by Felix Baron
Honey crept closer. A finger at her lips cautioned me to be silent, not that any cries of mine would have been heard above the hubbub. Her purpose became clear. The little harlot wrapped a hand behind my neck and stepped up to stand, legs spread wide, on two of the spokes. Her free hand reached down between us for my cock. I could resist its urge to stiffen but Honey, in that position, squatting in the air as it were, her cunny spread wide, seemed likely to succeed in stuffing my flesh inside her own, soft or not.
Logically, I could not fault myself if my vow were broken that way. Logic is of little use when a man feels guilty.
I tried to writhe and throw her off. My bonds were too secure. The little bitch had the head of my cock in contact with the wet lips of her cunny when Zema rescued me. Honey was plucked away like an infant and carried off facing backwards, tucked under Zema’s left arm while the flat of Zema’s right hand delivered whacks to Honey’s bottom that could be heard even over the din.
Some hours later, Zema returned, bleary-eyed, with a knife in her hand and an empty wineskin over her shoulder. ‘Nice English,’ she said. She lifted one foot up on to a spoke, in imitation of Honey’s attempt to mount me. Her knife hand went down towards my flaccid staff. I flinched. She caught herself, put the blade between her teeth, and reached down again, to caress me. I reacted, although she was rancid with dried blood and arrack dregs.
Her first foot fell off the spoke. She tried again, with the other foot on another spoke, and almost toppled. ‘Tomorrow,’ she promised me. Her blade sawed through my bonds.
I led her up into the carriage, where soft giggles told me my girls were observing us from behind their curtain. I spread myself on the floor. Zema tied knots that a child could have pulled apart, and left me.
At dawn, Melku arrived without Zema. I surmised that she was still recovering from the previous night’s revels. My left wrist and right ankle had come loose in the night. The little man gave me a strange look and tugged the other knots free. When he put his noose over my neck he pulled it tighter than he’d done before. I had to scramble to keep up with him as we left the carriage, or else choke.
Melku was beginning to irritate me.
He made me march at speed, through saw-grass and marshy puddles. When I was slowed by my feet sinking into mud, I felt the tip of his sword bite through the skin at the back of my neck.
Enough is enough.
On our return, Melku, somewhat bruised, led. He wore the noose. I carried the sword.
Zema, back in her poncho, was waiting at the tailgate. When she saw Melku she burst into laughter. I handed her both the sword and the end of Melku’s tether, with a flourish and a little bow.
She let him go, to slink off, head down.
I looked straight into Zema’s eyes. ‘Noble Zema,’ I told her, ‘I swear, by my honour and in the name of Queen Victoria, my sovereign and liege, that I will not attempt to escape from your custody. I will remain your prisoner until you have delivered me to wherever we are going. I give you my word as an English gentleman.’
She looked at me speculatively, searching my eyes, then dropping her eyes to my cock. Perhaps she was wondering whether, if I enjoyed the liberty of a parolee, she’d be denied free use of my masculine attributes. Eventually, she nodded.
Both to exorcise any fears she might have and to exercise my new licence, I crouched, ran my hands up under her voluminous garment, took hold of her thighs and heaved her up into the carriage. I vaulted after her. Her eyes were wide. I doubted any man had lifted her bodily since the day she’d become a woman.
Daring, I took her garment by its neckline and tore it asunder. Without further ado, I assaulted her on all fronts; my tongue insistent in her mouth, my hands kneading her massive breasts, my cock stabbing into her secret folds. She lay as if numb for a full minute before her thighs wrapped my hips and she thrust up at me, giving as good as she got.
I held myself back until she bellowed a climax, then flipped her over. My hands pulled her hips up and back. I went into her again, as a dog does a bitch. Once more, I pistoned into Zema, driving her to her peak and over it. As she subsided to the cedar floor, I turned her yet again. With my teeth at her throat, I sank four fingers into the hot mushiness of her cunny, found her massive clit with my thumb, and drove her to her third orgasm in less time than it takes to consume a decent breakfast.
Fatima brought a length of printed calico to cover Zema’s nakedness. I’ve never visited Ethiopia so my Amharic is virtually non-existent but Zema looked at me and mumbled words that included, ‘barya’ and ‘negus’ so I assumed she was calling me an enslaved king, or a king of slaves, or some such. I stroked her cheek and called her ‘my Sheba’, after the beauty who’d seduced Solomon. Her face turned coyly aside. She giggled. I swear, if she hadn’t been black as coal, she’d have been blushing.
Gathering the calico around herself, Zema left us. For the first time, I was alone with Fatima and Maria, unbound. I rose to my feet with a deliberately ominous look on my face. The carriage was, perforce, my abode for the nonce. It was time for me to establish who was master of my mobile house.
Fifteen
MARIA HAD FASHIONED herself a sort of sari out of a length of scarlet shot-silk. She’d styled it to leave one arm, shoulder and breast, bare. Fatima was wearing a triangle of green velvet, knotted at her left hip. Both had tinted their lips and nipples crimson. Fatima’s eyelids had been gilded. The hussies had prepared themselves for yet another morning of rousing my lust and denying me satisfaction until Zema arrived.
But Zema had come and gone and I wasn’t bound, helpless, on the floor.
‘We …’ Maria blurted.
‘I …’ Fatima started to say.
Both fell silent before my stare. I let them suffer for a full minute. When they were fidgeting but trying not to, I strode between them, into the depths of our conveyance, and sat on a bench. ‘You’ve enjoyed teasing me while I was helpless,’ I said.
Maria mumbled, ‘We took care of your need, after a while.’
‘Sometimes you did. Sometimes you didn’t.’
Fatima toed a knotted silk rug. ‘Sorry, English.’
‘You will be disciplined, both of you.’
Maria started, ‘You can’t …’
‘I can.’ I crooked a finger at Fatima.
Looking at her own feet and holding her hands behind herself, Fatima crept towards me. The closer she got, the less fear she exhibited. Most Arab girls have experienced corporal punishment. Many have learned to like it. By the time she reached me her hips were swinging a defiant challenge.
I spread my knees and pointed to my left thigh. Fatima shook her head. I started counting, ‘Five, four, three …’ She was draped across my leg before I reached ‘two’. I pulled her hands behind her and gripped her wrists in my left hand. My right snatched her only garment aside.
Maria, her eyes big, asked me, ‘What are you going to do to her?’
Fatima answered for me. ‘Spank me, silly!’
‘Can he do that?’
Fatima flexed her buttocks. ‘Are you going to stop him, Maria?’
‘Watch and learn,’ I said. ‘You could be next.’
‘No!’ Maria fled to the back of the carriage.
I ignored her. My right leg hooked over Fatima’s, just above her knees. She was immobilised, unable to do more than squirm. As my cock was trapped under her belly, I was quite happy to let her wriggle.
Maria was hovering at the back. She was forbidden to leave our carriage except when escorted by Zema and no doubt feared the Ethiopian more than she did me.
I caressed a smooth hemisphere of Fatima’s bottom. She tensed. For the entire time I’d been held captive, up till crushing Zema’s breasts, my hands had been denied contact with female skin, apart from briefly brushing a thigh or a hip or a cunny’s lip, ‘en passant’ as it were, or occasionally holding an ankle.
I stroked, savouring the satin smoothness. I kneaded, delighting in the resilience. I tickled
and I cupped. Fatima slowly relaxed. When the muscles under my fingers were limp, I lifted my hand and brought it down, hard.
Fatima yelped.
Maria, drawn by impure inquisitiveness, tiptoed back. She knelt not a foot from the arena of action, eyes bright with perverse curiosity.
I lifted my hand again. Fatima’s bottom tensed. I waited. The imprint of my fingers slowly bloomed, livid against pink. I smacked once more, the other cheek, then the first again, quickly.
Maria’s eyes grew wider. She hunched over with her fists, knotted together, pressed into her pubes. I reached over her back, to where her improvised sari was tucked in, and tugged the end loose.
Fatima began to pant. Her legs, from her knees down, flailed. I slapped and slapped. Her bottom blushed from the crease of her thighs to an inch below her tailbone. Every five or six blows, I paused to caress her burning skin. I’d reached thirty before Fatima began to moan in a tone that wasn’t entirely from pain. I touched her between the backs of her thighs. Her ripe little cunny, squeezed between her legs, was weeping.
With a satisfied grin, I adjusted her legs, parting them further. I compressed her pubes in my palm, lifted my hand, and smacked three fingers down directly on to her pouting slit.
She gasped, jerked, and lifted her bottom even higher.
I knew her. Women in general might be hard to understand but Fatima, and her pain-craving sisters, are open books to me. Once you recognise one, all you have to do is gauge the intensity of their perverse needs and they are yours. I beat a rapid tattoo directly on to the cushiony beauty of Fatima’s sex. My left hand released her wrists. She was no longer capable of resistance. I took a fistful of her hair and arched her backwards so that I could watch her face. Her cheeks were wet with tears. She was drooling. Her eyes were glazed and her expression blank. For Fatima, all that existed was the urgent rhythm of pain that I was inflicting on her.
She made fists, one clutching air, the other around Maria’s wrist. Her hips bucked, rising to meet my every blow. A high-pitched keening, a sound I’d never heard from her before, shrilled from her throat.
Her head turned, despite my grip on her hair. Fatima looked into my eyes and in an incredibly calm voice, almost sighing, said, ‘Yes!’
She slumped, spent.
I told Maria, ‘Feel how hot her bottom is.’
She stretched out a tentative hand. A fold of her sari came free.
‘No – with your mouth.’
Maria knelt close. Her sari unravelled down to her slender waist. She brushed her lips across Fatima’s burning skin.
‘Tongue! Taste it.’
Her tongue lapped a scarlet cheek.
‘Now here.’ I took Maria’s head by her hair and directed her face, pressing it between the Egyptian’s thighs, bringing her mouth to the bruised and swollen flesh of Fatima’s cunny.
‘Nice?’
She nodded with her tongue fully extended, its tip between Fatima’s engorged lips.
‘Higher!’
She raised an eyebrow.
‘Beso negro,’ I said. ‘You understand?’ I’d learned the expression from a Spanish maid in the employ of Lally Madison, one of London’s most fashionable courtesans. The practice – the insertion of a tongue into an anus – had been all the rage the year before. Many gentlemen declared it the most intimate and thrilling act that a woman could perform for them. I myself had acquired an extra degree of popularity with the ladies when it was bruited about that I was not averse to returning the compliment. What’s good for the goose, after all.
Maria gave me a blank stare. I was surprised, considering how addicted she was to oral service. Perhaps she just hadn’t heard the expression before.
Fatima would have stayed contentedly draped over my knee for as long as her nether parts were being toyed with. I extended the middle finger of my left hand to Maria’s lips. There was no need to instruct her. It seemed that whatever her mouth was offered, it accepted with gratitude. Her cheeks hollowed. Her tongue lapped. Once my finger was wet, I plucked it away and put its tip to the pucker between the globes of Fatima’s bottom.
The Egyptian tensed. For a moment I wondered if I’d misjudged the extent of her experience. Perhaps her bum was a virgin? After all, she was in her early twenties. Many women don’t embrace being buggered until their sensuality peaks, in their thirties. My doubts were dispelled when, in response to the gentlest pressure, the tight pin-hole relaxed and softened, inviting my finger to explore. I prodded my way in, savouring the drag and the rubbery resistance. Beneath Fatima’s tummy, my shaft twitched, anticipating the pleasures that Fatima’s rear passage would afford it, eventually.
Maria’s avid eyes followed my finger’s progress. With two of my finger’s knuckles engulfed, I bent it a fraction and lifted it an inch. Fatima’s bottom had no choice but to rise higher. I took Maria by the back of her neck and told her, ‘Between her cunny and her bum – lick her there.’
Maria extended her long, narrow and very flexible tongue. It flickered over that small and exceedingly sensitive area, dabbing and dancing and then delivering long lascivious licks. Fatima lay and quivered, luxuriating in the delicious sensations. From time to time, her back passage clenched on my finger.
I pushed and pulled, just a fraction of an inch. My finger pressed to one side and then the other. Fatima didn’t resist but those internal muscles are strong. They have to be persuaded to relax. A vigorous buggering would have opened her up nicely but I’d decided to save that game for later.
Fatima sighed, long and deep. The constriction around my finger loosened. I plucked it out and took the cheeks of her shapely bottom in my hands, to tug them gently but firmly wide apart.
Maria’s eyes widened when she saw the treat I was offering her. Her chin lifted. As her body rose, her sari slithered down to pool at her knees. Maria’s tongue stretched out. Its tip circled the dark rear entrance to Fatima’s body, tickling the striations of its pit. The Spanish girl sucked in a deep breath. She pushed. Her face turned from side to side as slowly but surely she worked her sinuous tongue into Fatima’s bum-hole.
‘Good girl,’ I told her. ‘Deeper now. Tongue-fuck the little bitch.’
Maria’s head drew back and pushed forward, slowly at first but accelerating. Fatima began to moan. Saliva dripped from Maria’s lips and pooled in the soft crater of Fatima’s anus.
My cock called out to me. Rarely had I seen a bum so ripe for sodomy as Fatima’s was at that moment but I am not whimsical in matters of sex. I had a plan and would not be distracted from it by a passing fancy. Self-control is paramount. My object, that day, was to teach these two girls exactly who their lord and master was.
When both seemed rapt, Maria in her tonguing and Fatima in being tongued, I stood up, dragging both with me by their hair. Fatima whimpered. Her bottom wriggled. Her hands fluttered from her nipples to her cunny and back again. She was in a delirium of lust.
Similarly, Maria writhed against my grip, her tongue straining to reach something, anything, sexual.
I lifted my left foot up on to the bench. My left fist bore Fatima down before me. My right hand dragged Maria in close behind me. Maria’s hands parted my buttocks. Her face squirmed into their divide. Fatima took my shaft in one hand, my testes in the other, and closed her lips around the crown of my cock.
I fought the urge to fuck Fatima’s sweet little face. Holding still, I let her gobble on me, lips mobile, tongue slavering. The tip of Maria’s tantalising tongue found my anus and probed. I didn’t hold back. My eyes closed. I focused on the obscenely delicious sensations and let the pressure build and build and build until I gushed, flooding Fatima’s mouth.
As a rule, I make sure to compliment any sexual partner who has contributed to my climaxes. I didn’t, then. The lovely little bitches had taken great glee in tormenting me and using me as their erotic toy. They needed to be taken down a peg or two.
As I released my grips on their hair, the girls moved to embrace. I pulled the
m apart. The cords that had bound my wrists and ankles served to truss my companions, each seated on the bench opposite the other, both with arms extended and wrists lashed to iron rings. I believe that Fatima expected me to indulge in some erotic cruelty and was looking forward to it. She was right, but not as she imagined. I stretched out on my ‘bed’ and luxuriated in the pleasure of sleeping on my stomach, at last.
Sixteen
MY FELLOW PASSENGERS on that strange journey were all three quite young, very lovely, and what I can only describe as ‘erotophiles’. They weren’t nymphomaniacs, not even Honey. Nymphomaniacs, unfortunates who suffer from raging unquenchable lust, are sad creatures who are rightly confined to Bedlams, for their own and the public’s safety. Fatima, Maria and Honey were all devoted to Eros but not to the point of being crazed. They could be sated. They could delay their orgasms to extend the pleasure of anticipation. They enjoyed sex.
I’ve read the works of Jacques Bernoulli and Gerolamo Cardana, so I have some small understanding of the mathematical science of ‘statistics’ and the laws of chance. It couldn’t have been by happenstance that three young girls, all lovely, all passionately but not insanely devoted to Eros, were on the same journey. I know that young people are usually lusty. I know that youth imparts beauty. Even so, not one girl in a thousand would have fit the criteria these three did – young, lovely and happy to be depraved. Someone had gone to enormous lengths to find these girls and induce them to join the Wolf’s sect.
I could think of a dozen nefarious uses such girls could be put to. I needed more information, but that likely awaited me at journey’s end. Questioning the girls overtly might do my cause more harm than good. More intelligence is gathered by listening than by asking questions.
I awoke and rolled over. Above me, four pretty feet were making languorous love to four shapely limbs. My lustful captives, unable to touch in any other way, had stretched out their legs so that they might run the soles of their feet together and, by slumping against their bonds and by balancing their bottoms on the very edges of their benches, bring toes into caressing contact with knees, and even a few inches higher.