, Georg found a chambermaid bustling about the bed, setting out the pajamas from his valise which had already been brought up by some lackey.
"Wonderful!" he beamed. "This looks very comfortable."
The maid paused in her work and looked at Georg expectantly.
"But of course, M'sieur," she replied. "It is the wish of Madame that you should have everything."
She was French, then. He had expected her to speak in German. He asked her about it.
"But no," she replied, blushing. "I am Austrian. But I 'ave live long in France, too."
"I see," said Georg. "Tell me-a bath? Would that be possible?"
The maid indicated a connecting door. "Through there, sir. Shall I run the water?"
"If you would."
As the chambermaid opened the bathroom door, Georg could already hear the gurgle of water from open faucets.
He began to undress. He laid his soiled clothes over a chair, and set out the fresh suit, shirt and accessories he would wear that evening. Then, naked, whistling a snatch of song, he opened the door of the bathroom, catching his breath in surprise to find Cristina already luxuriating in the water he had thought would have been his. "Kee-rist!" he exclaimed. "You?"
"Kee-rist!" she mimicked right back. "You too? But come in. The water's fine. Looks like we share the bathroom-my own room's through there." She gestured to a door on the other side of the bathroom. She grinned, impudently. "You have any objections?"
He was about to reply when the maid came in again-through the door to Cristina's room this time.
"What do you want?" asked Georg, curt now after the succession of surprises.
The maid seemed totally unperturbed at the nudity of the splendidly-formed woman in the bath, or at the man standing, stark naked, before her.
"It is our duty, sir, to see that Madame's guests have every comfort. I forgot to mention that this particular bathroom is shared, sir." She stood, faintly apologetic, awaiting a reaction.
Cristina, noting his momentary loss of composure, pressed home wickedly.
"So?" she said quickly. "If that's your duty-to render every service like you say-what are you standing around for? Can't you see that the gentleman needs a service?"
She arched an eyebrow meaningfully in the direction of Georg's pole.
"If that is the Madame's wish," said the Austrian girl, docilely.
Turning to a closet, she proceeded, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, to divest herself of her black uniform. Beneath the uniform she wore black panties and a black, lacy brassiere. These she stripped off in a trice, and turned to ease black, silken stockings from their suspender-clips. Her ample if peasant nudity was revealed in all its pink and rosy loveliness.
Georg's tool leaped into full and violent erection. Cristina lay back exultantly in her bath.
"My God!" Georg swore softly. "The things that happen...." He threw a helpless look at his shapely courier, lying indolently back in her bath.
"Well?" she flung back at him. "Get on with it, for God's sake! What are you waiting for? For her to make the first pass-at you?"
Stung by the taunt, Georg swung into action.
He advanced upon the by now far from reluctant chambermaid, and began to fondle her generous, somewhat pendulous breasts. He neared her body so that the tip of his lance brushed against the curly mass of hair below her belly. The glazed look in the girl's eyes was unmistakable....
"What's your name?" he whispered.
"Maria, sir," was all she could whisper back, forcing her swollen nipples into his caresses, and arching her hips toward the throbbing cock at her crotch. She moved her hands to force the amplitude of her bubs into his caress.
"And oh, sir," she breathed, "please have them! They ache so, now, for you-right this minute!"
"Here, then, Maria," he said, gently. And he ground his mighty erection into her thighs as he strove and strained towards her.
"Aaah-h-h!" she cried, rutting in sudden desire. And she clutched with hot hands at his throbbing staff, seeking to guide it between the lips of her clune, already agape between her parted thighs as she stood on tiptoe to receive his battering-ram into her quim.
Entry was not difficult. This Maria, thought Georg, had taken her full share of mighty cocks, that was sure. She was a fountain of slush. Georg's massive organ disappeared almost at once, swallowed up to the hilt in that black forest.
The sight of the woman's boobs flattened against the massive chest of the man she now knew that she loved proved too much for Cristina. Excited beyond all power to control herself at the sight of her lover's possession of the Aus trian girl's body, she leaped from the bath.
"Sol' she screamed, a virago now. "Screw the maid, would you! Take me literally? And what's the matter with me then? You bastard, Georg! You swine! And after what I did for you, this very afternoon! Then, if you won't lay me-at least you'll suck me. That, I swear, you'll do!"
He grinned as he listened to her tirade. She was like that. It was a peculiarity that endeared her to him-her inclination to mouth obscenities when sexually aroused.
Cristina advanced upon the copulating couple. She clawed and fought them to a laying position on the floor of the bathroom with the chambermaid's thighs splayed to receive his grinding hips. And then, dripping wet, she knelt before his face, thrusting forward the black bush of her cunt.
"Suck me!" she screamed. "Go on! Suck me! Give it to her if you have to! Any man can do that! To any girl too. But it takes a real woman to get a man to suck her off! Most damned men are too lily-livered to suck a kitten. Think it stinks. Think it has a disease, or something. But you, you bastard-you'll suck me. Yes, you will! Ooooh-h-h-h-hooooh!" And the moaning, sobbing, lust-crazed girl fell back upon her outstretched arms as she felt the tongue of Georg probing a-round the tender area of her clitoris.
Without ceasing his reaming of the bowels of the chambermaid beneath him, he began, viciously almost, to draw out Cristina's clitoris from its sheath, between her labia. Streams of her spunk poured over his face as he buried his tongue deep within her twat and Cristina, now wild with desire, arched forward deliriously to that darting, licking tongue and Georg's sucking lips enveloping the entire maw of her gaping gash.
The chambermaid was beginning now to twitch in the spasm of her approaching climax. Now it was no longer the blonde Swiss who was boring into her, it was she who was arching her spine to thrust fiercely at each incoming inroad of that mighty tool skewering away inside her. Georg was doing the best he could to meet her furious demands on his questing masculinity. But he found difficulty in breathing, even, the way the furious Cristina was hammering her hairy maw at his mouth-as if she were determined to scrape her very vulva over his teeth to derive the last possible ounce of sexual satisfaction from her man.
Suddenly she writhed mightily and Georg felt as if his tongue were being uprooted, the way her slit seemed to cling to it. And in that moment she drenched his whole face with the massive volume of her ejaculation. Georg grinned. Let her come-let her spend, he thought. When all this is over, it's the sucking she'll remember, more than his shagging of Maria! He gave her all she was seeking, and more. And, feeling Maria unable to keep up the pace any longer as she, too, spent breathlessly and dementedly beneath him, he redoubled the ferocity of his onslaught, suddenly feeling his own discharge coming, bounding down his spine until he shot his load deeply into the warm, wet, receptive cunt into which he seemed bored, balls and all, up to the very hips of him. Shot after shoot of vital sperm he jetted into the Austrian, who rolled and writhed and moaned beneath him in such a fury that he marvelled how she was physically able to endure it. And as he fucked, he sucked-until the pain grew too much for Cristina. Spent, and far beyond the power of coming any more, she flailed at him with her powerful arms, beating at his forehead, trying to thrust his face a way from her crotch. But the strength of Georg, now, was something she had never before encountered. The more she thrust him away, the more he came at her, salivating with the load of her discharge all over his face. She could not rid herself of him. She struggled. She beat at him. She screamed. If she did not force him off her twat that very instant, she would die! But the more she struggled and tore at him, and howled in her agony, the more he sucked-at the same time as he plunged, again and again, ever deeper and deeper, into the vagina of the sobbing, slavering, fainting chambermaid skewered beneath his powerful, pulsating, twitching loins.
And as he screwed away, Georg thought, exultantly, Let the bitches mock at me-me, be daunted by women? Me? No-no, no! I'll screw them both out of sight. I'll fuck them and suck them, fainted, dead or demented before they can humiliate me!
And then, becoming suddenly tender in his victory over both of them, he thought: But ah, sweet Christ, what wonderful women they are! What breasts! What huge, glorious, generous breasts-especially the white-titted, rose-under-laid, brown-nippled bosoms of Cristina! Nor were the pendulous, full, sagging mammoths of Maria to be denied their glory! If she were married, there'd be little left for her husband this day, he gloated. And, from the volume of sperm he had jetted into her, there'd be every chance of a pregnancy!
On he bore until finally they both swooned away beneath the might of his simultaneous attack.
And Georg arose then, majestically stepping over the recumbent forms of the two women, used and obscene and grotesque now in defeat.
CHAPTER FOUR
By the time the dinner had reached the coffee-cigarettes-and-cognac stage, the surprises had lost their initial impact. But at first it had been as breathtaking as an icy douche.
First was the outrageous daring of the gown the countess had chosen to wear. Before her guests she had appeared clad in a single robe of transparent nylon material, peach in shade, and threaded with gold. Beneath this gossamer outer garment she wore nothing at all, so that throughout the meal, her mature breasts, still firm and shapely, were as visible as if she had been quite naked. With her tits tapering each to its generous circle of browned areolae, she knew of course that she was infinitely more exciting than she would have been entirely nude. With her every movement, every gesture, those magnificent mammaries rippled and flowed beneath that mere breath of a garment. And, when she rose to fetch or carry some dish from a sideboard, the inverted V of her sexual garden was as visible as if she were wearing nothing at all.
Throughout the evening, however, the countess had done nothing to call attention to her shocking attire. She sat, poised and elegant, immune to the effect she was causing. It was almost as if she had chosen, tacitly, to defy any of her guests to remark on her attire, or even to call attention to it by the slightest covert glance.
Then, there were the guests themselves-six of them, in all, around the circular table. And what an assortment!
On the countess's right was a lean, leather faced, athletic man, blue eyes curiously a-twinkle.
Henry Grundmann, she informed them, was a circus aerial gymnast and highwire performer. He had been in almost every country in the world. And he had taken part in some incredible feats. "Once," said the countess, "he crossed Niagara Falls on a high wire. And once he earned 100,000 dollars from an American cable-making concern-for walking one of their cables suspended from the top of two New York skyscrapers a mile a-part."
Henry Grundmann had nerves of the tensile strength of the steel wires upon which he performed. Yet he could sit, as he did throughout the meal, relaxed as a kitten, a man in control of every muscle and every emotion.
The Korfus were Senegalese. And they were black. They were, in fact, the blackest, most massive people, negro or white, that Georg had ever seen. It was only their imposing stature that prevented the two negroes from being either gross or out rightly obese.
Philoueas must have weighed fully three hundred pounds to his six-foot-three frame-a physique that made him seem actually short. His wife, Beverly, only slightly less tall than he, would have sent the scales to a full two hundred and fifty pounds-if not more. When she laughed, which was often, she jiggled and shook like jelly.
"And now," the countess was saying, through a swirl of cigarette smoke, "this holiday ahead of us. I expect you are all wondering what it is all about-what form it'll take. Perhaps some of you can guess at it.
"Henry, here, knows. I have told him already. I don't want to tell the others whom we will meet. But, seeing that Henry knows, I think I should tell Georg and Cristina, here-and you, Beverly and Philoueas.
"We set out, tomorrow-all six of us. Georg will drive us. Cristina will look after us. We go-to Venice."
"Venice!" echoed Philoueas. "How marvellous!"
"And what do we do in Venice, Elois?" asked Beverly.
"Perhaps I had better explain the whole purpose of the tour before I go on," said Elios, Countess de Baroni. She paused, to finish the last of her coffee.
"Two years ago, before Henry went to Las Vegas, he and I were on the point of marriage. That, most of you know-most of those who'll finally join us, indeed do know."
Henry allowed his smooth browned hand to clasp that of the countess across the table. He pressed it in an affectionate squeeze.
"The trouble was, I am a libertine. I explained it all to Henry. He did not believe me. He said he couldn't credit it. So, two years ago, before he went to America-that's when this party was all dreamed up. That's why, too, I chose to shape it in the form of a luxury bus tour through enough of Europe, then, to show him what I mean. Henry couldn't understand what it is to be a libertine. The philosophy of libertinism was too much, it seemed, for him to absorb. So-enfin-I promised to show him."
"Bravo!" grinned Philoueas, enthusiastically. "I expected as much. I told Beverly, driving over here, that we wouldn't regret the invitation."
"Now, to keep up your interest," continued the countess, "I propose to tell you no more. The others won't know even this. And the others, you'll meet only as we stop and pick them up-for your interest, that is. That, you see, is the twist. They will not know what we are all about. We will. That way they go on and on, discovering ... It keeps up their excitement. If I had to tell them beforehand, they might lose that excitement. And, as I've often told Henry, to a libertine excitement is all."
Georg thought wryly over that last remark as the countess rose, and shook down her diaphanous gown over her naked hips. Excitement is all. How right she was-and what a supreme practitioner of her own philosophy.
"Come now," said the countess, "into the next room, so that the servants may clear away the table."
Dutifully they filed after her in the adjoining lounge. Diffused lighting, emanating from no apparent source, gave to the salon a rich, subdued glow.
"And now," said the countess, seating herself, "on just that principle-that excitement is all-I wonder whether Beverly and Philoueas would put on an exhibition for us of the way they fuck in Senegal."
She said it as casually as if she had announced that her two friends were about to play a duet on the piano. But at the word, Georg felt his spine tingle. My God! he thought. Just like that, she comes out with it!
"You mean-" asked Cristina weakly-"right here? In front of all of us-they'll do that?"
Beverly smiled indulgently.
"It'll be no trouble at all, girlie," she boomed. "And you'll see-about two minutes after we get started, you won't mind a bit."
Cristina's loins went weak and limp. A trickle of spunk escaped from her vulva and she felt it, coursing wet and chill and thrilling, over her panties.
Without a moment's hesitation, Beverly had slid her zip loose and was shedding her gown, baring to view the vast expanse of her emergent jet-black belly.
Two enormous mounds of ebony boob jiggled free of her brassiere. She tossed those two minor hammocks on to a chair as she eased white panties down thighs as enormous as columns. The incredible amount of her nudity staggered Georg. My God, he thought-here is enough woman for ten men!
Freed of her garments, the mighty black skinned wench gave an involuntary, sexual shimmy that sent her acreage of skin dancing and reflecting the light from a hundred of its rounded areas. She fondled, lasciviously, her enormous breasts, feeling their nipples harden under her fingers into gnarled walnuts of desire. And then, with a sigh that gurgled and sucked into her throat, she brought her fingers down to the great mound of hair in a lewd, suggestive gesture.
The countess drew Cristina down gently to a seat beside her upon a divan. At Cristina's other flank was Georg in erection already. And, on the countess's right hand, Henry sank to a sitting position beside his hostess.
Philoueas was tantalizingly slow about his own undressing. Garment after garment he removed, and placed, neatly folded, in a pile on an adjacent chair. Finally he had only his shorts to remove. And, as he did so, all but the countess sighed involuntarily at the magnitude of the enormous penis that jutted suddenly into view atop the splendid balls that hung from his mighty, full-bellied trunk.
The man stood like the Gargantua of Rabelais himself. He clutched his rod in one huge, enveloping palm, and slicked back the skin over its helmet and two or three globules of lubrication trailed to the floor on elastic strands.
Before him, his wife gyrated and shimmied in some ritualistic exercise designed to stir her nerve-centers into a veritable hotbed of passion and raw desire. Her boobs shook and wobbled. Her buttocks, huge mounds both, were a-tremble as she caused them to undulate obscenely.
And then, slowly, slowly, slowly but with infinite purposefulness, Philoueas began his advance upon the by now near-demented woman before him. And as he came, he frotteured himself, wetting his entire shaft with his own welling lubricity.
"This you have to watch," said the countess, "but closely."
Georg thought she breathed the words a trifle more hoarsely than necessary. But never for a moment did he take his eyes off the rampant, bobbing lance of the Senegalese giant, who was shambling slowly, inexorably, towards the woman he was bent on possessing.
"What you're about to see," resumed the countess, "is something quite fantastic. These people are far ahead of us. Their whole attitude is so much more advanced, for all they're black." And at that moment Philoueas made physical contact with his randy, sex-flaunting wife. He growled, deep in his throat, as would growl some jungle gorilla. He let go of his tool and the massive structure, stiff and throbbing, leaped up to a forty-five-degree angle as it melded into the amplitude of her mighty belly. He bore down upon her, carrying her into total collapse when her knees bent against the edge of one of the room's two great divans. Down she fell upon her back, and as she fell she arched her legs up and around.
By so doing she laid bare the open and pul-the bulk of her husband's mighty torso, sating tunnel of her vagina. Red, angry and inflamed, it gaped for its piston. That did not take long. Like some primeval brute, Philoueas drove powerfully into his sobbing, panting wife.
Receiving his prick into the lush warmth of her peristaltic pod, the woman let out an animal yell of gratification.
"Aaaah-h-h-h-aaah !" she screamed, in the ineffability of her delight. "Pierce me, great man of mine! Fuck me, deep into my bowels! Let me have the whole length of you! Let me be bored by you-gore me! Gore me! Fuck me, bull of my jungle forest! Elephantise your cock up me-your wonderful cock! Up my plumbing, deep up among my pipes! Never stop! Fuck me now, Philoueas, like you've never done it before! Aaah-ho ho! Fuckfuckfuck me!"
And as she screamed and babbled her obscenities into the room, she wrapped her great thighs about his middle, using her heels to kick powerfully down upon each descent of her husband's massive hips into the woman-crotch of her.
An orgy of fantasy now possessed the spectators.
The countess bent forwards, her full and pendulous breasts downslung from her torso, with their nipples hammer hard against the transparency of her covering. Spittle drooled from her mouth. From somewhere deeply below her larynx she screamed and crooned like some Irishwoman at a wake. Involuntarily she had begun to sling her boobs from side to side, between their nylon-net covering.
"Oooohhh-h-h-h!" she moaned. "What magnificent fucking! Did anybody ever see the like of it! Ah, Christ, if there is a man among you, take me now! At least take my boobies! Frig them! Titillate them! Whip them-hurt them! Take them between your fingers and twist them, twirl them, tweak them! Oh, sweet Christ, but I turn to jelly inside me, when I think of what that wonderful woman must be enduring! Ah, Henry, in Christ's name, take me, take me now-bore into me as he is boring into her! Georg! If you be man at all-take my titties, take my breasts, slap them up-fuck me! Please-please, I implore you, let me no longer endure that fascinating sight! Fuck me like that-as wildly, as grandly, as magnificently! Mightily! Nobly! As wonderfully!"
Henry first acceded to her demented commands. He stole an arm around her, letting fall a hand to cup her dangling breasts and he furiously began to flick with his fingers at her hard, elevated nipples.
Georg, meanwhile, near demented himself, plunged his hand deep up the diaphanous skirt and, amazed, watched his four fingers disappear into the aristocratic kitten as soon as he had made contact with the dripping, swishing mash of her hairs, aflame between her spread-eagling thighs.
Beverly was approaching her first climax. Urging herself to unthought-of heights of sexual acrobatics, the black wench was flogging the hips of her husband down and ever deeper into the maw of her slit. She was coming. She wriggled her arse and half her spine to meet the slashing, down chopping ardour of Philoueas above her. And suddenly her entire body burst into one shining ebony acreage of perspiration, iridescent, almost, as her orgasm threatened to rend her apart.
Instead of coasting to a decline then, however, the incredible woman seemed to thrash her self to even wilder, more grandiose efforts of copulation as she sought to render to Philoueas the same measure of sexual relief as he had brought to her.
"And now," whispered the countess, brought back to sanity by the sight of that outburst of sweat, "watch this! For this is the essence of their love-lore. She's come, now, with every cell in her body. Now watch-instead of relaxing like we would, she'll flog herself into the effort to make Philoueas come. That'll bring her into heat again. So as he comes, so he'll strive to finish her off again. Then it'll be her turn, you see? And then his again-and then hers. And so they go on, till the God-knows-how-many times-when they might succeed in one final simultaneous orgasm. And only after that will they die, these two! Ah, these magnificent Africans! If only we could fuck like they do!"
She said all this while she was splaying her thighs wide to meet the onslaught of the fingers of Georg, deep within her vagina. And Georg, himself excited now beyond the power of control, realized that no control was called for: the party was, by this time, a free-for-all. He frolicked and fornicated finger wise at the crotch of his aristocratic hostess, and he felt his own cock rising to uncontrollable proportions. And then, with a shudder of delight he felt fingers, climbing, feeling, probing-and he knew, his whole physical frame exulting, that it was Cristina who was after him! Instinctively he parted his thighs, the better to aid her, and his entire staff sprang into view as she succeeded in opening his trousers.
And now Philoueas was boring down and into his wife, and her howls of anguish rent the room as he seemed to split her vast, wet tunnel with each boring downstroke. And more and more furiously, he bored, relentlessly, over her sobbing cries of pain/pleasure, as he felt his own discharge upon him. And then it came! And he was as a thing gone berserk in that room as he writhed over Beverley's sweat-drenched body, evoking in his audience a tidal wave of lecherous desire. Each of the women felt, physically, that mighty negro discharge pouring into her own cervix, and each of the men felt he himself getting rid of that flood, spouting then, steamy and white-hot, from the tip of the black tool encased up to the hilt in the red vagina.
Cristina could contain her own feelings no longer. Her cunt aching to contain the volume of that jetting sperm-fluid discharge, she arched down and upon the penis she had unloosed. She fell to her knees as she encompassed its helmet-head deep within her puffy, passionate lips. She remembered, too, when, longing and faint with desire in the bus, she had craved the flow of the salty-oily stream of juice it had been pouring. And now, her skirts tossed up around her, she knelt to the tool of the Swiss, easing his entire sexual battery out of its trousered prison. Hard and rampant from their nest of curly blonde hair, both prick and balls were in her clutching fingers, disappearing down the avidity of her eager, sucking mouth caress.
Watching her, and watching the now-increased ferocity of the Senegalese woman approaching her second orgasm, the countess could no longer contain her own passion. Desire had swollen all of her woman parts to the bursting point. She was lust-crazed now. She ripped and tore at the single garment she wore, until she had shredded herself rather than undressed herself, into stark nakedness. Breasts swollen, kitten aflame, belly quivering, she lay in rut upon the divan. And as the last stitch of thread was cast from her, she clutched at the still fully clad body of Henry, drawing him to her, over her, covering her.
"Take me," she screamed. "Take me, Henry, with every item of your athletic body! Tear off your clothes, I beg of you! Let your shaft spring out! Cram it, balls and all, into this aching twat of mine! Come into me! Take me! Or let me fuck you-in such a fuck as you have never known! Ah, these Korfus! How they fuck-how I wish I could fuck like Beverly does! He comes! She comes! Then it's him again! Then her! And so they go on-and what can we know of such bliss, we who die each time we've been screwed, we who flake out each time we've been reamed, who lie, spread-limbed, loose-titted, dead to the world each time we get an orgasm; Ah, Henry! Fuck me now, but fuck me now, now now now, this very minute, I beseech you!"
And hearing her rant and rave, the desire of Georg was increased a thousandfold. He arched his tool into the mouth of Cristina, eager to give her what he had, in spite of its being his third discharge in twelve hours. And as he felt her sucking him, he crammed his toes into her naked pod, feeling his great toe make sliding, wet contact upon her clitoris.
And all the time, before them, the woman Beverly was grinding her massive hulk against the sturdiness and stature of her man, seeking to prolong the erection that had brought her to such magnificent satiation only minutes before. He, unharmed by his first orgasm, was again fulfilling every demand made of him.
To the right of Georg, the trapeze artist had shed himself of his trousers, and with a wand-like yet enormously long sinew of a penis was probing deep within the vitals of the aristocrat, now nude and slavering bestially from her lips, lying there twitching beneath the gymnast's loins. In and out he stabbed viciously, and Georg, out of the corners of his eyes, kept count of the contortions and the gyrations being performed by the magnificent woman to extract from her lover his full measure. He cupped the countess's tit that had swung free of Henry's caress. He tweaked it maliciously, deliberately, painfully, knowing that the countess was long past feeling pain, and far past caring, at that moment, who might be causing it. And as he titted and tweaked the breasts of the countess he thrust his raging prick into the very tonsils of the Greek girl salivating over his loins-the while he watched, hypnotized, the endless copulation of the Senegalese couple, sweating all over their satin smooth black bodies so that a thousand surfaces shot back the light, rippling over their muscled, well-fleshed surfaces.
And suddenly there was the moaning and slushing and cunt thrusting squish of the coming of the white bodies. Cristina came first. She wriggled. She writhed. She danced as if she had, impaled up her vagina, a length of hot rubber hose. She came. She climaxed gloriously. She squirmed like a fish on a hook and she discharged all her woman slime over the toes of Georg, who, arching his loins into her receptive mouth, released great white strands of jetting semen deep into her throat.
Simultaneously, the countess let go. Far beyond the worry of pregnancy at her age, she took the full meed of sexual discharge from whoever bestrode her. She twined thighs and calves about the athletic body of Henry and cunt sucked him in her agony of trying to give him synchronized satisfaction. And, with a bellow of lust, Henry shot jet after jet of come into the countess.
The four finally fell apart. Eyes glazed in their satiation, they watched the inexorable mating of the pair of mighty colossi who had not ceased the ferocity of their intercourse since Philoueas had advanced, penis raging and rampant, upon the arching vault of his wife's thighs. On and on they went-none could have said who was the sexual aggressor and who the despoiled, in the ardour of that embrace.
First Beverly would come. Then Philoueas in his mighty, masculine ejaculation. Then she again, randy to the point of yet another soul-tearing orgasm.
Spent now, their penises flaccid lengths of spineless cord, their pods agape and sticky with the slime of spent semen, the four upon the countess's settee watched, now, the final orgasm between Philoueas and Beverly.
Philoueas now stood up and lifted the entire body of his two-hundred and fifty-pound wife, cleaving her to his torso with a terrible strength, dreadful to watch. As he did so, she clasped her huge arms about his shoulders and wrapped her thighs about his hips so that her feet met, engulfing his thick lipped mouth in a huge, slobbering kiss, wet as a swamp.
Kissing they came. Each came together. Each came, mightily, palpitatingly, together. The entire room seemed to rock as, screaming, wet, sweaty and satiated, the two of them collapsed, writhing upon the carpet in that orgiastic hell of sex. They fell, where they lay. They shot into spasm, once or twice. Then they were still.
The others were also still. One by one, they fell asleep, the langour oozing out of their limbs.
Then, one at a time, they rose. They rose silently, so as not to disturb the others still sleeping-and stole off to their rooms.
CHAPTER FIVE
Once through the Brenner, the weather had warmed. The lovely Dolomite country was at its most beautiful.
Cristina sensed that the tourists would need no microphone tour-chatter from her. She retired, instead, into the rear-built little galley-cum-bar, and prepared tea for her passengers.
"Come and sit here with us," invited the countess after Cristina had served the mid-morning refreshments. "Tell me-you are Greek, are you not?
Greek-born, madame. But I've been in and out of so many countries I honestly couldn't claim any particular nationality any more."
"An interesting job?" asked Henry, with suave charm.
"Absolutely the most wonderful," she enthused. "Never know who we'll take abroad next. Never know where we'll be going. Never know what-and that's the beauty of it!"
"The gypsy type!" asked big Beverly Korfu. "Yes-I think I'd love it, too. You certainly suit the life."
"That I don't know, madame. But the life suits me-fine. I don't think I could do anything else, I love it so." Cristina was warming to the graciousness of her companions.
"Tell me," said the countess. "The events of last night-did they surprise you?"
"Lots of things surprise me, Countess, But sex? Never! I think I could live for sex ... for the infinite variety in it. I'm young, I know. But each new experience thrills me-so very much."
"You were not-well-embarrassed, then?" asked Henry.
"I will confess that when I first came into the room last night, one thing simply flabbergasted me. Took my breath away." She turned, apologetically, to the countess. "Your dress, madame. But it soon passed. You see, I ended up admiring your supreme courage in wearing that gown. And even more-the wonderful grace with which you carried it off."
The countess smiled. She was at the age when compliments pleased her.
"Had you ever been before to any party involving mass fucking, then?" she asked.
Cristina smiled. Her thoughts went back to the bathroom orgy.
"Once, madame. Only once. But then there were only three of us-not six, as there were last night."
"Two men?" asked Beverly. "With you?"
"Two of us girls-with one man," corrected Cristina.
"You enjoyed it?" asked Philoueas.
"I have enjoyed every act of intercourse I have ever taken part in," she replied. "Every one. Some, though, more than other. Much more."
"So that last night's party was little novelty to you?" asked Philoueas.
"Oh, no. Please don't get that impression. It's just that last night I seemed to have hit a new high in sex experience. I have never, but never, seen such magnificent fornication as that between you and Beverly. It was splendid. It was the most splendid, the supreme experience of my whole life. I can't begin to describe the excitement of it-"
"You see? said the countess to Henry. "A born libertine. Cristina's young, now. But the material is there. The open mind-the ability to be impressed-the ability, afterwards, to exult! Possess these qualities, add to them the determination to revere all experience-the determination not to be stupidly and conventionally 'shocked', as they say, by what is novel and out of the ordinary ... and there you have the perfect material for the creation of a libertine. Once, however, you allow shock to creep in, or even the semblance of disgust, and pouf! what is left? nothing!"
"But Eloise," asked Henry quickly, "is not the horizon a very limited one? After all, what opportunities-"
"Opportunities? To the peasant, to the dolt, to the uninitiated-they must seem to be small! But, once over the barrier-a whole new world opens up to one."
"You mean-there is really no limit to opportunities? That people exist who would take one into their circle?"
"Ah, Eloise," he boomed, slapping his hefty thigh. "If we-if people-only knew!" Then he grew thoughtful. "But perhaps it is just as well. Imagine too many concert's to out way of living!"
Philoueas laughed uproariously.
"That's precisely my point," said the countess. "Oh, Henry, I've tried so hard to explain. You could live out your lifetime, right among people like us, and not know we exist. You could meet us in hotels, at house parties, along the boulevard cafes-and to every outward appearance we are just ordinary as you yourself.
"Cross once over the fence, however, just once-and, provided you come into our midst in the right open frame of mind-every ounce of heaven on earth is yours. Yours for the taking. That is why Cristina here is so fascinating to me. For a woman, especially, the transition is a hard one. Women are so stupid-such creatures of fear. They cling, so fiercely, to tradition-to convention. What'll people think? What'll people say? What'll I think, myself, tomorrow? That's how their thoughts run. And, by the very existence of such thinking, they remain in their stolid emotional grooves all their lives They can't climb out. It's not in them to take that vital first step!"
"You're so very right," laughed Beverly. "Oh, well-it's perhaps better that way. On the right side of the fence-out there," and she gestured to some peasants tilling the fields along the roadside, "there are too many women. Not enough men. On our side, God be praised, there are men for every woman-dozens of men!" Georg, listening with amusement to the conversational snatches that reached him, thought that the black woman had summed up the whole position pretty accurately. With so many women available, in the conventional existence, it was small wonder a man would seek for himself one only-to cleave to her in marriage for the rest of his life; to seek to keep her for his very own. But, with the available women reduced to a minimal few for every available dozen men-why, the women would just naturally have to be capable to sharing themselves around. Thereby there would be a constant stimulus for them to give every possible pleasure, just to stay in the race. So who would benefit? The men, of course! And who would be getting the benefit? Who-but the women? It was ideal.
Cristina, mildly excited once more, turned the conversation back to the events of the previous evening.
"What so utterly captivated my imagination was the quite inhuman way you two kept on and on at each other. How do you manage that?"
Beverly shook with laughter.
"You whites," she said. "Always asking us that. Why, in Senegal, we all do it that way. Because-what other way can give so much enjoyment, so indefinitely prolonged?"
"In Europe," said Philoueas, "you people amuse me. You set such store on this madness of mutual, simultaneous orgasm. You break to achieve it. You're so busy, each of you, thinking about pleasuring the other one, that to me the miracle is how you ever achieve the wonder of orgasm for yourselves."
"Whereas, we," continued Beverly, "regard sex as the most selfish thing there is. That's just exactly what it is, too. A cunt, a raging penis, both exist solely to be pleasured-to be given the utmost satisfaction. Not to give it. To be given it. To get it. Don't you see?"
Georg, hearing this, thought it an odd philosophy. How completely, at variance, how completely the opposite, of all his thinking on sex up to now! What successes he had had, and they had been numerous, had come, it seemed solely because of his rare quality of being able to assure satisfaction to whatever woman it was whom he happened to be straddling. Now here was the bounteous Beverly, stating exactly the opposite!
"Then why," he asked, "do you still continue to screw once one of you has come? To come-to have come, that is-surely that is to have received the maximum of pleasure? To have got from it all you wanted?"
"Because Georg, there is nobody who cannot come twice. Once you have come, you go. on-not to bring pleasure to the one who hasn't arrived yet, but to reach your second climax. And after that, if it's possible, your third-or even your fourth. If, in the meantime, your partner arrives at a climax-why should he cease then? He'll come again, won't he? Why not let him strive then, for as many orgasms as he can manage?
"The point I'm making is that you do it for what you can get out of it-not for what you can give to it."
"But that supreme endurance?" persisted Cristina. "Where in the name of God do you get that from?"
"Africa," murmured the countess, "is an ancient country. An ancient country-with a distinct civilization. Vast. Mysterious. In Africa there are insects and animals that are unknown to us in Europe. What herbs, what plants, in its vegetation-"
"All of which we know, very well, in my country," said Philoueas. "There are aphrodisiacs that you, in Europe, have never dreamed of. We gather these things. We dry them. We make them into infusions. We eat them and drink them. We put them, all of them, to our use-when it becomes necessary."
Agog with excitement, Cristina asked: "And these things, Mr. Korfu-where can we get them? Here in Europe, I mean?"
"It is not good, girl, to use things like these when you do not physically need them," said Philoueas gently. "You, for example. I doubt that you would ever need them."
"Ah, but no-you could be so wrong. Oh, I'd give my two boobs to be able to go like you and Beverly did last night-on and on and on-and never to tire. But with me, it's different. Once I come-I'm done for. I'm dead, almost. It takes so long for me to get randy again-all I want to do is to sleep-sometimes for ever!"
"Shall we help her, Beverly?" Philoueas asked.
"In good time, Philoueas-in good time," said the countess, quickly. "Not yet, I think?"
"Quite right," said Philoueas. There are other methods, without resorting to herbs and in insects...."
"You'll tell me of them? Cristina asked. "For Georg and me-you'll teach us? Once we leave you, we're on our own again. We've so much to learn, and there's so little time."
"But you need so little teaching, you two," said Philoueas kindly. Don't worry, though. We'll teach you-what we can."
"And the aphrodisiacs? Where can one get these? I mean-for later ... for years later, when one wants them," she faltered. "I won't be young for ever, you know."
Georg grinned, feeling himself included in the girl's request.
"We're never without our supplies," Beverly confessed. "We write home, to this and to that village in the jungles-and they send us the things we want."
"But perhaps-if you gave me just the right things, I could overcome this collapse that exhausts me so, after I've come for the first time."
"Just have patience, Cristina. We'll see. We'll see. But is there anything wrong, then, with Georg?"
Georg chuckled out loud.
"If there is, I'm not being bothered by any complaints up to now," he said. Even as he listened to their chatter, he could feel the surge of desire repossessing his scrotum and exciting the root of his rod.
"Have you known Georg long?" asked the countess.
"No, madame. Not long at all. We met, for the first time, in Lucerne-just two days ago," she confessed.
"So keen on him? So soon?"
"Madame, with men you know in a flash."
"You know then?"
"Past all shadow of doubt. But you see, this tour must end. In two weeks-three weeks, then-we part from all of you-all you wonderful people. People I could scarcely have dreamed could exist. We must go on. Other tours. Other countries. Georg, perhaps with some other guide; me, with some other driver. I don't want it so. But that's the way the ball's going to bounce."
"And you would remain-a libertine?" asked Henry.
"If Georg would allow it-and if he were to be one with me," she said.
"So? Georg, what do you say to that?" asked Philoueas.
"About becoming a libertine? Fine! I'm all for it. With one proviso, though-that I pick my company. And that's not going to be easy-you see, I'm afraid I started in too close to the top."
The countess smiled at the implied compliment both to herself and to her guests.
Only she knew what was still to come....
CHAPTER SIX
In their Lido hotel, bedroom doors opened wide to the balm of the morning Adriatic breeze, Georg awoke early, still in the bed of the delectable Cristina, asleep, breathing easily and softly, next to him.
He grinned, conscious of the fact that he was stark naked-and that Cristina's body was equally nude.
He'd had every intention of returning to his room, the night before. Only one tumble on the bed with her-that had been his promise to himself.
And then she had undressed and at the sight of the nude sculptured loveliness of her ample body, he'd succumbed ... And here he was, the next morning, still lying where he had collapsed at God knows what hour the previous evening.
Oh, well, he reflected, stretching luxuriously in the still-warm sheets-one less bed for the hotel staff to have to make up. Whatever happened somebody was sure to benefit.
As he swung his legs gently over the side of the bed and got up to relieve his bladder Cristina stirred. She rolled over on one side, her bountiful boobs squelching deliciously together. Lithely, Georg bent to kiss their nipples.
Cristina awoke.
Drowsily she reached up for his head, drawing his lips to hers.
Long moments later, they drew apart.
"All very well," said Georg. "But if I don't go, right now, I'll burst a bladder on you!"
"Come!" she said urgently. "Quickly, Georg. I've an idea."
Georg followed her into the bathroom. Cristina ignored the water-closet and stepped over the rim of the bath. Naked, she lay against the cool pink porcelain, her knees up in the bath and spread so that the gash of her kitten opened deliciously beneath its mat of curling, jet-blue-black hairs.
"Now you stand up there," she commanded. "On the sides of the bath-right up! Put one foot on each rim. That's right.
Standing as she had bid him, Georg knew suddenly what was wanted of him. Holding his rod to aim the jet right into the gash, he let go. At the same instant, Cristina allowed her own urine to escape and a stream of straw-coloured urine splashed upwards to meet the descending fountain of Georg's cascade.
The two jets merged, deliciously, at body-heat, directly upon the clitoris of the recumbent girl. She thrilled to the sudden delight. Afraid to move, in case she would lose contact with the stream, she lay back and luxuriated in the delicious sensation she had so perversely provoked.
Georg grinned down at her. What a woman, he thought, admiring the inventiveness of her sensuality. Together only three days, now-and already, this! And why not-if it brought her pleasure? Had not the two of them become, overnight, two libertines?
Over coffee, Georg asked: "What do you make of the crew we picked up here last night? Quite a party, I'd say."
Cristina, nude and statuesque as she relaxed into an easy chair, replied: "It's building up, isn't it?"
"I'll say it is. My God, but there was no doubt about Luigi and that fellow Lawrence! I'd forgotten that faggots like that still exist!"
"They're certainly a pair of fairies. But you know, Georg, there's just something about those two in particular that fails to disgust me. Most times, men like that send a shudder up my back. But these two? Funny, I just don't seem to mind them."
"Come to think of it-you're right, hon. Me too-I must confess they nauseate me, these pansy fellows. But I never once actively disliked either Luigi or Lawrence all last night."
"Maybe it's because they have such charm. Perfect manners-both of them, I thought. Poor buggers-I don't know whether to pity them or to envy them."
"That's just what I've always thought. Pity-or envy? I'll tell you what, though-Henry struck me as showing rather more interest than I would have expected. That bloody countess-she's up to something, throwing those two at Henry. Hell, I thought it was she who was for Henry."
"She's deep, all right."
"Well, the party certainly thickens. Me, I could ride with his mob for a year and not get tired of them. Never a dull moment-with them, or with you either."
"You say the nicest things. I always did want a guy who appreciated me."
"You're nice to say nice things to."
Cristina bowed in mock acknowledgement. Georg uncoiled his length from a chair and, naked, crossed to refill his second cup of coffee.
An Olympic statue in his flat gutted, muscled, tiger-like litheness, Cristina thrilled to the glorious sight of him.
"And those other two?" he continued, sitting down again. "What'd you make of them? An impressive dolly, that Nay-Nikki number. Polynesian, wasn't she? And her pal-Dr. Sean Mac-throne. My God, what a name!"
"What I saw, I liked. The doctor seems to have scads of money. And I liked the way that Polynesian dish walks. Easy. Fluent. Bit like you-only less like. No, Georg-what I saw, I liked."
"You mean-you'll defer a final judgment?"
"Like the man said. But-you want a long shot? This, then, and mark my words: that Polynesian wench's going to turn out to be one of those nympho jobs you hear about."
"What makes you say that?"
"I don't know. Nothing. Nothing in particular. Just flying by the seat of my pants. I'm a girl-and girls know these things. Anyway, that's how I'm tipping it."
"You basing it on her? Or on him?"
"Both-I suppose. Ask yourself-why would a fellow like the doc latch on to a woman like that? They're oceans apart, really. He's a medic-and she's still a raw native, underneath whatever polish he's given her. Ask yourself that, hey?"
"Well, the countess did tell us that he'd spent twenty years in the islands...."
"So? Wouldn't you think a fellow'd get tired looking at all those niggers, out there in the South Seas? Be only too glad to latch on to white girls, once he got back among them again?"
"Oh, I don't know. There's something fascinating about a black skin-even a golden-yeller. Any man goes for such stuff. Besides, they don't wear bras, if you recall-remember Bali?"
Never been to Bali. And, from where I sit right now, I don't care if I never go, either. You'll do-till the boys from Bali move in, brother!"
Georg grinned.
"Besides, Cristina went on, "she isn't bad-looking, either-especially in the bust, bosom and belly department, is she? And what a lovely name-Mai-Nikki!"
"Nice name-I'll concede that. And I was watching that figure. Real sinuous...."
"You like them sinuous?" Cristina cocked up an eye-brow.
Georg pistoled his finger, and pointed it at Cris. "I like 'em that way-your way. Suits me finer than anything else I've ever seen."
He stood up.
"Anyway, let's get dressed. The hell with the queers, with Sean Macthrone-or Nai-Nikkie. Let me get dressed, anyway. You needn't worry, of course. You never wear anything. Why some Latin cop hasn't locked you up long ago for public indecency I wouldn't know."
The party lazed all day on the sands, soaking up the Venetian sunshine and chatting idly among themselves. The countess was content. They were getting to know each other. Occasionally, one or two of them would venture out into the Adriatic, then return and allow the sun to dry the salty water from their bodies.
Their attitude towards sunbathing was in itself indicative of their natures. Tabulated, it was something to this effect:
Nai-Nikki: Tall, sinuous and honey-brown already, she rolled through a full circle of 360 degrees, packing as much tan as possible on to a supple, muscular body that was covered by the barest minimum of bikini. No amount of sunshine would ever worry her.
Dr. Sean MacThrone: wealthy cosmopolite and veteran of the tropics. Much the same as his Polynesian woman, he burned the rosy glow that turned, overnight, to brown. He had an athletic, well-preserved figure of the tall, string-bean variety.
Henry Grundmann: Soaked up all the sun that the Mediterranean could give him. Lean and beautifully lithe-muscled, his was a superbly-kept figure, carrying not an ounce of fat. No winter could ever pallorise the previous summer's sun for him.
Georg and Cristina: The very nature of their work ensured an all-year-round evenness of tan. Tourists "followed the sun." They, catering for tourists, followed the sun with their busloads of passengers. There was no risk of sunburn with these two.
Elois, Countess deBroni: She wore a full-torso swim-suit, probably out of deference to her matronly spread, acquired over many years of pampered, easy living. Still magnificent, she was, nevertheless, careful-spending much time in the shade of the parasol, and tanning only in short "takes."
Philoueas Korfu: Black and glistening with health, he frolicked gleefully for hours in the water. Came out into the sunshine simply to dry the salt into white flecks over his vast body-then was off, once more, into the waves. A man of inexhaustible energy.
Beverly Korfu: Since it was equally impossible for the sun to have any effect on her, she lay and revelled in the nakedness permitted by the vivid orange bikini she wore-its bare minimum of covering strained to something utterly ludicrous as it strove to contain the amplitude of her vast body.
Luigi Ferrari and his friend Lawrence Miller: The epitome of male grace and an almost feminine daintiness, these two took no more than ten minutes' exposure to the sun's direct rays in any hour. Their conversation :
"Luigi hates me to tan. And really, for Luigi I'd do anything, but anything. Wouldn't I, Luigi, my love?"
"Am I so demanding then, dah-ling? You should scold me if I am, really you should."
"Ah, but you know I couldn't. I couldn't ever. You're always so gentle with me."
"Oh, I do hope so-you're such a pet, you know."
"And besides, sun-tanning, I always think, look so awful-on certain people, that is."
"I've always said exactly the same. I see no aesthetic sense to it-you always lose it in the winter, anyway...."
CHAPTER SEVEN
They were sitting over after-dinner coffee in a private salon attached to the suite of the countess.
Setting down her cup, the aristocrat said: "It's not supposed to be an all-out affair, this-but I did think it might be amusing for some of us, to watch Luigi and Larry at work. After all, it's not many who can claim that they're ever seen two fairies in action. Any takers?"
"Not me," boomed Philoueas. "What Beverly and I went through last night is enough to last anybody a couple of days. And I know myself.
If I watch any sex, tonight, I know just what's going to happen."
"So do I , said his wife, "and I'm here to tell you-I want no part of it. My hole's still sore, still bruised. C'mon, Phil. This isn't for you and me. We're off to bed."
The countess looked inquiringly at the two homosexuals. "What do you say, Luigi? Larry?" Waving a deprecating hand, loose upon its wrist, Luigi protested: "Oh Elois-really. Of all the outrages-and in front of all these people-"
"Nonsense," said the countess. "You shouldn't mind. You've done it before. Remember Copenhagen, last year?"
"Oh yes, I remember. No need to get nasty. One doesn't mind so much if one knows people. But here, after all-why Larry and I have hardly met some of you. Larry may be embarrassed, too, you know."
Larry seemed far from embarrassed. Sipping coffee from a tiny cup, pinched between two fingers of a hand whose little finger stuck daintily out, he murmured: "I don't see why we shouldn't, Luigi. After all, it's not as if there are any outsiders. We're all Elois' friends here."
Luigi conceded the point. But he still pouted.
"You're a beast, Lois, sometimes, you know. You really are!" he protested.
"Beast-Why There's no telling what'll happen to the rest of us if you put on a good show," she said, smiling. "Remember Copenhagen?"
Luigi relented.
"Oh, very well then," he simpered. "But you'll have to promise, now that some of you at least will also take off your clothes and start something. You can't imagine how Larry and I hate to be naked-quite naked, I mean-in front of so many girls. You've no idea how embarrassing it can be!"
Larry had already started to disrobe. He was undoing an elegant cream silk shirt, peeling down to under vest and shorts. There was a willowy, undeveloped grace to his body which, in anything but so effeminate a youth would have been considered downright skinny. Luigi was a devoid of poundage-a mere white sapling in physique.
Stripped now to complete nudity, they stood facing each other. Their tools hung, flaccid and unaroused, arching gently over their scrotums.
Unobtrusively, the countess dimmed the light. There was now just enough illumination for the two principal actors to be seen. With a knowing glint in her eye, she went then to sit on the broad arm of the chair in which Henry lolled backwards.
The German gymnast found his gaze drawn in fascination to the play of the two pederasts who were now pirouetting on tippytoes so that they might absorb the "feel" of sex, the better to activate their libido. Their organs still flaccid, they twirled in ballet-like postures before each other.
Then Larry, arching his torso backwards, began to activate his hips to and fro. This caused his tool to slap up and down against his broad-flat stomach and the very sound of sinew upon flesh was sufficient to start the erection of Luigi. He ceased his gyrating and felt with his fingers, as if in surprise, the thickening shaft of his tool.
"Oh, dear," he groaned, as if it were all some great, dimly-understood mystery. "Here it comes, Larry. Look at it, darling! Doesn't it utterly fascinate you?"
Larry laughed. He laughed, not as men laugh. He giggled, as a girl giggles. "But of course, you silly thing! You know it does-it's so exciting-making. Let me touch it, darling?"
Luigi minced over towards the other man, who knelt quickly, and reached for the well-remembered contours of that opposite tool, now at face-level. He fondled it, lovingly. "Oh, but it's divine! So divine! And so utterly mine!"
By now, Luigi's erection was turgid enough to be able to stand out, horizontally, unsupported. Larry drew his tongue blissfully along its under surface, supporting it only by the lightest pressure of his fingertips.
And then he said: "Aaa-h-h! And now it's happening to me, too. I do declare, I'm getting quite excited!"
Entranced, he stood up-without, however, relinquishing his tender grasp upon the organ of the other man.
"Look, Luigi!" And, with the excitement of a school-girl, he held out his own member, drooping but thickening, over four supporting fingers of his elegant, woman-like hand. He was shyly proud.
The two faggots moved daintily toward a divan where, still in the light, they sank back, their heads against the cushions, leaving their legs to dangle over the edge of the divan. Now on their backs, their penises protruded upwards.
Larry plied his experienced fingers over the tool of his friend, to bring up that organ into its final state of randiness. As he did so, Luigi was busy masturbating his own tool.
Finally Luigi arched over, and clapped the helmet of his friend's pecker into his pouting, wettened mouth. Larry allowed a sigh of pure rapture to escape through his parted lips as, ever so gently, he eased his own machine into the caressing mouth poised above it.
This was the love ritual that all had heard about, though few had seen the fabled copulation of homosexuals, since the days of Caligula's Rome the most prevalent form of perversion in the world. Every movement was so dainty, executed so casually, that it seemed the most natural progression. Thus it was no surprise to see Larry slide back to a prone position, wriggling so that he did not disturb his penis inside the clinging wet lips of Luigi's mouth. When he lay, fully extended, upon his back, he drew Luigi around so that Luigi was now crouched oppositely above him, Luigi's own tool but an inch from Larry's gaping mouth below.
Larry continued his gentle masturbation. And now, the pre-spunk began to exude. With wicked enjoyment, Larry forbore to begin his own sucking at that stage. Instead, he collected that oily fluid until the entire head was shining, iridescent, under its slimy deposit-and then massaged, with infinite pressure, all around the flange. Larry knew, as few women do, just how randy it could drive a man. And he persisted to exactly that point when he knew his lover boy could bear it no longer. It was only then that he slid the top of Luigi's tool into his own mouth.
Now, punctuated only by the delicious noises of sucking, the two of them, silently and skillfully, went about their simultaneous copulation.
Those watching reacted characteristically.
Henry Grundmann was perhaps furthest gone in erotic stimulation. The gentleness, the grace, the exquisite effeminacy of the two fairies had so overcome him that he had unabashedly loosed his penis from its fly, allowing its enormous length to jut up and outwards from his thighs. As he watched the performance of Luigi and Larry, he stroked its sinewy length pensively and tenderly.
The countess, watching him masturbate, smiled wisely. She was herself in the grip of desire, but she had the aristocrat's full measure of self-control. Later, when Henry's libido had been fully released, she would help him. But not now.
She was watching, alternately, her two friends upon their shared couch-and the antics of Mai-Nikki. The dusky, honey-skinned Polynesian had thrown herself back into her chair, knees drawn up, was playing with herself in full view of any who cared to look her way. She wore no panties, and her fingers had churned up a froth of spume that glistened and dripped from her silky hair.
Watching her, in turn, and allowing his gaze to wander over the entire company, was the doctor. This sort of thing gave him every whit as much pleasure as did actual copulation itself. He liked to study people's individual reaction to sex ... to determine who would masturbate alone, who would masturbate mutually, who would be driven into the final ecstasy of actual copulation, who would abstain altogether. Idly, he caressed his own tool, to keep up the titillation he was feeling so exquisitely.
Oblivious now to the effect their sucking was having on the party seated around them. Luigi and Larry went at their delectable mutual after supper orgy of each other's sexual juices, both instruments in full view and not hidden, as in man-woman fucking, in the wallow of thighs, of cleaving bellies, and of agitated buttocks flaying into each other. There was nobody in the room who could not see exactly and accurately, what was going on-who did not know precisely what Luigi and Larry were up to at any stage of their love-play. And the effect of that passionate, coupled sucking had spread to all who watched, motionless save for their masturbation, excited but not yet unable to endure their excitement.
It was Cristina who made the first movement. She had kept her skirt on throughout the strange performance. But deep within her vagina the juices had begun to flow, and she allowed her labia to glide deliciously over each other, and so over her engorged clitoris, in the most imperceptible of movements.
Without a word she reached out for Georg. With his own man shaft erect and jutting from his pants, he sank down upon his knees in front of Cristina, who now drew up her skirt to expose the full loveliness of her densely covered twat, scintillating light like scattered jewels from where the hairs had caught up their load of lubrication. And as she exposed herself, Georg went down and into the delicious reddened tunnel of her vulva, his tongue gliding over her clitoris.
Luigi, crouched over his friend, felt himself racked in the grip of orgasm. In fierce little jabs, he sent his organ-tip into and out of the tonguing mouth of Larry, rigid beneath him as he felt Luigi at the point of discharge. Considerately, Larry released his own tool from Luigi's mouth, and concentrated upon the sucking movements necessary to coax Luigi's load from its column. His turn would come, when Luigi had spent. And then he felt the hot semen arrive, in little jets, and he sucked away, gathering the entire discharge into his mouth. Far too delicate and dainty to swallow it, he waited until Luigi's orgasm was completely spent, then spat the full load of come, still hot and steamy, into a Kleenex.
Luigi had sunk to his elbows after the fury of his climax, and Larry inched himself forwards through the thighs of the faggot who bestrode him. That left Luigi on knees and elbows, and exposed his lilywhite buttocks,-and it was to that target that Larry now addressed himself, operating from a standing position at the end of the bed. Devotedly he drew the other man's backside towards his now rampant lance. Luigi whimpered in the on setting ecstasy of pain. He raised his head in sweet martyrdom as he felt that piston probing straight up his rectum. But he knew, full well, the delight that was Larry's at that moment; knew, too, how best to prolong it. He strained back at the thrusting tool, and a look of ineffable bliss spread over his finely-chiseled face.
Though the changeover had blotted out the view of their organs, reversion to anal copulation had at least been a physical movement-an exchange of two bodies in space. It served to release the charge of passion that, by now, had the audience in its grip.
The countess moved first. She slid from the arm of Henry's chair, fell to her knees and whipped her skirt over her back, presenting to the German a backside encased in black, wide-legged panties. She spoke not a word. Words were unnecessary.
The gymnast gazed at this unfamiliar view of the countess, mesmerized with the lewdness of her pose.
He knew what she was begging him, wordlessly, by gesture alone, to do. He sighed, unbuttoned his fly completely, and knelt to the rounded, well fleshed buttocks of the countess.
His shaft was fully eleven or twelve inches long-a whip-like sinew of raging, spunk-drenched flesh. He presented it to the crouching woman before him, wondering, as he did so, whether it would ever make entrance into that un-likely fissure. Nor was he long in finding out. The countess strained backwards, feeling that probe at her anus, and loosed all the muscles round her ring. A full-rumbling fart rang through the room, and at that very instant the slimy sinew slid in-and up, up, up-right into the very colon of the crouching countess.
At the sudden and unexpected crack of the fart, both Luigi and Larry winced with delight. Larry plied his "task with redoubled efforts.
Georg burst out laughing deep into Cristina's crotch, for the life of him unable to restrain it-in spite of the fact that only a split second previously, his licking tongue had had Cristina so frantically close to her orgasm.
It became infectious. They all burst out laughing.
Larry, near coming before the countess had whip lashed her fart into the room, now brought on his orgasm at once, so that, having got it over with, he could concentrate on the others. He and Luigi drew apart, and both of them stared in delighted surprise at the sight of so much perverse fornication taking place all round them.
"For Heaven's sakes," he said. "Just look at them, Larry! Not a normal fuck going on in the entire room. Did you ever-but really!
Sean MacThorne recovered first. But he made no move in the direction of his nymphomaniac Polynesian. Instead, he tore off his trousers and shirt and, naked, went to lie athwart the countess's face. The rigid rod quivering before her lips, she extended her mouth to receive the head of it, now in the double delight of having one in her bowels, and the other slavering its load of juices in her mouth.
The lascivious sight of the ravaged aristocrat triggered off their collective lust.
Georg had by now abandoned all thought of cunt-sucking Cristina into orgasm. With a mighty growl, from deep down in his throat, he lifted her from her armchair, stripped her, and lowered her to the floor where she lay, and odalisque of superb nakedness. It was the work of a second to shuck off his own clothes. He stepped into position.
Cristina, so close to coming already a moment ago, needed no urging. She spread her alabaster thighs and swallowed up the well-remembered turgidity of her lover's organ deep into her vagina. She shuddered deliciously as its helmet banged and thudded away at her cervix. A virago in her delight, she screamed: "Fuck me-ooh-h-h, sweet Jesus-Fuck me! Ah, Christ, Georg-never stop. If you stop now, I swear, I'll kill you! Ooooh-hoh! but fuck me, or I'll kill you-kill you, I tell you! Give it, man, Give it-screw it into me. Deeper-go on! Deeper! Ram it up me, damn it-ah-but I'm so randy now, I could die! Die, I tell you! Give it to me, Georg-into me, man! Fuck, ah, fuckfuckfuck mee-e-e-e!"
At the sound of her tirade, Mai-Nikki stood up. In a moment she had unzipped her frock and sent it cascading into a silken flurry at her exquisite feet. She bounded over to the demented Cristina. Naked, she squatted over Cristina's face, her cunt presented to the Greek girl's slavering mouth.
"Suck it, Cristina!" she moaned, in the grip of her insatiable passion now. "Suck it, darling, please. Stuff your tongue right up it! Ah, Christ, but it's so hot, soo-o-o-o randy, it'll explode-any moment now! Suck it-oooh, please, Cristina-oooh, now, please. I'm so randy now I tell you, I'll come in a second!"
More by instinct than by any ability to hear the Polynesian's supplicating words in her demented state, Cristina latched at the palpitating pod with her lips. And as her tongue probed into the vagina, the Polynesian shuddered and shook as she went into the spasm of her enormous coming.
The squelching noises of the communal fornication all around them now proved too much for Luigi and Larry. Their own passions began to rise again. Slowly their two tools, excited already by one orgasm, began to stiffen for the second time.
An idea occurred to Luigi. "Dah-ling," he whispered to Larry. "Oh, I say-what fun! D'you see what I see? Look! the doctor-see his behind there? It's free, isn't it? And then, look! Georg-there, slipping it into Cristina-see his backside? Isn't it a divine thing? See what I mean?"
Larry caught Luigi's excitement. "But dare we? Oh Luigi-I'd love to of course I would-but dare we? What if they proved rough?" Luigi gave his answer by deed, not word. Naked already, he approached the stalwart Georg. He waited his chance, behind the buttocks flailing away over the supine Cristina. Then, seizing the split-second timing, the sudden plunged forward, once only, ramming his oiled shaft expertly into the opening that had needed to beckon and wink but once at him.
Larry grew bold in his turn. Lying behind the prone Dr. MacThrone, he darted his lance between the cheeks ahead of it. Once, twice, he let it slide and then, under its own lubrication, buried his rod inside the doctor.
Caught completely by surprise, Georg and the doctor let out two simultaneous howls of pain and outrage at the sudden abuse of an aperture that had never been so imposed upon.
But to the homosexuals, these were not the first virginities they had ravaged. They knew the sudden shock-a shock of revulsion almost-accompanying a first ramming of the anus. They knew, too, how best to stop the wriggling that inevitably takes place, as the ravaged one strives to rid his rectum of the alien rod. They knew how to overcome this first reaction of revulsion. One or two rapid plunges, and the original shock soon changes to an intense pleasure, and, thereby, acceptance, even if only on an experimental basis.
Within moments, they were proved right. After the first shock of disgust and embarrassment, neither Georg nor Sean MacThorne raised any further protest. Each submitted-tacitly accepting that as libertine, they were in no position to object to anything anybody did to them.
Georg went on screwing Cristina, who with gusto was sucking Mai-Nikki. who had already drenched her face with one discharge and was now quivering in the throes of her third. The plunging buttocks of Georg provided all the movement Larry needed. Keeping his rod in position, he let Georg do all the physical work, the while he knelt back to relax in the unbearable enjoyment of what was happening to his own pleasure-wand.
The countess, lewd and obscene as she crouched beneath Henry, grinned as she reflected on the turn the evening had taken-Henry Grundmann having his first initiation into female buggery, high up in her tunnel, she herself avidly sucking the man fluid of Sean MacThorne, he in his turn consumed by the pleasure of having his tool sucked so expertly at the same time that his bowels were being reamed by his first copulation with a faggot!
The party was now at its fever-pitch of crescendo. Already Cristina was coming, jetting her load around the cock of Georg, whose ejaculations she was absorbing deep into her very womb. She gave herself up to the fierce rapture of orgasm.
The countess was also coming-superbly and violently.
So, too, was the doctor.
And Mai-Nikki was coming again.
And so were Luigi and Larry, jerked off into orgasm by the twitching of the men into whom they were jammed.
Shrieks and roarings of pleasure burst out as the copulating foursomes thrashed and writhed in the grip of sex. Bodies broke out in copious sweats. Semen oozed everywhere. Beads and streams of it shot and trickled from boobs from salivating lips, from backsides, from crotches.
Tiny moans, weird and primeval, replaced the first transports of wild screaming. One and all sank into the diminuendo of delicious after-math, breathing easily and naturally now after their orgy of breathless sexuality.
Only Mai-Nikki was still active. She needed this vast acreage of lascivious, sperm-drenched nudity to trigger off her desires once more. With her kitten inflamed by her four previous orgasms, she was in rut again, clitoris erect, labia swollen and turgid. With her eyes on the sea of nakedness, she was fingering herself into her fifth orgasm, tweaking the nipples of her tits with her other hand as she worked herself up into the zenith of her masturbation.
Finally, wildly and obscenely, she came.
Then she, too, collapsed into insensibility....
CHAPTER EIGHT
The countess kept her party three days on the Lido. Her purpose was to allow the ten persons to get to know each other better.
By the end of the second day, Elois found her party had tended to fuse into two groups of four. The countess herself, with Henry and the two homosexuals, were one group. Their pleasure was over on the mainland, mingling with the crowds of tourists in the winding, narrow streets between the Rialto and St. Mark's Square.
For Dr. Sean MacThrone, however, with Mai-Nikki and Georg and Cristina-there just was not time enough to do all the swimming and sunbathing they crammed into each day. They hated crowds-so they left Venice alone.
The Korfus swam, or went shopping, with equal enjoyment. Today they had joined the group on the beach. The huge negro was eyeing the tourists enjoying themselves in pedalos out in the open sea.
"Let's get three of those things," he said. "And let's get the hell out to sea in them-somewhere where we can shuck off these swimsuits and loll around with no clothes on. Somewhere far out, where nobody's going to see us-what say, anybody?"
A beach attendant pushed three pedalos into the surf and the trio of vessels was soon a good eight hundred yards out from the shore, bobbing lazily up and down. It was far enough for them to strip. They lay, their bodies naked and exposed, relaxed in the seats of their craft, making nothing but the most desultory of conversation.
After a long pause, Mai-Nikki spoke.
"I wonder," she said, "whether it'd be possible to fuck underwater?"
Her startling question stung them all into attention. It did more-it showed the lines along which several of them had been thinking. Philoneas, indeed, provided visible evidence of this. His massive black penis was already swollen into a half erection.
Beverly was unbelieving. "You mean to say you've never found out yet? she asked, incredulously.
"Oddly enough, I haven't," confessed Mai-Nikki. She paused. "But you see, here we are, out in the sun and naked-and it's nice. I don't know how it's affecting you, but as for me-I'm about as randy as I've ever been. I often get that way. It's the way I am, I guess. Sometimes I do something about it-and sometimes I wait till the feeling passes off by itself.
"So I'm lying here, all hot for screwing, and I got to thinking, watching the water-what it'd be like to be laid actually in the sea. And I wondered ... You see, here I am with my pod all warm and wet and squishy. I'm about as ready for the knife as I've ever been.
"Suppose, now, I had to dive overboard. Wouldn't the shock of the cold water sort of dry me up, inside? Wouldn't it douse out the old libido? Phhht! Just like that? What's happen to the urge-the desire you know, that delicious feeling that spurs you on till you just naturally have to be shagged to get any sort of relief at all?"
"But of course it can be done," said Cristina.
"And I damn well know it can be done," chuckled Beverly. She, like Cristina, was surprised at this naivete on the part of the Polynesian.
She glanced over at the now erected prick of her husband, bobbing and throbbing gently now from his huge underbelly, probing up into the sunlight.
"You slip over the side, Mai-Nikki," she said. "Philoueas is just the boy to show you what you want to find out. Go on-you're not going to lose any of the urge, girl. I'm here to tell you that. Phil's done me underwater a score of times. It's the loveliest thing that can happen to you. Go on! Over you go! And you, Philoueas-you're going to show her!"
Mai-Nikki needed no second bidding. She slid, rather than splashed, into the water that was her element. Gracefully, she floated in the water as Philoueas, giant-like and huge as some hippo, swam lumberingly over to her.
For all the shock of being submerged in cold water, she was still as randy as ever. She dived, and swam beneath Philoueas Korfu, playfully flickering his massive rod as she passed below him. A few yards away she broke surface, and Philoueas turned to swim toward her. But Mai-Nikki submerged again, merrily taunting: "Come and get it, boy! It's right here, when you want it!"
This time she came up between the floats of the centre pedalo. Reaching up her arms, she clutched at the floats for support. It was an attitude that showed off to perfection her incomparable shoulders, rippling under their honey-coloured skin. Lazily her big breasts floated, their nipples hard and puckered as much by the grip of the sexual desire upon her as by the cold water.
Philoueas swam over to Mai-Nikki, treading water. His penis could be clearly seen, jutting toward the straight-haired silkness of the black gash.
Suddenly the sex-hungry Polynesian spread out her legs, encompassing the mighty trunk of the African at hip level, and drawing him toward her with an urgent tug of her heels.
In he came, and she quivered through her superb frame with the delicious shock-surprise of the penetration of that rampant ebony lance into and right up her vagina. Philoueas sent his enormous arms about her body, and held her to him, her breasts squashing, naked and buoyant, against his black chest.
It was a position that, out of the water, could only have been accomplished by a powerful man and a very petite woman-the man, planted between the woman's legs entwining his hips, swinging her up and thrusting her down over his prod, using her as a mobile cylinder which he slides up and down over his stationary piston.
That was what was happening in the crystal clarity of the water beneath them, and four heads craned to observe the joyous ritual. Two staunch-ions throbbed into erection at the same time as two vaginas tensed with the sudden ooze of lubricator. Dr. MacThrone, Georg, Cristina and Beverley were missing little of what was happening to the aquatic fornicators.
It took a mere five or six plungers of that incredibly thick negro weapon that was impaling Mai-Nikki for her to dissolve in the throes of her first coming. Her delight was obvious. Little crooning noises escaped from her as, not letting up for a moment, she strove to cram all of him into her, knew that he too, was approaching his ejaculation. He modified the ferocity of his action, contenting himself with a slow, deliberate squirming of his rod into its hot, ciliated tunnel in longer and more satisfying probes.
Mai-Nikki, however, took no thought for the prodigality of her pleasure. Possessed of an in satiable sexual appetite, she simply allowed other muscles in her twat to absorb the deeper-probing heft of Philoueas' man shaft. And within seconds she was off on her second orgasm, writhing and twisting as she clung to Philoueas in the grip of her body-wracking climax.
"My God, but how does she do it?" cried Cristina knowing that these orgasms were no mere put-on affairs-knowing that they were as genuine and physically wracking as any they themselves had ever endured.
"There are women like that," said Beverly softly. "Multiple orgasms-isn't that the medical term, Doctor?"
"Multiple orgasms-that's quite right," said Sean MacThorne. "Very rare. But Mai-Nikki is a classic case-one right out of the textbooks. She goes on and on, spitting out one climax after another. And she enjoys every one of them-the last one, if possible, more even than her first." He glanced at Georg. "When Philoueas is fin-inshed," he said, "you go in. She'll take all you can give her as well. And when you've finished, I'll take her on. Don't worry about her. Leaving Mai-Nikki in-between orgasms is nothing to her. She'll finish herself off on her finger, and then bring herself on again after that, if she still feels like it."
Philoueas was ejaculating. Great streams of white semen floated from the locked thighs of the couple as he jetted enormously, time and again, into her clutching, squirming vagina. When his convulsive hipthrusts subsided, he withdrew his member on a trail of strand-like threads of white sperm that floated up through the sea between and around two bodies.
Georg caught the glassy look in the eyes of the Polynesian girl that betrayed how totally she was engulfed in the tidal wave of her libido. In a moment he had slipped from his pedalo, and was in the place Philoueas had occupied. The neardemented girl clutched his body vigorously to hers, and wriggled to receive Georg's member. With not the slightest pause, or even any sign of relaxation she encompassed the fresh erection, smaller but just as welcome as had been the massive African phallus, and busied herself, sexually and gloriously, upon it. Again and again, machinegun-like, she shot off her successive loads until, within minutes, she had sucked forth the drenching and copious squirting of her second lover.
With Georg limp and spent, clinging to the float of one of the pedalos, Dr. MacThrone took his turn at that insatiable slit. Maintaining a rhythm that can be achieved by a man with a woman only after prolonged and mature acquaintance, Mai-Nikki, on the point of another discharge, thrashed about in a veritable frenzy of abandon. Her breasts floating hugely, seemed to be expanded to the bursting point. Her stomach heaved with her exertions. Her sleek, satiny buttocks arched, never-creasingly, to their greedy, gluttonous task. And finally the doctor shot his load into her and ranged himself weakly alongside the two previous copulators, exhausted by the incredible Mai-Nikki.
Oddly enough Beverly and Cristina seemed quite content with their enforced abandonment. They were in different pedalos, looking down at the orgy taking place underwater. Perhaps, had they been together, they might have given way to their emotions-but the crossing from one of these fragile craft to another on the open sea is not easy. Perhaps, because they were women, they were better able to control themselves. Both, however, felt the engorged oppression of women aroused and then left unsatisfied-a feeling that persisted long after they returned to shore.
Full of sheer joie-de-vivre, Henry was flexing his muscles in a panther-like stretch. Lunch had been superb, and the day was scintillating.
"Christ, but I feel fine," he enthused. "I don't know when I ever felt better.
Spontaneously he bounded from a standing position in the centre of the room into a perfect handstand. Back arched, head thrown back, he froze upside-down into perfect immobility.
Then, incredibly slowly, he transferred all of his weight on to his left hand, raising his right arm, spoke-like, at right angles to his shoulders. This, one of the most difficult of gymnastic feasts, was doubly so in sports coat and flannels. Springing lightly to the balls of his feet, he stood up, smiling.
"Oh, what a gorgeous ability!" breathed Larry. "How graceful-how superb!"
"That?" said Henry, contemptuously. "That was the worst one-armed handstand I've ever tried!"
"But just think," murmured Larry, adoration in his voice, "of being able to do a handstand at all."
"Anything's possible-with practice," smiled Henry. "But a single handstand, fully dressed? That's not easy, man!"
"Why don't you undress then?" asked Larry.
"Perhaps," put in the countess swiftly, "he doesn't care to undress-in front of you and Luigi."
She was remembering Henry's prompt and uninhibited acceptance of her anus, aware that such a predilection, rammed up for a lifetime, can suddenly become released in a man. She knew, too, how little it would take to spark off a recurrence.
Henry shot the woman a quick look. Swiftly he flung jackets, flannels and shirt to a chair. Shedding his underwear and his shoes and socks, he stood naked among them-physically as perfect a male body as any that had been sculpted in Italy. And then, with the tradition "Houpla!" of the trained acrobat, he sprang a full three feet into the air, jack-knifing over to land gently upon both hands, as springily as if he had pounced upon rubber. Easily and perfectly he arched his legs upwards, heels together, head back, in the classical handstand pose. And then, with a sharp "Al-lez!" he swung easily over on to one hand, extending the other arm to full stretch. He remained thus, immobile and perfect, for several minutes. Then, slowly, he drew in his outstretched arm, and eased his weight, once more, on to both palms.
"Oh, you utter darling, Henry!" said Larry in adoring tones. "Oh, Henry-but I could eat you up-really I could, you know."
He advanced shyly and clasped the gymnast round his inverted hips. He plunged his face into the German's loins. To accommodate his perverse caress, Henry, still in a handstand, extended his legs apart. Expertly, Larry tongued the gymnast's limp tool and it began to rise, hard-and sinewy. Before it had come to full erection, Harry had his fingers upon its incredible slender shaft and Henry, lust suddenly overtaking him swung back lithely to an upright standing position.
That was what Larry had wanted. Clasping the muscled buttocks of the man, he now knelt to his task, gently sucking the tool of the athlete. He could feel, by the sudden delicious shudders of the man shaft in his titillating lips and over his serpent-like tongue, that Henry was abandoned to an ecstasy of perverted homosexual enjoyment.
The sudden encounter had not left Luigi Fer rari unmoved. His eyes narrowed in sudden jealousy. He made a movement to advance upon Larry, his lover, so flagrantly unfaithful. But the countess noticing this, raised an imperious hand. Luigi got the wordless message, and smiling apologetically, he relaxed.
He watched the perverted sight-far more exciting to him than that provoked by voyeurism at any moment of normal man-woman fornication. Luigi felt a fire of lust burning within his loins-a lust aggravated by what he considered a flagrant infidelity on Larry's part.
He resisted as long as he could. Then he dropped his trousers and advanced upon the pair coupled, ecstatically, in front of him. With a plaintive, feminine cry shuddering from his throat, he minced around until he stood directly behind Henry, upon whom he advanced inch by inch, until his erection was pressed upwards between the muscled buttocks of the gymnast.
Daringly now, as if expecting a rebuff at any moment, he laid his hands upon Henry's flanks, quivering with homosexual delight at the feel of manflesh beneath his fingers. Finding his advances not repulsed, he was suddenly emboldened to grasp the German in the grip necessary to draw back his own hips for the plunge that would drive his fiery tool into the athlete.
This he did, then, choosing the moment when the cheeks were at full distension. The shaft paused once, imperceptibly, then it plunged through and in.
At that moment Henry knew the twin emotions of extreme disgust and unbearable excitement. Here he was, suddenly, with a tool up his rectum-and another nancyboy sucking him off! It was a confused emotion but, by and large, not displeasing. If this be libertinism, he thought, if these weird but delightful experiences, so suddenly sparked off and provoked, were part of the philosophy of the countess, then what had he been doing all his life that he had not become a participant sooner!
He abandoned himself, utterly and completely, to the enjoyment of the perverse delights he was experiencing, He had to do nothing except to stand, relaxed and unresisting. One man was sucking him, delightfully. Another was screwing him-and that was equally delightful. Sooner or later, what would be, would be-as the Italian song had it. The kneeling fairy who was so delectably salivating over his prod would soon receive his own squirting discharge. Up amid his bowels another shaft was exquisitely probing. Sooner or later it, too, would shoot out its load of white-hot, dammed-up semen. What else, then, for him to do, but just to relax and to let things happen?
He did-to the gloating satisfaction of the countess. Could Henry have seen the expression on her face then, he would have seen as well the satisfaction of someone who has attempted an experiment and who has seen it come to a successful conclusion....
CHAPTER NINE
The glittering mobile palace of Georg's bus rolled along Roe's Via Veneto. The ever-present scooting hordes of Lambrettas and Vespas scattered before it, parted, and joined, once more, their gay and noisy parade in its wake. Pedestrians gaped at it, in their gaze the envy of the local inhabitant for another new and invading tourist band.
Magnificently, importantly, ignoring the vulgar interest it was creating, the green-and-cream bus rolled along, individual and aloof. Up the winding Via Veneto it went, through the Old Wall, and onwards.
Several kilometers out of Rome itself, along the Via Appia, was the villa of Alfredo Tarlone.
Tarlone was a cinema cameraman. He was, at that very moment, riding the crest of the wave of popularity that comes to people in show business once they have been pronounced "fashionable."
Three years previously, he had filmed his first hit movie, moving him up from the obscure periphery of Cinecitta into the glittering limelight of fame. A second even more superb film followed. The mantle "photographic genius" settled even more firmly over his wide, elegant shoulders.
Then came his epic in black-and-white. It was a documentary called "Eye In the City"-which needed no story-sequence whatever to proclaim the miracle of his camera-artistry.
Tarlone was acclaimed universally. He was lionized at Cannes. His genius was applauded in Hollywood, London, Tokyo-wherever films are made, or spoken about.
Wealth came to him. For ten years ahead, Alfredo Tarlone could now command his studios-and his price.
Alfred Tarlone stood three inches over six feet in height, tapering down to the slender hips of a Gary Cooper. Tailored, invariably in silver-grey, he was that typical type of black-and-grey Roman over whom a million shop-assistants were prepared to swoon; a man beautifully barbered, beautifully groomed, charming, vivacious, elegant.
The villa in which he lived, with Italy's reigning and most voluptuous actress, was not his own. He rented it.
"Why buy the place?" he had said, once, to Charity Varotti, the svelte and sinuous film beauty for whom, alone, he had rented it. "From Tarlone, today, they could ask any price. And they would get it. But let Tarlone make one bum movie, hey? Just one! After that? Pouf! Tarlone is out-on his ear. Out-and in the gutter, for all they would ever care. And then, when Tarlone wants to sell? Their price-again! Just half of what the house would be worth. And Tarlone would have to accept it!"
It was to Torlone's villa that the countess' party was going.
Awaiting them in the sunshine of a lazy summer afternoon, were Charity Varotti, Alfredo, and Charity's close friends, Karen and Ava.
They were an oddly-assorted pair.
For, whereas Ava was a powerfully-built Amazon, muscled and fleshed and hipped like a man except for her pendulous, powerful boobs, Karen was almost exactly the opposite. Petite and boyish; she scaled hardly a hundred and ten pounds to Ava's robust and carelessly-carried hundred and sixty.
Karen's hair was boyishly cropped. She had the pale body and figure of a stripling. Her pelvis was narrow and boyish so that when she walked she seemed to progress as men do, moving from the waist. And she possessed only the tiniest pair of boobies-mere mounds thrust up from her torso, velvety and pointed only the least little bit towards her small, pink nipples. She boasted almost no hair at all over her crotch. Her nudity was like the nudity of a pre-adolescent little girl.
"I think I'm for a dip," she announced suddenly. Her body a white flash, she dived into the pool, creating scarcely a ripple over the surface.
"I'm damned if I know how she takes you," observed Charity Varotti to Ava. "I mean, you're so-so overpowering, next to her."
Ava chuckled. "Physique? It means nothing, Charity. It is the heart of that girl that counts. Her heart's bigger than your pool, there.
That, indeed, was precisely the impression created by Karen. For all her petite little body, she had the flashing eyes of inner strength.
"How long have you two been in love now?" asked Tarlone, lazily.
"Three years," exulted Ava. "Three wonderful, glorious years." A shudder gripped her as she thrilled to the thought of her beloved.
"That's longer than a whole lot of marriages last, these days," observed Tarlone.
"And why not? We lesbians know a togetherness that is more, much more than marriage!"
"See, Charity? I always told you-marriage is out!" quipped Alfredo to his mistress.
Bastard! You know I want you!" she flashed back.
"And when you've got me? What then?"
"I hate you, Alfredo Tarlone!"
"Not now, you don't. But you would."
"Your trouble, Charity, is you're too complex to marry Alfredo," observed Ava.
"Complex! Me, complex? He's the complicated one."
"No, honey. You are. You're a star. You're beautiful. Your breasts, your cleavage, your fabulous plunging necklines-there isn't a kid in Italy who doesn't know them. And you know it. You know you're popular-and you know you can't be without the adulation of that mob. So poor Alfredo would have to share that part of you."
"So?"
"So, in marriage-you don't share. You share nothing! You live for one person, one thing only. Like Karen and I live."
She paused, and Charity and Alfredo considered her words. Then, gently, she went on:
"Secondly-your fabulous vices. Look. You're a narcissist-look at your insane love of clothes. And then, those damned whips you're always yakking about. Narcissism, clothes, whips-and. that dependence of yours on the doting of a million fans! All this you want-and Alfredo's expected to share it all." She laughed, merrily. And as she laughed her exuberant breasts jounced and jiggled.
Alfredo lay back, amused to see how Charity would react to this ruthless analysis.
The actress said: "So? I dress for Alfredo alone. I undress for him alone. And the whips? For Alfredo's enjoyment alone."
Ava raised her eyebrows. "You really believe that?" she asked, smiling.
"Of course I do! For whom else, then?
"For you!"
And Ava indicated, by no more than a swinging of her naked nipples, the voluptuous curves of the equally-nude Charity. The star's breasts stood out, high, firm, and more beautiful than any marbled Florentine statue, unconfined by any brassiere. The rest of Charity's body was as statuesquely perfect as her incomparable bust.
"What you're trying to say is that I love myself more than I love Alfredo, then?" asked Charity.
"Exactly. And it's not a fault-not if you admit it," said Ava, levelly.
"I'm not sure I do admit it," said Charity.
"No matter. The point is that you and Alfredo are on the only perfect basis, right now-lover and mistress. As husband and wife, however-you wouldn't last together a year."
"But I want him-so very much," pouted Charity.
"Don't worry, kitten," said Alfredo, lazily. "You've got him. Till I find somebody with all you've got-you'll do."
"And that you can depend on," said Ava, with finality.
Charity was disappointed-but appeased.
The bus had finally arrived, spilling out its vivacious load of vacation-bound humanity amid the foursome around Torlone's pool.
"How splendid!" exclaimed the countess as she took in the intimacy of the lush nudity of Tarlone and his three guests. "Charming-and so utterly natural, Alfredo! Why not let's all take a swim? It's been such a long drive since Florence! What about it?"
"I'm a starter," boomed Beverly. "Philoueas? You for the water?"
"And afterwards a pastis here in the evening sun? What better?" assented the huge African.
Alfredo and the countess took swift care of the introductions. The nakedness of Alfredo's guests served to dipel any sense of formality. Mai-Nikki was first to strip. Dr. MacThrone needed no urging to follow suit. He dropped his garments where he stood, exposing his lean, tropic-toughened frame to the afternoon sunshine.
Ava, her great bush of hair a swirling tangle of hirsute delight, moved rapidly among the new guests, setting out new mattresses and proffering garden chairs around the side of the swimming pool.
Karen had swum over to join the newcomers. Great globules of water over her slender body, she evoked the ardent admiration of both Luigi and Larry, whose own unclad torsos hers so much resembled.
The countess, Cristina and Georg undressed as well, plunging into the cool water with happy cries.
A gaiety infused the whole group. Georg, diving beneath the pair of queers, would tweak a shrunken pecker into semi-erection and then swim happily beneath an established couple like Mai-Nikki and the doctor, darting a finger into a ready-oiled slit, twanging an already half-turgid tool.
He made one such pass at Cristina, and felt his powerful body encompassed into her reaching hungry grasp.
"Not yet," he sang out, happily. "Later, dear. You'll just have to bite on the bullet for a while!"
"You," said Cristina, "are nothing but a pig, Helspoute! Cockteaser, that's what you are!"
But, with a froth of bubbles, Georg, released now from the tension of driving, did not even hear Cristina's taunt.
He joyfully jiggled the bounteous breasts of Beverly, wiping a disappearing finger beneath her mound of tangled pubic hair as it sailed by over his hand. He spied the phenomenal length of Sean MacThrone's tool, and gave it a quick, provocative toss-off.
He swamn up close to the countess and flung an arm about her shoulders, encompassing both her floating bubs in his monetary grip. Their nipples hard already, he dangled those two great hillocks in his palms. Then, playfully milking at their nipples as he swam away, he left her to seek her own release in that pool of nubile nudity.
He swam to the edge of the pool and heaved himself on powerful shoulders over the edge, his own machine as limp and unaroused as if he had been at his first Scout picnic.
"Signor Tarlone," he gasped, out of breath, "I haven't had so much fun ever since I first found out about little girls!"
"Absolutely the first," laughed Georg. "But there've been so many fantastic 'first times' on this trip, I seem to have lost count! What fabulous people!"
"There's a point," said Tarlone. "You couldn't get just any crowd to cavort around like these people."
"People miss so much," lamented the driver.
"When they allow themselves to become hidebound and hogtied by convention, I agree," said Alfredo.
Georg dried himself on a handy towel. From Charity Varotti he accepted a can of iced beer, and sank down into a nylon-strapped garden chair. He raised his glass to Charity, toasting her. Appreciatively he set down the can after he had taken a long swallow.
"If anybody had told me," he said, "this morning, that I would be sitting, this evening, stark naked with Charity, also stark naked-I'd have bet my whole damn bus against it. Yet look-here we are, Georg and Charity-and not a stitch of clothes on your entire fabulous body!" Charity indicated that the compliment had pleased her. She compressed her incomparable breasts together. Their curves became more prominent-more inconceivably lovely than ever. "You like them?" she said, archly.
"I've been half in love with you, I think, since I saw your first film," Georg confessed. "I've lain awake nights, wondering what it'd be like to sleep with you-to see you stripped. And now-look!"
"Look all you like," she said. "I love being undressed. Clothes bother me-except to go out in."
"I've got to admit I'm not quite accustomed yet, to all this," said Georg gravely. Then he smiled again. "But I'm learning-fast."
Gradually, the party emerged from the pool. Soon all were taking iced drinks from a bar-table that had been hastily set up. Only Dr. Mac-Throne and Cristina were still in the water. And they, the memory of Venice's Lido still with them, were openly engaged in love's oldest activity, oblivious to the others around them.
It had been Cristina who had started that brief encounter in the water. Finding herself playfully spurned by Georg she had deliberately set her cap at the doctor. Georg had not realized the intensity of her desire at the moment of their encounter. When he had swum away from her, she looked about for somebody to entice into her willing hips-and she had found the doctor. It had taken but a moment of promiscuity for him r to rise to full erection, and Cristina led him to the deep end where she took advantage of the diving wet with desire as he came at her. With her boobies floating, hard-nippled, high in the water, she was ready for him. As he came at her, she yielded. She scissored his body between her ardent thighs. He floated with his hips boring deep and delightfully into her slime-wet crotch. It took but the motion of the water to agitate cock within warm, receptive cunt. Her jugs floating, swollen and at the peak of randiness into his grasp, it took little to bring her to orgasm.
And as she came, she screamed out her obscenities, gloriously unaware where she was, or who might be within earshot-oblivious even to whom it was who was encased within her:
"Ooooh-h-h-h! Fuck me, Georg," she shouted, shivering in ecstasy. "Fuck me-hard! Please-I implore you! Now-now when I'm hot and soo-o-o-o randy! Oooh-h-h-h, but I'm coming, I tell you-and it's loo-o-ovely! Fuck me-fuck me, deep into my twat, right in the juice of me, Georg! Ram it into me, give it to me, boy! Never stop! No-o-o-o-not now; Don't stop!
Dr. MacThrone merely grinned-and redoubled his efforts to bring on his own approaching orgasm simultaneously with hers.
And then her coming, a writhing and spasmodic body-jerking affair beneath the surface of the water, was over. Wearily, she dragged herself up the steel ladder, and it was Georg, grinning with vicarious delight at having caught his name uttered by her in her spasm, who went to help in her flop-titted exit from the water.
The sight of her, and of the doctor was enough to provoke everybody into varying degrees of sexual readiness.
But the countess intervened. Seeing the turn that was imminent, she put up an imperious hand.
"Not now," she said. "Save it up, people. Later is still time enough. Let's not rush this thing-it'll be just as exciting if we all hold off a while. Till after dinner tonight, perhaps? I think we'll all be the better than for just a little abstinence right now."
CHAPTER TEN
The countess had cut her guests off too abruptly. They sat around, morosely, their excited passions curbed now, for none wished to afford their aristocratic hostess the displeasure of disobedience.
Deliberately tantalizing, she had literally forced her guests into the application of self-control. Slits collapsed, inwardly flaccid, and dripping love-fluids down the inside flesh of sculpted thighs. Organs drooped, subsiding into slackness over a still-tight sac of balls.
But the countess knew what she was about.
She knew, for example, that Alfredo Tarlone, like every true libertine, had his secret and especial vice, his peculiar perversion. With one-like Charity-it might be a penchant for the whip. With another-like Mai-Nikki-it might be nymphomania. Or the perversion of homosexuality-overt, as it was with Luigi and Larry, or covert, as it was with Henry. There might be the exhibitionism of Karen and Beverly, or the devout lesbianism of Karen and Ava-or even the absorbing capacity for adjustment to new experience that was the mark of Georg and Cristina.
With Alfredo Tarlone the deviation lay in the making of odd, off-beat movies-and the delight with which he would exhibit them. Nothing gave him greater pleasure. Some of his finest work, it was said, had been captured on eight and sixteen-millimetre film, every meter of which had been privately developed and printed. And every reel lay in his villa-too torrid, any of it, for public exhibition.
It was for a showing of some of these movies that the countess was angling. And, after dinner that evening, she put the proposition to him straight.
"Alfredo?" she asked, naively, " a performance this evening, perhaps?"
"The movies, you mean?"
"What else? So many have not yet seen your work. And I-when last did I view it?"
"But gladly, Elois. Come on, then, everybody-into the studio."
He rose and escorted his guests to a huge, glassed-in porch which ran, like some great gallery, along one entire side of his villa-his private projection studio.
There were no seats. Instead, there were enormous puffed cushions, mattresses, deep-piled carpets scattered over the polished parquet floor.
Running the curtains together over the glassed-in wall, he said: "Get comfortable, everybody. There aren't any seats-but you'll find the cushions very comfortable. The screen, you see, is purposely slanted up there. You see it best if you get supine-if you stretch full out."
He pressed a button, and a silver-glassed screen slid down at an acute angle from the far ceiling.
Another button plunged the room into darkness.
A third-and a gentle whirring started up at the back of the long hall. Within moments, a searching light probed out and upwards toward the white of the screen and a whirling jumble of letters of the alphabet spun dizzily around, diminishing finally in speed to a full stop, to spell out the title:
"This Way ... If Madame Pleases!"
The first sequence was an innocent shot of two pleasantly-clad Roman girls, in brilliant sun shine, at a ticket window. It might have been any box-office. Money passed over the counter, in exchange for two-tickets.
A panned shot, next, showed that the box-office was one for a public swimming bath. A woman attendant mouthed the words: "This way ... if madame pleases!"
Weirdly, the words became suddenly audible.
They were spoken in Alfredo's voice, into a microphone beside the projector. They contrived to lend, now, the actual dimension of sound to what was otherwise merely a silent movie. The party nestled down expectantly, as they followed the swaying rumps of the two girls on the screen overhead.
The attendant showed them into a vast, open changing-booth, and gasps went up from those on the floor at the sudden acreage of feminine nudity revealed by the camera. There were women of every shape, of every age, and at every stage of undress in that change-room. Some stood stark naked. Some were still fully clad. More than half of them were at every conceivable stage of disrobing.
Alfredo's lens would wander up the massive thighs of some fifty-year-old, following tantalizingly the rise of an underslip up a pair of ageing, puckered thighs, buttocks and wrinkled belly-and then, without even seeming to leave the subject, would discover some pair of perfectly-formed teenage breasts, sliding free of a brassiere. He would start a shot at the black tangle of some matronly pubis-and dissolve the scene out as the camera left the unformed, undeveloped torso of some girl, not yet nine years old. Long shots of naked breasts would suddenly funnel into the roundness of one single belly over which could be discerned the under globe of one single, perfect boob, shot from some incredible angle. From that one breast, the lens would reach out until a concerted movement, yards further down the room, revealed the majesty of ten pairs of splendid buttocks as their owners bent forward, in synchronized unison, to slide shoes under a long, wall-length seat.
One moment, the concentration would be all pubic hair, and the diversity of growth of this hair over the pubic mounds of forty different women. The next moment, the gaping slash of a single kitten would be exposed, all red and shining and oiled, as the camera panned to the uncrossing of one single pair of legs in the act of pulling off a stocking. The next moment after that, it would be breasts, pair upon pair of breasts, teasing, tantalizing, exciting and wonderful, every pair different in size and shapes, weaving round and round in a carousel of mammary bounty....
And all the time, Alfredo was delivering a running commentary.
"What you are looking at now," came his soft-timbered voice over the loudspeakers, "is my idea of what must be the ambition of every Peeping Tom in the world to behold. I shot this whole series cooped up in a shower cubicle in a public bath right here in Rome. I used about six different lenses-as you'll see. Everything from close-up to full zoom and telephoto, too, sometimes. It wasn't easy-but it gave me one hell of a kick. If I'd been found in that shower-cubicle I'd have been put away for about ten years. But it was worth it. This is the very essence of voyeurism. To my way of thinking, every Peeping Tom in the world would give his right arm to watch what I've got down on film, on this very reel. You know the types. They're on the record in newspaper reports all the time. Standing on chairs to peek over hotel fanlights, hanging out of apartment blocks, to see into windows across the street, taking every chance of getting a stray glimpse of some woman undressing, or actually stark naked, if they can manage such good luck. The funny thing is, they're always disappointed-never satisfied. Each naked body they see is disappointing. Too fat. Too thin. Too much like the last one they saw-too reminiscent of the familiarity of a wife. And they go on looking, looking, all their lives. Well, people, here I've tried to capture it all-all on one film. I had a friend at this swimming-bath. With his help I got into that cubicle-and this is the result. I filmed it because I believe there is a bit of the Peeping Tom in every one of us. After all, who could pass an open bathroom door in any hotel, if there was a naked woman in the bath. Even if she was seventy-everybody would stop for a look. And who doesn't know the shock of looking out of a bedroom window, and right into another one just across the street, where some dolly's getting dressed or undressed. We're all Peeping Toms-to some degree. And that's why I went after this bit."
The camera lingered on a colossal pair of boobs. They filled the entire screen, obscenely large-elephantine in their gigantic moulding. Alfredo's voice dropped into the room, softly: "You are now observing, friends, boobs the like of which nobody has ever seen before. This shot wasn't taken at the baths. This one, I got on a ship going through the Red Sea, once. They belonged to a Chinese dolly-and she was so unbelievably ugly that I could never have brought myself to photograph her face. I could see she had interesting breasts, though, no matter what she wore-and one day I persuaded her in my cabin to strip. She was hardly twenty-five, and these enormous watermelons you are seeing right now belonged to her. How she carried the solid weight of the things is what surprises me-but I suppose she knew nothing else. What can one woman know of the weight of some other woman's boobies? And she'd had them since they began to bud on her-so to her it must have been natural. But I'll swear no brassiere made could have contained all that flesh. Even if there was such a bra it would have had to have shoulder straps of steel-or rope, at least. Anyhow, this that you are seeing is the absolute most-so I cut this sequence in, right here, in this film."
His voice trailed off, and the camera panned up and down the dressing room once more, offering a teasing glimpse of some torso seen before, and finally, again, those incredible Chinese bosoms.
Monumental, swollen to the contours of some Rabelaisian exaggeration, they occupied the entire area of the screen. And the camera, merciless, captured them from above, from below, from each side.
What had been screened so far would have been enough to excite every viewer in that room. What helped matters considerably, however, was the sexy silkiness of Alfredo's voice, delivering the spontaneous commentary as the movie unrolled. Hands stole into hands, blouses were tweaked open, and hands fumbled for hot, randy breasts. Smaller, ringed hands fumbled at buttoned, zipped flies, and fingers darted in to pluck warm, throbbing prods from their hairy, scrotal beds.
"And now," came the voice of Tarlone once more, "This Way ... If Madame Pleases."
The great mammaries faded out of focus, and the scene swiftly shifted to the consulting room of a prominent corsetiere in Naples. She was seated at her desk, her back to the camera, evidently at the end of a discussion with a client who was blotted out from view by the nearness of the woman's back to the camera. Slowly the camera inched round to take in the client's face. As it came into view, everybody gasped. The woman client was none other than the wife of the Prime Minister of Italy!
Alfredo, hearing the astonished intake of breath, chuckled into the microphone.
"All achieved," he announced mischievously, "with the full collaboration of the Signora-but not a sequence of what you will see known to Her Excellency. I was behind a window-curtain you see-and the lens projected through several apertures cut into the material of the curtain. Now watch this-"
Signora Dandrea, the corsetiere, stood up. As she moved round the desk, the wife of the Prime Minister was already disrobing. She went calmly about her task of stripping, oblivious to the probing lens of the camera.
First came her blouse. Then, mincingly, as if she were some young girl instead of a matron in her fifties, she shucked off her skirt. Signora Dandrea helped her client to wriggle her slip up and over her head. Her Excellency stood, stripped now, to her brassiere and girdle. At the sight of the woman's panties, awry and untidy, wrinkled about her thighs, the incongruity of the sight of the First Lady of Italy in so homely a predicament sparked off a spontaneous roar of laughter. Femininely, she patted their ruffles straight. Then she removed them. Still facing the devastating camera, she tucked the fingers of each hand into the elastic waistband of her girdle, and inched this down over her wriggling hips.
This was strip-tease at its most blatant, and the star was none other than Her Excellency herself!
Divested of her expensive clothing, she had become just what she was-a fat, fashion-conscious, pampered old woman.
With her girdle dragging over the mass of her hips, the black triangle of her crotch came into shocking view. As the girdle was slid downwards, one knee lifted up into freedom, and, as Her Excellency swung the leg slightly outwards, her labia parted and the fleshy gash of her slit was suddenly exposed. Next, with hands expertly feeling at her back for the catches of her bra, the garment came off-and the sleek, full, but pendulous and ageing breasts of the Prime Minister's wife plunged down her spare-tired belly.
A second gasp of shocked discovery burst from every throat. For those matronly breasts were marked, beyond all possibility of doubt, with the criss-crossing lacerations of the whip!
The great woman then turned slowly to one side-revealing her back, over which lay great, livid weals, criss-crossing cruelly over her fair skin, carved deep into the flesh of buttocks, of hips, and of shoulders.
"Christ!" swore Charity, then. Her teeth were chattering and clenched in the wrack of her sexual arousement. "Whoever flogged Her Excellency like that, certainly knew what he was doing!"
"Hush!" breathed Philoueas Korfu, close to her. He reached out a hand to where he thought Charity's mouth was, to stifle her. But he missed, and Charity groaned: "Ah, sweet mother of Christ-but I'd pay a fucking fortune to the man who would thrash me like that!"
As Charity groaned in her paroxysms of lust, so others were groaning', as well.
"Well, fancy that!"
"So-what do you know about that, hey?"
"The old bitch-for Christ's sakes! Nothing but another flagellant!"
"Well-it certainly takes all sorts...."
Sex was now rampant in that room as further sequences showed Her Excellency being fitted, and clothed once more, over superb new foundation garments.
The moment of lese-majeste had passed.
But the aftermath of sexual discovery was upon them all. Hands groped everywhere, clutching flesh-none knew whose shaft she held, whose breasts he was fondling, whose belly he was caressing, into whose slit his fingers were sliding.
Georg felt complete nudity at his side, and ran his hand over a torso, expecting it to be that of Karen. Electrified at the discovery, he reached the crotch, only to encounter a jutting, quivering length of machine. Probably that of Luigi or Larry, he thought, since the thigh was so smooth and devoid of hair. The length of it was warm and silky under its coating of fluid, and as Georg withdrew his hand he felt another clutching palm slide down that penis, lovingly stroking its contours. Georg fumbled around him until he felt naked flesh once more. It was the thigh of some woman-and he followed it up until his fingers disappeared deliciously into a hot receptive pussy that avidly reacted to his caresses.
The tempo of the flim had now sped up. The scenes were shorter, more stark, more urgent. If there was sexual urgency among the viewers, it was more than matched by what was being screened.
A well-known duchess was now descending from her opulent car outside a popular Sauna bath frequented by the elite of Rome.
Subtly ignoring the strip-tease of her disrobing-undressing sequences had been screened, plentifully, by this stage-the camera picked up the socialite dowager again, this time sweating with a dozen more of Rome's society hostesses, revealed in all their plump and ebullient nudity. The skin on their rotund flesh gleamed wetly. Their natural actions appeared ludicrous before the pitiless eye of the camera. One would tweak an itching nipple. One would scratch beneath a breast. One would raise a cheek from the stone seat, in the obvious action of releasing a fart.
Hilarious as it was, however, nobody was in any mood for laughter. It was lewd, provocative sex-and they gloated over the nudity of women whose proud names were a byword throughout Europe scratching, feeling, sweating in the steam room-totally unaware of the searing truth of Torlone's wicked lens.
The duchess passed into an adjoining room. She was lying, now, gross and supine, upon a massage table in the centre of a white, aseptic private room. Hands were pummeling at that aristocratic flesh. Over her fat boobs they stroked, and down her belly, and into and out of her hairy, untidy, and unlovely crotch. Over and over she was turned. Her knees went up, and the great slit of her twat, gross-lipped, hung-exposed in its entirety.
The masseuse left the room. The beaten, pummeled, spent and weary duchess was seen rolling wearily over on to her back. From a position no further, it seemed, than the foot of the massage table, so cleverly did the telephoto lens function, there came into focus once more the incredible sexiness of the parting of two massive, over-fleshed thighs, dimpled with fat.
And then the duchess's fingers were at her crotch, and as naturally as would any woman in the world, imagining herself secure in complete privacy, and having the urge to do so-she began a delicious orgy of fingering. All her fingers were in play, each a master of its masturbatory task. The whole disgusting sequence sent a shudder through every woman who, watching, knew herself to have been guilty of just such a sexual lapse, not once, but many times.
Suddenly the fat duchess went rigid as her orgasm came. Her fingers were electric at her twat, hairy and fat and obscenely dripping with spunk. In the might of her coming, she snatched with both hands at her crotch, rending it open now with all her fingers, ramming her fingertips into it, and through it, and deep down into her aching-hot vagina, and the turgid lips of that slit seemed to puff up and clasp themselves around those fingers.
At the obscene sight, body unashamedly coupled with body. Massive, excited, dripping prod probed into slushy, hot, excited pod. Mouths clamped over naked, bobbing nipples. Hands felt feverishly up thighs, encountered other thighs in the agony of copulation, stroked balls and prick and cunt-whatever was available. A lance would slip out of one hole and lewdly strive in the darkness to find another. A cunt would be savagely unscrewed off some penis, to go, silent but twitching-lipped, about its search for some other rod upon which to impale itself. A half-dozen times Mai-Nikki came her full load, and cared not whether she found her relief upon a finger, a tool, or a tongue. Philoueas and Beverly, though accustomed to taking their sex together, had lost each other entirely in the crawling melee of man and womanflesh.
And now, in quick sequences, the camera was peering into women's public lavatories, into a public bath-house on Paris's Left Bank, into women's fitting-rooms in Rome's big department stores, into the barracks of a women's regiment on the outskirts of Bari, into two or three rooms in several notorious Naples brothels. It was sex, rampant and gone mad-an obscene orgy.
"What you are about to see," continued Tor-lones, "is the most rare-I think the most exquisite shot I have ever taken. I ask your full attention. If you like, I'll stop the film a moment."
"Ah, for the sake of sweet fuck itself, stop it, Alfredo!" came the demented voice of Mai-Nikki, impaled on a penis whose incredible length had penetrated, it seemed, right through her cervix and into her very womb. "Ah, Christ-this I gotta have. This one, please God, and please Torlones, I have to have, full and forever, and as long as ever it can last! Stop it now, while this goes on-please!" Her voice throbbed with passion.
Mai Nikki's insane screams had spoken for all of them. Alfredo stopped the film.
The whores in the brothel froze into sudden immobility, clumsy and gauche, deprived of . the illusion of movement that had heretofore given grace and a kind of beauty to their undulations.
Below Alfredo's projection stand, hips ground into hips as the fornicating mob strove for release.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Alfredo Tarlone allowed one full minute, and then another, to tick by, aroused himself now by the thrashing sex.
Then, sure of his sated audience, he allowed his projector to whirr into action once more. Miraculously, the blowsy and obscene prostitutes took on once again their former grace. They swayed, once again, and undulated provocatively before their unseen clients. Finally the clients themselves were brought into focus, and the two women fell back, each coupled to her man, upon a couch. The bought and paid-for intercourse, the five-thousand lire lays were in progress.
It was the end of the sequence.
And now, the movie switched a sound-track. And slowly, mistily at first, but then clarifying itself out of the mist, the face and form of Anna Bastogna came into focus.
She was singing. Softly, into that room, fell the molten honey of that incomparable voice-the lilting cadences of Italy's beloved coloratura. The notes were sure. The tone was full. The soaring rapturous flight of the treble could only have been achieved by Anna.
Gently, the aria ceased and faded out. Around that face, another background seemed to swim hazily in, building up into focus. Finally it was established. Anna Bastogna-seated across a desk from Rome's most renowned obstetrician.
"This," announced Alfredo, "you should not miss. This I took from his own consulting rooms, during one of his afternoon sessions. He did four cases, that afternoon. I filmed them all-then I found the fourth one was-this! Watch r now-and listen."
Anna was a woman-any ordinary woman-before her physician. But she was unmistakably the same Anna whose voice had thrilled audiences over the whole world. Her agitation was controlled-but it was obvious.
"I am desperate, Signor Bianchi," came her voice, urgent and pleading, over the sound-track.
"And I, Anna," replied the doctor, "am sympathetic."
And then she told of her anguish in desiring a child-but of her refusal to bear the child of her wealthy husband, Alan Bastogna.
"Bastogna!" she fumed, beating an imperious fist upon the gynecologist's desk, "is a dolt! He has attribute-of a peasant! For his money-for his money alone, I married Bastogna! For his money, I tell you-and for the position he could offer me, in the society of Milan...!"
"And is that position," asked the doctor, softly, "so unbearable, then?"
"Position?" fumed the singer. "The hell with position, now! I have all the position I want-it's I who give position to Bastogna, now!
"No-it's Juan Gomez. You know him. The actor-some say he's Spanish. He's Tarzan. He's Beau Geste. He's very romantic, dashing cavalier. since Fairbanks!
"He loves me, this Gomez. I want a child. But-" and she hissed the final words-"it must be his child, I tell you!"
"Then sleep with the man, Anna," said the doctor gently.
"Oh, Signor Bianchi," she sighed, hopelessly. "Do you think I haven't tried? A million times, that's all! But he's an idiot. He spurns me. He says he's afraid of me-that he's a Catholic! That it would be a mortal sin. Oh, he's an idiot!
I don't love him-but oh, what a body he has! Like a superman!"
"Anna," interposed the doctor, "do you remember what George Bernard Shaw said once, long ago, to some woman? 'Suppose the child is born with my body and your brain?' Remember that?"
"I'm not interested in Shaw."
"Then try harder, Anna-to sleep with Gomez."
"I've given up hope. That's why I'm here. Look, Signor-this artificial insemination one hears about. Can't you do something along those lines? Tell him you have a patient-and that you have selected Gomez to be the donor.? Can't you do that for me?"
The doctor tapped with his pencil upon his blotting pad. "I see," he said finally. Then: "Strip Anna."
A nurse appeared on the screen and repeated, unobtrusively, the title-words of the film: "Pardon me ... this way-if Madame pleases...."
The nurse led the fleshy, well-built operatic star behind a screen. Seeming to follow, the lens of Tarlone was on hand, at once, to record the final, ruthlessly-intimate nakedness of the most beloved star of Italy's operatic stage. It revealed how ample, globular breasts stood, proud and upright, even though deprived of their brassiere. The camera showed the star's nude, shaven crotch, a mere slit with the two lips cleaving together to disappear into the V of her thighs. For what mysterious purpose had she needed to shave? Her statuesque thighs were revealed, taping each from the upward thrust of her powerful torso. There she stood finally, naked, unashamed-breathtaking lovely.
In came the gynecologist again, this time in surgical dress, his hands encased in rubber gloves. He gave the girl the cursory, impersonal glance of doctor to patient.
"Lie down," he commanded. "There."
He advanced upon her, and ran gloved hands expertly over her bosoms, palpating them, and then letting his fingers travel over her mound of matt-smooth belly, observing the spontaneous reaction of her hardening nipples, her goose-dimpling skin. Raising her knees, he parted her thighs, and the rosy, naked slash came into focus.
Into the opened vulva he inserted his probing fingers for the examination. He plunged two fingers inside the vagina, probed around, altered their angle of incidence. He felt, estimated, felt again, reading her insides with his fingertips like a blind person reads Braille. Finally he withdrew his now-warmed fingers from their sweet, feminine tunnel, stripping them of the rubber gloves as he did so.
"Mmmm-mm," he said, profoundly. "I see. That'll be all, Anna. You can get dressed now."
"You'll help?" she cried gratefully, as she swung to a sitting position.
"I'll help," he said. "I'll get Gomez here, this week-if I can. If I can do anything to persuade him, then you'll have his child."
A calendar indicated the time lapse of two days.
A cleverly-angled shot revealed Anna once more. She was completely naked, lying on a different table in a tiny partitioned cubicle. In an adjoining cubicle, on the other side of the partition, stood Juan Gomez slowly undressing and quite unaware of the other patient, so delectably naked and so unbelievably close to him.
With Juan was Signor Bianchi, softly, persuasively, reasoning with the actor.
"Go on," he was saying. "And-wear this condom. In a moment, through that door, will come the most beautiful nurse in all the hospitals of Rome. She works with me sometimes. She has prayed for this. She has begged it of me. She's stupid, perhaps-but you're her one great love. With her, it's all-consuming, all-pervading! And when have you, Jaun, turned away the attractions of a beautiful woman? All I ask is that you wear this french letter. I know her parents very well. I wouldn't like her to be got with child."
Juan had finally disrobed.
"You?" he asked pointedly. "Do you remain watching, while all this is going on?"
"I'll be-where I will be." said the gynecologist.
The door opened, and as the naked girl, her breasts jouncing, her buttocks swaying, minced into the room, the doctor disappeared through a curtain that hid the entrance to yet a third partition.
All three cubicles could now be seen.
In the center one, Juan was advancing with a huge erection upon the lush, nubile body of the blonde eighteen-year-old. In that instant, he became for her Tarzan and Barbarossa and Beau Geste and Zorro all merged into one. The nurse, wordlessly, awaited his onslaught, collapsing willingly upon the bed as Juan pressed his powerful body to her lush, youthful, yielding curves.
In the adjoining partition, powerless to help herself, Anna lay upon her couch, thighs parted and a-splay, feverish fingers busy in her gaping, lascivious slit. The more the sounds of the frantic copulation came through the partition, the more furious became her own onslaught upon her own opened, spuming, raging cunt.
Meanwhile, in the third cubicle, Dr. Bianchi himself, his penis erect and protruding through his gown, was masturbating himself unmercifully.
And as the mighty superman and his teenage partner collapsed in the sweet, consuming delight of the act. Dr. Bianchi jerked savagely erect. He was coming, and he reached for a wide-mouthed wine-glass, into which he caught jet after jet of his violent ejaculation. Smiling, he placed the sperm-filled wineglass in a tiny oven heated to the exact temperature of the human body.
And, in her own booth, the soprano arrived at her own climax. Legs jerking spasmodically, she clamped her masturbating fingers upon her clitoris. She twitched. She jerked, bodily. She writhed and tormented herself in the agony of her orgasm. And finally she fell back, spent and exhausted.
By some miracle of camera art, Alfredo had succeeded in dimming the lights on the screen, so that a deep sense of mystery suddenly pervaded the scene. Faintly Dr. Bianchi could be seen entering the partitioned cubicle of Anna. He approached her. And he parted her angered, inflamed labia, while she lay, unresisting, spent by the fury of her discharge.
The doctor produced, now, a test-tube-thick syringe. On the surface of an opaque glass tray stood the wine-glass full of his own semen and another object-the wet, half-filled french letter that had been worn by Juan.
The doctor took up his strange syringe, and, ignoring the french letter, whose hot contents were spilling on to the tray, he took up the wineglass. Drawing up the entire contents of his own semen into the syringe, he bent to the slit of the operatic star-and in one plunge of his thumb squirted the entire product of his own masturbation deep up the cervix of Anna, who, beside herself with lust, received the entire load of body-warm discharge deep within her vagina, high up into her sex-wet cervix, swooning with the delight at having received what she thought was the discharge of Juan!
As he left her, Torlone's relentless camera lingered upon the doctor's gloating face, contorted now in a hideous spasm that betrayed his perverse satisfaction over the monstrous substitution.
There was a pregnant silence.
Anna's child had been born four months ago. And here, in the projection studio of Alfredo Tarlone, was the evidence, naked and incontrovertibly true, that her child was that of her gynecologist, and not that of her husband! Alfredo had dared to capture, not only her announced intention of cuckolding her husband-but the double-cross that had been wrought upon her by her doctor as well!
"It's monstrous!" cried the countess. "Alfredo! Swear you didn't fake the whole thing!"
Alfredo smiled. "The camera," he observed wryly, "does not lie."
"But, my God! Can it-can it possibly be true?"
"You saw what happened, didn't you?"
"But do you realize, man, that you have evidence right here that every gossip columnist the world over would give her right hand to possess?"
"I do not make movies to show to gossip columnists, Elois. I make movies-mostly for my public. And sometimes, I make a movie or two for the amusement of my friends." He sent a glance around the floor of the projection studio.
"Tell me," said the countess, excitedly. "Has anybody else seen this film?"
"One or two," replied Alfredo. "The film has its uses.... You see-"
He indicated, delicately, the sea of bodies draped obscenely over the floor, dimly visible in the half-light that now flooded the room. "Can't they-won't they talk? Won't they tell others?"
I hardly think so," said Alfredo evenly. "I never ask for secrecy. I expect it-that's all. "But Anna-she is my friend!"
"Well?" asked Alfredo. "Would you talk? Would you let on, to anybody else?"
"For heaven's sake-no. Why-one word of this, and the girl's career could be ruined forever! Christ. The greatest gift to opera-the greatest single voice since-since Caruso himself!"
"Exactly," smiled Tarlone. "Who'd harm so precious, so universal, a loved one? For that matter, who else but we know of the perversion of the Prime Minister's wife? And what of all the other intimacies I have revealed in this movie?" Silence again fell, as, in reverie, the group did a mental playback of the unbelievably wicked documentary.
Then, one by one or in couples, they struggled wearily to their feet, picked up their discarded garments, and moved off, thoughtfully, to their rooms.
Only the countess remained, too stunned by what she had seen to move.
Alfredo crossed to where she sat, cross-legged, upon a cushion, her slit gleaming blue and gaping through her sperm-flecked bush. He sank down beside her.
"I'm going to have you tonight, Elois," he announced casually. "I'm going to have you tonight, for two reasons," he stated, as flatly as if he were telling somebody the time. "First, because even I can get randy, you know-"
He indicated his erect staff, trailing slime through his fly.
"And secondly?" asked the countess, when he did not go on.
"Secondly," answered the Italian, "because tonight, you finally rid yourself of Henry Grundmann. Personally, I think you've lost him-to Larry, or to Luigi. But tonight, you lost him again. This time, to that girl you call Mai-Nikki. So come...."
"You, Alfredo," murmured the countess, as she melted into his embrace, "are a genius. A photographic genius. And I suspect, a psychiatric genius as well. But you are also-a shit!"
And she parted her generous thighs to his silent, insistent hips.
And, as he entered her-she sighed....
That ecstatic first evening at the Tarlone villa was something for which the countess now allowed a respite. For in the aftermath of that evening had come the slow shock of new experience.
Not all, however, felt it to the same degree. The Korfus, stolid as two-thousand-year-old trunks in their own jungle forests were impermeable to the effect of what went on around them. Voracious in their appetites, they ranged apart from each other only to confirm, when they came together again, what they both knew-that only in each other lay perfect fulfilment.
Nor did Cristina and Georg suffer any scar.
They had been content to enjoy the unfolding of a greater, and ever-richer, experience. For both of them, this had proved to be experience shared. In the long hours of the night, clasped sexless in the arms of each other, they would recount, with nothing but joy, the unfolding of each day's new delights.
But for Luigi and Larry, for example, the buffetings of the countess' party already spelt the beginning of the end. Each had perpetrated his first homosexual infidelity-their first since their love had begun for each other. The period of adjustment was upon them.
For Mai-Nikki, for Dr. MacThorne, and for the athletic German gymnast, something new had begun, as well. The Polynesian girl, all her lifetime spent in the seeking, had discovered at last her measure of satisfaction. She gazed, starry-eyed, upon the German whenever they met.
For Sean MacThrone, ten years her companion during their wandering through Europe, the cessation of the appetites of his heretofore insatiable mistress had rolled away an enormous weight of pressure. And the doctor had begun to eye the powerfully-built Ava with a new and ill concealed light in his eye.
And Ava starved all her life for the admiration of a man she could really love, forced heretofore to be content with a lesbian for whom she was neither physically nor mentally suited, was not slow to accept this sudden and welcome show of masculine attention.
For Karen too, her three years of intense devotion to Ava seemed to be coming to an end. She had thrilled to the first piercing of her vagina by a solid, throbbing, blood-containing male organ. Whose it had been, she knew not. She knew just this-that it possessed the satisfying yielding of lustful masculinity, instead of the hard, unfeeling rubber of the dildoes she had formerly been accustomed to shove up her slit. And the latent fire in her smoldering eyes bespoke a seething desire to discover what man it had been who had thus infused a growth of new vitality into her heretofore passive, receptive cunt.
The countess, perceiving what was taking place, metaphorically rubbed her hands with satisfaction.
She allowed one entire day for the effects to sink in-by themselves. She took no further part in underlining anything for anybody who could not yet understand. Understanding would come.
She permitted a second day of naked, indolent dalliance at the side of the shimmering, blue-watered pool-a day devoted to the pleasure of intellectual conversation, to the sipping of tall, iced drinks, and to the luxury of frequent plunges into the soothing water.
Towards evening, she called Georg and Cristina. Georg wore the briefest of shorts. Christina was entirely nude-the way she liked most to be, once her innate shyness, almost teenage modesty, had worn off.
"Tomorrow morning," she said. "Can we get rolling, early?"
"As soon as you wish, Madame," replied Georg. "The bus is always ready."
"At eight, say?"
"The destination?" countered Georg. "Cannes," replied the countess.
"In one day?" asked Georg. "Cannes is far from Rome."
"Where is half-way, then?" asked the countess. "La Spezia?"
"Spezia will do," replied Georg. "Eight hours, Cristina?"
"Six-if we take lunch in the bus," she replied, equally confidently. "The road's very winding. It's not so much the distance as the slow travelling."
"Fine," said the countess. "We leave, then!"
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Hotel Majestic in Cannes occupied a commanding position along the beach-front. Its wide public verandahs spilled out a kaleidoscope of gay, umbrella-awning tables over a close-cropped lawn. To the right sprawled the gently-swaying masts of the yachting colony. To the left swept the probing finger of Cap d'Antibes, far into the incredibly blue Mediterranean. And forward, ahead, lay the shimmering expanse of sea itself.
That evening they were all assembled on the balcony of the countess's top-floor suite.
Three Americans had joined the party-Capt. Steve Marks, veteran Air France pilot, and two air hostesses, Linda Manners and a tall, sultry Negress, Lila Smith.
"They work for different airlines," said the countess, introducing the two girls. "It's obvious why. But they both came from the same state-Arkansas. They grew up in towns not more than fifty miles apart. And only here, in Europe, can their friendship grow and prosper."
"It's sure hell, this black-white thing," growled Philoueas. For once there was the fervor of deep feeling in his words.
The others made no comment.
"And then," said the countess "there's Capt. Steve Marks, here."
Steve Marks would have been recognized as an American anywhere. He was as American as a dollar bill, a packet of Luckies, a Coca-Cola bottle, or canned Pabst.
They saw a man in his mid-forties, with the clear blue eyes of the aviator, with the unshakeable willpower of the pilot who has to so often deny himself the luxuries of women, of tobacco, of liquor so that he may be hard and fit to fly. Around the corners of his eyes played the cross-out. In his handshake reposed the steel of the airline commander. His suit, and his manner of wearing it, bespoke the cosmopolitanism of a man many years from home, yet to whom home was wherever he happened to be.
"Hi, folks," he grinned. "Glad to be aboard." Each wondered what was to be the specialty of the newcomers.
And, as if divining their thoughts, the countess splashed soda from a siphon into her glass, raised it, and whip lashed her reply to their unspoken question right back at them.
"Lila and Linda here, are about as advanced as any of us," she said. "You see-they don't lay apart. They go together. Whoever takes on the one has to take on the other, simultaneously. Or, if two tackle one of them, both must tackle the other one, too, at the same time."
"At the same time?" queried Georg.
"At the same time," echoed Lila, softly.
All probed in imagination-and all derived some impression, even if only the most fleeting, of what the countess was getting at.
"That's right," said the countess. "I don't think either of these two has ever had a screwing alone. That right, Linda? Lila?"
"Not in a hell of a long time, countess," said Linda. "Got no use for it, that way. Can't seem to come, by ourselves."
"And Captain Marks?" asked Charity, a shade of insolence in her tone.
"Captain Marks, you'll find, is perhaps the greatest libertine in the world today," said the countess, suddenly calm. Charity had the latent power always to annoy her.
Greater than you, you old bag? thought Charity, still insolently. Something disturbed her, deep inside-but she was still too polite to show it.
"Captain Marks has been everywhere in the world. There's nothing he hasn't learned-from the East, from the Eskimos, from the Arabs, from the Watusi-or even from us, here in Europe," said the countess.
"Hashish?" murmured Charity.
"Hashish," said the captain, quickly, "is fine-provided you, and not the hashish, stays the boss."
He eyed the impudent actress imperturbably. So this, he thought, is the luscious .Charity Varotti. Wonder how those boobs would turn out, once you got her to bed? Spare rubbers, perhaps?
As if divining his thoughts, the actress smoothed down her frock and brought her hands up suddenly, constricting the upper hemispheres of her breasts so violently that they threatened to overflow the very confines of her gown.
"Which is exactly what I wanted to know," said the captain cryptically.
Tarlone mentally chalked up the score. One-love, in favor of the pilot. A smile flickered over the photographer's face.
The countess returned to her subject.
"Listen," she said. "There's nothing any of us thinks we can do, or can invent-that he can't out-do, or out-invent. Just don't say I didn't warn you-or that I didn't invite you to try."
"Some build-up, Elois," said the captain affably.
At which the doors of the countess bedroom opened, and two more people entered-Martin Van Stappers and his wife, Alicia.
The countess made the introductions.
"Some of you know the Van Stappers already. Those who don't-well, here they are. Martin. Alicia. More money than the Rothchilds. More love of good living than Escoffier. Been here, there-everywhere-since we last met."
"But happiest of all to be with you, Elois-and your people," said Martin, genially.
The Van Stappers were a white counterpart of the Korfus. Their physiques were akin. Their readiness to laugh was akin. They were as alike bodily as they were in personality.
"We were talking about specialties," said Ava, once the two Hollanders had been given a drink. "What's theirs, Countess?"
"Yes," said Charity. "You've been pretty generous in your build-ups. I never heard you give me one, though. How do they rate, these two?"
"You'll find them right up your alley, Charity!" the countess flashed back.
Charity raised her eyebrows questioningly. "The whip-isn't that what you've always been wanting?" asked the countess.
"Ah, yes!" sighed Charity, enraptured.
"Then meet the master-the masters-of all time, since De Sade himself! Martin, Alicia, meet Charity Varotti!"
Martin Van Stappers looked at the beautiful Italian girl with a new interest.
"Not the Charity Varotti?" he inquired. Regally, slowly, Charity rose to her full height. By a mere forward roll of her shoulders she suddenly seemed to expand her breasts by a good four inches. The satin of her gown moulded itself to their glorious contours, disappearing inwards at the cleavage between them.
"The Charity," she stated, simply.
"Aha," commented Alicia Van Stappers, cryptically.
That was all there was to it. But there was a subtle undercurrent of violence in the words.
Cannes sweltered, white and raw, bleached by the sun. The breeze-what there was of it-was from the land. It was hot, fetid, oppressive.
Along the esplanade sauntered the tourists, stripped to the bare minimum of bikini or swim-trunks, their bodies brown or reddened beneath enormous-brimmed straw hats. They sprawled, shirts unbuttoned to the waist, sipping iced drinks beneath the garish brightness of multi-colored parasols.
It was too hot to talk. It was too hot to loll abed. There were but two alternatives-the cool of the water, or the shade of the cafe parasols; perhaps, alternately, a little of each. Though it was morning, everyone limply awaited the benison of evening, when the breeze would change and sweep in, cool and welcome, over the sea.
Slowly the day dragged to an end.
The countess' party, now nineteen in all, took dinner in the spacious restaurant. They sat, not as one party, but in more intimate groups of three and fours. Evening cocktails and a swim had freshened them all considerably.
After dinner, they retired to the large lounge in the countess' suite. On either side of this elegant salon were the two bedrooms of the suite.
As they sat, idly chatting, Capt. Steve Marks voiced their collective thoughts with a simple request.
"You gonna throw any light, yet, Countess?" he asked, easily and naturally.
"Light?" queried the countess. "Light? On what?"
"On what's in store for us-that's all," said the captain.
"Oh-I see," said the countess. "Our plans?
I wonder, now? There's that element of surprise, you see. I planned to make some use of that, you know."
"And why not?" boomed Beverly, merrily. "Things go on happening like they have been-and I couldn't care less where I am-tomorrow, next week. Or next month, for that matter."
The countess scanned the faces of those about her. There were a few who had the fatalism, the acceptance of "let-things-happen" that was the forte of the Korfus. They were the contented, the complaisant ones.
There were others, however, who had been betraying an inward uneasiness-brought on, she knew, by the events of the past few days. This uneasiness was neither fear, nor nervousness, nor apprehension. It was, rather, a conglomerate of all three emotions.
Such were Luigi, Leslie, Elaine and Ava, and Henry Grundmann-if that man's iron control could be said ever to betray any inner emotion whatever. Then there was the conflict between Alfredo Tarlone and Charity Varotti. In that latter relationship, the countess was thinking there lurked the beginnings, perhaps, of a crack-up. And why not, then? The two had been living together now for the better part of two years. And that, God knows, was at least a year longer than she had expected it to last, even when the attachment was formed. Charity was too haughty, too intensely selfish.
"Then I'll leave things just as they are," she said. "With this proviso-that if anybody feels he or she can't take the suspense any longer, please feel free to come and talk to me about it. This I can promise, though-there's plenty of fun ahead of us. That I can assure you."
"I'm all for that, Countess," said Marks. "Your kind of fun is what I can take lots of. Sorry I spoke."
"Don't give it another thought," smiled the countess. The small talk resumed, this time with a more vivacious ring to it. Ice clinked in tall Tom Collins's. The party seemed to settle down once more.
Then Georg spoke.
A look of genuine puzzlement wrinkled his brow as he asked the countess: "Mind if I put a question, Madame?" About Linda and Lila?"
"You were telling us," Georg recalled, "that anybody who has one of them has to have the other one as well, simultaneously?"
"That's right," smiled the countess. "Isn't it, girls?"
"Too true, it's right," said Lila definitely. "We get it anyway else, we just can't come-that's all there is to it!"
Well, that part I can understand," said Georg gravely. "What bothers me is the other bit. That if two tackle one, both have to tackle the other as well. I'm sorry-sorry if I'm being dumb about this, but I just don't get it."
"Damn good point, that," interjected Dr. Sean MacThrone. "I'll tell you something. I've been wondering, myself, about just that very thing."
"And so've I," confessed Henry Grundmann. "You mean-you don't understand?" asked the countess, surprised.
"I certainly don't," said Dr. MacThrone. "But it's perfectly clear to me," said the countess. She looked at the two girls. "Can't you explain it, Linda?" she asked.
Linda shot a quick and mischievous look at Lila. The negress caught her meaning at once.
"Rather show you, than talk about it," said Linda gaily. "That is-if nobody objects. I don't. And Lila won't. What say?"
A thrill gripped them, immediately. It was the old but each-time-new excitement aroused by exhibitionistic sex. It was a feeling with its roots deep in the fear of convention, of shocking somebody or another-perhaps even the fear of being discovered in an act that had been thought intimate and private.
"So? Who do we get to work with?" asked Lila brazenly.
Her eye fell full on Georg. But Georg, whose question had prompted this sudden turn, bowed out gracefully.
A quick thrill of adoration racked Cristina at Georg's gesture of withdrawal. She stole her hand into his.
Lila caught the significance of Georg's refusal.
"No takers?" she taunted. "So-we'll pick two, then. How's about you, skipper-for one?"
"Can't frighten me," the captain sang out, cheerfully.
"And what about Dr. MacThrone?" asked Linda.
"The poor, tired, almost-clapped Doctor MacThorne," echoed the doctor. He stood up, however, and crossed over to stand beside the aviator. "If you only know what we've been through in the past few days. However-Dr. MacThorne it is. You bought it, kids-you drive it, then!"
"Right!" said Linda, alert now, and business-like. "Now, Georg-the part you don't seem to understand is that business about if two tackle the one of us both have to tackle the other one as well? That it?"
"That's it," said Georg.
"Fine," said Linda. "So we strip now? Good Then choose your weapons, you two-Lila or me. And don't be gallant-whoever you choose is going to get not one bit more than the other one. You'll see!"
Swiftly, the four disrobed. Dr. MacThorne presented a forlorn sight as he stood, penis a-droop, and something in his self-pitying observance of his own condition led to an outburst of merriment from among those who watched.
"Change places, Mac?" catcalled Tarlone, whose own penis was already throbbing to erection at the mass strip-tease.
"Not on your life!" said the doctor. I'll work-just give it time!"
And it did, too, as the smooth, chocolate skinned negress knelt at it and flicked her now-naked breasts horizontally over its drooping head. Her body was superbly mounded and her boobs, shapely globes of incomparable beauty felt actually warmer than the rest of her body-heat as they caressed the tip of the doctor's tool, now beginning to swell.
Stripped at last, Linda also came into the fray. She came at the doctor from behind, her glorious body alive with lascivious, lewd intent-ready, already, for penetration.
Her breasts were as statuesque, each in their way, as those of any woman in the room. They were subject to one flaw, however; one was larger than the other, a defect common to thousands of otherwise superbly-sculpted women. But even the lesser of her two tits was full, rounded, voluptuous. Dr. MacThorne felt the warm body of the white girl pressed against his back, and reached behind him to clasp her buttocks, already working, so that he might draw her hairy mons veneris right into the twin globes of his buttocks.
The captain was ready, penis throbbing over his contracting scrotum as he moved, gently, the better to observe the magic being wrought by the negress on the doctor. Without touch of hand, using only the bobbing bouncing of her bosoms, Lila had brought the reluctant tool of the doctor into as rigid and raging a weapon as he had ever displayed for action. The captain marvelled.
"Looks like it's gonna be you, Lila," he sang out. "Any girl can do all that to a sleeping rod, and that's the girl who can have me!"
"No objection?" asked the doctor, proud again of his awakened manhood.
"None at all," said Lila, randy already herself. "Whatever I get, Linda gets, too. That's the way the matzo crumbles, man!"
"Show us, then," said the doctor.
"Right," said Lila. "So it's me you want? That it? I lie down-so." Flaunting her black nudity, she crossed to a divan.
"Now you come into me," she said to the doctor. "That's right-right in the crotch, man!" She shuddered in delight as her vagina swallowed up the length of Dr. MacThorne's tool. She wriggled, involuntarily, upon the heft of it.
"Now," she said. "Come on, Linda. You lie there. Now, doc-you suck her, or finger her, see? Have her any way you can think of. She'll come at you any way you want her. All you have to do is satisfy yourself, satisfy me, and satisfy her-all at the same time. You understand?' Dr. MacThorne smiled, benignly. This he was going to enjoy.
Then he went limp with surprise as the negress, suddenly and without any warning, wriggled free from beneath him and escaped, just as the instant came when he had hoped she would open up to him. In his mouth was already the warmth and the softness and the taste of the lush slit he had hoped to tongue.
"Now-supposing both of you want me," went on Lila, her breasts rising and falling magnificently as she spoke. "Say one in the mickey, and one in my mouth, hey? O.K. That still leaves you each a head, each a pair of hands-so you slam a tongue, or a fistful of fingers, into Linda. You follow?"
She thrust herself quickly against the body of Dr. MacThorne.
"Or suppose you get up my bottom, and you, skipper, want it in my slit? You're still free, both of you, to deal with Linda, see?
"Or else we can try it even another way. We all lie round in a square, and each one sucks the other off. I take you, Doc. You take Linda, Linda takes the skipper. The skipper takes me. That one clear?"
"That's the way we'll do it then," said the doctor. "The last way."
As they took up their positions, the foursome became oblivious to the presence of the others. Each in the grip of desire, they lay hastily, greedily, in the positions each felt instinctively must be adopted. Their caresses had degenerated now into a rough tearing at one another. Voraciously, mouth sought for dork, mouth slavered at wet, distended, engorged gash. And, as the tongues slid upon clitoris, as licking spit-wet lips clamped down on tool heads, the four of them shuddered in unison. Soon there was the panting urgency of mouth breathing, the lascivious swish of tongue slashing along gaping cunt, and each way away....
The sight of the four bodies interlocked and the visibility of each fornicator's action, swept the audience into a fever of desire. They craned forward, greedily jostling each other for vantage points around the four corners of the sexual square.
Beverly shouted encouragement to the quartet coupled in lustful copulation, naked and sweating openly before them.
"Get into it, fellers!" she called. "Go after what you want. The more you get, the more you're going to want to give! Don't you forget that, now!"
"That's telling them!" grinned Philoueas. He patted his enormous wife affectionately over her pantyless buttocks.
"I've heard about that philosophy of yours, Philoueas," called out Alicia.
"Only thinking worth a damn, in sex," he declared, majestically. "You want to try it, perhaps, with me?"
"I've wanted you ever since I'd heard about you," she laughed, unashamedly.
"So long as I get Martin, why-have him, by all means," said Beverly, generously.
People separated into watching groups as the fresh foursome began to undress. The homosexuals and the lesbians remained, watching avidly the four-square oral fornication being enacted before them.
But the others sensed that a new contest, a more mighty and even more impressive one, was about to commence. They fell back, leaving the rest of the floor to Beverly and Alicia, to Martin and Philoueas.
Alicia was first to peel down to the buff. The wealth of white flesh she presented to the assembled gaze was almost past human comprehension. Great boobs like inverted basins jutted and ballooned from her mighty torso, their nipples hard and half as long as the teats upon the udders of one of her native Friesland cows. Her rotund belly divided at the V of her vast, sparsely-haired sex into thighs sturdy as twin tree-trunks.
Almost her exact counterpart except for the blackness of her African skin where all of Alicia was gleaming white was Beverly. She was greater than Amazonian but was superb, carved ebony in the excellence of breasts, of thigh, of belly and buttock. She was all sex ... black sex.
Toward the two women advanced the two naked men, slowly and deliberately, like a pair of gross, big-bellied Japanese judo combatants. The black man bore down upon the white woman. The black woman spread open her colossal thighs, and prepared to receive the onslaught of the white giant.
Not a man in the room then but whose juices were oozing from his upright phallus. Not a woman but whose slit was a palpitating oven of passionate heat.
Henry, breathing strangely and deeply, reached for Mai-Nikki. She came, entranced as if under the influence of some hypnotic drug, into his muscular arms.
"Strip!" he commanded, harshly.
Entirely possessed, the Polynesian reached for the hem of her satiny gown, shucking it over her head. With the tossing aside of her single garment, she stood revealed in all her nudity.
Henry was not much more tardy in his disrobing. Together the pair fell to the floor beside the first foursome who, joined in their sexual square, were beginning to moan in the transports of their approaching communal orgasm.
Henry's possession of Mai-Nikki unleashed their emotions.
George leaped to the countess, who had contrived to jerk one great mammary from out of her corsage. He was already nude. He bore the countess to the floor without giving her time to disrobe, sliding her skirts up above her waist as she collapsed, whining and weak, beneath him.
"Ah-hoh!" she cried, jerking spasmodically. "Now! Now, this moment! Fuck me! Plunge it into me-ah, for Christ's sweet sake! I'm on fire!
I want you-soo-o-o-o much. Oooooh-h! Give it to me, whoever you are!"
Cristina, equally randy, had stripped to the skin. She squatted athwart the eager, slavering tongue of the countess. Seeing her, Georg arched his back, boring down with his genitals deep into the baroness's quim, and arching up to make way for his beloved to be sucked by the woman he was fucking. The countess squirmed and shivered in her rut, striving to contain all that Georg was screwing into her; striving, in her turn, to give equal satisfaction to the sweet-smelling, squelching, seductive cunt she was sucking and tonguing.
Most of them in the room were now coupled, or preparing for it. Four had achieved orgasm by now. They lay, spent and oblivious. The others were still seeking relief. Steve Marks was with Charity. Dr. MacThorne, spent and roused again, was rolling round the floor, copulated gloriously into a surprisingly active and receptive Ava. Somebody had dimmed the main lights, leaving only the diffused illumination of side lamps.
In their search for relief, only two people, Karen and Larry, had been left out. Unheeded by any, these two now found each other. They stepped, together, daintily over the mass of writhing flesh upon the floor. Together, on tiptoe, they passed, wraith-like, through the door of one of the adjoining bedrooms.
There, in privacy now, the homosexual laid the slim girl upon the bed. Naked, as was she, he bent toward her. Blindly she reached for that slim man-body that was so nearly a counterpart of her own. She drew him toward her, and Larry, shuddering, presented the heft of his manhood at her sex.
Shivering, she activated the shy, unaccustomed muscles that opened her vagina. Jets of lubricating fluid were released as Larry made his entrance. Feeling himself plunging deliriously down some dune of soft, warm, all embracing beach sand, he collapsed upon the slender body of that beloved girl, who now tasted the sublime difference between dildo and the sinewy warmth of male actuality. Tiny, feminine cries bubbled and spilled from her as she relaxed beneath him, all delicious inexperience, yet as ardent and afire as was he to learn.
And they were one, the homosexual and the lesbian.
They clove to each other, and in their cleaving, and in the agonizing ecstasy of their simultaneous orgasm, they knew that they had found each other.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It was past two o'clock in the morning when the first of them, lying spent and recumbent where they had collapsed, began to stir. They were Martin and Alicia van Stappers.
Surprisingly lightly for people of their bulk, they tiptoed up, felt for their clothes, and minced their way over the mass of bodies toward the door.
Two alone, in that room, saw them go.
One was Capt. Steve Marks. His senses were so trained to the alert in the face of every danger, real or imagined, and every unusual situation, that Alicia had barely inched her vast womanhood to a standing position before he was aware of it. Being aware, he decided to watch her departure from his position, recumbent now, over the naked and glorious body of Charity.
He did not relax the even rhythm of his breathing by so much as a single quicker aspiration.
As Steve Marks felt the van Stappers leave he felt the body of Charity stir beneath him. He silently rolled over and off his beautiful prisoner of love. Without uttering a word, the two of them collected up their scattered clothing and, stepping warily, trailed the two Hollanders into the adjoining bedroom.
Capt. Marks sensed that Charity no longer wanted him, sexually. There was something else now.
He took Charity's elbow as they stepped delicately over the tangle of bodies, some nude, some semi-nude, their garments awry and creased over their twisted bodies. And, the door of the bedroom scarcely closed behind Martin and Alicia, Capt. Marks opened it again.
In the blaze of sudden light, Charity seemed to the captain to have become wide-eyed, and in the grip of an obsession he could not fathom. It intrigued him.
Martin and Alicia turned. They had eyes only for Charity.
"Please," said Charity. She spoke the word haltingly, imploringly. Her lovely arms were extended before her at shoulder-level, in an eloquent gesture of supplication. Beneath those arms, the fullness of her superb breasts, now raised, was divinely apparent. Her torso heaved and collapsed, betraying the intense emotion under which she was laboring.
"Charity!" said Alicia, gently. And Martin said: "Why, child, what's the matter?"
"The matter," breathed Charity passionately, "is that I want you two-so very much!"
"Sexually?" asked Alicia.
"Sex!" howled Charity. "No! Not now. Any more sex, tonight, would revile me-disgust me! But the countess said-Elois said, that you two ... Ah, sweet Jesus-can't you see, please! I implore you ... the whip! I want the whip! Please, Martin and Alicia-won't you?" She quivered, throbbing, in the grip of her emotion.
"The whip?" echoed Martin, naked, magnificent. "Now? This minute? Do you realise it is past midnight?"
"Midnight-schmidnight!" screamed Charity, howling like an animal. "When you want it, you gotta have it! Don't you understand?" How could they, accomplished in the art of flagellation, not understand? They knew. An unspoken exchange of words took place between husband and wife.
Martin reached for the heaving, undulant body of the actress. He drew her toward him. "But do you realise, child-the cries! The torment! It's past midnight! We'll be heard-and if we are, what of that, hey?"
"I'll be brave!" squealed Charity. "I'll utter no sound! But please, please, whip me!"
"Nobody can be brave," said Martin imperious as he added, "when it is I who will wield the lash!"
"Then let's go somewhere-the beach!" panted Charity. "What about the beach? Nobody's there-at this hour?"
"The beach," Steve Marks put in, "is out. She'll scream. With this whip business, they always do. One scream-somebody picks up a phone-and in two minutes the cops are on our backs."
Charity shuddered, involuntarily, in anticipation.
Marks went on: "I think I've got a better idea. About three miles from here, on the back road to Nice, I've got an old glass-house. Sideline of mine. I had a partner once, in the flower business-you know, carnations and stuff. Well, it didn't work out. But I've still got the property. The sheds are empty now, but they're still there. And I've still got the keys."
"But how'll we get there?" asked Martin. "Taxi? At this hour?"
"Personally," said Captain Marks. "I was thinking of the bus. And that fellow, Georg. I like the boy-and that girl of his, Cristina."
"Wonderful," beamed Alicia. "Good idea. Those two have a great capacity for new experiences."
"That's the way I feel about them."
While he went back to the salon to wake George and Cristina, Martin poured a stiff round of cognacs. "This'll wake us up," he grinned, as he passed the drinks around.
He stopped before the still nude Charity. The actress's eyes were bright, her lips parted-her whole frame tensed by anticipatory excitement.
"Your dress," he commented thoughtfully. "You have something in satin?"
"I have one in black and white-both satin," she whispered.
"Not the white," said Martin. "Go put on the black one. And nothing underneath."
Charity quivered, gloriously, at the thought. This was a perversion in which she often indulged, preferring, when this mood was upon her, to stroll provocatively up some crowded avenue or boulevard like the Corso, or the Via Veneto-some street alive and vibrant with thousands of jostling people. The more people the better-among whom she could flaunt her glorious, unconfined body, her lovely woman-nakedness.
Charity swallowed her cognac at a single gulp as Georg and Cristina, followed by the captain, arrived.
"Right," said Alicia. "Go and change. Don't be long. Then come to our room-it's number 307 and that's where we'll meet."
Within five minutes, they were gathered in the van Stappers' apartment.
The buxom, superbly-fleshed Alicia was at that moment divesting herself of brassiere and panties and as she dropped these items to the floor, she swung about, stark naked once more.
She was an awesome sight. Her enormous breasts stubbed forth, twin mountains of white meat, from her waistless trunk. A sparse triangle of cunt-hair arrowed down at the junction of her thighs. Everything about her was enormous-her belly, her buttocks, and, above all, her breasts, each with their chocolate-circled nipple, risen now to nut-like hardness as she faced the others.
She reached into a cupboard and selected one of several black satin gowns. Drawing this from its hanger, she slid it over her head, smoothing it down, all the way, over her massive body.
The skirt was slit to the hip, and, parting as she moved, revealed the whole of one enormous, trunk-like leg, startling in its whiteness against the black of her dress. The gown fitted like a second skin. She might have been wearing nothing at all.
Martin opened a dresser and took out a long, flat case, silver-butted around the corners. From the case he drew out three wicked-looking whips.
The first was a short-thonged riding-crop, flexible only toward the tip as it tapered to a point twenty-four inches from its handle, a whip of the type they call a sjambok in South Africa, made from an elephant's penis.
The second whip had a short silver-and-leather handle, from which cascaded a number of foot-long thongs.
The third was a whip used by circus ringmasters. Long-handled, it tapered to a six or seven-foot thong which fell to the floor and snaked ominously at its tip.
Charity's eyes glazed in lust.
It was two o'clock in the morning by the time they reached the sheds, on a plot about four hundred yards back from the roadside. They were now in the main shed. Captain Marks turned the light on.
But Martin demurred. "Switch it off," he commanded.
There was enough illumination in the full moonlight coming through the glass walls of the shed.
Charity was now obviously in the grip of her obsession. Her glorious figure writhed and undulated under her gleaming satin dress, in an ecstasy of expectation. Alicia too, nerve centers of memory recalling to her a score and more of such experiences, was slack-mouthed, breathing heavily, panting lustfully.
Charity stood a moment or two, then impulsively came to Martin van Stappers. She threw her arms around the massive Hollander, grinding her pelvis into the man's loins.
"Take me!" she sobbed. "Ravish me, Martin! Ah, but I'm so ready for it-so randy for it! It'll be good-I'll be brave! I promise!"
She reached for his vast hands and drew these to her hot, hard-nippled breasts, cupping each bosom into a single hand. She wriggled and pressed herself seductively against him.
But Martin brushed her peremptorily away.
He tossed the whips to a working shelf which extended the full distance of each wall of the shed. The centre of the abandoned shed was bare.
Then he stripped his shirt from his huge, powerful torso. He stood only in his trousers. Alicia's eyes dilated in pride and in the wonder with which she always responded to the fleshy nakedness of her man. She dropped to one knee, encircled her husband's hips with hungry arms, and buried her face into his groin, feeling the semi-hardness of his erection through the material of his trousers.
"Ah, Martin?" she moaned. "Me? Me, first?"
Martin's smile bespoke the detachment which comes with complete control of a man over his body and his mind. Gently he pushed Alicia's face from where she slobbered into his hips.
"No," he said with finality. Alicia's first. You know what it's all about. She doesn't. She might scare off. Your turn'll come, skat!"
"Oh, but I do-I do know what it's all a-bout," sobbed Charity. "Five times already. But never once by an expert-never yet! Amateurs! Botchers-people who didn't know what they were doing!"
"Get over here, then," commanded Martin. "There-against the shelf. That's right. Turn around-face the wall. Now grip those two uprights. Grip them-hard! Don't let go!"
He took up the largest of his three whips. It was the whip used by circus ringmasters. Expertly, he tested it for balance. Then, with no more than the flick of an upraised arm, he caused a clap that echoed through the shed like a rifle-shot.
Charity quivered, her buttocks jouncing beneath the smooth garment she wore.
Martin raised his arm once more. He turned, imperceptibly. Then, with incredible speed for so gargantuan a man, he snaked the thong suddenly, viciously, toward the quite unprepared actress.
A second clap rang out simultaneously with the biting of the leather for the first time, deeply, cruelly, into the flesh of the girl's twin buttocks, falling horizontally across both cheeks, cutting a livid weal equidistantly along the curve of both arsecheeks. The cruel pain of it was worse, even, than was the sudden, totally unexpected shock of it. Charity was powerless to prevent an agonized scream of anguish. She twitched, body jerking, and as she started to collapse, Martin struck again. The flexible thong shot forward. A second deeply-incising weal was laid, a half-inch below the first, in the very instant before the astonished girl fell to the ground.
She screamed in anguish at the unbearable pain of it. She turned her enormous, imploring eyes upon Martin. But, incredibly, her look seemed to say: "Go on! Don't stop!"
Martin, master of his merciless craft, recognized that look.
"Get up!" he flung at her. "You wanted it! Get up then, bitch-and take it!"
Few men had ever spoken to the pampered Charity like that. Yet, submissively, she struggled weakly to her knees. And, as she stretched forward her arms to reach the two upright posts, Martin struck, cruelly, once again.
This time he made searing contact with the very tip, the last quarter-inch of the thong. The whip met the satin and bored like a hole probed by a red-hot poker tip into Charity's left cheek, naked beneath its single layer of satin.
The pain must have been unbearable. Steve Marks winced.
Charity flung back her lovely head, tears streaming from her eyes. But she was smiling, ethereally. She was on her feet once more, gripping the upright posts, her fingers balled into white-knuckled fists around the wood. Martin motioned Captain Marks and Georg to either side of the quivering girl. Silently, they flanked her.
Then the flagellant let go two more mighty, searing lashes, placing them expertly one above the other and one beneath the two he had inflicted previously. The speed of their coming was so swift as to make their twin thunderclaps seem simultaneous.
Charity shuddered. She quaked in pain and agony. And, as she shuddered, she felt the sudden, insistent approach of orgasm-the wildest, most demonic she had ever known. She felt the outpouring of her woman fluids. She threw back her head, and screamed in the agony of both pain and of her coming.
"Aah-h-h! Oooo-ooh-ooh! Ah, sweet God in Heaven-but this is unbearable! Only go on, Martin! Go on, for the sake of Fuck itself!"
Twice more, and mightily, Martin lashed at her. Then he stepped back the merest trifle on the balls of his feet. Poised perfectly, he sent a second of those darting final quarter-inch stings deep into the centre of the globe of Charity's other cheek.
She had now endured eight lashes, six of them searing, horizontal cuts. Martin knew that she could take only one more. He motioned Georg and the captain to support the writhing, tormented, tortured girl-for she had slipped down, arch-backed, slumping forward between the posts.
A drenching torrent of urine burst from her.
"Oh, noo-oo-o-o!" she sobbed. "No-o-o! What are you doing to me? I'm so randy-I'm coming-I'm...."
Cristina gazed, wide-eyed herself now, upon the unbelievable ritual. Her own pod was an inferno of desire, of violent, turbulent libido. But there was no release for her. Georg and Steve Marks were both occupied, supporting the tortured Charity. Only Alicia was available.
Cristina sank to the concrete floor, dragging at Alicia. She snaked her hand up the slit skirt of the enormous Dutchwoman, darting her fingers to the crotch. Silently Alicia fell to the floor at the side of the raving Greek girl, acceding to the wordless request implicit in the caressing fingers at her crotch. Cristina felt for the gaping, parted gash, sloshy already with pre-come, and Alicia closed her thighs rapturously over the captured, caressing fingers.
Martin now poised for the final, ninth stroke. He raised his arm slowly to shoulder-level. Then he let it fall and his powerful wrist sent the thong snaking out toward the black satin back arched before him.
It was the cruelest blow of all. This time the leather landed with the full final twelve inches over the girl's back. It landed in the form most violent orgasm she had ever experienced. In violent, body-jerking paroxysms, she writhed and jetted load after load of her coming into the urine-soaked crotch of her black satin frock.
And as she thrashed about, torn violently from the grasp of her two captors by the fury of her spending, she became totally incontinent, suddenly discharging her bowels into her gown. Martin, his mighty chest pouring sweat, laid down the great whip.
Alicia now sprang forward, obscenely facing her husband, over the quivering body of Charity. Feverishly she tore at her corsage, dragging it down so that from her frock her two monumental mammaries sprang out, their nipples hard and aching in erection.
"Me, Martin! Me now-my turn!" she pleaded.
Beneath her, Charity lay, still now in her ordure of filth. She had discharged, absolutely and utterly, from every orifice in her body.
Martin selected, now, the vicious-looking "cat"-that many-thonged instrument of torture so beloved of his wife. Wickedly he drew it back, and suddenly shot the snaking thongs out over the massive tits of his wife, bared now in her urgency.
Alicia shuddered.
Then, cupping each vast mound, she offered the majesty of her mammaries at the second lashing stroke. It snaked home to its twin targets, and angry red weals showed now, crisscrossing each breast. Tomorrow they would be purple, Alicia shuddered again, bringing her thighs together in ecstasy to close the two labia over her raging, throbbing clitoris. She tore at her frock as the third lash descended. In a second she stood before them in stark nakedness. Then she collapsed to the floor, moaning.
Martin motioned the captain forward. "Part her cheeks," he commanded. "And get into her!"
Swiftly the captain stripped, tossing his garments over on the shelf. He rolled the enormous, palpitating mass of Dutch womanhood over on to her back.
"Why the arse?" he grinned, impudently, "when she has all this?" He gestured to her huge cleft.
"Have it your way, then," said Martin. "Only that she loves one up the rectum when she's getting the whip-that's all. But suit yourself. Only-just don't get in the way!"
Alicia, thrashing about upon the floor, instinctively parted her thighs to receive the erected penis probing for entry. And, as the entire length of the captain's staff vanished up her twat, Martin sent the third lashing down over the bare and exposed breasts of his wife.
"Don't move!" he commanded Captain Marks. "Just you stay inside. Arch your back. Get out of the way of the whip. She'll do all the work you'll be wanting-just you keep dead still and enjoy it, man!
A fourth vicious swish of the nine-tailed whip, and a further filigree of weals started from the huge, dead-white mounds of his wife. And, with each successive paroxysm of pain wracking her body, the Dutchwoman clenched, even more tightly, her clamping cunt upon the prick inside it.
And then, with the very next unbearable lashing, the great woman suddenly erupted, like some vast volcano, into orgasm. The writhing of her mighty bulk brought the captain into sudden ejaculation as well. She was clutching at his tool within her cunt, sucking from him his palpitating discharge of hot, bubbling semen.
Now it was Georg who could contain himself no longer. Senses confused by what he had seen-this strange, forbidden ritual in which two women had been flogged into sexual orgasm-he reached for Cristina. The well-remembered contours of her eager young body, long since stripped for sexual participation, fell into his grasp. He clutched at her as she rolled beneath him to receive his aching shiv.
As the two of them coupled Martin van Stappers ripped off his flannels. He advanced, menacingly, upon the violated body of Charity Yarotti.
Martin lifted her up as if she were weightless. Holding her as a father holds a baby, he unzipped her frock and threw the befouled garment into a far corner of the shed. Then he carried the limp, unprotesting actress over to a faucet and turned on a full stream of cold water.
The water was cleansing and refreshing. As it cascaded over her body, Charity revived. She lay, limp and relaxed, as Martin laved her tenderly.
He marvelled at the superb contours of her incomparable physique. Each breast was a masterpiece. In every curve of belly, of buttock or of thigh Charity was perfection itself. Martin found his cleansing becoming a caress.
Beneath his gentle hands, Charity came to consciousness and as Martin played the water from the faucet over her ravaged buttocks with their angry, fiercely-red weals, she began to feel desire once more.
She was thus more ready when Martin set her down, lightly, upon her feet-and drew her woman-flesh to himself in an embrace surprisingly tender. She felt his prong hot and throbbing as it lay vertically up her belly. She sighed.
Instinctively she spread her legs and Martin, crouching now, but still standing balanced on his feet, plunged his thickened root, a thing of incredible girth, into her dripping bush. It slid through the angle of wet cunt-hair, then, making contact with the parted labia, it encountered the welcoming oiliness of Charity's receptivity.
Suddenly Martin hoisted the girl by her hips. Without decunting, he held her before him, boring into her now on straightened legs, as she wrapped her thighs about his waist, locking her crossed feet over his back. And it was in this position that they completed their act.
Mischievously she flicked at Martin's drooping organ as he slid it, semen-dripping, out of her twat. Even slack, it was a thing of preposterous size, and she thrilled to the realisation of what she had contained within her.
On tiptoe she went to the tap again, and the copious strands of come sliding down her opened, parted thighs were washed away in the stream of water.
None had heard, as they drove back in the early dawn, the putt-putt-putt of the Lambretta behind them. Nor could they see the smirk of satisfaction on the face of its driver Alfredo Tarlone....
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Cannes sprawled, white and passive, breathless beneath the punishment of daylong sunshine and an almost unbearable humidity.
For two days the heat continued.
On the third day there came the blissful relief of a violent and drenching thunderstorm.
The strong sap surged. It revitalized trees, flowers, shrubs ... and people.
In her boudoir, her naked body clad only in a single, flowing dressing-gown of diaphanous nylon, the countess sat at a Nile-green telephone. She was speaking, long-distance to Karl von Schneider, at Karl's chateau in the lovely Chateauneuf country.
"So? Then when do I expect you?" came von Schneider's voice, cultured and beautifully modulated, over the wires.
"That," replied the countess, "is what I want to discuss with you, darling."
"Discuss? You're at Cannes-you can leave at once, can't you?"
"I expect we could. But, Karl-I don't know whether we should." von Schneider caught the hesitancy in her voice.
"Woman!" he exploded. "You're up to your damned tricks again!"
Elois' laughter rippled over the wires. "But, Karl-these people are so irresistible!"
"Irresistible-nonsense! Tell me, Elois-just whom are you bringing along with you? What witches "brew this time?"
"Well-let's see. There's Henry-"
"Henry, of course!" snorted von Schneider, impatiently. "But who else? Tarlone and Charity, and the two Korfus-these I know about. And that pair of queers-what's their names again? Luigi and Larry Miller? That right?"
"They're abroad. But Karl-don't tell me you're going to protest against them again! Why, they're two perfectly charming boys, and I adore them."
"I suppose they are. But I can't stand their bloody effeminacy."
"Then there's Ava and Karen...."
"Wonderful, Elois! Good God-where did you run across them? I thought they were in Hamburg all this time!"
"In Rome. I knew you'd like them to be along."
"I'm delighted. Who else?"
"Then there's a couple you haven't met yet. Hollanders. Martin and Alicia Van Stappers. I met them in Buenos Aires three years ago, and I asked them to meet us here, in Cannes. You'll love them-sort of a white counterpart, each of them, of the two Korfus."
"Those four'll be a lot of people. Anyhow-go on."
"Then there are some air-crew that you also don't know yet. Capt. Steve Marks-and two hostesses. One's black. Both are Americans-Linda Manners and Lila Smith."
"That's the lot? I'm not the Negresco out here, you know...."
"You'll have room! With the driver and courier-two wonderful recruits, incidentally-we're just nineteen of us. Oh yes-two I forgot to tell you about...."
"Do you know them?"
"I don't think you do. You may have heard Kris speak of them, though, in Copenhagen. One's a Polynesian, Mai-Nikki. She's a nympho. But she's utterly adorable-and with her is a tall, gangling South Sea Islander doctor called Sean MacThrone. Rich as Midas, but quite lovable, I promise you."
"Kris did tell me of them. Where did you meet these two?"
"At Kris' last summer. Not long enough to get to know them-but they seemed most keen to come along when I phoned them for this junket."
"So. There'll be nineteen. What's holding you up, then?"
"Patience, Karl! I told you-I'm just experimenting...."
"Elois!" shouted Von Schneider. "You stop that-you hear me? That bloody experimenting of yours. You've ruined more set-ups all over Europe than anybody else I could name!"
"Why? When it's so fascinating, Karl?" The countess chuckled. "People-they interest me, so much! They come together, then stay together for years, some times-and everybody gets to accept it as being so. Even the people themselves get to accept it. Then pouf! Just bring one face to face with another-and it's all off!"
"But that's just my point-why not let them stay together? If-they're happy, that is?"
"But are they, Karl? Happy, I mean."
"Well, damn it-you can see they are!"
"I don't believe it. They just kid themselves. Deep down, you find they're not really happy."
"So why do you always have to come along and prove they're not?"
"Because that's the fun I get out of life, silly!'
"You interfere too much. One day you'll get your prying nose into a snout full of teeth-mark my words."
"Because I upset arrangements that aren't ideal anyway?"
"Who asked you to be a judge?"
"Nobody. I just try to be helpful. Take Alfredo Tarlone and Charity, for example...."
"Christ, Elois-this is too much. You haven't gone and split that atom now-have you?"
"Not split," Karl. They'll split, by themselves. I've just showed them why-shall we put it that way?"
"But they've been together for years...!"
"Too long. It was getting too long-for both of them."
"Oh, God! This is too much. Tell me all...."
"Well, you know Charity and her crazy attitude to whipping. So-two nights ago, Martin and Alicia took care of her. Whipping is a specialty of theirs. And Charity hasn't been the same girl since, except improved a hundred times, that's all. Every ounce of selfishness is out of her now. She's human again."
"That I'm glad to hear," said Karl.
"She needed it," said the countess.
"And how she did. And Tarlone-how's he reacted?"
"Beautifully. Hasn't said a word. I can give him all the comforts he needs-so, for that matter, can a few others. But his work was beginning to suffer, Karl. Charity was too demanding, too cloying, for him. Only, like most people, he was too blind to see it."
"Well, I haven't any objections-on that score."
"And that's not all. I think I've even man aged to straighten out this thing between Henry and myself...."
"To whose advantage?"
"To his-I think. Something about him-I can only guess what it was-seems to have jelled with this Polynesian doll Mai-Nikki. For the two of them it's nothing but starry-eyes the last two days."
"But Mai-Nikki? Didn't you say she was the nympho? She'll eat him up like a spider eats its mate, surely?"
"Nothing eats Henry up," said the baroness. "He's steel and gunmetal all the way through."
"Watch it, all the same."
"Another thing, Karl-I might have ironed out the trouble for you this time with 'those queers', as you call them. You see, Larry and Karen look to me as though they're about to start something."
Von Schneider gasped. This diabolical woman! What about Luigi's reaction? And how was the amazonian Ava taking it?
The countess laughed.
"Don't worry, Karl! Luigi's got more offers of consolation than he can ever handle. There isn't a queer in Europe who wouldn't throw over his whole world for Luigi!"
"And Ava?"
"It's funny about Ava?" You know, quite frankly, I think that one's had enough. Deep down, I don't think she's ever been a real lesbian. I can't help getting the impression she took to it-well, because she's too much for most of her men. Maybe she thought women would be less trouble than her continual disappointment in her men shying off because of her size."
"So you see-things aren't quite so complicated after all," said the countess.
"So who's making with Ava now?"
"Dr. MacThrone, it looks like. He's another who was fed, up, though I doubt he'd ever have admitted it. A nympho can be pretty enervating, you know-even one so superb as Mai-Nikki."
"Well, it looks as though you've got things all shook up. Never mind that-when do I expect you?"
"Look, Karl, give me another day. I'll be honest with you: I don't really understand, yet, what's going on. Let's all have another one day to settled own-and we'll move on after that. It's Tuesday today. We'll start rolling early on Thursday. See you Thursday evening, then?"
"Fine, Elois. Don't be later-I'm looking forward to this."
"You won't be disappointed. They'll be good for you-these people...."
The countess, regal and statuesque beneath her transparent draperies, moved over to a side table where there was liquor, fresh orange juice, ice and siphons. She had poured, and was halfway through a meditative glass of ice-cold orange juice when Tarlone entered her room. She motioned toward the refreshment table. He poured a Scotch, tinkled ice-cubes into the golden liquor, and splashed soda from a siphon.
The countess thought she had never seen him look so well. He was relaxed, bronzed, fit. He sprawled, long legs elegant in grey flannels, deep into an armchair.
"The sun's done you good, Alfredo," she observed.
"The sun. Or something. God Elois-I've never felt so wonderful."
There was a long pause between them. It was the pause of friends who, sure of their friendship, do not seek to mar that friendship with meaningless chatter.
"When do we move on?" he asked, at length. "Day after tomorrow."
"Suits me fine. Just wanted to know."
"Getting restless?"
"Sort of."
"Sort of?"
"Well-ideas," he said. "Ideas. They keep coming. I've never had it so good. That Arthur Rank deal, over in London. I've been funking it. But I feel I could start any day now. It's a good book, Elois. It could be a great movie...." He paused again, a long time, Then he said, reflectively: " ... and there's another great movie coming up."
Elois smiled. She was in no mood to discuss Alfredo's career. She stood up, crossed to the refreshment table, and set down her glass.
She began, slowly and with infinite provocation, to undo the row of buttons down the front of her gown. As each button was undone, more and more of her opulent, exquisite body was uncovered. The widening revealed the delicious curves of her lush womanhood-the shadow, dark and provocative beneath her breasts, the swelling curve of her woman belly, the great pubis triangling down into the mysterious and exciting slip.
Fascinated, Alfredo watched. In his loins he could feel the rising of desire, and, impelled by a force beyond his power to control, he began to undress. Ready, his great tool jutted out and up from his underbelly.
The countess reached for it, entranced, laving it in its own juices, pulling him gently, inexorably, towards her as she glided backwards to her boudoir.
Sighing, he collapsed on the bed with her....
Long into the night, they alternated sleep and the frenzy of sex.
The next morning, the countess' menstrual period had begun. Unceremoniously, in the instant of her discovery, she woke Tarlone and thrust him from her.
She now lay luxuriating the blissful languor of early-morning randiness. Still as death she lay, eyes closed-her whole being was in the grip of sex. One after another, she conjured up her succession of previous lovers, and the exploits of those who had so wildly, so deliciously, brought her to orgasm.
Finally she could stand it no longer. She opened her eyes and reached for a bell-push at her bedside. When the chambermaid appeared, she said: "Be so good as to call at Room 472-Mr. Helsponte. Tell him I should like him to call on me, immediately. There is something I have to discuss with him."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
"Good morning to you, Georg," said the countess, affably, from amid the pillows. "I called to let you know that we are going to delay our departure a day or two. Just so that you don't worry about preparations...."
Georg looked puzzled.
The countess said: "If you're worried about schedules, forget it. I've taken care of all that."
"Well, I do have a week or so to play with," admitted Georg. "The boss said...."
"Never mind what he said, Georg. I'm the boss now."
Dimly, Georg began to comprehend. He understood even better when the countess raised herself upon one elbow and he was witness to her nakedness, spilling exuberantly and sexually over the covers.
"You mean...?" he stammered.
The countess smiled, mysteriously. "Exactly," she murmured. "If, that is, you haven't anything else on hand...."
It was a challenge. Georg accepted it. He advanced upon the woman, lying back now among the pillows.
The countess kicked the covers down toward the end of the bed. She lay bare of covering naked against the under sheet.
"In your gown?" she smiled, archly.
Georg stripped his gown from his solid, masculine body. "Without it, then, Countess?"
"But-of course!"
She lay, revealed, a woman in all her nakedness. She was a sacrifice of love, all nude, and soft femininity upon her bed.
Georg was already in a state of semi-erection.
The countess reached for his penis, giving it an affectionate little squeeze before she began to excite the loose skin to and fro over the glans. Globules of silvery spunk dripped from its tube tip.
"Oh, Georg!" she moaned. "You're so much the essence of all manhood!"
Georg smiled. "And you, madame-could any man desire more...?"
He bore down upon his craft of sweet, delectable womanhood. He was above her now, and over her, taking the weight of his body upon his extended arms. She smiled up at him. Parting her thighs to expose her slit to the tip of his throbbing machine, she lay spread-eagled to receive the massive shaft. The heat of his corona matched the heat of her acclaiming labia. Entry was not difficult. In one easy, piercing movement, Georg plunged his shaft deep inside the countess' kitten.
"You may be sorry ... murmured the countess.
"For all this? Sorry?" He bored away, probing deep inside her.
The countess slung her legs upwards, grasping his body with her thighs. She sucked her breath in, tongue against her teeth.
"Ah, Christ!" she breathed, in delight. "How exquisite!" she savored the full delight of it, without movement. Then she said: "But you may regret it Georg!"
"Shoosh!" he whispered, piercing her in sweet licentiousness. "Regret? What can I regret-about this?"
She smiled up at him.
"The fact," she said, softly, "that I'm menstruating...?"
Georg grinned, impudently. Her bland, unexpected confession left him untouched.
"So," he said. "You're bleeding."
He ground away softly, deeply, at her deflowered cunt, the helmet of his tool already deeply impressed upon the nut of her cervix.
"And is that something to worry about?" he grinned. "So when it's all over I've got a little blood to wipe off. And, after all, blood's...."
"Just so much the more slippery, so much the more squelchy," she finished, arching her heels deep into the descending lions of her straddler, spurring him into her.
Georg increased the potency of his thrusting. He knew what was required of him.
And the countess, hot in her morning ecstasy, thrashed her row flying limbs upon his hips. She was a virago now.
"Screw me, Georg!" she commanded, wildly abandoned now. "Bore it into me! Drive it in-have me, please, as hard as you want to-as hard as you can. Hurt me! Fuck me like a peasant'd fuck a wench in a stable! Christ, but I'm tired of being fucked by society pricks. I want a man, a man Georg, like you to do me! Have me-deep inside me, man! Give it to me like you give it to Christina! Give it to me-jerk it-pour it in ... Oooooh, but I'm so randy, Georg! Christ I'm bleeding, I tell you-it's blood, blood, blood that you're going into! It's blood-that makes it all so beautifully quim, my twat, and right up my cervix ... oooooh!"
Hacking down with her thrashing legs, she drove him deep into her open, receptive loins. Thrashing and writhing, she came mightily and, unsatisfied, she strove to come some more.
And Georg, riding her imperiously, unmindful of his own pleasure, gave her every opportunity. More and more forcefully he cleaved into that twitching, blood-bespattered, blood-dripping pad beneath him. Deliciously he felt the labia grip his dong. Again and again he slapped his board-flat stomach against her belly.
And then, as her second orgasm was upon her, racking her entire body, Georg felt his own climax approaching. With a twitching, jetting discharge, he squirted his load deep within the hot vagina of the elegant, flop-titted woman he so imperiously bestrode.
They collapsed, he sprawling on top of her sweating body.
Many minutes later he rose. His tool was a lance of brown, drying, clotting blood. The countess' belly was a battlefield, a gory sex-sticky battlefield of blood. Her menstrual discharge lay, clotted and thick with his semen, obscenely across her stomach. The sheets beneath her were dripping, bloodstained, gory. Georg's dork was a sorry sight-bruised, limp and inert.
Georg grinned down upon her. In his grin was triumph. Wordlessly, then, he donned his gown, knotted its girdle about his middle, and left.
It was thus that Cristina found him, a beatific smile playing over his features, when she entered his bedroom hours later.
Before she stirred him, she gazed down upon him, sweet, possessive love in her eyes. In sleep, his gown had parted from his waist, exposing one thigh and the bare tip of his rod, a limp sinew now, dependent over the inside thigh. She came closer. On inspection, she recognized the brown discoloration of blood upon the head.
She choked down the jealousy that rose in her. She smiled.
So, she thought. He's been unfaithful, has he? What matter, if he has, then? How many times during the past has he not, publicly and openly, demonstrated how deeply he cares for me? What if he has visited someone else? Only a quick, passing encounter-of no significance at all! But someone who was bleeding? A frown furrowed her forehead.
Already dressed for the day, she swiftly began to disrobe. Telltale blood smears at the crotch of her panties bespoke of her own condition.
Then, nude and all sweet womanly loveliness, she came at her sleeping lover. She slid down beside him. With fingers whose ministrations he knew so well, she felt for his limp penis, caressing the warmth of it was practiced movements. They raised, at once, the response she craved.
Georg awoke.
He reached, instinctively, for her body, finding it deliciously naked, and warm to his caresses. Beneath his moving fingers her nipples grew into hard little nuts of desire, her breasts expanded, her buttocks quivered.
"Cristina!" he sighed, happily. "Oh, Cristina!"
"Georg!" she breathed, nestling closer to the contours of his bronzed body.
"My woman!" he breathed into her ear, tweaking it deliriously.
"Your woman!" she breathed.
In a second, Georg had torn his gown from his body. He came at her.
As he prepared for entry, she whispered: "But I'm bleeding, Georg."
Georg threw back his head and laughed uproariously. "Bleeding!" he echoed, enraptured as he felt his rod slide home into her cylinder. "All my life, darling-I should have the joy of sliding into bleeding clunes. God-if she only knew!"
She, knowing full well of what he spoke, wordlessly splayed her thighs.
Into them, and between them, and down into the tunnel, Georg bore down, down into the blood-oozing depths of her vagina.
He felt Cristina's orgasm approaching. He pressed inwards, cramming her body savagely into his iron-hard torso as he did so, thrashing her with his furious attack.
Cristina came. She shot, rigid, into spasm. She drenched him with her feminine discharges. Beneath him she writhed, savagely seeking more.
Georg was aroused as furiously as he had ever been. Into the blood-oiled vagina he bored, tearing at the body of the Greek girl he loved.
He came.
He came mightily. Into the heavenly cleft between those thighs he poured every ounce of his manhood, his penis throbbing within her clutching puss.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
By the time they had reached Avignon the heat had become withering.
Not all the ice-cubes that Cristina's tiny little refrigerator could produce was sufficient to cool the drinks that everybody was demanding. Up and down the aisle went Cristina, bearing emptied glasses to the little galley, there to rinse them and re-charge them for the perspiring passengers. And up and down the aisle they passed her, in their turns, to the tiny toilet situated in the rear.
To cope with the heat, Cristina had opened all the vents to maximum, so that air swirled, forcefully and cool, through the interior.
She wore the bare minimum of clothing. Her nylon blouse, a flimsy, transparent garment, opened to deep below the cleavage of her luscious, triumphant jugs. Through the thin material, each breast was clearly visible in all its full, nubile statuary. She had scorned a brassiere, and her youthful body bobbed, entirely unbound, to each movement of the bus. Her uniformed skirt was her only concession to her "position" of tour courier. Beneath this skirt she wore no panties.
Her passengers were, many of them, equally bared to the current of cooling draft that swirled through the bus. Most of the women wore thin nylon, cotton, or silk blouses, almost all of them opened and totally unbuttoned.
Alicia and Beverly were forced into wearing of brassieres, solely for the support these gave to their mammoth boobs against the lurching and bounding of the vehicle.
Ava, in a central rear seat, had gone furthest of all in her quest for relief. She had discarded any semblance of upper garment. Her huge breasts jounced bare to the breeze, and her unzipped skirt indicated she was bare of panties as well. She was sitting, naked to her waist, between Lilia and Lia who, like herself, wore nothing beneath the lightest and most gossamer-revealing of blouses.
Never had Cristina seen so much breasts exposed publicly in the full light of day-so much flaunting of breast and bosom, and all of it flaunted so uncaringly. She remarked as much to Georg, bearing him a can of chilled beer.
"Take a look in your mirror," she whispered, softly. "All that meat! Have you ever seen so many naked bubs in your bus in all your life!" Georg grinned, gesturing with an eloquent look towards Cristina's own exuberant mounds, straining below the flimsiness of her blouse.
"Sure it wasn't the way you're got up that started it?" he asked.
She directed a glance down her own corsage, proud and reassured by what she saw.
"But look at Ava, there in the back! She's gone whole hog-Christ, she's bare to her crotch, I'll swear!"
Georg reached for a moist handkerchief on the dashboard shelf. "I don't blame her," he said, mopping his brow. "God, but it's hot. The people want to stop for lunch, do you think?"
Cristina took up the little microphone.
"Your attention, please," she announced, her voice falling musically through the ceiling loudspeakers. "Georg, here, has a problem. He wants to know if you want a luncheon stop. There are plenty of excellent restaurants just off the main road around here. Shall I count hands?" She stood up and faced the passengers.
"Press on," called Luigi, limply. "I'm so exhausted, I could die, right here!"
"On we go," said the countess, finally, when nobody spoke.
Cristina took up the microphone again. "That seems to settle it," she said. "In the meantime, I've some champagne, chilled, and a few cans of beer. Then there's some cheese, some cold sausage, some pickles, and one or two nice fresh rolls. I'll serve these in a moment."
They ate, then lay back, languid still, but refreshed. Christina came forward to her courier's seat Wordlessly she relaxed and watched the rolling Chateauneuf countryside disappearing behind them.
At last the turreted rococo outlines of the Chateau Cloisy itself came into view. Minutes later, the bus rolled to a smooth, unfelt stop outside a proud sweep of noble stairs. At their foot Karl von Schneider awaited his guests. They trooped now, wearily, down from the vehicle, following the countess.
He eyed them quizzically beneath a delicately arched brow as they were presented.
"You poor people," he murmured solicitously as his roving eye took in the deshabille of all, particularly the women, while his expression betrayed nothing but the utmost in suave, cultured hospitality. "You seem utterly exhausted!"
"The hottest day of the year," said the countess. "And such a long stretch!"
"Still, you made it," smiled Karl von Schneider, as he helped the final straggler, Ava, to earth. She was wearing a blouse by now, shirt-wise, but loose and open to the very bottom button, leaving her shuddering boobs naked to the gaze of anyone who cared to look. "Let's see if we can find something to cool you off with."
While servants busied themselves with baggage, he led his guests to a vast porch, screened in with netting, and set on the windward side of the gracious old home. The weary tourists sank gratefully into easy chairs.
Tall drinks appeared. Iced gin mixtures, with cubes tinkling in long, squash-filled tumblers. Champagne, in buckets of crushed ice. Chilled beers, von Schneider saw to everybody's comfort.
"When you've recovered," he said, finally, "I suggest a drive down to the river. Perhaps a swim. Meanwhile-welcome to Cloisy, all of you."
Tarlone set down his glass.
"That was splendid," he said. "That swimming idea sounds like another winner."
"Not for me," said the countess.
"You, Charity? Philoueas? Van Stappers? Anybody?"
"Count me in," they chorused, already recovered from the fatigue of the journey.
The pool at Chateau Cloisy was a remarkable piece of engineering.
The prince had made what use he could of what was, in fact, a natural pool-into which the Rhone tributary flowing through his estate began to widen just below the chateau itself. Using bulldozers, he had diverted the stream, leaving the pool itself free to drain. Then he had lined the entire bed in concrete, tiled it, and reset the course of the strongly-flowing stream into the basin he had constructed.
He allowed the setting to remain undisturbed-a sylvan glade of rich, lush, close-cropped grass, sun-dappled in the shadow of great elms, willows and all the natural greenery of the place. The effect was that of an Elysian fairyland.
Linda and Lila were first to strip. Casting their few garments over the lawn, the raced naked, breasts bouncing, into the cooling water.
Steve Marks helped Cristina to undo her back-fastening skirt-zip. Then he stiffened into sudden surprise, as did Von Schneider, to see her crotch encased in the stark and unexpected crudity of Kotex.
Expertly she clicked the pad free of its elastic band, and tossed it nonchalantly into a wicker wire-basket bound to the trunk of a nearby elm. She flicked the elastic band over her fluent buttocks-and was off to join the others in the water.
Martin and Alicia disrobed more slowly. There being more flesh to both of them, their stripping was a tease of incredulity as each exposed more and more of their vast bulks. Finally however, both the Hollanders were naked. They stood, hewn and monumental, his massive tool already erecting at the sight of the general stripping going on.
Alicia was, however, the cynosure. Her breasts huge, and both of them still criss-crossed by fading, bluish weals, bespoke their cruel mishandling a few evenings ago. Her great belly seemed to reach up to the mounds of her ample breasts as well as down into her hairy cuntslit. None could take their eyes from so massive and lewd a display of nakedness.
Von Schneider's eyes narrowed. It was the only sign he gave of the slowly rising tide of sexual anticipation seeping through his veins.
Then Charity began to shed her clothes. With the trained sense of theatrical timing, she had allowed the other women to precede her in their stripping. Agonizingly slowly, before the gaze of every man present, she took off garment by garment, and cast these idly upon the common heap. Finally she stood, stark naked, and as if she sensed the delicious shock it would provoke, she turned slowly to reveal her back. Livid, angry welts of skin stood up from her caned buttocks. Arching down from her shoulders, deep into the hollow of her back, and spreading again over her buttocks, lay the weal of the cruel S which Martin had inflicted upon the alabaster perfection of her skin.
Von Schneider stared at the incredible woman-a Grecian marble statue into which life had inexplicably been breathed. He was mesmerized. His jaw sagged. In his first exhibition of bad taste since his guests had arrived, he gaped openly. But it was excusable. Charity, naked, was enough to cause a gasp from any man. Scarred as she was by the lash, something sacred that had been gruesomely profaned, the sight of her was revolting-yet it was, at the same time, the most exciting vision imaginable.
Satisfied that she had caused the impression she wanted, Charity darted into action. Tossing her mane of hair, she danced away, and frolicked, splashing as she went, into the water. She swam to the other side of the pool. Here the tiles sloped the bottom gently upward to the lawn edge. Easing herself gently over on to her back, the statuesque actress lay supported upon her elbows in the shallows, her two breasts floating like lazy water-wings.
In the sheer joy of the summer afternoon, she lay back and drunk in the beauty about her.
Then she jerked suddenly rigid, as she felt an arm over her thighs, and a hand steal caressingly, around her buttocks.
Who could this be? she thought. She had seen nobody swimming across to her side of the pool.
She knew in a moment, when von Schneider's head broke the surface. He gazed, unwaveringly, at her, admiration beaming from his eyes.
Charity relaxed. She and the prince were old acquaintances-veterans of many revels.
"Oh," she said. "It's you-you scared me for a moment. Did you swim all the way under water?"
"No," he said, breathing easily, still firm and athletic in spite of his forty-five years of libertinism. "I came across in short stretches. Slowly. I didn't want to startle you."
"Relax," said Charity. "It's O.K., now."
She looked at him in amusement. He had all the social graces, she reflected-he was courteous, charming, intelligent, well-born and wealthy. But there was something about him that put her off. What it was, she did not quite know.
Now she gave his head a pat, tousling the wet, crisp curls affectionately.
"God, Charity-you've never looked lovelier. Back there, when you stripped, I could have prayed that you would petrify into marble-to remain here, in this setting, for all time!"
She patted his head once more. Compliments pleased her at any time.
He floated himself up to her, urging his body into contact with hers. It was then that she discovered, with surprise, that von Schneider was already hard and rigid in erection.
Understanding dawned upon her, but at the same time an urge to wound him, to dominate him.
"So?" she said, simply.
"Can't you feel?" he panted, hotly. "I want you so-so very much. Now!"
Charity was flattered. Her nipples hardened as a shudder of delight tormented her. From her cunt she could feel the warm sex fluid starting to exude.
"You mean-naturally? Normally? Like a lover would want a woman? That's odd, coming from you, isn't it, Karl?"
Von Schneider was impatient. "What's odd about it?" he demanded.
"Well, it's just not like you, is it? Wasn't it a fetish kick last time? High heels and black corsets, I seem to remember ... and before that, the other business-the blood and the mud and the crap. Like the time you took Anita down to the pigsties and shoveled this thing" she broke off to give his tool a vicious twist-"into the mire before you rammed it into her backside, poor kid!"
Karl was panting, his eyes wild, his mouth slobbering. Charity's hand, still gripping his organ, was electric, pulsating current through his hot, flushed body. He tugged at her beneath the water, pulling her roughly out of the pool, until she felt her back being scratched uncomfortably by the bristly, close-cropper grass.
"God damn it!" he panted. "What if I did? Sex doesn't always have to be something perverse. When there is beauty such as yours, surely you realise that even I can become tender?"
Charity was playing with fire, and she knew it. But she flung back her head, and laughed teasingly.
"The more beautiful they were, the more you used to revel in grinding them into the filth," she said, viciously. "I know you too well, Karl-and I want no part of that jazz!"
But she persuaded herself to be urged out of the water, and taken to where a patch of lilies hid them from the eyes of the others. She faced him there, taunting him with a mocking smile.
"And you-what about you?" he panted. "Look at those whip-marks! Where'd you get them, hey?"
Fire flashed from her eyes.
"My business!! she spat. "If you can run the full gamut-run it your way. Let me get my kicks the way I want them!"
Suddenly she spread her legs, and her slit leaped into view. Lips parted, it gaped redly and glistened in the sunlight.
"Vile bastard!" she flung at him. "Pervert!! Old roue! Pig of a thousand pigs! What makes you think you'll ever lay me?"
His chest heaved as he absorbed her insults. Into his eyes had come another look, now-the onset of anger.
Charity recognized this. Perversely, she continued, however.
"That's right!" she flung at him. "Pant! Pant your heart out, you lusting old ape! Pant for me-but you won't get me into your pig-sties! No! Take your Anita there, though-grovel in the pig crap with them! That's all you deserve!" A dangerous glint was in von Schneider's eyes now. His nostrils distended. As he struggled for control, her voice rose in fury:
"And go down to the brothels of Marseille! Go on! Winkle out the filthiest whores you can find in those dens. Bring them back here to Cloisy. Put them into black corsets, lace them up in lingerie, grid their legs-their filthy, syphilitic legs in black silk stockings, and make them prance around you in ten-inch high heels! Pervert! Filth!"
Von Schneider had endured enough. He hissed out one word only.
"Stop!"
It was like a whiplash. Charity shuddered.
And then he came at her-slowly, inexorably. As he felt himself in grappling distance, he sprang at her lithely and with the muscular grace of a leopard, bowling her over to the grass, and with the same movement, sought to plunge his raging dork deep into her.
But Charity had just had time to cross her legs and she kept them crossed, resisting the probing of that angry rod. Could Karl have seen the look in her eyes then, he would have gone even more berserk-for in her expression was the mocking glint of triumph, the knowledge that she had succeeded in provoking precisely the reaction she had wanted from him.
Provoked now beyond all endurance, von Schneider brought up his knee viciously into the girl's groin. She wriggled free. Frustrated, he now hit out at her, but Charity, seeing the blow coming, managed to tuck her face into the hollow of one shoulder over which his balled fist sailed harmlessly.
Now it was her turn-and she scratched from his upper arm a great weal of flesh, feeling the meat curl into her fingernails as she scraped it from his body.
The pain of this assault drove von Schneider mad. He strained at her, sinking his fingers deeply into her flesh, cruelly bruising her. He thrashed about over her body, driving her back into the grass, so that her whip-weals opened and began to bleed. And all the time he sought to part her closed, locked thighs.
Charity goaded him into fresh assaults, and managed, each time, to avoid the full wrath of his attack. She absorbed just as much punishment as she felt herself fit to endure.
And then, when she could endure no more, when she felt so close to orgasm that she could no longer keep up the resistance, she contrived to unlock her thighs in a gesture of submission so natural that Karl thought it was he himself who had finally won entrance into her now slime-wet pod.
With a howl of triumph, he bore down into it. And, as if she had gone suddenly insensate beneath the vigour of his rape, she sensuously lay back in feigned defeat.
Karl exulted in his victory. He bore down and into her like some demonic thing, intent now only upon his own satisfaction.
Little did he realise by what consummate use of her theatrical talent the actress-bitch beneath him had contrived every moment of their coupling. For she had wanted to be raped. A sadist at the best of times, she could hurt-and she knew it. But now she had found an even greater joy-a delight in being hurt-and she was loving it.
Deliciously, in great streams, she felt herself coming and coming and coming-non-stop-as her clumsy, excited rapist gasped and spluttered to his own climax inside her hot, ravished twat.
They slid, satiated, back into the water, bits of grass and mud clinging to their panting bodies.
Idly, using the current to help them, they swam back to the opposite bank, where they collapsed, Charity lying in a patch of sunlight, and the prince in the shadow of a spreading willow.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The countess, Alfredo and Georg lingered on after dinner, chatting idly to Karl. The others had retired.
Karl was talking about the skiing at Garmisch.
"It's the sport I love most-and the place I love most to enjoy it," he was saying, when the countess interrupted.
"Georg?" she called.
"Madame?"
"You tired?"
"Not very. May I ask why?"
"I mean, could you wait up an hour or two? Alfredo and I have something to arrange. After that, he'll want to go down to the town-also for an hour or two."
"But certainly," said Georg, with a smile. "Alfredo wants me to drive him, then?"
"What cooks now, Elois?" asked Karl, puzzled by this exchange.
"Please, Karl. Don't worry-you'll see-when you see," she said.
Karl wagged an admonishing finger at her. "One day," he warned, "you are going to wind up behind an eight-ball so big that not even you will be able to get out of it."
"Till then," cooed the countess, roguishly, "I'll get by-the way I'm going. I like it fine."
"When you get in the crap-don't come to me for help."
"If I get in it," she corrected, "I'll remember that warning, Karl."
Karl went to bed.
Tarlone and the countess finished their drinks. They left Georg and went out, an air of conspiracy between them.
Georg shrugged his shoulders. Something was happening. Whatever it was, was no concern of his. So, since he had an hour or two to wait, he took up a bottle of Scotch whisky, a siphon of ice-cold soda, and moved into the adjoining library.
The library at Chateau Cloisy was celebrated throughout France-the repository for a greater collection of erotica than perhaps any other library of its kind. The walls of the study were lined with shelves from floor to ceiling. And there, amid the writings, the artwork, and the infinite variety of material devoted to the cults and practices of the vast half-world peopled by sexual deviates, Georg browsed, fascinated by the wealth of von Schneider's collection.
It was past eleven o'clock when he heard someone enter the adjoining lounge. Alfredo's voice called out:
"George! Where are you?"
"Here," sang out Georg, "in the library! You ready, now?"
He replaced seven or eight massive volumes of lewd, obscene medieval woodcuts as Alfredo came into the room.
What a collection! Know what I'm going to do, Alfredo, one day when I get a vacation again? I'm going to ask Herr Schneider to let me spend the whole of that holiday right here in his library. I want to read every goddamned book on every shelf in the place!"
"Alone? Or with Cristina?"
Georg grinned.
"Because," said Alfredo, impishly, "if you bring Cristina with you, it's my bet you're not even going to find the time to finish the books on one shelf. This lot is rated the finest collection in the whole world-did you know that?"
"I didn't," said Georg, impressed. "But I'm ready to believe it. So? You ready?"
"Yes. Sorry for this. But I'll let you into it as we go."
They were speeding through the night in one of the prince's station-wagons.
"I don't want you" to let on to anybody yet, George," began Alfredo, "but the set-up's like this. You remember that night at my villa, in Rome-the night we showed the movie? Well, I don't know if you heard anything strange about the projector, that evening-did you?"
"Negative," he said. But he had an idea of what was coming.
"Well," said Alfredo. "It was all Elois' idea-but it seemed a good one. You know this new film-faster even than infra-red-that they've developed in Japan. Well, a friend has sent me a few hundred feet of it and I've been-well, I suppose you could call it experimenting...."
"You mean-you've been shooting shots of us-"
"Just that," said Alfredo, blandly.
He drew back the lapel of his jacket. There, in a tiny sling beneath his armpit, hung a small movie camera. It was nevertheless, even to Georg's unschooled eye, a highly expensive piece of equipment, precision-engineered in each of its turret of three lenses.
"On that thing you've been filming?" he asked.
"On this thing. Look. It takes a second only to focus. I shoot-so!" Alfredo half-turned to Georg, so that the battery of lenses pointed directly at the driver.
"Or else I wear that gaily-patterned shirt of mine. And when I want to shoot, I poke the correct lens through a hole in the fabric-and viola. Not one in a hundred people would know what I was up to!"
Georg smiled, in his smile admiration for Alfredo's daring.
"So now," continued Tarlone, "we go to develop and print what I have just shot. Tomorrow I edit it, splice it, cut it, and join it all up into whatever seems a natural sequence."
"I see," said Georg. "So long as you have fun, old man...."
They pulled up at a shop in the village. A light burned in an upstairs room.
Alfredo and Georg entered a surprisingly well-equipped darkroom. A battery of enlargers flanked one wall. The other was devoted to a succession of developing and printing solutions, all in gleaming white-enameled trays. Equipment of every kind seemed to be there.
The shop-owner withdrew, silently, and Alfredo swung into action. His every movement swift and purposeful, he seemed as much at home among his surroundings as a surgeon in his operating theatre.
He stacked a pile of exposed film to one side of a series of little plastic developing tanks. Then, when he had located the position of everything in the place, he snapped the room into total darkness, a darkness so black you could almost feel it.
It seemed to Georg that they must have been standing there wordlessly, in total oblivion, for hours before Alfredo snapped on an orange light that flickered and then caught, to flood the room, once more, with a dim, reddish glow. But it had been only a matter of fifteen minutes. In that time Alfredo had loaded each one of his developing tanks with exposed film. There were about twenty reels in all. He lit a cigarette, offered one to George, then waited with the patience of a long darkroom experience for the chemicals to work upon the coating of the film. From time to time he took up each tank, to agitate the solution inside.
"Not much longer to wait," he said. "Here-take a couple of these. Now we drain them-so."
He and Georg emptied the solution into a tank, and filled the plastic containers with fixer. They set in this for some time longer-then the lot were plunged into a washing tank.
"So," said Alfredo, when the last of the tanks was under running water. "Now we go. This fellow can carry on, tomorrow. He'll get them ready for me, so that when I come back, I can make the final reel ready for screening. Ah, but this will be something-I promise you. I'm burning to see the damn results myself."
"I bet a few of the folks are going to get a surprise or two," grinned Georg.
"You can take poison on that," said Alfredo. "Charity for a start!"
It was late next afternoon by the time Alfredo returned to Cloisy, flushed and exultant.
The prince's library had been discovered by the other guests. Most of the party were there.
It was a strangely silent gathering. Everybody was sitting or lolling around on the carpets, deeply immersed in some volume or another, and totally oblivious to anybody else, or to whatever gauche postures they had assumed. An air of communal rut pervaded the entire room as each read, avidly, on and on, through volume after volume.
Alfredo leaned against the open doorway of the library, an amused smile playing over his features as he took in the effect of that mass of erotica upon those immersed in it.
Finally he caught the eye of the countess and Georg. He beckoned to them. Silently they left the room.
"Hell!" said Georg. "What a formidable collection! Am I glad you showed up! Another couple of minutes of that, and everybody's going to be at each other's crotches inside there!" He applied a handkerchief delicately to his temples.
"How was the result?" asked the countess, eagerly.
"Brilliant!" Alfredo beamed. "A hundred-a thousand times better than I ever expected. This new film is out of this world! It's captured everything-the lot! Misses nothing!"
"That going to be fun," said the countess. She was still quivering from the sexual excitement provoked in her by the prince's collection.
"Fun!" exclaimed Alfredo. "Wait till you see it. Wait till you see what you were up to, for one!"
"Alfredo! You tramp! No shots of me-you wouldn't dare!!"
"Ah, but I would, you know-and I did, you know," said Alfredo, impudently.
"When do we see it? Tonight?"
"Hell, no-not tonight! Tis is too good to rush, Elois. I'll have to spend a bit of time on this one-say, Monday?"
It was Thursday. Georg thought quickly. The tour was to have ended by the weekend. His orders were to be back at base, in Switzerland, by Monday. Now here was Alfredo, casually talking of a screening on Monday night. Ah well, he reflected-let the idyll last as long as the countess pleased. She, after all, was paying for it-and he was getting the pleasure, wasn't he?
"Monday?" Elois echoed. "I'd planned to get moving by then. We can't impose on Karl for ever, you know."
"Nonsense. Karl's loving it. He and Charity and those two van Stappers will set up a little whipping party on their own in a day or two-you mark my words-and they are gonna need a day or two more, after that, just to get over their wounds!"
"Can't you make it on Sunday, then?"
"Sunday-I'll try."
"Do, Alfredo. It'll make a wonderful finale. And I do like my parties to end at top pitch-sort of crescendo, you know."
"O.K., Elois. I'll do my best. But this is one film I'm not going to spoil."
"Good. Now let's go back inside. I don't want them to suspect us of being up to anything."
The countess need not have worried. Nobody had noticed them leave the room. Nobody even noticed their return. Every pair of eyes remained glued to whatever book it was that they happened to be perusing, with spittle-drooling avidity. The hands shook, holding pages, betraying their nervous excitement.
"Christ! When this party busts out, I want to be there to see it," laughed Tarlone, encompassing the picture of wanton devotion to debauchery that was there, evident on every hand.
The countess laughed as well.
The sound of their laughter seemed to release something within that room.
It was Cristina who first fell victim.
Weakly she stood up, straddling a huge volume of obscene drawings through which she had been paging. Keeping her gaze upon the particular picture that had excited her into action, she gathered up her skirt and plunged the fingers of her other hand deep within her still-bleeding pod. Strange animal noises were pouring from her throat-sobbing noises of a woman in rut, and she frotteured away for only one short minute before she spent her load, enormously and deliciously, into her masturbating fingers. She sank to the floor, collapsing atop her book with a sigh like that made by a deflating balloon.
Lila Smith was next to go off. She rent her blouse from her naked, panting body, and ripped off her skirt. She lay, eyes glazed, heaving and thrashing her black woman-body in randiness.
"For Christ's sake," she swore, "this I can stand not a moment longer! Won't somebody, for the love of God, give me a shagging?"
Georg darted a look at the countess. It was a mute, unspoken request.
"Go right ahead," she smiled. "But-"
And she gestured meaningfully towards Lillian Manners, who was still deeply engrossed by what she was reading. She lay, nevertheless, with a fistful of fingers, questing business-like among the oiled bush of her crack.
Georg shucked off his clothes. His own tool was aching with the agony of the lust in which he had spent his last few hours. He caught the elegantly-built negress by her hips, and rolled her over. Lila's legs thrashed high in the air as her body jerked spasmodically in an agony of desire.
Avoiding her legs, Georg lunged with his tool deep into the demented woman's cunt, and he felt it drive home with the very first thrust. At the same time, heeding the countess' command, he gently withdrew Lillian's hand from its masturbatory mission deep within her crotch.
Surprised, she tore her eyes from her book, and looked about her for the source of this interference. Seeing, in a flash, what was going on, she scuttled her skirt up around her hips, and at the same time loosened her aching breasts, their nipples angry and inflamed in their hardness, from her blouse. She came at the flickering tongue of the Swiss, just at the precise moment he extended his mouth to her crotch. In a splash of gooey spunk, warn and salty, Georg's tongue darted into Linda's delicious cunt.
A sexual pandemonium ensued. Actuated simultaneously, each person fell upon whoever was nearest. Tools plunged up hairy, receptive superbly-oiled kittens. Mouths closed upon pods. Mouths sought for, and absorbed, organs. Hips thrashed. Lips writhed. Bodies jerked, ripe and ravenous for immediate orgasm. And suddenly, within mere seconds, it seemed, the entire massive group copulation ended then, as orgasm racked body after body in the final shudderings of unendurable pleasure.
Mai-Nikki alone remained unsatisfied after her first climax. The erotica had excited her more than it had the others. And when relief had come to all, it had not been Henry who had rammed the Polynesian, poking that foot-long penis of his deep up through her cervix and into her womb. No. Henry had found himself copulated into Luigi's backside-the nearest haven he could find in which to plunge himself when the entire gathering had erupted into sudden, unpremeditated action. All that Mai-Nikki could find to ram into her was the prick of Dr. Mac-throne-and that was an engine to which she had so long ago grown so accustomed that she had become satiated, and finally insatiable, in turn, upon it. Macthrone drenched off his load of semen into her maw, happily and with groaning, delightful satisfaction.
But Mai-Nikki wanted more-and she was now feverishly masturbating Steve Marks into a second erection, praying wildly that it would be hard enough, soon, to plunge up her red-angry, aching quim. And when it was and she had crammed it greedily, with voracious fingers, up her vagina, it was not five or six plunges before she was off again, racked in the grip of her second coming.
But the pilot was not now to be denied. The vicarious pleasure he was getting out of the pleasure he was giving to the demented nymphomaniac set him grinning. Never ceasing for a moment his shagging of the Polynesian, in a moment or two he had her ripe again for yet a third discharge. When he had her at this point, he met her coming squarely in the twat with the might of his own outpouring. Together they heaved and clove to each other, backs arching as if they would split each other clean up the middle in the agony of their ejaculations. And, so mighty was the discharge of the captain that Mai-Nikki sank back, temporarily satisfied, panting from the fatigue that comes after violent sexual exertion.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The entire gathering was keyed up expectation as Alfredo set up his screen in the vast reception hall of the chateau.
The lights were dimmed. The projector whirred.
The opening scenes showed the happenings around the swimming pool at Alfredo's villa, on the day the countess's party had arrived in Rome.
Expertly the camera danced around some of the highlights. There was a long panning down the exquisite body of Charity, a glorious vision of Karen's dainty, faintly-haired little pussy.
Then there were close-ups of the countess's pendulous boobs, dissolving into a viscous display of Philoneas' phenomenal penis, rigid and incredible in its vastness as it stood, diagonally and enlarged, enormously across the whole screen.
These and similar shots, all in the fidelity of full colour, lent atmosphere to the next shot, which showed a thrashing tangle of four legs, pedaling away in some incomprehensible movement.
It was Cristina who first caught the gist of what was happening.-"Good God!" she exclaimed out loud. "It's me-underwater!"
"That's right-and that's me, too!" called out Sean Macthrone, thrilling to the sight of his own penis probing underwater amid the cunt-hair of Cristina. A flood of memory carried him back to the day of that underwater fornication.
Eventually the one-eyed lance was seen to find its mark, and Cristina's legs jerked upwards and forwards around the doctor's hips, as she scissored him and ground his hips into hers.
"Sure, it's an underwater shot," announced Alfredo, pride in his voice. "I've got a little room fixed up against that bath, with an astrodome window built right out into the water. With the telephoto lens, I can get most of the bath in focus, right from there."
Now the figure of Georg swam into focus and the camera followed him as he plunged about beneath the surface, tweaking the nipples and the tips of penises of whoever the happened to be swimming below.
The nervous laughter failed to hide the mounting tension of sexual desire that now began to grip the party as each settled down to view this pitiless revelation of their activities. Bodieis wriggled down into more comfortable positions. In the darkness, Georg stole his hand into the cleavage of Cristina's blouse, found her boobs, and cupped one with nipple-caressing fingers. Cristina urged her vibrant young body into his caress, shuddering receptively.
A final shot of the countess, sitting, cross-' legged, and lasciviously tossing herself off in complete nakedness was the last straw. It was a cruel, lewd, lascivious sight.
Hands clasped over man shafts. Fingers slid, to and fro, in the warmth and smoothness of hot, hairy slits.
So far the film had been in colour. Now it changed to black-and-white in a short sequence of the actual film that Alfredo had shown them before, ending with that colossal pair of boobs that he had captured, so magnificently, on his voyage down the Red Sea. Huge, pendulous and incredibly vast as two great cantaloupes, they were as viciously sexual at this showing as they had been the last time.
Now Torlone's questing camera shifted to the audience who had been viewing that film. The mounting of sexual excitement was evident upon their faces and in their actions. Each had felt secure that he was unobserved, shielded by the cover of darkness. Now their activity was laid bare.
"But how the hell ... ' exclaimed Sean Mac-throne. In his voice was admiration, coupled with complete bewilderment.
"It's a new kind of film entirely," explained Alfredo as the camera whirred on. "Infra-red stuff, and faster than film has ever been made before. It's something quite new that the Japs have invented. Look at this, for example. You'll see-it captures everything, even in almost pitch darkness!"
Onto the screen flashed a picture of a hand stealing up a smooth and milk-white thigh. Only Georg knew that hand, there on the screen, was his own hand. He remembered what had followed.
"Notice anything wrong?" asked Alfredo of his drugged audience. "Well, I'll tell you. No shadows, see? There can't be. The scene was shot in the dark, so there were no shadows to record-therefore, no shadows!"
"My God!" exclaimed the doctor, with sudden understanding.
"That's what makes this infra-red stuff so fascinating to work with," went on Alfredo Torlone. "It's all a wartime project, of course, and very new still. But its possibilities-hell, they're enormous! It's the most exciting thing I've ever worked with."
The hand on the screen worked its way caressingly up the thigh. Then, just when everybody expected to see it meet the furred twat of one or the other of the women, the fingers encountered ... a rigid and raging penis! It had been no female thigh at all! It had been a male thigh that the hand had been fondling-the thigh of Larry Miller.
Another flashback showed the society matrons of Rome again, naked and sweating and indolent, in the Sauna bath, then the camera turned back to that first-night audience. What a squirming mass of fornicating, copulating flesh now was revealed! Nobody had known, in the darkness of that other evening in Rome, who it had been whom he was humping. No woman knew whose penis was grinding away inside her. No man knew whose gash he had been boring. Now, obligingly, Alfredo was revealing exactly what had been happening.
The camera picked up a face-the countess-then moved down the body, showing that it had been Georg who was shagging his employer. Georg chuckled. He had thought it was Ava, the lesbian, into whom he was plugging away:
At that moment, watching himself in action, he ripped open his fly so that his great erection sprang from his trousers. Still grinning at the image of himself upon the screen, he leaned over the hot and heaving Cristina, plunging his free hand up her skirt. She was nothing loath. She opened her thighs to receive his fingers, urging her tits violently into his other hand which was fondling their alabaster surfaces so provokingly and so deliciously.
It was now the doctor's turn to be exposed. The camera showed him to be humping away, mightily, between the thighs of Cristina. Cristina, thought the doctor in amused amazement-so that's who it had been! She too, was surprised, for she could remember having been under the impression it had been Alfredo himself who had claimed her that evening, leaving his projector to grind away automatically on its own, while he entered the fray. She smiled, in delighted amazement-remembering how pleasant had been that encounter in the dark.
While she had been screwed, she had been fondling somebody's penis ... and now, for the first time, she knew whose it had been. None other than Luigi's ... and she watched now, with a trace of disgust, the leaping discharge of fountaining white semen.
The camera panned back to Sean Macthrone and showed him crawling from the body of Cristina, crawling over a veritable sea of writhing, squirming bodies, blindly seeking yet another orifice into which he could plunge his as yet unsatisfied prong. He found it, surprisingly, when a mouth closed over the head of it, and the doctor was shown, lying back, savouring the delight of being sucked off. He could remember having wondered just who it had been who had done him this favour ... and now he knew: none other than Henry Grundmann!
It was apparent, now, that nobody had been still in that room. The camera picked up Philoneas, groping about for somebody. Beverly was revealed, seeking to cram any loose penis she could find up her quim. It did not seem as if she was finding any satisfaction in her search. She would straddle any idle cock, squelch up and down upon it for a moment or two, then discard it, to crawl about for another one.
Viewing herself, Beverly now remembered deliciously the thought that had motivated her that night. It had been dark. She would be unobserved, she thought. Very well then-she would ram every prick in that room into herself, successively, one after another. That had been her idea, and until this very moment, she had been under the impression she had succeeded. Now she saw, for the first time, how she had failed-for in all her orgy of sampling, she had contrived to ensnare only Georg, and of all people-Larry Miller. Time and again, it was only one or the other of those two whom she succeeded in capturing.
One of the cruelest scenes of that whole orgy was now revealed in its gruesome entirety. The roving lens picked up the delicate, little-girl beauty of Karen, contentedly prone upon her back at the fringe of the crowd, where she was being sucked off by-of all people-the countess. So that's who it was, thought the countess, and here I'd been thinking that it had been Charity I'd been mouthing!
And then-and Karen could still recall it-she had been picked up as if she had been nothing heavier than a cushion, and she felt herself falling across a writhing mass of bodies. She knew now, for the first time, whom it had been, then-who alone possessed the huge strength to handle her thus. Who, other than Philoueas? And, as the film unfolded, she lived again that vicious experience.
She saw herself being picked up bodily, and sat athwart his thighs. She saw how he lifted her up and down over his rod, while her tiny lesbian pod was sploshed and agape, clutching into itself his massive, mahogany weapon!
The tiny size of her, in such sharp contrast to the massive bulk of Philoueas, was a lewd and depraved sight. It was a vile defloration and the audience shuddered as each experienced, in imagination, what a massive intrusion into the vagina of the little girl had been that mighty African rod! And then came the orgasm, and the black man was seen to be literally jerking the frail woman-body up and down upon his pole as, time after time, he would jet a stream of creamy semen deep up and into her outraged slit. It was the acme of utter degradation.
As she watched the film, Karen herself could feel another approach being made to her there in the dark. She yielded to the advance, opening her thighs to take the tool seeking entrance into her twat.
Whose tool it was, she had not the slightest idea. The lay itself was all that counted! Karen, since the day her maidenhead had been riven, had been a lesbian-the ever-willing slave of another woman-condemned to a lifetime of female caresses. Now she thrilled as she gave herself over to the sweet realisation that she was at last experiencing the fierce masculinity of man-into-woman fucking. She had Philoueas to thank-that fierce onslaught, little less than physical rape itself. And as she watched the African giant shagging her into insensibility upon the screen, she writhed in jerky randiness upon the floor, giving herself utterly and in swooning intensity to whoever it was, now, who was grinding away into her twat, herself matching, thrust for thrust, the urgency of the delightful experience.
By this time, under the stimulation of the erotic sequences they had been viewing, the entire company had followed Karen's example and that of Georg and Cristina. Spurred by the cinematic view of their previous cavorting, they were now busily engaged in reliving those same sexual onslaughts. There was, by now, the heaving of bodies straining at each other, in that room. Few continued to watch the film on the screen, instead, there was the unmistakable thwack of belly meeting belly. There was the hiss of hard breathing like athletes in contest, as the demented men and women worked off and worked up again their aroused measure of lust and libido, and the delicious squelching of penis into vagina.
The countess herself, given over wholly and completely now to the orgy of sex taking place about her on every side, drank in the sweet realisation that her party was, at that very moment, at its very zenith of libertinism. All else would be anticlimax. At this point, she could disband her guests, secure in the knowledge that each had enjoyed the maximum of experience that she, and each other, could bring about.
She quivered and jerked in rut. Blindly, in the darkness, she wriggled, crawling with naked titties swinging and bouncing over what seemed like a veritable acre of fucking, cock and cunt-sucking bodies. Finally she reached the mammoth trunk-like solidity of Philoueas.
She drew down his head to her hot, heaving breasts, sweating in their agony of sexual longing. Clawing at him like some feline monster, she succeeded in dragging the African's body down upon hers. Now, exercising only that sheer instinct that dominates all sexual combat, she succeeded in clamping her oiled twat around the throbbing massiveness of Philoueas' monumental phallus and her cunt curled open and absorbed the turgid obelisk-like prick of the black man.
Now, with all of its heft swallowed up her cunt, the aristocratic socialite gave herself up to her huge, ritualistic act of surrender. Debased, there in the dark, with mouth slavering, she grunted and groaned in her frantic search for fulfilment.
Her heroic striving had its effect on those near. Here was some huge, primeval and terrible act of fuck in progress. As the lewd, obscene moaning poured out of her opened throat, a hush fell on all of them. In the hush, the countess's moanings echoed the louder, the more ominous, as she clove to Philoueas.
At the very instant that the countess, drawing a long breath into her tormented lungs, let go a long, low "Aah-h-h-h-h-h!" into the room, as she dissolved in dreadful orgasm, Alfredo Torlone tripped the switch that stopped his projector. With the same movement, he flicked on the light switch.
It was then that the toll of the sex-movie became evident in all its awful, orgiastic immensity. There, caught in the soft and sudden flood of light, they lay-twenty human bodies caught up in the mightiest consumption of lust, of randiness, of utter sexual debauchery of all times.
The entire room was permeated by the pungent, acrid perfume of sperm. Sperm was evident everywhere. Here, it lay splotched and glistening still, over some woman's face. There it drenched a softly-rounded belly, still panting up and down after its recent sexual exertions. It squished between the fingers of female hands, lay in a creamy-white spume upon cunthairs, or flowed, dripping still, from flaccid penises. And everywhere in the room was the sickly-sweet, sour smell of it.
And now, in the light, and sparked off by the throaty howl of the countess, the majesty of her fornication with the lusty African giant leaped into sudden, incredible focus. It was the sexual mating of all time, this battle between the orgasm-racked aristocrat and the black colossus bestriding her. Into her discharge was pouring every ounce of the countess' undeniable womanhood. But the mighty negro was nowhere near the point of his own ejaculation yet.
Oblivious to her howls for mercy, he ceased not a moment from flailing his hips into her belly. She writhed. She twitched, hugely, spasmodically, seeking, animal-like, to escape the pain and the uncontainable agony of her ordeal. But not by a millimetre did he cease from slamming his awful, inconceivable penis into her.
When she rolled, mightily, from beneath him, he rolled with her and, still locked in place, continued to ream himself into her womb.
Now Tarlone himself, flinging garments from him as he came, dived upon that two-backed monster-and came at the countess from behind, his penis a raging flame of heat at the ring of her anus. With one great lunge, he rammed the entire length of it deep up the fundus of the demented woman. Like a hot rod through a mound of amorphous butter, it disappeared, squelching spunk from the connection as it slid up her rectum.
The aristocrat of Innsbruck shrieked in pain and outrage at this sudden, unexpected violation of her seldom used orifice. Then, feeling the two pricks each a-slither over the thin membrane that separated her rectum from her vagina, she shuddered obscenely, and collapsed.
In and out bored the two pricks through her two bottom orifices. Tarlone rolled his eyes in an agony of lustful enjoyment as he felt the massive black cock, hot and probing and unbelievably rigid and huge, only a millimeter's thickness of cunt skin away from his own hungry and aching rod. Grimly, like two locomotive pistons, they slid to and fro-and the countess, teeth clenched against the unendurable agony of it, lay back helpless in a swoon of sex-crazed enjoyment.
She had thrown one hip over the thigh of Philoueas, and though no detail of her mighty double-fucking was visible, no one was unable to sense its utter, all-consuming completeness. Slowly, they felt, mounting again, within their aching loins, the onset of sexual desire.
Lila and Linda moved first. Together, they dragged their weary bodies erect. Their eyes were glazed and unseeing. Crawling, now, they came, as if mesmerized and under the compulsive influence of some power not their own, to where the two men were grinding away into the body of the demented countess.
Wordlessly, by tacit instinct, they presented their own two reddened cunts to the countess' two free hands.
Elois, feeling the warmth and lust femininity of these two orifices at her fingertips, knew what was expected of her. Senseless already in her debauch, she knew, in that moment, that with one organ up her slit and a second reaming away in her rectum, that she herself must complete a dual masturbation inside the mute but eloquently demanding cunts at her fingertips.
She bunched her fingers into one long, four fingered probe and she rammed each handful of fingertips up the kittens of Lila and Linda. Gratefully, receptively, their labia closed over the countess' fingers.
It was the turn, now, of Martin von Stappers to enter the enormity of the fuck.
Realising that the countess had still one orifice untenanted, he came, cat-like for all his massive bulk, over to the five coupled bodies. He lowered his body in a crouch over the aristocrat's face, and he thrilled in delight as he felt her mouth close over the head of his tool, felt the familiar sucking sensation of her tongue and of her lips doing their well-practiced work upon him.
The countess' joy was now nearing its acme. Only her two armpits remained capable of taking any further sexual pleasure, and all that prevented the insinuation of any more bodies into that sexual sprawl was the mass of heaving humanity itself, there at its vicious work of lechery.
But Elois had reckoned without the acrobatic agility of Henry Grundmann, and now the gymnast came, drawn as irresistibly as iron filings to a magnet, inching over into the fuck-satiated tangle. He watched, transfixed, the concerted heaving of that six-bodied chaotic mass fornication. He arched his hips and plunged forward at the precise, accurate moment for entry.
The countess gave an electrified shock of spasm as she felt the oiled, sex-seeking wand cleave its way to her body from behind her shoulder, through the sweat-drenched tangle of hair in her armpit, and intrude its blue, angry head over her squashed breasts.
Incapable now of movement of her own, except the movement of her fingers inside the slits which had trapped them, she was a woman given over in her entirety to the mightiest hump she had ever experienced. She found her mind awash in the swimming sensation of sexual thought. Had there ever been so mighty a shag in this world before? Had there ever been a woman so monumentally bestraddled-by not one man, but by no fewer than four of them at the same time! She was, at that moment, incapable of orgasm-the pitch of orgasm has long since been attained, and was now past. But the sensation was far more mighty than orgasm itself could ever have produced in her, and she revelled in the realisation that she could probably lie there for ever now, the female receptacle for as many pricks as the propinquity of naked, striving human bodies could squeeze or insinuate into or upon her.
More, however, was to come. The movement of the seven bodies had now settled into a slow, probing rhythm of sexual exploration in which the full, pendulous tits of the countess became visible from time to time, as Philoueas fell below her arched, receptive body. Into the gap between her upper, outside boob appeared and reappeared, lasciviously, the glistening, snake-like head of Henry's thrusting wand. The countess' two breasts were visible in their inviting nudity-and the cleavage between these massive mounds was vacant!
It was Steve Marks who had noted this fact. Slowly, among those who were watching this greatest of all fucks, the airline pilot stiffened, and prepared for action. Suddenly, unerringly, throwing himself bodily into the heaving heap of other bodies, he sped with his throbbing penis straight at the mark. It was the might of his onslaught alone that carried him, inexorably, into position, and he felt his penis cleaving the valley of that squashed-together mass of mammary flesh so that his piston slid under the twin lubrication of his own spunk and the countess' animal sweat, directly into the valley of that warm, feminine cleft.
Georg could not forebear to cheer. The magnificent mass of depraved mutual fornication was now complete. This was something, happening here before his very eyes, that nobody else in the entire world had ever seen before!
Here was a woman, bearer of one of the proudest names in Europe lying with a tool up her twat, another up her rectum, another deep in among her tonsils, a fourth in the cleft between her enormous titties, and a fifth cleaving the fecundity of her well-haired armpit! And at that, she lay masturbating two of the most statuesque female bodies, nude and delightful, in all the world! Eight bodies in all-locked in one single, simultaneous fuck! When, ever, in the history of human fornication, had the like ever been seen before?
He seized the lush, nude body of the panting Cristina, and he threw her across the tangled pyramid of eight heaving bodies. And as she fell upon that mass of flesh, she instinctively parted her thighs to receive the sudden and mighty onslaught of his tool. As she ensnared it within her sexual nest, she pulled the blonde-headed giant to her belly, seeking to squash her hard nippled breasts all over the chest of him.
Ava and her new lover, Sean MacThrone, came into the battle. He knew, as he drove his penis deep up her vagina, that here, in his arms, was one woman who could never be completely lesbian again, ever. Cunts she might suck-true, and copulate with dildo with some future woman, in some fit of remembered perversity. But henceforth there would have to be the warm, throbbing prick of some sex-hungry man.
Around the edge of that mass of bodies came Cristina, now-naked, massive, obscenely randy as she searched for sexual satisfaction. She found Luigi, stupefied watching, and she picked upon him to assuage her now-aroused appetite. Dragging him to her body, falling with him to the floor, she encompassed all of him, balls and all, deep within her hungry maw.
Larry Miller, seeing his former lover coupled there to the hilt in the experienced twat of the Dutchwoman, let go a yell.
He leaped upon the woman nearest him-Mai-Nikki, consumed in the grip of her nympho maniac lust. He bore her to the ground, aside and half athwart the pyramid of fuck-locked flesh all about them. And he shuddered in sexual enjoyment of the spasm-producing thrill he knew when he felt her hungry, insatiable vagina sucking him into the thrill of his new-found masculinity.
Somewhere in that sea of sex was Charity, finding sexual relief in some unseen orgiastic ritual. Alone, now, and unfulfilled, was little Karen. She shouldered her way into the heaving group, seeking a man-and, finding none, she impishly contrived her own solution.
A smile over her sprite-like features, she danced like a tiny fairy, daintily and lightly around the entire group. Here was some spittle-drooling mouth-she presented her downy-bushed slit to it, feeling a shudder as those lips closed at her own labia, as that tongue darted up the depths of her vagina. With a throaty chuckle, she would draw away. There was a ganglia of fingers. Again she presented her little-girl twat-and again she thrilled to the entry of ringed fingers up her sexual chasm! Then she would disengage for yet a third experimental pirouette around the group.
She saw Cristina, body rigid and jerking spasmodically in obvious orgasm, suddenly fling her legs up in the air and swooning in the agony and ecstasy of her coming. As she fainted, she collapsed from under the might of Georg, still randy and robbed, at the very point of his discharge, from himself attaining orgasm. Karen was ready.
Daintily, but unerringly, she flung herself between the loveliness of Cristina's nakedness, lying back over the lush body of the Greek girl, her thighs parted to take the Swiss prick throbbing there before here.
Georg, delighted to feel again a cunt where split seconds before had been none at all, let go delightedly. Time and again he belly whacked the petite, pixie-like little girl, and he thrilled rigid as he felt her legs go up, out, and arch around his body as she, in turn, was carried to the uttermost rigors of orgasm in his massive humping. She kicked and battered his hips down and into hers, letting her body arch backwards against the soft mountain of flesh athwart her while she was being screwed, and Georg gave her all and more of what he had, as he allowed his erection to remain in that insatiable twat.
His climax became the climax for all of them, then. Writhing and rumbling, obscenely shouting profanities, their bodies earthquaked then into one mighty, communal orgy of orgasm.
The countess, like Cristina, fainted into insensibility as she felt the huge, unbelievable coming of her straddlers, virtually at one and the same moment, as they began their discharges. Semen jetted in pearly-gleaming long strands over her throat, her breasts, and she felt the twitching lancing of ejaculations up into her rectum, deep up her slit at her very cervix. She writhed and wrenched spasmodically, sucking down a load of semen into her throat from the Dutchman's huge penis, sputtering for air, and choking upon the semen and spittle that threatened to drown her as she strove to swallow its never-ending stream.
One after another, or simultaneously, ten penises splashed ten darting loads of semen over bellies, down throats, into cunts, between sticky, wet fingers and into the palms of masturbatory hands. One after another, ten vaginas twitched and angered into communal orgasm, and seemed to explode in the swollen intensity of their vaginal orgasms.
They jerked, racked rigid ... and finally, one after another, ten male bodies, naked and sweaty in defeat, subsided from ten sets of nude female bellies and lewd woman bosoms ... and were still....
On the face of the countess, buried beneath the lascivious mass, played a beatific, Mona Lisa smile.
It was the smile of triumph of the scientist in the moment of discovery, the smile of triumph of the athlete who has broken an Olympic record, the smile of triumph of the mother in her moment of birth.
It was the smile of Elois, Countess de Baron-who had set out to break, then to reunite her friends. She realized, now, that she had succeeded far beyond her wildest dreams.
Satiated, replete with the fullness of the glutton, and wearing, now, the glow of her success like a halo about the entire naked woman-body of her, heavy-titted and full-bellied, with the massive weight of her simultaneous fuckers pressing down upon her in the torment of their communal collapse, she slept.
There was nothing-nothing more at all to come. From that moment on, there would be nothing ... except the memory of what they had lived through.