Agents in Harm's Way

by Don Winslow

  The duo stopped in front of the their seated lord, to bow and offer a demure curtsy. The audience applauded. A wave of the imperial hand sent them off — Annie leading Sarah to what seemed to be a gymnastics horse, a sturdy wooden trestle with four well-braced legs and a padded crossbar that sat waist-high. Young Sarah was positioned with her hips up against the padded crossbar, her back to the strangely silent audience. A flattened hand between the shoulder blades urged the girl to fold herself over the leather-covered crosspiece so that arms, head, and shoulders dangled down the far side while she was drawn up onto the toes of her flat schoolgirl’s shoes she wore.

  Annie now went about fixing her daughter in place. Both knew the well-rehearsed routine, and Annie went about her task with silent efficiency; the male audience watched, fascinated. Sarah submissively offered her wrists, and Annie pulled her by the extended arms, drawing her down, so that the girl’s lithe body was stretched taut; toes barely touching the ground. The wrists were then banded with soft leather cuffs so they could be secured to stakes driven into the hard ground just before the horse.

  Annie came around behind her charge, careful not to block the choice view the audience had of her daughter’s skirted rump and those dangling coltish legs. Before she could secure the prone girl by the ankles, she had to see to it that the school uniform did not hinder the salacious view the audience craved.

  Taking up the hem of the wool skirt, Annie drew the brief garment up to let it rest rucked up around the girl’s waist there, thus unveiling her daughter’s pantied behind — a rounded set of boyish buttocks, tightly packed in a pair of straining white cotton panties — school girl’s knickers that were not quite up to the task of covering that tight-cheeked young bottom.

  The panties were quickly lowered as Annie squatted down, sliding the underwear down to the girl’s ankles, pulling them free over her shoes. Sarah obligingly lifted each foot in turn to facilitate the removal of her underpants. Annie now bound the stockinged ankles with another set of leather cuffs. Sarah’s legs were stretched slightly open so that they might be secured to a second set of anchoring pegs. The picture afforded to the randy audience was of young Sarah neatly upended, bare buttocks pulled taut in prominent display; the hint of her pussy peeking out from between her legs, the straining backs of those naked thighs, the straight, diverging legs with thin cotton socks still in place their tops folded down to fold a band just below the knee. In this pose, Sarah viewed the world from upside down, her ponytail dangling loosely down as her splayed-out body was stretched over the padded bar, and she was held up on tiptoes.

  Now, Annie rose to her feet, took up her paddle, and looked to the General, who nodded his consent. Annie widened her heels, setting her stance, and raising the paddle as she pulled her arm back, all in one motion, while carefully measuring the distance to her intended target.

  THWACK!

  The paddle came down with a short, choppy cut that sent the girl jolting upward, her compact cheeks of her ass flattened, rebounding and wobbling under the impact.

  THWACK!..THWACK!…THWACK!

  The smacks rained down in measured cadence, each precise slap sending the girl bounding upward and emitting a tiny yelp between clenched teeth. The audience savored the exciting sight of the tormented girl squirming in her bounds, wiggling her bottom while her smarting posterior took on a rosy hue. After half a dozen swats, the disciplining parent stopped, and looked to her leader once more.

  The General leaned over to the guest next to him, a gross stocky, fellow with the protruding eyes of an oversized toad. The two of them exchanged a few words and laughed, and the General absently nodded for the spanking to continue. A quick determined set of swats followed that soon had the girl thrashing about, pulling on the short chains that pinned her down, bounding up on her tiptoes, and yelping in a high-pitched shriek. At the next pause, Sarah wiggled her hips furiously, as if trying to shake off the wicked sting that had been imparted to her firm young bottom.

  There was a roar of laughter; hooting and hollering. The General wanted more; he warned that the spanking must be harder. Annie gripped the paddle tighter, hauled back, and complied. El Commandante and his enthralled guests, took a great deal of pleasure in the young girl’s punishment, enjoying the echoing whacks as wooden paddle smacked into pert buttocks and the rebounding dance of those plump undulating cheeks under the repeated smacks of the thin pliant blade that ricocheted off the firm elasticity of that choice little rump. The crowd went wild, clapping and cheering with each solid swat.

  But for the depraved General the punishment of the daughter was only a prologue to even greater thrills, for once Sarah had been thoroughly spanked, her bottom throbbing, the cheeks an angry crimson, it was then ordered that the paddle be handed over, and revenge be wreaked on the mother’s mature womanly ass by the freshly-spanked daughter.

  Sarah was warned that she must lay it on with the proper enthusiasm, or she would be promptly returned to her ignominious position over the bar, for another round. The girl seemed to need no such encouragement for once she was upright, she quickly rubbed her hurting behind, her face twisted in a rueful pout. But when she handed the paddle, her eyes brightened, and her pretty, fair face hardened; she tapped the wicked blade against her palm, impatiently waiting as a wooden chair was brought out, for El Commandante wanted the mother in the ignominious position of being given a spanking over her own daughter’s knee. Sarah rather gingerly, sat down in the hard wooden seat, spread her knees, and planted her feet solidly to create a widened lap for the taller blonde to occupy. Annie, meanwhile, had taken off her jacket, and in shirt sleeves had carefully laid down, her long body extended across her daughter’s spread knees, legs angling down so that the toes of her patent-leather shoes touched the ground.

  Once in place over her lap, Sarah laid a hand on Annie’s back and lightly smoothed down the back of the blouse. Then she reached down to raise the hem of the skirt up, while Annie obligingly shifted, rocking her hips, to let the garment be tugged freed and hiked all the way up to her waist, uncovering a rear end clad in schoolgirl’s knickers identical to the ones her daughter wore. These were now lowered by her vengeful-minded daughter, who peeled the panties down over her mother’s upended bottom, easing them straight down until the twisted scrap spanned those smooth tapering thighs, just above the knees.

  The splendid sight of Annie’s naked ass was awe-inspiring: the taut mounds pulled into two sleek ovals divided by a tight slit, angled legs held tight together, slender and straight. Upon having her ass exposed, Annie’s body stiffened, as the young woman steeled herself in preparation for the humiliating public spanking she, a grown woman, was about to endure at the hands of her daughter.

  Now it was the daughter’s turn to eye up her mother’s bare buttocks, and carefully bring the paddle back up in a shallow arc only to send it slamming solidly across that vulnerable bottom.

  THWACK!

  Annie’s head and shoulders shot up; teeth clenched against the shuddering impact. The rowdy crowd cheered; urged the girl on.

  THWACK! THWACK!

  The same short, choppy strokes were used, not hard, but steady, slaps that soon had the mother yelping like a girl-child.

  “Ouch..ye..ouch..yee..OUCH!” she sang in high-pitched soprano, as each decisive swat that jolted through her rigidly held frame.

  It was only a matter of time under such punishment until the poor woman was unable to hold still. After a particularly vicious cut, her hands flew behind her to furiously rub her stinging behind.

  Sarah held her hand; waiting, while Annie, her panties at half-mast, sniffled and rubbed her hurting bottom like a chastised schoolgirl to the roaring approval of the crowd. Thoroughly humiliated, the poor woman could do no more than take a deep breath, and then slowly, reluctantly, resume the mortifying position, letting her hands dangle down while she closed her eyes and waited. The girl helpfully reached out and re-arranged the disheveled skirt, to better uncover her attractive mother’s bare
ass. Sarah looked for permission to continue, and soon the sold thud of wood meeting springy, fleshy mounds was heard again resounding in the little arena.

  Only when he alone deemed that Annie had had enough, would the Commandante call a halt to the proceedings. Both girls were made to stand with their backs to the audience, and raise their skirts so that their throbbing bottoms might be compared. Sarah showed her saucy butt with its fading pinkish glory; Annie who had not been allowed to hitch up her displaced, sagging panties, displayed her freshly chastised bottom. The two were made to kiss and make up. It was a quick kiss, but it was on the lips, as only that type of kiss would satisfy the perverse desires of the evil commander of the mountain top…at least for now.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The next performance was to feature two girls in a contest of strength and agility. Greta and Linda who now emerged from the tent; fit, trim, and naked, except of course, for their collars. As the two nudes approached, all eyes were drawn to their pubes, which were clean-shaven, so that the tuck of the pussylips could be clearly seen between the thighs. Greta’s labia formed a neat crease under a sleekly smooth triangle, tucked between sinewy thighs; Linda’s bulging pussylips protruded more prominently, her denuded mound a plump wedge lodged between thighs that were firm, and nicely-rounded.

  The two contestants seemed evenly matched. Greta, a shade taller than her rival, was the more natural athlete: with that lean, hard-muscled body, short, sun-bleached hair and small-mounded tits. Her opponent was stockier in build, with a body that was solid, more muscular, through still richly feminine. Linda had strong legs, robust thighs, and full, bobbing breasts; and had pinned her hair up in a neat chignon in preparation for the contest. Of course, the two women held no natural animosity towards one another, and El Commandante, realizing that, and wishing to bring some enthusiasm to these matches, had provided an incentive to assure a spirited performance.

  He had decreed that the loser would spend the day confined in the standings stocks, a restraining device that kept its victim helpless, standing nude and locked in place by imprisoning her bowed neck and wrists. This particular form of discipline was, of course, open to public scrutiny, of which her lordship’s guests availed themselves, taking turns, freely amusing themselves with her lewdly presented nether regions. This dreaded punishment was enough of an incentive to insure a girl’s determination not to lose the contest.

  Now the two combatants approached the far side of the muddy pit, and like well-trained gladiators, bowed to their seated captor. The imperial wave of the hand sent them wading ankle deep into the slimy mud, which had the consistency of a thick swamp. The women got down on all fours to assume the wrestler’s classic starting position, side by side. The German girl’s floppy little breasts fell to form two tit bags; dangling down, narrow and pointy. While under her bent torso, Linda’s heftier breasts, hung heavy and pendulous, swayed with every move she made. Greta draped a lanky arm around Linda’s rounded shoulders, and at a signal from the high chair, the wrestling match began.

  Muscles tightened; Greta strained to pull her rival over, but Linda stoutly resisted, splaying hands and knees to widen her stance. Quick as a flash, Greta kicked out to knock her rival off balance just enough to press home her attack by shouldering into the scrambling woman with all her might. The two of them tumbled forward, splattering into the gooey mud, legs writhing, arms flinging about as they sought a purchase on the nude — and by now mud-coated — body of their opponent. The audience cheered wildly, partisans of each girl quickly forming to urge on their respective heroine.

  Greta, the quicker of the two, managed to get up on her knees behind her rival and slipping her arms under the heftier girl, got a grip on the back of her head, attempting to force her head forward in a painful hold. But Linda, with a twisting effort, managed to shake her off; Greta lost her balance as she was thrown free. Linda spun to face the wiry girl and force her over so that the pressing her flopping opponent into the bed of mud. Greta squirmed wildly, as Linda fell on her, their slick breasts slipping and sliding over each other as Linda struggled to pin the wiry German girl. But Greta managed to wiggle out from beneath the heavier girl. By now both girls were totally covered in the thick viscous mud; their nude bodies so slick that a good purchase was impossible. Even their faces and hair were covered with the soupy goo, so that the two mud wrestlers resembled the sort of swamp creatures the Hollywood movies might dream up. But even though their contest was hindered by the slippery stuff, the two struggled on, each seeking mastery.

  Hands and feet flailed out as the two mud-covered bodies closed. Greta managed to get behind Linda and reached around to grab a fat tit. Linda, struggling in the painful grip, clutched at Greta’s muddy hair and grabbing a handful, pulled the other girl by that equally painful method. The two swung round and round, until both lost their footing and flopped back into the mud bed. This time, Greta managed to squirm up Linda’s slick body, tucked her knees under her, and sat straddling her rival’s heaving chest. Linda writhed like an eel beneath her, but somehow Greta managed to stay in the saddle and she soon fell forward, grabbing the other girl’s wrists, raising them over her head, pinning her deep into the oozing, squishy mud. The crowd went wild.

  Both women were panting heavily as Greta dismounted, and they struggled to get to their feet. Slipping and falling repeatedly, they made their way out of the pit, to stand before their audience and bow as they had been trained to do. The mud coated gladiators dropped their heads and waited, bodies shiny with slippery coating of mud, shoulders sagging, breasts heaving mightily as they panted for air. El Commandante declared Greta the winner.

  The final indignity faced by the pair was when two soldiers appeared running out with a large fire hose. The powerful stream of water that hit the muddy combatants, nearly knocked them from their feet, and they turned and shrieked under the cold blast, gyrating frantically, hopping from foot to foot, breasts bouncing wildly, hands flying down to cover their crotches, in a vain attempt to shield their tender womanhood from the strategically aimed shower. Only when all the mud had been washed from their bodies were they dismissed. Greta to ready herself for the evening’s entertainment; Linda to dry off, and recover, only to assume the vanquisher’s place in the standing stocks.

  ***

  In preparation for the final act, a couple of soldiers emerged from the tent lugging an ornate bedstead between them. The metal bed frame was set down on the grass, close to the audience, and mattress thrown on. The departure of the soldiers brought an air of anticipation that began to build with each passing moment.

  After a few minutes, the flaps of the tent were again opened, to emit a single, white-clad figure. He stood barefoot on the grass, blinking in the glare of the sun, dressed in the unbleached raw cotton outfit of a field worker: hip-length overshirt, hanging loosely from his shoulders, and under that a pair of baggy pants hitched up around his narrow waist. An oversized sombrero had been plunked down on the man’s head so that it rode low over his eyes — startling blue eyes with curiously dilated pupils. There was about the slight figure in the baggy pants a certain comic note supplied by the thick black mustache, which was, quite obviously, a fake — painted on, as though for some absurd amateur theatrical, the kind that might be staged by children, dressing up in their parents’ clothing.

  Just as ludicrous was the figure, which now emerged to stand at his side. Garishly painted up, she looked like a schoolgirl primping about in her mother’s make up and dress — that is, if her mother had been a whore. Walking hand in hand with the peon, she strutted and stumbled her way over the soft ground, navigating awkwardly in a dress that was much too tight and heels that were much too high. The girlish body was packed into the sexy, low-cut dress of a streetwalker, jet black, and slit up one side to knee-height to expose, with each step she took, a coltish calf that was sheathed in sheer, smoky nylon. The revealing dress also allowed an enticing view of a pair of small, but nicely-rounded breasts, that jiggled and threat
ened to spill out over the low cut bodice at each mincing step.

  The couple came forward, stopped, and presented themselves to the crowd: a young peasant and a teenaged whore. The delightful picture brought catcalls, hoots, and whistles, from the rowdy crowd. The slender peasant doffed his sombrero and held it before him, respectfully baring a head of black hair that was long and pulled tightly back to fall in a thick, ropy pony tail. The girl at his side joined him in a bow to the audience, a gesture that earned the couple a wild round of applause, punctuated with shouts urging them to get on with it.

  El Commandante, openly drunk by now, stood reeling over the crowd, shouting crude commands in guttural English. The peasant tossed aside his sombrero, and took the girl in his arms, holding her in loose embrace, as they embraced and kissed before the excited crowd, their passion soon fired them and the act of sex heated and inevitable.

  From the first time that Mallory had been forced into a public display of affection with her partner, the pair had become a popular act — called on to openly make lesbian love at the whim of the deranged druglord. At first, the women were intensely embarrassed by what they had to do, but as they became conditioned to the relentless sexual atmosphere of the prison compound, they came to regard such shows of sisterly affection much more casually, and found their own forced performances not altogether unpleasant. Mallory, who would vehemently deny that she had ever felt the slightest twinge of sexual desire for another woman, knew that under the duress of prison life, it was commonplace for sexual appetites to stray.