by J. Jackson
Furthermore, the now persistent suggestiveness was becoming more and more focused on her. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so quick to respond to their flirting,” Sandy noted silently. “Now they think I’m just a good-time girl.” Her brow furrowed as she considered her quandary. “I hope I haven’t dug myself too deep of a hole?” Still, Sandy was not willing to even consider what such a hole might contain. “I wish Lindsay would get back.” The conversation swirled around her, its innuendo mounting relentlessly.
Over the top, the rollercoaster plunged madly into the depths, fear and foreboding wrestling her psyche into submission. And if Sandy was already frozen with apprehension then, the next moment petrified her.
“Ever fuck a Scotsman?” asked a voice beside her, a hand gently grasping her bicep.
Fear and surprise seemed to smother her. “Don’t be afraid,” Sandy coached herself. “They can smell fear.” Aloud she just muttered, “Never,” and pulled away. Disoriented, Sandy attempted to move out of the crowd of bodies, heading for the edge of the room. Someone stayed with her.
“Well, we’ll have to do something about that,” came the chortled reply, its voice thick with beer and lust. Sandy could no longer kid herself about that. He suddenly sounded crazy horny. Muscling her five foot six frame through this forest of rugby players would, in other circumstances, have been a joke; still, Sandy shouldered her way past, pushing at them – rubbing against them, she realized in horror – until they reluctantly allowed her passage. She could feel them painting her with hungry expectant looks, as she attempted to escape.
Along with the terror pressing down on her, twisting her smile into a grimace, some sort of resignation settled over her, paradoxically buoying, slightly, the terror. “Now you’ve done it,” someone else said, inside her head. She had an urge to look at her shoulder to see if a little version of her, with horns, a tail, and a trident, sat there chiding her – the dark side of conscience, just like in the old cartoons. “What did you expect?”
Her rational side moaned, “I don’t know. Certainly not this!”
“This?!” her demon laughed, “What’s this? Nothing’s happened yet.” Well that was true. Sandy finally made it to the wall at the edge of the parlour. Now, where was the door to her room? Maybe she could still find sanctuary until Lindsay and the others got back. “C’mon,” the demon in her coaxed, “you love it. It’s exciting, eh?”
“Aye, Lass.” The hand gave her another meaningful squeeze. “Don’t fret yourself. We’re mostly harmless, we lot here.”
“Mostly harmless?” Sandy almost laughed. “Right!”
“Relax. Have another drink.” He must have felt her body quake, for he stepped in front of her and added, with a kind of dopey grin, “There’s nothing to be scared of.”
“Nothing to be scared of?” She shrieked silently. “Are you fucking crazy?” But she just looked at him blankly – steadying her breath, trying hard to calm herself.
As he moved away, apparently in search of another drink for her, she finally let it all seep in. Up till then, she’d tried to keep the menace sub-conscious – insisting to herself it was all in her imagination. Now, she let herself consciously – fully – understand what was actually happening. “Oh, shit,” she murmured, “How did I get into this?” She looked around again, catching her breath. Admitting her situation to herself helped, at least it allowed her to think a little more clearly. “And how am I going to get out of it?” She shivered slightly, a feeling of impending disaster prodding her; then stood straight and proud in an attempt to bolster her courage.
And that was the definitive moment; Sandy remembered with amazing clarity. A frozen silence hung palpable in the air, then almost imperceptibly the voices became audible once more. Faintly at first, then rising. Like a radio, regaining reception after passing around a mountain, Sandy began to detect the odd word, then phrases. The innuendo persisted. The suggestive pall was still in the air. It was odd, she thought. Everyone was still pleasant – no one the least bit nasty – but they were all, every one of them, joining in – persistent and persevering – and lewd. “No,” she muttered in her head, giving it an imperceptible shake, “no, they’re not going to rape me.” She scanned the faces, yet again. All smiling; all friendly; all hungry. “No,” she insisted to herself, “there’s got to be a way out of this.”
“They don’t actually understand,” she explained to herself. “They think it’s okay – what they’re expecting.” Suddenly, she almost felt sorry for them, as if the whole bunch of them were just a little bit too dumb to see the howling error in all this.
But, they were the champions – and Sandy, unbeknownst to her, had been chosen, or, at least, had innocently wandered into the feedlot, and was now destined to be offered up, as their perk – as their reward.
Still, Sandy hoped, maybe Lindsay would get back in time to save her. Again, she peered furtively about the room, but apparently none of the woman had sneaked back in I unnoticed. She studied her ‘captors’ intently.
Actually they didn’t look bad – not like actual ‘bad guys’ – just a bunch of twenty and thirty year-olds back from their rugby game. But, they were all watching her. She could feel it, even though most of them were still being marginally surreptitious. Their smiles were all cheerful, and ostensibly benign, but there was something behind it all – something in the air – something she had, perhaps, just begun to decipher – something that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up – something there.
Little by little she felt herself being surrounded again by the expectant host. And even as she stood there unmoving, almost unfeeling, the lewd expectation became tactile. The innocuous touches were suddenly pawing; the innocent squeezes now gropes. Sandy flinched; retreating from each new contact in almost a slow dance – the movement graceful and, inadvertently, alluring – but every twist just moved her into the reach of someone else. There was no escape. Fingers and hands began to roam freely, escalating the spectacle – stroking hands alongside pressed bodies; gripped ass-cheeks, powerfully massaged; palmed tits, gently twisted and squeezed; and all the while Sandy watched and waited – waited – waited – for what? The unknown? No, the inevitable.
Still, Sandy was able to step back into herself. “This isn’t right!” she scolded. “They can’t do this to me unless I let them!” Fixing a smile onto her lips, and mustering her resolve, once again, she began to fend off the unwanted advances. If her resistance surprised anyone, no one let on, and for a while there appeared to be a truce.
“Maybe I’m just imagining it,” Sandy heaved a sigh of relief mixed with confusion, “or maybe I’m sending out some wrong signals!” She looked about warily during the lull. Nothing seemed to have changed; they were all still laughing and carrying on.
The light through the small windows indicated that it was getting on in the afternoon. “Where are Lindsay and the others?” Sandy asked hopefully. They seemed to have been gone a long time.
“Oh, don’t worry ‘bout them,” one of the boys replied, slurring his words somewhat. Sandy noted that they were all getting a little sloshed. “They’ll be along in a wink, I s’pose,” he added, giving an exaggerated wink of the eye. Abruptly he straightened up. Staring into Sandy’s face he said, “Give us a kiss, then, Luv.” Sandy only just turned her face in time to receive the sloppy smooch on her cheek. But that was all it took. The gates had opened.
“’Ere, how’s about me?” “My turn.” “Dunna be so’s shy, Dearie.” Like a pack of wolves they were on her. Sandy managed to turn her cheeks for only the first few, then, turning to avoid one, she caught another right on the lips And along with that, all the groping returned full-force Notwithstanding, the kissing frenzy was short-lived. A momentary calm signaled the eye of the storm. Sandy looked about for an avenue of escape, even though she knew there was none. “I haven’t already resigned myself, have I?”
But before she could even respond to herself, a cry arose from the surrounding natives, “‘Sh
ow us yer tits!’ as you Americans say.”
“I’m Canadian!” Sandy replied automatically, kicking herself for her lame response.
But the rest of the team seemed to gather at attention and take up the chant as if it were an anthem. “Show – us – yer tits! Show – us – yer tits!”
And it suddenly struck Sandy as so incredibly juvenile it was funny. A bolt of hope suddenly filled her, manifesting itself as a sympathetic smile on her face. “They’re really just a bunch of boys, playing,” she whispered to herself. “I can get through this.”
“Show us yer tits!” The room echoed with the repeated refrain, but as she straightened her shoulders, it changed. “Take off your top!” “Take it all off!” “Strip tease! Strip tease!”
Straightening her shoulders and setting her jaw, Sandy turned to leave. “Boys, boys,” she said, trying to sound strong, and a little impatient. It came out as more of a plea – feeble and helpless. The wall of boys – and, big, big rugby players they were, every one – didn’t part; no one moved to make way for her this time. Her hope fled so swiftly and so completely, it left her shaking. Terrified again, the plunging rollercoaster leaving her stomach, her control, far, far behind, Sandy surveyed the leering crowd, one more time, looking for Alex, hoping for rescue. Every eye was on her. Every shouting face, suddenly silent – grinning with anticipation. And there, in the middle of the group, no better or worse than the rest, was her alleged cousin – his eyes glittering, his mouth virtually drooling.
“Come on, then, Luv, show us some skin!” Roaring their agreement, a note of impatient rang heavy in the air. Maybe they wouldn’t actually rape her, Sandy thought, back in one calmly objective corner of her brain, but they were getting increasingly frustrated that she was not playing the game. “Come on...” someone else pleaded, “Be a sport.” “It’s all in good fun!” “Just a bit, then.” “We’re all counting on you.”
As the coercion continued Sandy felt her will weakening. “It’s just too hard,” she complained to herself. “What to do... what to do....” Sandy felt frozen, watching the milling crowd move about in slow-motion. The faces were still happy and friendly, but couldn’t she detect, just under the surface of their constant overtures and entreaties, intimidation. She wasn’t sure.
“Okay, Sandy,” said a voice nearby, penetrating her cloud of terror, “let’s see you dance, then.” And again, the voices took up the call, incited by a new idea, “C’mon, dance, dance, dance....”
The suggestion trickled through her debilitating confusion and fear to present itself as a possibility. A bit of time to think, that’s what she needed, so with a weak smile, Sandy began to move to the music, her mind racing with the jumbled thoughts of escape – of survival. The cheer that greeted her rhythmic swaying surprised her. Pleased with her small success, Sandy began to move a little more, raising her arms like a charmed snake. Someone behind her put his hands on her hips, swirling her, pulling her back against him, but somehow, done to music, it seemed less threatening; why, hadn’t this happened hundreds of times before, in hundreds of clubs at home? Oddly enough, Sandy felt herself relax a little. Then someone else joined them, moving in front of her, his hands on her waist.
“Oh, yeah!” “Go for it!” “You rock, Lady!” Their encouragement was warm and genuine. The music got louder – good contemporary dance-able rock ‘n roll. And, through the latest trough, Sandy’s emotional rollercoaster sailed smoothly back up toward another crest. Sandy had always loved dancing, so the music and movement effected an escape of another kind. That the hands at her waist had found their way under her top didn’t much matter. And, as twenty-some-odd guys and one lone female ducked and turned and gyrated about the parlour of a modest cottage in central Scotland, it suddenly seemed of little consequence that Sandy’s top was being slowly lifted up to her bra, and over. They were gentle but irresistible.
The one part of her brain still capable of sane thought and concern finally accepted what was fait accompli. Sandy felt her arms cooperate on their own as her top slipped off over her head. She really had no alternative but to comply. “And that,” her logical self admonished, “is the Catch 22; for complicity implies consent.” Sandy continued to wallow in the music, her eyes half-mast, as she felt fingers fiddling with the buttons on her jeans, pulling at the clasp of her bra. Sandy couldn’t help but smile. “At least they like me,” she laughed as she noted an almost paradoxical look of affection on every face, then, escaping into the music, Sandy closed her eyes, refusing to acknowledge that she was being inexorably stripped.
Hands played across her body like ripples on a lake, caressing her buttocks, splashing into her bush to gently stroke her lips, and sparkling at her breasts with a pinch or a twiddle at her nipples. Her resignation had settled into a glowing warmth that washed through her. Fluttering her eyes, Sandy now returned avidly the kisses to her lips.
Only nineteen years old, Sandy had had a boyfriend, Dennis, in Ontario, but she didn’t expect their relationship would survive her trip. The sad part was that that didn’t really bother her. She had lost her virginity to him on her nineteenth birthday. They had both been fairly drunk and it had been rather disappointing. Notwithstanding, she had given in to his insistence, again, just before she left on this trip, realizing it would probably be her last chance with him, ever; so, they had had sex a second time. That time it had been much more making love than fucking. Even now, thousands of kilometres away, standing naked and worshipped by a throng of strangers, Sandy felt a tinge of sadness at what she’d most certainly lost. But with the recollection of her first real orgasm she felt her entire body suddenly flush – igniting her arousal and suffusing her with desire. “Maybe, just maybe....”
Hands gripped her gently, lifting the weight from her feet and she felt herself being moved, then laid out on the mattress of a cot that had mysteriously materialized in the crowded salon. Her breath coming in short, delicate gasps, afraid to open her eyes, Sandy waited as the music seemed to retreat to the background, and a close hush enfolded her.
“After you, Liam. You’re the captain.” It was almost like a whisper in the wind, barely registering.
Laid out like a sacrifice, Sandy fluttered her eyes and watched as Liam, – “A Scottish Adonis,” Sandy thought serenely – already naked, lowered himself over her. “How can I be so calm?” she wondered, then, surprised to feel her genitals tingling, even before Liam made contact, “How can I be so aroused?” She waited for the inevitable. Her eyes snapped wide, as she felt his steely erection nudge her labia. “I’m really wet,” she noted, not without some satisfaction. He prodded her opening once, then, without any real sense of urgency, he inserted himself into her cunt with one long smooth push. “Ahhh,” Sandy heard herself gasp. He was much, much bigger than Dennis. She could feel his girth stretching her. “Not at all unpleasant,” her inner calmness remarked, as she hissed and puffed, heaving her hips and lifting her back involuntarily. His length was touching places that had never been touched, setting off sparks and surges that excited Sandy’s already stimulated nervous system.
Liam moved slowly, in and out – no sudden rushes, not violent or rough, just inexorably. Time slowed to a crawl and, at that same crawling pace, Sandy could feel a fire being stoked within her. Joining his rhythm, she rocked her bottom, meeting each thrust with a gentle push; she felt her arousal climbing, climbing, until it was she who forced the matter. Spasms ripped through her vaginal walls every time he touched her deep recesses, and the ensuing jolts of sensation excited and frustrated. Sandy could hardly recognize herself as she muttered, “Harder! Deeper! Come on, push!” She pushed back, rocking hard, accelerating her hips until, legs splayed, her pubis slapped loudly against Liam’s groin at every stroke. Sandy felt the tremors quiver through his erection, vibrating against her inner walls, and she could feel him swell impossibly inside her, his solidity pounding her innards.
Like distant fireworks, Sandy could see flashes of ignition just before she heard Liam’s g
roan. Pushing himself hard against her cervix, Sandy felt Liam’s cock begin to spit and spurt just as she felt her own psyche explode. Writhing and squirming beneath him, Sandy pulled her lips to his chest and bit, in an effort to stifle her shrieks. She had never before felt anything like it. Her body seemed to fly apart, then reassemble slowly, each part stroking others until they found a fit. Her universe included nothing but genitals – his, pushed deep and still twitching spastically – hers, grabbing and grasping, holding in its hot, liquid grip.
Releasing his nipple, which she still held between her lips, Sandy let her head fall back to the bed with a heavy sigh. “Whoa!” was all she could say, but, at some level, she was thinking, “If what I had with Dennis was an orgasm, what, in God’s name, was that?!”
As her conqueror began to disengage, Sandy could detect a rising background noise. “Like applause,” she observed.
Planting light kisses down her glistening, still heaving chest, as he retreated, she heard Liam whisper, “Absolutely smashing! You’re a gem! Thanks!” When he lifted off her, his momentary absence hardly registered before someone had taken his place. She recognized the intruder through fluttering eyelashes. Of course they had all introduced themselves earlier, but Sandy couldn’t remember names, especially now, in such an elevated post-orgasmic haze. Outside her body there was a cheer and a chant as her next lover began his rut. Sandy could feel him churning her insides in time to the rhythm of the mantra – in, out, in, out. He punctuated the motions with kisses to her lips and eyes and cheeks.
Her emotional rollercoaster had stalled, and seemed to be teetering at the very highest point of the tracks – or, perhaps, it was threatening to jump off, to launch itself into orbit. She couldn’t tell any more.