A Desirable Property

by Nicole Dere

  My throat worked convulsively and for a moment I gagged, fighting to breathe, and dragged my lips up the column to the swell of that head, letting my teeth graze lightly over the flange, keeping my lips against its velvety dome as I drew in blessed air, before stretching my lips wide once more and plunging the wet warmth of my cocooning mouth over his pulsing sword of flesh.

  Down I dove, my nose tickled by the rasping black curls of his pubes, then up again until the tip of his penis was playing over my lips, my teeth gently nibbling.

  My fingers caressed the base of the rearing column, felt the damp softness of his scrotum, and I panted, taking in air, lapping with greedy slurps of my tongue up the underside of his erection to where the tiny V marked the spot where the foreskin joined the helm.

  I shivered with the fear and the desire that he would come inside my mouth, knowing that I would not be able to stop that instinctive jerking away from that awesome deluge of thick semen. And the subsequent frantic, open-mouthed rush to make amends for my failure by devouring every pumping drop I could lap up, or take over my proffered features. But it was not to be this time.

  With a gasp, he seized my hair, and with painful force dragged me up from his lap. At the same time, he lifted me bodily. The world spun crazily, his arms were under me, and I was being turned, I felt the couch beneath me, my shoulders and neck jammed awkwardly against its high back, my buttocks and gaping thighs raised high, his wiry body between them. Now it was he who knelt where I had and I felt his penis nuzzle, slide possessively along my soaking groove, exploring the divide of my labia, claiming it, before he nuzzled further, opening me with his potent strength, prising now the inner surfaces, entering me properly. My vagina throbbed in its frenetic welcome, closed about him, spasming in exquisite torment, and I lifted my hips imploringly, invitingly, and sighed with need and fulfilment as he drove home to the full.

  We both cried out, rutting, clashing, wanting more and more, deeper and deeper until he exploded, and I came too, my body lifting in its rapturous oblivion, while all about me the air rang with similar cries as my companions in misfortune reached the peak of their own bodily nirvanas.

  Chapter 8

  ‘How are you feeling, honey?’ Anita’s voice was warm with concern, her touch gentle as she laid her hand on Nicky’s arm. They were standing in the tiled, glass-screened shower recess under the wonderfully soothing warmth of the powerful jets, in the gleaming bathroom to which the same servant as before had led us.

  Moira and I had just vacated the shower, and were drying ourselves on the large bath towels provided for us. On the shelf over the ornate basin, with its gold-plated taps, stood row upon row of perfumes and colognes, fragrant talc and scented skin lotion. After the primitive communal existence we had known for the past couple of months, this was like some dream of heaven. Except that we had already paid a price for its luxury, as our freshly cleaned but sexually weary bodies testified.

  We had not spoken, had not looked at one another as, recovered from the weird coupling in that exotic setting, we had followed the servant, leaving those four naked men and the booming laughter of General Koloba ringing in our ears. I was still bemused, for I was savouring the shockingly pleasant, enervating sensation that came after shatteringly fulfilling sex. And all with a man whose name I did not even know!

  Now, shamefully intrigued and diverted from my own painful reflections by Anita’s question, I listened to Nicky’s faltering reply. She too sounded dazed; as well she might after all that had happened. ‘It – it wasn’t too – not as terrible as I thought it – I mean the pain – it wasn’t…’ she shook her head in frustration, and I was startled by the vindictive words that came from the dainty figure beside me. Swathed in a towel, her red hair hanging in curling profusion about her elfin face, Moira gave a sarcastic bark of laughter.

  ‘Hah! I should think not. I could hear you yelping, babe, and it wasn’t from agony, I can tell you that!’ There was an outraged gasp from the tall youngster, but Moira swept on. ‘Not bad for your first screw, eh? Your first straight fuck, that is. The President of Leontondo – he’s really a big man!’ She sniggered lewdly, and there was another shocked squeak from Nicky.

  ‘Cut it out,’ I countered. ‘We’ve all been through it. We can’t help what’s happening to us.’

  The redhead swung towards me, her face alive with malice I never would have thought her capable of harbouring. ‘And you can talk!’ she jeered. ‘It was easy to see you haven’t had a poke from your old man in many a long month!’

  Bitterly, I cursed my readiness for confessional chats in the shower room and on our mattresses in the dark, and my wounded pride made me snap back almost without thinking. ‘What’s wrong, Moira?’ I said. ‘Didn’t you get enough back there to satisfy you?’

  In her self-appointed prefect’s role, Anita literally came between us as she stepped dripping from the shower cubicle and reached for a towel. ‘Hey now,’ she intervened, ‘we mustn’t start bitching amongst ourselves. Things are bad enough without us falling out. We have to be there for each other, always. Right? Now, come on, please.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I murmured contritely, and putting my arms up around her shoulders, I rested my forehead against her wet brow. We kissed lightly on the lips, and the next thing I knew, we were all four in a huddle, our arms around each other and kissing gently in comforting reunion. At which point the door opened and we sprang guiltily apart at the sight of the servant’s leering grin.

  He ushered us out of the splendid bathroom and across the long corridor into an opulent bedroom. The bed itself was a four-posted, with an elaborate canopy draped in fine muslin hangings. The silk counterpane was covered with various opened boxes, and we saw to our astonishment a variety of frothy underwear – sets of daring bras and knickers, some no more than transparent scraps of lace, in all shades and sizes.

  ‘Dress!’ the servant urged with his usual ear-splitting grin. Under his delighted gaze, we searched amongst the boxes, holding garments up to admire them before somehow choosing between them, until we had all selected some and began wriggling into the skimpy items with embarrassed titters of mirth. I had, after long consideration, chosen a pair of thong briefs. The triangle of gauze-like material just fitted over my pudenda, the string disappearing in the crack of my bottom and leaving my buttocks bare. Through the net of the light bra cups of the bra I selected could easily be seen my nipples and their surrounds, and the caress of these insubstantial scraps of clothing sent a thrilling shiver through me. There was a slender garter-belt to match, and from the generous collection offered to us, I found a pair of black nylon stockings, which I rolled slowly up my legs to clip onto the black suspenders that hung down and dissected my thighs.

  Once ‘dressed’ in similar fashion, we stared at one another in bashful wonder. There were clearly no more clothes for us to put on over our lingerie. ‘You know what?’ Moira observed clinically. ‘We look like a bunch of high class tarts in a brothel!’ Which was exactly how we felt when the servant, whose name he told us was Joseph, showed us a selection of spike-heeled shoes, from which we made our choice. We finished dressing by slipping into lacy negligees. Tied only at the waist, they did nothing to hide our charms, and we knew that, obviously, we had not been given such finery for our own amusement, and waited with some trepidation for what was to happen next.

  Eventually we were moved to yet another, smaller room this time, but it was just as luxuriously appointed as the rest of the palace, where we saw a table spread with an appetising array of cold foods, and a well-stocked bar stood in one corner manned by another white-gowned male servant. The president and his three henchmen were waiting for us, and we noted immediately the opulent silk robes they wore – with nothing underneath them, as we presently discovered. But first, we were encouraged to eat and to drink. It was a testament to our resilience, or perhaps an indication of how far along the degrading road to fatalistic acceptance we had come, that we took full advantage of the delic
ious spread despite our anxiety.

  The excellent white wine made my head spin. I found myself answering the questions of my captors, even giggling at their bold remarks, and not even minding their playful gropes and amorous fumbling. Until they grew more determined, more intense, and the light-hearted party atmosphere evaporated as their intent became increasingly evident.

  ‘Now for a taste of something different,’ the president announced with one of his usual guffaws of exuberant mirth, and I saw, and felt, the proprietary contempt in his gaze as it moved over our scantily clad, available flesh. The four men lined up their chairs and sat back in a row, their gowns gaping open to reveal their penises, some swollen already in semi-tumescence, others limp and shrouded still and hanging coyly between their thighs.

  ‘You…’ the president’s thick forefinger jabbed at me. ‘I hear you’re a splendid sword swallower. Come here.’

  Taking a deep breath, I settled obediently on my knees between his trunk-like thighs while my companions, without further ado, took up similar positions in front of the other men. For some reason, I was strangely aware of Joseph standing by the table, and of the other silent figure posted against the wall by the bar. But, despite my self-consciousness at being watched, I meekly took the limp stump of the president’s penis between my fingers. It was warm, satin-smooth, and a drop of moisture gleamed at its tip.

  I gathered the rim of his foreskin between my thumb and finger and delicately slid it back, peeling free the shining head of the dome, and I shivered as I felt the throb of stirring life in my hand. I massaged it, from the thick spreading pad of his balls, up to the emergent helm, the beating increasing, the muscles pulsing until, after a few slow strokes, he was erect, hardening mightily, and the mushroom of his glans reared before me.

  I lowered my face, and carefully shaped my lips to fit over that shining globe, tasting the strong flavour of his fluid, lapping it from him onto my tongue. I stretched my jaws wide, breathing heavily, and took his swelling largesse inside my mouth until he filled it, to the back of my gagging throat. I plunged forward, spearing myself on him, taking as much of him into me as I could before I choked.

  The taste, the feel, the smell of him gripped me, absorbed me, so that I was no longer conscious of what was happening elsewhere. His great hands fitted round my head, his fingers wound themselves in my hair, pinning me helplessly to that rearing column. My head bobbed, I sucked and slurped and fought to breathe, until suddenly the increase of pressure and the lifting pull at my scalp told me he was about to discharge. My heart hammered in panic. When the initial surge came and his semen flooded thickly to the back of my throat, forcing me to swallow instinctively, I could not prevent my jerking away in spite of his fierce grip. I succeeded in dislodging his large erection from my lips, but knew I must make amends for what I knew was my failure. An instant later, my mouth was pressed against his still spasming penis, and I let his surging come flow thickly over my open lips and my tongue, and I even savoured its lubricious fecundity oozing thickly over my chin, dripping down my throat and onto my heaving breasts. Indeed, as the last wracking spasms went through him, I raised myself – his hands had fallen slackly away – and held his beating column tightly in my cleavage, between my breasts, and felt the final pumping fluids spill onto my perspiration-dewed skin.

  ‘You whore,’ he gasped, slumping back in his chair, but his tone was entirely of replete appreciation. His vast body heaved like a beached whale. I fell back too, off my cramped knees, and found a towel thrust onto my shoulder from behind by the hovering Joseph. I held it thankfully to my face and endeavoured to clean myself, while my exhausted gaze turned to the scene on my right, where the three submissive figures were still crouched, their heads buried between their partners’ thighs. It was many minutes before the last working head was raised, and then a servant took poor Nicky, picked on again for some reason, from the room.

  The men carelessly retied their gowns, and the president wagged an admonishing finger at the three of us. ‘You girls,’ he chortled. ‘You white girls, you are all malayas. Prostitutes, all of you! Come, gentlemen,’ he addressed his associates, ‘we must punish these creatures for being so lewd.’

  With that foreboding statement, he reached out and pulled me up across his broad lap. I felt the smooth warmth of his meaty thighs beneath my tummy, and to my intense embarrassment, I could also feel the clinging wetness of the tiny triangle of silk that covered my vulva. My bottom was already bare, for the string that was a part of the thong had disappeared entirely in my intimate valley, and the slender black ribbons of the suspenders hid nothing. He did not attempt to slide down the tiny knickers, but struck open-handed at the quivering pale globes exposed to him.

  I wriggled and yelped, and kicked my stockinged legs in rapid little scissoring movements, which sent the high-heeled shoes flying but did nothing to deter the hefty slaps raining down on my bottom. Not that, deep down, I wanted to deter them, particularly. There could be no real resistance to whatever he chose to do to me, I knew that, and part of me found the certainty of my helplessness strangely sweet. These movements were part of the sexual manoeuvrings I knew men liked, and which, to be blushingly honest, I liked too, just as I even liked the scorching pain that spread through my rosily glowing behind, which I dimpled and clenched against his ringing slaps. His large hand was like a paddle, and the pain rose until I was squirming madly and my wet loins were grinding into his thigh.

  I was close to coming, but then the burning pain took over and my yelps became ever more genuine cries of agony, until I was threshing and sobbing and begging for mercy, scalding tears meandering down my face. I was not acting now, for his pleasure or mine; the torment was real, and unbearable.

  It was an agonisingly long while before he finally ceased the spanking. I hung there, blubbering, my bottom on fire. Only then did I register the similar howls of distress from the other prone girls. Panting, he flung me dismissively to the floor, where I sobbed more quietly and clutched my scorching bum for comfort. His broad face was split by a wide grin as he watched my shame and discomfort.

  A little while later, we had recovered a bit, the throbbing had subsided to a dull ache, had indeed been replaced by throbbing of another kind as we sprawled on the couches, with yet new partners in this sexual kaleidoscope we were caught up in.

  I was with the other bulky representative of the president’s northern tribe, laying on his lap, over which my legs were draped, my head lolling in the fleshy cushions. The flimsy bra was hanging like a scarf around my neck, and my breasts were tingling from the attention they had received from his hands and his eager lips. One of those hands was now stretching my miniscule briefs to the danger point as it delved down over my mound to the open wetness of my sex. His stubby fingers were peeling back my labia, stroking the slippery inner surfaces until my thighs writhed with the excitement coursing through me. The suspender ribbons had snapped free of the stocking tops and dangled like miniature snakes about my hips, while the nylons themselves were dragged almost to my knees in what was undoubtedly a spectacle of raunchy debauchery. However, the effect of those scrabbling fingers at my centre sent such considerations flying from my whirling thoughts. In fact, my main concern was how swiftly my amorous assailant could divest me of these few scraps of clothing, when Koloba’s bellow of laughter penetrated even my excitement. There, in the centre of the room, stood a newly bathed and scarlet-faced Nicky.

  At the president’s enthusiastic urgings I, and the other two girls, who had been receiving equally rousing treatment, were bundled aside. Then, gathering their displaced robes about them, the men stood up and, at their leader’s instigation, grabbed the weary blonde and hauled her over to the dining table. It had already been cleared of the remnants of the meal, and the luckless Nicky, her sobs only fuelling the men’s desire, was spread face down on the polished surface, her arms and legs pinned out towards each corner.

  She knew only too well what was to happen. The magnificent rounds
of her bottom were still marked with twin red patches from her previous chastisement. They dimpled enchantingly as Koloba stood over them and lingeringly explored their texture, and let his dark fingers press deep into the inviting narrow valley between her cheeks.

  ‘What a delectable bottom you have, my dear,’ he rumbled, his voice full of warmth. ‘So wonderful, so wonderful, and now we are going to warm it for you. After all, I hear tales that you are a troublesome young thing.’ His bulky frame shook with mirth, and from the folds of his robe his penis rose impressively.

  This time, perhaps to intensify Nicky’s humiliation, he used a large salad spoon, intricately carved from smooth, richly grained olive wood, and provided by the attentive Joseph, who stood back, arms folded, to enjoy the spectacle. It made a sharp splat as it connected with her resilient flesh, and left a vivid imprint. Soon her curves were dotted with these red smudges, overlaying the marks of the earlier spanking. Her feet and hands twisted, her hips writhed and her belly ground on the hard wood. The men holding her laughed and jeered, even as they were forced to exert real effort to keep her frame stretched out and pinned down against the table. But eventually the exertion of her struggles eased, her body flinching now only at each cracking stroke, and her sobs were interspersed with mumbled pleas.

  ‘Oh no… please… stuh-stop… I’m sorry, please!’ But her anguished begging served only to prolong the torment, for it added to the pleasure the president and his cronies derived from their sport. When they did finally desist, she remained sprawled out, looking exhausted.

  Koloba, body and face gleaming with sweat, flung aside his robe and, grabbing her hips, pulled her to the edge of the table so that her slender legs hung down to the floor. He parted them without ceremony, lifted her glowing buttocks and stationed himself there, driving vigorously home from behind. I stared in fascination and shameful arousal, watching those trunk-like thighs and the clenching and quivering of her paler bottom as his groin slapped against it again and again.