by Ian Smith
“The car?” the girl asked, confused.
“The silver Rolls Royce, as you well know. It’s unlocked; go and sit there until I’m ready to go.”
The crestfallen girl spied a ray of hope: at last she had permission to leave, to end this awful humiliation. “Yes, daddy,” she got out as fast as she could and hurriedly departed. Johnson watched the long stocking clad legs move as quickly as she could on the stilettos as she almost ran out of the room. His chair by the wall was right next to the open window and he looked through it to catch a last glimpse of that nubile young body. As a result, he was fortunate enough to see the next scene in the drama he had thought was now over.
As Penelope emerged from the air-conditioned, brightly lit hall to the sultry hot evening, she came face to face with half a dozen chauffeurs of the various guests, who were quite clearly waiting for her. She came to an abrupt, frightened halt.
“Man, what a show,” said a Rastafarian.
“Yeah,” breathed a Negro in delight. “Hey, lady, that’s some chassis you’ve got there.”
“Nice of you to share it with us as well as the toffs in there,” another Negro added.
There was a mutter of assent from the other three, all black or coloured. Penelope licked dry lips. Only now, out of the hall, did she dare cover herself. One hand shielded her crotch whilst the other did its best to hide her breasts. “Please,” she pleaded, “let me come by. I ... have to get to my father’s car.”
“Oh, and shut yourself away?” the Rastafarian said, affecting dismay. “You didn’t seem to mind strutting your stuff for all them in there. What’s the matter, ain’t we good enough for you, Lady Faversham?”
“Not like Mr. De Roulter,” the leading Negro said. “Now there’s a gentleman who’s considerate of his workers. There’s not many that would take the trouble to send someone out to alert us to the fact that there’s an unusual show going on inside. We’ve been watching it all through the windows. Nice show it was, too.”
The news that her reluctant striptease had been to an even wider audience than she had thought was quite lost on the young woman as she focused on the dread name. “Mr. De Roulter?” she asked timidly.
“Yeah. He even told us which windows gave the best view.”
Thereby ensuring, Johnson could see the girl working it out in her mind, where they would be when she left the house; which meant that De Roulter had planned this encounter, which in turn obliged her to go along with it. Johnson had to admire the man’s skill and also the discipline he had established over this girl.
“So, since you were so keen to give everybody in there a free show, you won’t mind us having a peek as well, will you?”
“No,” the girl sighed, defeated. “I suppose not.” Nobody spoke or moved for a long moment, and then she realised that they were waiting for her. Slowly, reluctantly, she lowered her arms, exposing her chests and sex. The chorus of muttered comments made her face go red once more.
“Course,” said the leading Negro, “unlike those bloodless types in there, we’d love to do more than just watch.”
The girl winced. “What did you have in mind?” she asked fearfully.
“What do you think, guys?” he asked.
“She could take a line,” one suggested, and there was a ripple of agreement among the others.
“Nah, she’s far too high and mighty for that,” said the first man. “Ain’t you, Lady Faversham?”
“I don’t know what a line is,” said Penelope in the tone of someone who would rather not find out.
“Well, it’s what we do with some of the real sluts we know, see. We all stand in a line and they suck us all off, one by one. Of course, that’s far below the likes of you.”
Penelope looked a picture of misery. She bit her lip for long moments before she managed to say, “I ... don’t mind.”
“Yeah? Well, how about that, guys, the lady’s prepared to do a line.” There was a chorus of approval.
“But ... I’ve never done ... that before. I don’t know what to do.”
“Just do what come naturally. You’ll soon get the hang of it.” The expression on her face suggested to Johnson that she didn’t want to get the hang of it!
The men all started to remove their clothes. As they did, one of them said, “maybe you should take them fancy stockings an’ things off. The sort of girls who do lines don’t usually wear fine things like them.”
Penelope unclipped her suspender belt and began to roll the stockings down her legs. Watching her, Johnson saw that she was completely lost to shame now. Whatever she was asked to do, she was no longer able to say no. Humiliation upon humiliation and ever-present fear of whatever discipline methods De Roulter used on her had broken her completely to her slavery.
She stepped out of her stilettos, now as naked as the day she was born. The six men stood in a line, with the Rastafarian first. Each man had exposed his weapon: the first two had left their shirts on, the others were naked but for shoes and socks.
Biting her lip, Penelope leaned forwards until her head was level with the first man’s penis. It was large and already near erect. Obviously very inexperienced, she did not use her hands, which she kept on her knees. The man guided his rod into her mouth with his own hand. Her eyes bulged as it went in and she was clearly fighting the impulse to be sick. Her cheeks hollowed out as she began to suck.
“That’s the way,” said the man breathlessly. “Haaahhh ... just keep doing that ... use your tongue as well.” He was clearly already well on the way. The others were all playing with themselves as they watched avidly: Johnson doubted that the entire line would take long to finish off.
“She looks a natural at this to me,” one of the men said.
“No experience, though,” said another one more critically.
“Maybe that’s why she was so keen to have a go,” said a third. “You know, practice makes perfect.”
“We should be charging tuition fees,” said another.
Undoubtedly the girl could hear all of this, but even if she wanted to respond it was quite impossible with her mouth as full as it was. Her eyes were wide, but all she would be able to see in front of her was the man’s mass of curly black pubic hair which her delicate, aristocratic nose brushed each time her head came forwards as she moved her lips up and down the length of the thing.
“I’m coming!” said the first man triumphantly. “Haahhh! Oohhh!”
The girl’s eyes widened even more as he came. A torrent of spunk came out of the edge of her mouth on both sides. Instinctively, she pulled back to try to get the spurting cock out of her mouth, but he grabbed her by the hair and held her in place. She struggled, but her hair was held very firmly. Cum ran down the side of her jaw and dripped from its lowest point. Only when he was completely spent did he release her. She straightened up, mortified, the thick white goo all around her mouth. A drop of it fell down onto her breast.
“Come to Papa,” said the second man. Very reluctantly, she edged closer to him, until she came within reach and he grabbed her and pulled her onto him. “First lesson of cock sucking, kid,” he said to her: “when the guy comes, that ain’t the end of your job. That’s the time when you have to suck and suck for all you’re worth, to keep him going for as long as possible, understand?”
Her mouth full of prick once more, Penelope could only nod dejectedly.
She got down the line very quickly, not surprisingly in view of their level of excitement. Since a couple of them preferred to withdraw at the point of orgasm and shoot their loads into her face, there was cum all over her beautiful features as she finished the last man. Barely had he finished ejaculating, his manhood still inside her mouth, when a now familiar voice bellowed from the doorway.
“PENELOPE! What the Hell do you think you’re doing now?”
The girl
shot upright, the last penis escaping from her mouth with the faintest popping sound. She stood, aghast, as her “father” glared at her from the doorway to the main hall.
“I told you to go straight to the car! What have you been doing? No, I can see for myself. Good God, six of them!” He came over and grabbed her by the arm. “Get back into this hall right now, you little strumpet!” he thundered. Helpless to resist, Penelope was dragged back inside. A simple turning around on his chair allowed Johnson to view the next scene.
Most of the audience had gathered around to see what the latest disturbance was about. The group of chauffeurs, now hastily dressed once more, crowded around the door, those who had not led the group looking unsure if they were not also in trouble, and also unwilling to bid farewell to the exposed charms of this lovely young woman.
‘Lord Faversham’ cleared his throat and spoke to the guests, quivering with indignation. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please. It appears that my daughter seems to be determined to act in the most common, sluttish manner possible. You will all have seen how she used every excuse to undress herself and flaunt her body around this ball tonight. You may be less aware that, when I ordered her to go back to my car, she instead fell in with a group of drivers and, ahem, gave them oral pleasure. ALL of them.” There was a murmur of shock amongst his audience. Penelope, white cum still around her lips, looked as if she wanted the earth to open up and swallow her.
“I am almost at a loss to know what to do with her,” he went on. “Clearly drastic measures are called for.” Addressing the two chauffeurs who had taken the lead, he said, “gentlemen, if you will secure her arms, please.” The two men were standing either side of “Lady” Penelope, and at this point each grasped one of her wrists and twisted. With a gasp, the girl was forced forwards with her head and shoulders down, her svelte bottom thus sticking up into the air. Her face was towards Johnson: he saw her frightened look, like a hunted animal. Her mouth was open but she said nothing. He turned and saw De Roulter behind him, watching intently. The girl was also evidently very well aware of his presence.
“Lord Faversham” was unbuckling the thick leather belt which held up his trousers. “Much though I abhor violence,” he said piously, “I have no alternative but to try to teach my errant daughter the error of her ways by giving her a sound thrashing. Then, if our good host will lend me a room upstairs, I shall have her secured to a bed up there. Since she seems to have an insatiable sexual appetite, I shall make her available to as many of you as would do me the honour of coupling with her, in order to try to exhaust her carnal desires. Finally, in order that she associates wanton lust with pain and therefore learns that it is a bad thing, I shall then thrash her again.” He took up position, ominously.
Tears welled in Penelope’s eyes; Johnson could see them clearly from his position. She had not been that far from crying ever since she had been made to remove her dress, and now she seemed at the end of her tether. “Please!” she begged. “Please!”
Sslllaaasshhh! Whaaappp!
The belt sliced through the air to land squarely on the helpless behind. Penelope shrieked.
Sslllaaasshhh! Whaaappp!
“Yeeoowwww! Please, I’ll do anything!”
Johnson almost felt sorry for her. She had already done everything asked of her, degrading herself utterly tonight. It had not allowed her to escape the pain.
Sslllaaasshhh! Whaaappp!
“Aarrrggggghh! Merceeeee!”
Sslllaaasshhh! Whaaappp!
Sslllaaasshhh! Whaaappp!
Sslllaaasshhh! Whaaappp!
Again and again the belt slashed into that defenceless rear. Johnson studied her face coolly; he saw the veins sticking out on her neck, the lips drawn back to expose her even white teeth as she opened her mouth to squeal and beg, the drying cum still around her mouth now congealing, her nostrils flaring, her eyes bulging, the elegantly pencilled eyebrows raised in permanent anguish. Her neatly coiffeured hair still remained more or less in place, with just the odd curl falling out of position. As she was bent almost double, he could see the firm young breasts just falling ever so slightly away from her torso. She could not move: her arms were held with an expertise that belied the suggested spontaneity of it, by the very men she had so recently given pleasure to, and they were twisted so that both her shoulders and elbows were locked into this position. Time and time again, the belt scythed into that luscious rear as the girl’s screams gradually faded to copious crying. Johnson watched the tears run down her lovely cheeks and fall onto the plush carpet. They were surely not the first she had shed since her capture and were unlikely to be the last.
At long last it was over. The two men released her arms as “Lord Faversham” replaced his belt in the trousers which had miraculously not fallen down without it. Penelope collapsed to the ground, weeping bitterly. Two of the waiters immediately moved in, picked her up and carried her upstairs to prepare her for her next ordeal. De Roulter, still acting as the saddened host, announced an “appointment system” for those who wished to “help his Lordship in the struggle to get the girl back onto the straight and narrow”. It consisted of numbered slips of paper, so that each man would know when it was his turn. There was an immediate and considerable demand for the slips. More than one man whose wife was present would later be seen arguing with his spouse about the need to “do the right thing to help our friend the English lord.” On reflection, Johnson decided that it would be safe enough for him to take a turn, which he very much wanted to do. After all, he would in fact be far more conspicuous if he did not. He drew number fourteen, and suspected that there would be quite a few more after him. He wondered, too, if her “father” would have a go. It was an amusing thought.
A good while later on, one of the waiters discreetly approached him and said, “excuse me sir, but do you hold slip number fourteen? Ah, yes. The young lady is ready for you now, if you would like to follow me.” Johnson was willing to bet that she was anything but ready.
The waiter led him to an upstairs door and, after even more discreetly slipping a condom packet into his hand, left him there. Johnson opened it and went in. The splendidly furnished room’s central attraction was a four poster bed, to which the naked girl was tied spread eagled, her legs well apart. She was moaning softly through cracked, parched lips, her eyes half closed.
He approached the bed and firstly inspected her bonds. Tightly tied white cord led from each of her arms and legs to one of the four posts. There was almost no slack. Then he looked at her. The cum was no longer on her mouth, but her hair was now considerably dishevelled and the light makeup she had worn was smeared with her tears. Even though she was lying on her back he could see clearly the marks of the belt on her thighs where the end of it had curved around her form after impacting on her bottom. The strokes had clearly been ferocious and she must be in considerable constant pain from them.
“How are you feeling, my dear?” he asked solicitously.
“Uuhhhhhh,” she groaned softly.
“Can I get you anything?”
“W-water ... please,” she said huskily.
There was a washbasin on the other side of the room with some fine china cups. He filled one with water and took it over to her, holding it to her lips. She sipped it messily, spilling more than a little.
“Th-thank you,” she whispered, a little of her youthful vitality returning.
“Not at all,” he replied politely. “Is there anything else I can do?”
“Just ... be gentle, please.” She was so totally defeated, he reflected as he undressed, that it didn’t even occur to her to ask him not to take her at all, much less ask him to untie her or help her escape. Perhaps she feared that the room was wired for sound, which for all he knew it might be, but he doubted whether she could think that clearly by now. She looked completely done in.
He was
gentle, at least until he came close to his climax, when he humped enthusiastically. She squirmed underneath him, gasping and moaning more with pain than her body’s natural reactions to what he was doing. Her crotch, he had already noticed, was red raw. When he had exploded very satisfactorily into the condom, removed it and cleaned himself up a little at the handbasin, he came and sat down on the bed beside her, where she remained tied securely, waiting for the next man. He reached out a hand and ran it gently down her nubile twenty year-old body.
“How was that, Miss Penelope Fortescue?”
The lovely blue eyes opened wider and cleared a little; surprise drove away some of the exhaustion and disorientation. “You know who I am?” she asked vaguely.
He nodded. “British newspapers don’t generally penetrate this far into Africa, but I don’t live around here and I get them a week or two late,” he lied.
“Are they ... still searching for us?”
He shook his head. “The assumption always was that the boat got into some sort of difficulties and sank with all hands,” he said, again not quite truthfully, although it was true that that theory predominated and the search was now only nominal and centred a long way from where they were. “But don’t worry,” he added, placing a finger on her lips to forestall anything she was about to say; “whatever your reasons for staging this elaborate charade and starting this new life, your secret’s safe with me. I won’t tell a soul.”
Her eyes widened. “No ... no ... you don’t understand ... mmmmffff!”
Her voice became muffled beyond deciphering as he first kissed her and then pushed the corner of a pillow into her mouth. By the time she had dislodged it (not easy without hands), he had gone, and an elderly Arab with crooked teeth stood in the doorway, leering at her as he closed the door behind him and began to disrobe.
Penelope broke out in a fresh bout of crying. All hope had now gone. She raised her head and looked down at her tightly stretched young body with her genitalia cruelly exposed as if seeing it in a new way, which in a sense she did. That body now undisputedly belonged to Anton De Roulter, to do with entirely as he pleased. She watched the now naked Arab coming towards her, scratching his scrawny body as he moved, and waited to be used once again.