by Troy Conway
Now she was crouching, kissing my belly, my chest, running her tongue across my nipples. Upward to my throat went her lips while she pressed her breasts to my ribs, adding to my delighted discomfort. Always she avoided touching my straining, tormented manhood. If I had not been so excited by Ilona Fortescu, I might have been better able to resist the pleasure she was giving me. As it was, I struggled against the ropes that held me. I tried to fight back the flesh-fire in my veins. I sought to pretend I was having none of it.
Fool that I was! My distended member gave the lie to that idea. I was afraid something would burst in my veins. Celeste was hoping for just that happening, as her voice crooned to my ear, as her nipples scratched my chest, as her fingernails trickled teasing torture on my quivering thighs.
She drew back, eyes bulging slightly in awe. “Mon Died Look at it! I have never seen anything so huge.”
“Except on a horse,” giggled Fleur.
Juana Batione was beside her, long black hair flooding down across her pale shoulders, hiding her heavy breasts. Her skin was so white as to be almost an abnormality, but it was sensually exciting on the Spanish girl. It made you think of girl slaves kept in a harem for the sport of their master. Only her lips and fingernails were red, the rest of her was all white skin and glossy black hair.
The Spanish girl said, “I am next.”
She turned and ran, soft white buttocks jiggling. I heard a soft whine, an excited bark. Juana reappeared tugging on the collar of a big German shepherd dog. Her laughter at the expression on my face was raw, wild.
“You shall see something that will drive you crazy,” ,she laughed. “And you shall watch—or I will have Donna beat you some more where it hurts so much.”
She straddled the big dog, rubbing herself against its bristly fur, squatting down on it as if it were a mount. The dog must have engaged in such activities at other times, because its lust was evident. It whined pleadingly and squatted on the deck until Juana cuffed it, making it stand upright on all fours. She drove herself back and forth on the animal until she was hunched forward, head hanging, her pallid breasts swollen and her hips moving like a metronome out of control. She made an exciting picture. If I had not been bound like a sheep for the slaughter, I would have torn her off the dog and raped her.
I must admit I did have one thing going for me, all through my ordeal. I possess a little of what the psychologist calls mind control. I was able to employ selfhypnosis to keep my physical body in check, to hold my own lusts in abeyance. I could look at what the Spanish girl was doing and not let it affect me as much as the others, for instance, were being affected.
I have studied hypnotism. I have learned a little of the method of mental domination of the senses. The mind possesses a strange control over the body; it has been scientifically demonstrated that the human brain can change actual physical results, as when a hypnotized man demonstrates that he can walk even though his legs have been anesthetized; as when he will eat a blotter and enjoy it, believing it to be a steak; another man, believing he was being fed honey, actually had the sugar content of his blood rise! If such things can happen, surely the mind can blank out pain. The North American Indians are believed to have possessed this ability to autohypnotise themselves and so endure stoically the frightful tortures their enemies heaped on them at the stake. When a Mohawk Indian did, so did I.
So I hung there in my ropes and endured. I could not control the evidence of my own arousal; I was not adept enough for that. But I could alleviate the suffering I would otherwise have endured by keeping a tight rein on my emotions.
The shipboard guests were not so well controlled. I could see Georges Fortescu with his arms about the hips of the naked blonde danseuse, who was bent adoringly between the paned thighs of her lesbian inamorata. Fortescu was driving himself like a living piston, while the danseuse, sandwiched between the man and the woman, was striving her utmost to please them both.
To one side of them, Pierre LeMoines was caught in the grip of plump white thighs as Ilona Fortcscu bucked and rammed in unison with his thrustings. Her bare back was pressed down on a blanket spread loss the deck planks. Her eyes were shut but her mouth was open as she gave out soft little cries of pleasure.
There were other bodies, other men and other women here and there in the shadows, indulging the desires that had been born of my torture. One or two of them were watching Juana and the dog, turning their eyes toward me, even as their love partners worked savagely to bring them to their orgasmic release.
Juana was kneeling before me, smiling. Her hand caressed the dog, the animal whined and jerked to that fondling, nuzzling its cold nosc between hcr thighs.
She said, “Sport is a good dog. Good dog. He has been well trained. He cost a lot of money, you know. No, Sport—down. The time is not yet”
Her black eyes glinted up at me. “You know about lap dogs, hey? I know you are a teacher of sex in America. So you know about this. But have you ever seen it?”
They call it bestiality, this relationship between a human and an animal. It is not a new vice, by any means, it has probably existed since there were men and women and animals. In Roman times, women condemned to death were often raped by beasts first, to slake the sadistic thirst of the Roman audiences. Specially trained animals were employed for these tasks, just as they are today at sex shows in the capitals of Europe, in Mexico and in North Africa, where dogs and jackasses are so employed.
It is quite common on farms, for there young boys and girls are exposed to animals, and form attachments to certain pets. And world explorers have told of native women who have taken apes for their husbands, and will not mate with a human, preferring the performance of their hairy companions.
Juana Batione was spread out on the deck, legs wide. Her dog was busy pleasing her flesh with his long tongue, so that her body jumped and jerked from time to time, and her soft red mouth gave out little yelps of happiness. It was a sight to stir the lust in male veins. It stirred mine, and came close to making me lose my control.
Soft female laughter mocked me from the deck where the Spanish girl lay shaking. She cried, “You wish you could be where the dog is. Admit it! You are wishing I would be as nice to you.”
I felt as if I were in a nightmare. I fumbled with the ropes that held me, I twisted and writhed back and forth. It seemed to me that the knots were loosening; the ropes that held mc did not seem as tight. I tried to catch a knot in my fingers, but it kept eluding me.
While I worked at the knot, Juana turned over and rested on her knees and elbows. She reached behind her for the dog, guiding i t Then the animal was at her, and her wail of pleasure punctuated the night.
I wondered where her boy friend was, the rich Spanish manufacturer. I tore my eyes from her bobbing hips long enough to scan the deck. I saw Eduardo Herrara engaged with the lesbian friend of the blonde dancer, Barbe Serrelle. He was kneeling between her thighs, kissing her as Donna Romminet had kissed her, and making her enjoy it just as much.
Juana was screaming before me, slapping the deekplanks with her palms as she crouched down, slave to her animal passions. I wondered what quirk of character had turned her to this divertissement instead of toward a man. Lueius Apuleius in his Golden Ass tells of a rich matron who enjoys the love-making of a jackass; I suppose Juana Batione was sister under the skin to that lady.
A shadow fell across her white back. Fleur Devot was standing, grinning down at the wailing woman and the dog.
“One side, you two. Your act has lost its charm.”
She reached out and touched my belly gently. I could not help the convulsive jerk that was the answer to her questing touch. She laughed softly.
“These others—they are pigs,” she whispered. “They know only the enjoyment of the physical senses. They aren’t subtle. They know what arouses them, and they think the same thing arouses everybody else!”
She was very close to me. There was perfume—Joy, I think it was—in her blonde hair, and a very wise d
evilment in her blue eyes. She licked her lips, staring down at me. Fleur Devot was the essence of everything that was erotic in the world. She had tiny breasts, but her nipples were extremely long, and at the moment, in a state of excessive Length. Her belly was almost flat, dimpled by a sunken navel. On either side of her shaven pubes, her thighs were tanned columns of curving loveliness.
She kicked the dog in the flank. “Move. Go on. Move!”
The Spanish girl began to crawl on hands and knees along the deck, dragging the German shepherd with her. Fleur laughed.
“Poor Juana. She cannot help herself. She’s quite unable to cure her little problem. Eduardo indulges her pranks, of course. He thinks she is great fun. She puts on exhibitions for him and his friends. She gets girls to help her entertain them. I understand she’s helped swing half a dozen million dollar orders for his company.”
Fleur smiled like a fallen angel. “They are gross, all of them. No imagination. I’ve been watching you, you know. You are excited, yes. But you’re nowhere near dying from that excitement. And those others—pouf! They have not the control. They get hot and they let go with their lusts.”.
She began to laugh. “What a joke! Them trying to kill you with sex! It is they who will do the dying first. But me, I have a different idea about you. I think I shall try it out. I shall appeal to your mind, to your imagination, instead of just to your physical senses.”
She turned and fled on bare feet across the deck toward a pile of clothes humedly thrown alongside a winch when the deckside orgy had begun. Her fingers lifted a shoulder bag, fumbled inside it. Then she brought out one of those giant lollipops that one buys in the sweet shoppes. She held it up and waved it at me.
She came back and seated herself yogi fashion before me. Her slim brown thighs directed my eyes toward her shaven privacy. Giggling, she put out her tongue and began to lick the lollipop up and down.
Fleur tapped me with the lollipop, getting me sticky. Her voice was a low croon as she said, “You understand the symbolism, my dear professor. Your mind won’t be able to run away and hide, because the symbolism will appeal directly to your mind and to your imagination.
She put the lollipop to her mouth, taking as much of it as she could into that yawning red cavity. Above the sweet at which she nibbled, her eyes were gleeful. I guess she could see how she was getting to me with her lollipop love. It was oddly wicked, more exciting even than the act Juana Batione and her German shepherd had put on.
Her tongue ran up and down and around the sweet. She slurped its taste in between her lips. Her mouth worked all around its edges. She licked and licked, devouring the goody as if it was the first one she had ever tasted.
To seek a crutch to help me against the sight of her little-girlness showing itself off to me, I caught hold of the knotted ropes and tightened my fingers on them. I hung on for dear life, telling myself not to let this blonde starlet do what Celeste Maillot and Juana Batione had been unable to do.
A red tongue lapping, soft red lips enclosing, sharp white teeth biting ever so gently, to tenderly, into the sweet. Mouth open. mouth moving slowly all over it. Saliva.painting those wet lips even redder. The moving head, bobbing back and forth, the fingers that held the stick of the lollipop, gently squeezing.
My own fingers tightened on the ropes spasmodically. I strutted my muscles in a vain attempt to overcome this clever. calculated appeal to my mind. I have mined myself to watch couples as they enjoy the copulative embrace and to be unaffected by the sight; it is part of my technique as a teacher of sex and sex techniques. I had not trained myself to ignore this more subtle appeal to the lusts that live deep in every man and woman.
I groaned. staring down at her.
Fleur laughed, delighted at the success of her stratagem. With just the tip of her tongue, she licked the edge of the lollipop. She ran it back and forth, under and over. She was a girl devil. She knew damn well what she was doing to me.
She paused long enough to whisper, “It gets to you, doesn’t it? It stabs you where you live. I know. Once a man tied me up with my legs wide open and sat between them, eating a peach. It nearly drove me insane.” She pouted, leaning forward to examine me more closely. “But my body helped me, as yours is not helping you. My body spent and spent its juices. But yours does not.”
No need to tell her I could not. I was in no mood for a lecture on satyriasis. I just wanted out of this dilemma.
She put the lollipop into her lips again.
And a rope yielded to the tug of my hands. I could feel that give, as the rope loosened where it bound my arms behind mc to the mast. I ran my fingers along the rope to the knot. discovering that the knot had also loosened.
I worked on that knot with quivering fingers. The ropes gave a little more. I was learning that one big knot served to keep the rope about my neck and my arms about the mast behind mc. A different knot had been used to tie my ankles to the mast.
I tried to be discreet about all this. I wanted to surprise Miss French Starlet in the middle of one of her licks. She must have thought all the moving around I was doing was because she was exciting me beyond endurance.
The knot fell away just as Fleur Devot was taking the lollipop out of her mouth to speak. She got as far as, “Now let me rub——”
I lunged, figuring the movement would loosen the ropes at my ankles sufficiently for me to pull my feet out. It did.
Fleur started to scream as my body dropped on her.
She never made a sound.
Both my arms locked tight about her shoulders as I drove my open mouth down on her lips. Another part of me drove hard into her femininity. I went in to the hilt. My tongue tasted sweet lollipop, that other part of me tasted a deep moistness that sent bolts of electricity up and down my spine. Fleur rolled over on her back. I went with her.
The little bitch had been orgasming steadily, teasing me. Even so, her womanhood was tight and narrow. My gigantic size must have hurt her deeply, because her body stiffened and her head went back with convulsive fury as she tried to scream. My tongue and mouth blocked her yell, so that it was a deep, throaty whine that sounded in my ears. My hips pounded my manhood at her deeply.
She was fighting me, but my strength and size was too much for her. She made me think of the tiny girl-priestesses the high priests raped before their gods, Baal and Ashtoreth, in the days before Moses led the Habiru out of Egypt. I felt like one of those bearded Canaanites with a girl-priestess in my arms. My blood boiled, my heart hammered. I worshipped the lustful goddess and her consort, deep in my heart. This female had teased me beyond endurance. I was going to have my vengeance on her.
I drove like a drill hunting oil. I bounced her bottom off the deck planks at every thrust. I gave her every last bit of the Damon priapus and I damn near split her in half. She yowled; she howled; she tried to claw me, at first. But I noticed that after a minute of this steady pumping. in some sadomasochistic way, the pain became a pleasure to Fleur Devot.
Her hips still bounced and bumped as we inched along the deck, but now it was a rhythmic bumping, a combined convulsion of chaotic carnality. She was grunting in my ear and her slim arms were straining my hairy chest against her enlarged nipples, she had got a leg lock around my hips and her heels beat a tattoo on my behind, like she was riding a horse and spurring him to greater speed. At least, that’s the way I chose to take it.
“Don’t stop, oh, never stop,” she sobbed.
Her fingernails bit little arcs in my shoulders where they clung to give her body greatest leverage. She was biting my chin, kissing my throat, keeping up a steady humming sound deep in her chest. This little blonde starlet was away out there in love-land and she didn’t give a damn who knew it.
A voice whispered. “Come on!”
It was not a female voice, and it seemed to come from the water itself. I thought: If any mother’s son tries to pull me away from this piece of French tail, I. am going to strangle him with my bare hands, because I had been caught up in t
he swirl of the same sexuality that enthralled Fleur Devot; like her, I was hung up somewhere in Paradise. I drove and thrust, and I was received and cradled deep in her loins.
I gave to Fleur Devot what I had had for Ilona Fortescu, for Celeste Maillot, even for Juana Batione. I freed myself of the sexual tensions of an entire night in this single driving madness.
A hand touched my shoulder. A third hand, not one of Fleur’s; hers were still digging nails into my flesh.
“Get the hell away,” I snarled.
The hand went away. Something cold and metallic r e placed it. I have been serving the Thaddeus X. Coxe Foundation long enough to know the touch of a revolver barrel on my neck when I feel it.
“Goddammit, aren’t you human?” I moaned.
Somebody chuckled sympathetically. “All right, all right.”
We were somewhere in Nirvana, the little blonde and me. We were coming down the stretch neck to neck, and the finish line was there with spangles all over it. We would hit it together.
Her hips leaped; mine dropped.
She screamed thickly, head flung back. I bellowed down at her open mouth, seeing her eyes like white slits through the long golden lashes, smelling the Joy and the feminine odor of her at the same time and wanting to merge my flesh with her flesh.
We quivered together for long moments.
“Oh, my God,” she whimpered, staring up at me.
Thre was awe and happiness and a strange submissiveness in her eyes. I bent and kissed the comer of her lips.
“Thanks, honey,” I breathed.
The gun tapped my shoulder, “Okay, now?” a voice asked.
I slid out of the saddle. I turned my head.
A man in a black rubberoid swimsuit stood grinning at me. He held a revolver in a hand, and the revolver was aimed at my navel. His head jerked.
“Over there. With the others.”
Sometimes I react very slowly. I turned my head and saw Celeste and Alain Maillot with their bare hides on, crowded in against Pierre LeMoines and Donna Romminet, with Barbe Serrelle just beyond them. The maids were there too, all of them stark naked, even little Angelique, whimpering in pain and doubled over. They had all been taking part in the mass orgy on deck when I’d come out of Ilona Fortescu’s stateroom.
