A Desirable Property

by Nicole Dere

  She stooped and untied Nicky’s ankles, and red marks showed where the belts had chafed. ‘You’ll need those long legs of yours free,’ she crooned, and lowered herself slowly onto the sleek, supine body. Nicky mumbled and rolled her head in denial, but it was too late. Her arms were still fastened securely and Krista had her thighs parted wide, hooked over her arms as she knelt between them and guided the tip of the dildo to Nicky’s glistening sex. It nuzzled and slid in, and Nicky moaned incoherently again. Instinctively her legs rose, knees bending, and she gripped the body on top of her with her thighs. The instrument slid deeply home, sinking into the furthermost depths of her vagina, forcing Nicky to strive to open herself yet wider to her assailant, and to lie there, wracked with the humiliation, and pleasure, while above her Krista bucked and ground, caught in the savage splendour until the explosion of her orgasm brought the bizarre coupling to its end.

  Chapter 7

  Some weeks later, as soon as breakfast of lukewarm porridge and fruit was over, Nicky, Anita, Moira and myself were called out and told to report upstairs to Krista’s room. It had become familiar to all four of us in the past days, both as a place of dread, and of shameful, perverse pleasures.

  ‘There goes Krista’s harem,’ someone muttered, and though we blushed we said nothing, for it was true. She had used each one of us at various times for her own gratification, and had thereby taught us much about our own make-up and personality, shameful facts which we were all still trying to come to terms with.

  The corridor was filled with the fresh morning sunlight; it highlighted our bodies as we walked nervously up the stairs. We hardly noticed the lecherous stares of the soldiers now, or their lewd grins and comments which, fortunately for us, we could not understand.

  In Krista’s room, laid out on her bed, were four sets of clothing, or rather, four dresses, all identical. They were made of thin white cotton, and had unattractive square-cut sleeves, which came to just above our elbows. The neck was square too, and modestly high. The hems reached our knees, and they fell in a straight sheath, but of so generous a width that they hid our body shape beneath. Except for Nicky, for they were all the same size, so that hers reached only to mid-thigh, and the cloth was stretched tight across her bust, showing the shape of her splendid breasts. There was the shadowy hint of her areolae, with the shape of her nipples standing out, for we were given no underclothes.

  ‘Oh my,’ Krista breathed appreciatively, and gave the swelling rounds a playful poke. ‘You could make anything look sexy, my Viking maiden.’ Recently her attitude towards Nicky had changed completely. As, indeed, had Nicky’s towards her, for she took everything with a fatalistic acquiescence, which saddened me, even while it brought a measure of relief. As for the rest of us, our garments looked like shapeless hospital gowns, and were equally unflattering. For footwear we wore simple rubber sandals – flip-flops.

  Wearing clothes again, even these ugly dresses, felt strange, the sensation of the material rubbing our bodies oddly titillating. But as usual we were far too edgy to worry for long about our appearance, even though Krista gave us brushes and combs and insisted we tidy our unkempt hair. There was even a little make-up, which we applied crowding round the dressing table mirror, under Krista’s critical appraisal. ‘You will have to do,’ she decided, after a few minutes. ‘Now come along with me.’

  Next door, in an almost identical room, we were presented to Khotan, the leader of the hijackers, who was apparently waiting for us, and I for one experienced an acute self-consciousness, and I felt myself blushing furiously, smoothing out the dress and patting my hair. He was the first man we had seen, apart from our anonymous guards, for two months.

  The first thing he did was to reiterate the warnings Krista had already given us. ‘Your loved ones’ and friends’ lives are in your hands,’ he told us. For some reason his cold eyes sought me out, adding to my befuddled thoughts and reactions. ‘And I can tell you that at this moment, all of them are safe and well, including your men,’ he added meaningfully. ‘So it is the duty of each of you to make sure you keep them that way. Now, do exactly what you are told when we go. Do nothing to cause alarm, to us or to the people who are waiting to see you.’

  Outside the room were the two other hijackers. They were carrying their automatic weapons, and I noted that Krista and Khotan had armed themselves as well. We climbed into the back of a canvass covered, camouflaged Land Rover, the driver of which looked like a Leontondese army man, and he had an armed companion in front with him.

  We could not see anything of where we were going, but we drove for half an hour or more, sometimes through quite busy traffic. Our captors sat with us, and I could see that the two who wielded less authority than Khotan or Krista, in particular were tense. Their knuckles showed white as they gripped their guns. No one spoke at all during the trip.

  By the time the vehicle drew to a halt, my heart was racing again. Krista’s hand fell heavily on my knee, and her fingers dug into my bare skin. ‘Remember, be positive in everything. Your husband’s comfort, maybe his life, depends on it.’ Though her words were to me, everyone heard and took note of them.

  The next hour was an unreal nightmare. For a start, there was the shock of being shepherded into a building and a room to find more than a dozen strangers facing us, and then to find myself staring up at the features of the fabled General Koloba, about whom so many fearful rumours had circulated recently in the world press. He was a giant of a man, his girth offset by his height of well over six feet. His face was broad, with the deep blackness of the northern tribes, and the triple cicatrices of tribal markings on each cheek. His eyes were small in that expanse of flesh, and their outer area was a smoky yellow. They were chillingly, compelling eyes, and I felt trapped and helpless while he held my hand in his great paw for what seemed an inordinate amount of time. I was aware of many things – of a certainty that he knew of my nakedness beneath the cotton shift, and that he could see into my spinning inner thoughts and knew the shameful truth about me.

  Next came the unbelievable irony of meeting a smooth, neatly dressed official from the British Embassy, and his American counterpart. There were several cameramen, flashes popped, and at least two reporters held video recorders. These people were part of the outside world, and they would be leaving here to go back to the comforts of that outside world just as soon as they chose to, leaving us behind to our captivity. I could scarcely believe it. I had seen the evening news all my adult life. I would never have imagined it possible that one day I would find myself on the wrong side of the television glass, an actual living part of one of those terrible stories that only ever happened to other people in other parts of the world, not to people like me.

  Krista and her three colleagues were standing at the back of the room, carefully out of range of the cameras, whose operators must have had strict instructions not to film them. Surely our captors would not dare to open fire in here, in front of the watching world? And surely they would not carry out their threat to murder those they still held back at the airport? These thoughts buzzed in my mind, and my stomach churned nauseatingly while we fumbled through the questions asked of us.

  ‘Are you being treated humanely?’

  ‘Yes,’ we muttered in chorus.

  ‘Are you speaking of your own free will?’

  ‘Is everyone alive and well?’

  We went on mumbling our affirmatives, our eyes lowered.

  ‘Are these the clothes you normally wear?’

  Suddenly the tension heightened. Anita gave a kind of gasp, her voice hurried and breathless. ‘We aren’t… we don’t…’

  The booming bass laughter of President Koloba rang out over the hesitation. ‘You do not need clothes in our climate, hey? In the bush our people still go naked. By choice! No winter woollies here!’ The moment had passed. Anita sank back, head down, struggling hard not to break into tears. And so, shabbily, anything to avoid later retribution, we lied our way through the press conference, or wh
atever it was, the feeling of unreality not only persisting but deepening. It didn’t seem possible that as a result of all these flashes, and the insect-like camera lenses turned on us like guns, that our pictures would be projected around the globe.

  The president moved and placed himself in the middle of us, his arms flung protectively over our shoulders. ‘Do not worry, they are quite safe with me,’ he declared, but his booming laughter and bear-like hug did not fool us. We knew that he was undoubtedly aligned with our kidnappers. But we trooped out obediently in his wake, not without a terrible sinking feeling that somehow we might have missed our opportunity to escape.

  It was not until we had climbed back into the covered Land Rover and it had set off once more that we realised none of the hijackers was with us, and that our only sentry in the back was one of Koloba’s impassive soldiers. We had not been travelling for more than two or three minutes when the vehicle halted, and we stared at one another in fresh consternation as we scrambled down over the tailboard. I had time for a fleeting glimpse of stretches of neat green lawn, punctuated by flowerbeds, then lines of tall, dark-foliaged trees. Beyond them the Great Lake was a dazzle that hurt the eyes in the fierce sunlight. The building whose broad steps we were climbing was of imposing grey stone, and though not more than two storeys high, it stretched out extensively on both sides of the pillared entrance.

  Then we were inside, in a vast reception room whose polished wooden floor shone like a mirror. A man, dressed exotically in a long white gown with a broad blue sash at his waist, a short black waistcoat, and sporting a red fez, motioned for us to follow him, and we squeaked our way across the floor in our rubber sandals, the heavy boots of the soldier clomping after us. We ascended a wide red-carpeted staircase, walked down a lengthy landing, and were ushered into a room where the brightly flowered carpet, the dark furniture and heavy drapes at the long row of tall windows together with two ornate crystal chandeliers hanging centrally over the impressively long table, created an atmosphere of obscene luxury.

  We were standing and staring at the room’s decadent magnificence when a door at the farthest end of the lush space opened, and the bulky figure of General Koloba entered, followed by three other men in military uniform, clearly senior officers of some sort.

  ‘Welcome to my humble little palace, ladies!’ he boomed, and let out that roar of laughter of his again that was already sounding horribly familiar to me. ‘A little different from your quarters, I think?’ But there was that glint in those cold eyes, which made our opulent surroundings seem all the more sinister. ‘But please, do not hide yourselves behind those ugly dresses. Let us see the tasty white meat we have in store for us.’ The blunt words struck us like blows and we gaped stupidly at him, until he went on with mock patience, ‘You want some assistance, perhaps? Shall I call for my guards to give you a hand?’ Gasping, unable to hide our distress, we hastened to obey him and pulled the simple white dresses up over our heads. He gestured, and we dropped them on the floor behind us. Then we just stood there, as awkward as we would have before the humiliation of our prolonged captivity, feeling as embarrassed as we would have felt under normal circumstances had we suddenly been told to strip naked before strangers.

  ‘Stand up straight, hands at your sides and chests out!’ He commanded, and then chuckled to himself. He lined us up like recruits for his army, and he and his three cohorts advanced slowly, staring intently at each one of us, studying our trembling forms from head to toe while we stood, backs straight, clenched fists against our thighs, exactly as we had been ordered to do.

  He stopped before Nicky with a low growl of lust. Inches taller than the rest of us, and fuller of figure, she clearly met with his approval, and he began a stream of comments in his own language which had his subordinates roaring in time with his own great bellows of mirth.

  ‘This one is mine!’ he declared. ‘She is beautiful – like the ancient warriors.’

  Then, to our utter amazement, all four men began to peel off their clothes, laying them on the couches that lined the walls, until they were as naked as we were. Their bodies’ hues varied from the velvety black of Koloba and one of his officers, also of impressive size, to the almost golden-brown shade of the youngest and slimmest looking of the men, who was clearly from a different tribe.

  It was a surreal scene, this luxurious room, suggestive of dignified state occasions or important conferences, with the noon sunshine pouring in through the long windows, in oblong shafts filtered by the fine mesh of the net curtains draped over the squared panes, playing over the eight naked bodies, black and white. Koloba’s belly thrust out, drum-like, its grossness modified by his height and the muscled columns of his stout arms and thighs. He did not look fat in spite of that jutting paunch, though his squat, mushroom-coloured prick, hidden coyly in its shroud of foreskin, beneath the insignificant black scrub of pubis, looked oddly diminished and vulnerable. Far more impressive was the penis of the slightest, paler-skinned individual who made immediately for me and seized my wrist possessively. His prick was already rising, arching out from his bushier loins, the reddish tip of the helm showing and glistening with moisture at its slit.

  Just then there was a piercing shriek that stopped everybody in their tracks. Nicky was struggling against Koloba’s insistent grip, and I remembered her tortured confession to me that she was still a virgin – at least as far as men were concerned. I wanted to cry out to help her, but cowardice sealed my lips. In her panic, she really fought him, forgetting all the hard lessons she had learned during her captivity, and for a few seconds the president, giant of a man that he was, looked as though he would not be able to control her. But his great features lit up with genuine delight at the depth and passion of her struggles, and he ducked his massive shoulder into her and fastened his arms around her waist, turning his head in towards her breasts to escape her flailing blows. He heaved her off her feet like a wrestler, and with a roar of triumph, he carried her several yards to slam her down on the polished surface of the stately table with force enough to expel the air from her in an audible grunt. Before she could recover, he rolled her round onto her front and captured one of her wrists. He bent her arm wickedly up behind her, forcing her hand up between her shoulder blades until she squealed in agony and her resistance crumbled as suddenly as it had begun.

  ‘Now, my girl,’ he puffed, clearly in great good spirits, enjoying this sport immensely, ‘we must teach you obedience once and for all.’ With great agility for a man his size, he bent over and with his free hand snatched up one of our discarded flip-flops from the floor. Then, keeping Nicky’s right arm imprisoned at her back, he brought down the light rubber sole with a mighty crack across her bottom. Again she screamed as the fiery shape stood out vividly on the quivering round, and her long legs kicked out helplessly. But, doubled as she was over the gleaming surface, she could do little but endure the blistering beating he gave her until both cheeks of her bottom were glowing hotly and she was howling like a naughty teenager, begging for mercy.

  The rest of us watched motionless, caught up in the wickedly stirring spectacle, even though it lasted no more than a couple of minutes. When the president let the sandal fall from his hand, his penis was standing out stiffly, its dome-shaped head thrusting from its thick collar of foreskin. ‘To work, gentlemen!’ he cried, with a great guffaw, and turning his quarry over once more onto her back, he seized her statuesque thighs and parted them about his mighty hips. Nicky’s cries were much more muted now, punctuating her sobs, and her only movements were in response to his driving plunges as, without further ceremony, he thrust deep into her sex.

  But now, like the others, I too was preoccupied with what was happening to my own flesh. The slim figure pulled me towards one of the plush ornate crimson couches with its scrolled arms. He sat, his knees parted, and his hands dug painfully into my shoulders and neck as he pushed me down on the floor to kneel between his thighs. ‘What is your name?’ He asked, smiling at me, and I noticed how
even and white his teeth were against his brown skin. He had a thin line of a moustache along his upper lip, and there was a swirl of hair between his nipples and a thicker bush fanning out from the base of his penis, which now jutted up at me. And I could see the fine individual hairs that covered his balls, spreading out on the rounded plush surface at the forward edge of the couch only inches from my face.

  ‘Jane,’ I whispered meekly, staring at his genitals, at their rampant grace, and imbibing the yeasty smell of his roused manhood. I knew exactly what he was going to make me do.

  ‘Jane…’ he mused. ‘Well, Jane, you are very sexy, with a very sexy mouth. So be sensible, and put it to good use.’

  I shuddered, as always feeling that unique mixture of terror and thrill in those seconds before I submitted to the demands of another. My lips pressed against that rearing head, and gently I let it rub against me, caressing it with my nose and cheeks and brow, until I could feel his juice smearing over my skin, and I breathed in deeply the heady aroma of him. I pursed my lips and gave a feather light kiss to that rearing column, just below the head, on the satin smoothness of the shaft. It leapt to my touch, and I felt my own muscles spasm in my moist sex. There was a sudden heady rush of pure sensuality as I told myself I was this man’s slave, an object with which he could do anything he chose. I was a slave he could order to perform any act, no matter how debasing, and I must obey him, unquestioningly and without hesitation, or suffer the consequences. This was a man I had never met before, but who now, for the next few minutes, or hours, or even days, owned me. I stretched my mouth open humbly, paying homage, and took his shining helm inside me.

  It swelled, and I tasted the tangy flavour of his seeping fluid, and then I gasped as he drove it deeper inside me. Or was it that I moved my stretched lips down the throbbing shaft? Maybe it was both. I’m not sure, all I know is that I sucked hard, my cheeks hollowing and my nostrils flaring.