As his hands moved from her breasts and began to work their way down Mara’s belly, she felt the juices within her well up from their own internal spring and instinctively she slid her feet apart on the smooth ceramic floor.
The shower spray played upon her breasts and warm water trickled down her body, sending rivulets of soapy liquid coursing between her thighs, as though a dozen invisible lovers had spurted their semen into her belly and were now watching silently as it flooded out of her cunt and down her slender, tanned thighs.
‘I want you, Mara Fleming.’
The whispered words seemed to echo around the tiny cubicle, as though they were not really spoken by Geoffrey at all but by some great and terrible power within him, that fired his belly and stiffened his cock and chose his words for him.
His hands were at the base of her belly now and working their way down, through her pubic hair. Her clitty! Please let him find her clitty, and rub it . . .! But he was inexorable in his exploration of her body: no nook should remain untouched. He slipped his hands round behind her once again, and began to rub the bar of soap across her buttocks.
And now he was insinuating the bar of soap between her buttocks and sliding it down, down; pressing the corner of it into the tight rose of her arsehole, and she was writhing in delight at the boldness of his touch.
When he was well satisfied that he had finished with her backside, Geoffrey at last turned his attentions to Mara’s cunt. Before she had a chance to protest, or even to realise what was going on, he had pushed the bar of soap right inside her.
It was a sensation of mingled pleasure and discomfort. The harsh, perfumed soap stung the delicate membranes of her sex and she almost cried out for the pain of it. But the sensation of being filled up, forced apart, was exquisite; and when Geoffrey began to masturbate her roughly with his fingers, she did indeed cry out – this time with pleasure.
She climaxed in a few moments. As her cunt-juices welled up, the bar of soap became dislodged, and she giggled as it began to slide out of her cunt, finally falling to the floor with a soft thud. Before Geoffrey had time to resume his torments, Mara took the initiative, bending down and picking up the soap. It was redolent with the mingled fragrances of cheap perfume and cunt-juice.
Silently she began to massage his penis with the soap, rubbing the bar across its tip, so that it stung his sensitive flesh and made him even stiffer, even more anxious for her.
Seizing the bar of soap, Geoffrey threw it to the ground and forced Mara to lean her hands against the wall of the shower-cubicle. Warm water cascaded down her hair and into her eyes and she began to imagine that she was drowning, drowning in an ocean of fragrant sperm and cunt-juice . . .
Geoffrey prised her buttocks apart in a moment and pressed the tip of his soapy prick against her arsehole, ramming into her without gentleness. The violence of his entry only served to excite Mara, who began to thrust backwards, greedy to take in every inch of his eager tool.
He buggered her expertly: so expertly, that Mara began to wonder how he could have learned such sexual skills in such a short space of time. A few short weeks ago he had been a gauche boy – a virgin, whom she had had to teach to fuck her. And now he was a libertine, a man of the world, a stallion with a red BMW and a go-faster prick. He buggered like a man who has spent all his life learning the art, not like a young man who, weeks ago, had to have his prick guided to a woman’s cunt.
He shot his semen into her and within a few moments was stiff again, pushing Mara to her knees and forcing his hardness between her lips. As he thrust in and out of her, she stroked his balls, feeling them tense as they prepared to shoot their load into her mouth.
As she toyed with his bollocks, Mara noticed two tiny scars on his groin: hardly visible, really – and certainly nothing worth remarking upon, except for their location . . . and the fact that they looked uncannily like the scars of two tiny puncture-wounds. Two tiny teeth-marks . . .
He came with a shuddering groan, clasping the back of her head so that she could not deny him the fullness of his pleasure. She swallowed his second load of semen and resigned herself to having to masturbate to orgasm. But not so. To her utter astonishment, it took only a matter of minutes for Geoffrey’s prick to become serviceable again.
Not stopping to turn the water off, or to grab hold of a towel, Geoffrey picked Mara up in his arms and carried her, dripping wet, to the twin beds which they had pushed together. Throwing her onto the soft mattress, he was on top of her and inside her cunt within seconds.
‘Fuck me, Geoffrey, fuck me!’ cried Mara, not caring if the whole world heard the bedsprings creaking as they fucked. And Geoffrey was only too happy to oblige. His penis ploughed into her and as he rode her to orgasm, he pinched the tips of her nipples with great savagery.
The sudden pain was sufficient to bring Mara to her crisis and she seized Geoffrey’s buttocks, pulling him into her to crush him against her pulsating clitoris.
He pumped his seed into her and they lay together for a long time, water and semen dripping from their exhausted bodies.
The following morning they got up early and set off for Vannes. Geoffrey still didn’t seem to be eating much and Mara began to be worried about him. Was he ill?
‘Don’t worry, Mara!’ laughed Geoffrey. ‘I’ve had a bit of a stomach bug, that’s all. I’m a bit off my food. I’ll be right as rain in a couple of days. In fact, I’m feeling better already.’
As if to prove a point he chewed his way laboriously through a croissant at their next stop but Mara couldn’t help feeling it was just an exercise, staged entirely for her benefit. For some strange reason, Geoffrey just didn’t seem to be hungry any more.
They set off again, entering Brittany by lunchtime, and drove into a thickly wooded area where the recent rain seemed to have washed every speck of grime from the trees and their multi-coloured leaves glistened in the autumn sunshine. Mara was just beginning to feel good again.
The winding road led between dense plantations of pine forest, the low sunshine darting from between the trees as the red BMW sped past, like the flickering from an old movie camera. Mara felt the hypnotic effect of the flickering lights dulling her brain, disorientating her, and she turned to Geoffrey, placing a hand gently on his arm:
‘Please slow down, you’re making me feel nervous.’
He flashed her a brief smile and Mara saw that his pupils had shrunk to tiny black specks in a mass of grey. He seemed to be looking, not at the road ahead, but at something beyond, something Mara could not see.
A sudden unease swept over her, she could sense something. Something bad that was going to happen if she didn’t stop it.
‘Slow down, Geoffrey – please . . .’
His response was to slam his foot down onto the floor, making the BMW leap forward like a beast of prey. They roared on into the forest, Geoffrey wrenching the wheel from side to side on the bends as though he relished the closeness of danger.
‘Geoffrey, don’t: you’ll kill us both . . .!’
But Geoffrey simply smiled that same fixed smile, teeth clenched, corners of his mouth turned up in a defiant rictus.
The white deer appeared before them quite suddenly, stepping into the middle of the road, turning its beautiful eyes towards them as though pleading with them to stop.
Frantic, Mara tried to seize the wheel but Geoffrey brushed her aside with more strength than she had ever imagined him to have within him. And he could easily have avoided the deer. It was standing stock-still in the middle of the road, almost defying them to harm it: all he had to do was swerve a little to miss it.
But Geoffrey put his foot down, aiming the BMW as though it were some deadly missile, ploughing into the deer with a horrible, soft, sickening thud that threw its inert body through the air. It fell by the roadside in a crumpled heap, obviously dead.
Mara stared in horror at the blood-spattered windscreen, too shocked to speak. Geoffrey threw back his head and laughed. It was the manic, humou
rless laughter of the irredeemably damned.
They came to the level-crossing about half an hour later and Mara seized her chance. As the car stood waiting for the train to pass she wrenched open the door and – before Geoffrey had a chance to stop her, even if he had wanted to – she was away and sprinting across the fields for all she was worth.
The lorry driver peered down from his cab at the long-limbed beauty with the glossy cascade of black hair and the astonishing violet eyes. His Gallic prick was already stirring into furious life and he stuck his hand down the front of his trousers and adjusted it. He made no attempt to conceal the gesture. He wanted the woman to be under no misapprehensions . . .
‘M’selle?’ He pushed his képi back on his head and tried to make sense of Mara’s rather sketchy French. Mon Dieu, but she had nice titties.
‘Vannes!’ exclaimed Mara, thumbing ineffectually through the pages of her phrasebook. ‘Je voudrais . . . I want to go to Vannes.’
‘Ah, c’est donc ça que tu veux, ma p’tite? Alors, monte làbas, avec Pierre et Jean-Louis. Ils t’acceuilleront de bonne grâce, je t’assure! Tu veux un peu d’ça, hein?’ Mara could not understand his words but there was no mistaking the meaning when he unzipped his flies and pulled out his prick. ‘Tu veux suçer mon zob, p’tite Anglaise?’
He laughed and shoved his cock back into his trousers. ‘Alors, ça c’est pour plus tard . . . how you say? We save ’im for later, yes?’
His toothless grin was hardly appealing but Mara allowed him to help her up onto the back of the lorry, an ancient ex-army vehicle, complete with canvas top. The inside was half-filled with a large pile of artichokes and most of the rest of the space was taken up by two men – presumably Pierre and Jean-Louis.
‘Bonjour . . .’ began Mara, hesitantly. The two men were eyeing her up with obvious interest and she would have preferred to keep to her own end of the lorry but – short of sitting on the artichokes – she had no other option. She would have to accept their leering offer of a place next to them . . .
The lorry was rumbling down a deeply rutted country lane and she stumbled across the artichokes, half-falling into the arms of the older man, who had a grey moustache and was brandishing a half-empty bottle of cheap red vin de table. He took full advantage of the opportunity to give Mara’s tits a really good grope.
‘Tu as de la chance, Pierre!’ exclaimed his companion, a swarthy man in his thirties. And he too began to explore Mara’s body. She put up some slight resistance but Pierre began to pour the red wine into her mouth and silenced her protests. Half-choking on the vinegary liquid, she realised that Jean-Louis was busily unfastening first her jacket, then her blouse.
His hand was inside now and she could feel the excitement trembling through his fingertips as he rejoiced in the fact that this tasty little morsel wasn’t even wearing a bra. His rough, calloused hand passed across the tender flesh of her nipples and, in spite of herself, Mara felt them grow hard and erect at his touch. She could not find the will to resist as he peeled off her jacket and blouse, leaving her naked to the waist.
Pierre, meanwhile, was trying to fathom the intricacies of Mara’s belt. He fumbled for a while with the buckle, then lost patience and reached for his pocket-knife. With one swift movement, he cut through the leather. Next the button, then the zip, and Mara’s skirt slipped down her hips to the floor. Her bare, tanned thighs and dark pubic triangle slid into view and Mara’s suitors began to talk to each other in excited whispers.
Although she spoke little French, Mara had no difficulty in understanding what they were talking about. They were discussing her – what they were going to do with her, who was going to have her first, and how.
To her surprise, Mara found herself excited by the prospect of becoming these men’s plaything for a while. She was inexplicably turned on by the thought that she was at the mercy of two uncouth French farmers, who did not speak her language and who were at this very moment deciding her sexual fate.
They tugged off her skirt, leaving her clad only in her leather knee-boots and the crystal pendant. Sitting her down on the floor between them once again, they took turns to stimulate and tease her flesh.
Whilst Pierre bit into her nipples, causing her a delicious pain which set the love-juices trickling out of her cunt, Jean-Louis pulled out his prick and urinated in a corner. It was obviously an exercise entirely for Mara’s benefit, for his dick was the largest she had ever seen: so large, in fact, that she wondered if it would hurt her to have him inside her. As he turned to her and wanked himself to hardness, Mara began to shiver with delicious anticipation and exquisite terror.
She imagined that massive baton of flesh forcing its way into her, opening up the tightest and most secret pathways of her body, making her shriek with mingled pain and ecstasy. A terrible, wonderful burning sensation spread through her clitoris, making her desperate for him, desperate to be fucked by the filthy peasant who owned that wonderful prick.
His little display finished, Jean-Louis relieved his companion, who had succeeded in making Mara so excited that she had inadvertently forgotten how she had meant to clench her thighs, keep her knees held tightly together.
Jean-Louis’s hand slipped stealthily between Mara’s thighs and worked its way slowly and steadily up towards her cunt. When it reached the outer lips, it pressed hard against them and, quite unable to resist such an assault, the fleshy petals parted. Mara gave a little cry of pleasure as the side of Jean-Louis’s palm bit into her tender flesh, pressing hard against the burning bud of her clitoris. He began to work his hand back and forth between her cunt-lips, causing her the most exquisite discomfort and pleasure, inextricably mingled.
Her mind numbed by insistent pleasure, Mara willingly allowed herself to be dragged onto hands and knees and Pierre’s hard little prick thrust into her mouth. She was vaguely aware that Jean-Louis was standing behind her, but it was not until she felt a dreadful pain that she realised what he was doing.
Jean-Louis was forcing her with his enormous prick, not thrusting into her cunt – which would have been a tight enough fit – but violating her arse, which was resisting with all its might as he sought to bugger her.
‘No! Non!’ she tried to scream, wrenching her head away from Pierre’s cock, but the men simply laughed and made her suck on it afresh and the sound of the lorry’s engine drowned the sound of her cries. Jean-Louis stuck his two thumbs into her arse, and began to enlarge it by pulling his thumbs relentlessly further apart. Mara tried to wriggle away but it was no use. He held her fast. And Pierre, at her head, was far too excited to allow her to escape now.
Jean-Louis’s second assault on her arse met with more success. With a vigorous thrust of his pelvis he penetrated her. It felt as though she were being torn in two and tears of pain and humiliation began to flow down Mara’s face. At that moment, Pierre gave a grunt of pleasure and ejaculated into her mouth, filling it with a flood-tide of semen which she knew she must swallow.
Pierre withdrew, panting, and watched Jean-Louis pumping into Mara, his enormous p.ick buried up to the hilt in her toothsome backside.
Mara was half-sighing, half-sobbing as he reached round underneath her and felt for her clitoris. With a groan, she felt her orgasm breaking over her like some irresistible ocean swell, and the spasms of her cunt communicated themselves to Jean-Louis’s cock, making him come to a massive, pulsating orgasm.
The men took turns with Mara all the way along the road to Vannes, and when they tired of the sport they hung her by the wrists from two old hooks in the iron framework which supported the canvas canopy. The lorry halted for a while on a lonely country road and the driver climbed into the back of the truck, smiling that same, repulsive, lecherous smile which had been on his face when he first saw her.
His cock was already out and his fingers were fondling his own bollocks lovingly. He was evidently both amused and excited by the spectacle of Mara, naked and hanging helplessly from the roof, and he wasted no time in taking off hi
s belt and using it on her bare backside.
When he had reddened it to his satisfaction and drawn more tears and sighs from his victim, the driver pulled Mara’s legs apart and fucked her pitilessly until both he and she were exhausted.
They drove into the outskirts of Vannes just as dusk was falling and they paused briefly in a side-street to unload Mara, her clothes and baggage, before rattling off into the distance.
Aching and exhausted, Mara looked around for a map, an agent de police, a passer-by: anyone or anything that could tell her the way to the centre of town, and the nearest cheap hotel.
As she looked around, her gaze fell upon a poster, newly pasted to the wall opposite, and bearing a large picture of the head of Tutankhamun. She walked over to it and tried to make it out, but it was all in French.
At that moment, she heard footsteps and, turning round, was startled to see a figure standing right behind her.
‘For God’s sake, Mara, what the hell did you think you were doing, running off like that?’
‘Geoffrey!’ Mara wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or scared. He had been behaving so oddly . . . ‘Look, I’m sorry about that. I . . . I was shocked by what happened with the deer. I don’t know what came over me . . .’
Geoffrey slipped his arm round Mara’s waist, and gave her right breast a playful stroke. Even after her ordeal, there was plenty of sexual energy still there within her, just waiting to be awakened. Maybe she’d been hasty in her judgements about Geoffrey . . .
‘It’s OK, Mara. I understand. But it was just a silly accident – you understand that, don’t you?’
She nodded, not really knowing whether she believed him or not.
‘Look, Mara, I’m here now. I’m here to protect you and help you in whatever way I can.’
‘Then translate that poster for me, would you?’
Geoffrey peered at the poster in the half-light, and read:
The Phallus of Osiris Page 17