by Nicole Dere
‘I’m sure you’re right.’ Clio’s hand gripped Jan’s bare arm tightly. She managed a brave smile. ‘If they let usgo, degenerate pervs that we are, what on earth would they keep poor Marty for?’
Jan nodded, turned her face towards Clio, and gave a swift, surreptitious kiss. Then she gave a gasp, as she felt Clio’s hand moving over her thigh, under the thin blanket. The fingers dextrously unfastened the two lowest buttons on Jan’s dress, and the material parted as far as her belly. The hand settled on the warm, silk little triangle of the briefs, and began to stroke the swelling softness of the pudenda, until the pout of the vaginal lips, and the rapidly dampening groove between them, stood out. Jan stirred. Her thigh muscles hardened as she tried not to wriggle, and her face grew red.
Clio’s breath was warm against her ear. ‘I’ve always wanted to have sex in mid-air,’ she breathed. Now the nails were plucking at the elastic which stretched over Jan’s fuzzy little new growth of pubic hair, then the fingers slipped inside the fragile cover, and their tips slid into the moistness of the upper groove of the cunt. Jan’s muscles relaxed once more, and her thighs fell accommodatingly apart. The warm, husky timbre of Clio’s voice seemed to accentuate the effect of her hidden caresses. ‘I guess this could be the dykes’ equivalent of the mile-high club,’ she snickered. Although her hand did not stop its stirring attentions, the whispered tones switched back to their former seriousness. Jan recognised the new hesitancy in the hushed voice. ‘Listen, Jan. We’ll be all right. That is ... if you want us to stick together. I really don’t want to lose you, my darling. Marty will be there – I know he’s crazy about you – I don’t mind, honestly. In fact, so am I. I don’t want to lose you–’
Jan’s hand held the thin, moving wrist between her thighs. ‘Me neither. I wouldn’t ever want to leave you ... or Marty. I love you both.’ In the dimmed cabin, she let her lips touch lightly on Clio’s proffered mouth and smiled. ‘Besides, we belongto you. We’re your slaves, remember. You’re responsible for us.’ The hand clasping Clio’s wrist moved, encouraging her to continue her erotic stimulation.
Marty came to swimming full consciousness once more, and to the realisation that he was stretched out, arms and legs spread out wide. He was pinioned by wrists and ankles, staked out on the wide bed. He stared up at the hanging billow of the white mosquito net, shivered as he felt the cool air of the air conditioner blowing over him. He was naked. Who had stripped and bound him? Then he remembered. The events of the past ... day? Two days? drifted in a series of disconnected scenes through a mind clouded by tranquillizing drugs: tears rolling down his cheeks at his recognition at last of a familiar face: the honest, brown, plain features of Ramzan, his Indian lover, staring down at him as he lay in his own stink in that fetid cell; the strength with which his saviour lifted him, bore him away, in his battered truck, back to the simple bush house that had been for a brief time such an idyllic haven for the two of them, before Ant had so brutally reclaimed him; the tenderness with which Ramzan bathed him, cleansing off the stench of the brutal treatment of the prison; the soothing balm he had applied to his wounds; the laying of his soothed body in the blessedly cool clean sheets of the bed Marty remembered so fondly, and the loving safety of the lithe brown body wrapped about him, lulling him to sleep.
So why now was he tied down like this? His heart was thudding fiercely. He could recognise the bedroom, remembered the happiness he had shared there. And suddenly there was that newly familiar face, the dazzling whiteness of the teeth against the light brownness of the features, that slightly crooked nose, the result of a long-ago break, those brilliant dark eyes, with long dark lashes. Beautiful!
‘This time you won’t get away from me!’ He was smiling down at him, but Marty sensed a new quality that had not been there before. ‘I guess I wasn’t tough enough, eh? I should have come after you. Fought for you. I didn’t realise ... you like to know who’s boss – the bwana mkubwa. This time I’ll show you. You’re not leaving me again.’
Marty stared up at the dark shape of Ramzan standing over him. He felt the gooseflesh crawling on his nakedness, and something else: that tingle of sensual arousal, the excitement like electricity. He saw Ramzan’s piercing stare, the smile broaden, and Marty blushed. His stubby prick stirred, rising against his thigh, thickening.
Ramzan saw it too, and smiled. ‘You belong to me. And I’ll leave my mark on you. Right?’
Marty’s eyes were held by that brilliant stare, which looked into the very centre of his being. He nodded. His cock stirred again, more strongly, swelling, stiffening, against the tiny dark hairs of his pubis. Ramzan reached down, and seized the throbbing little penis, his fist closed about it, jerking and stretching the foreskin, and Marty gasped, then moaned, lifting his belly beseechingly. The hand pressed the hardening column up, against the belly, pressed downward. It was sharply painful, but Marty welcomed it, thrust up into it, adding to it, and with characteristic suddenness he erupted, his semen spurting out, over the brown gripping fingers, onto the heaving belly. Ramzan bent close, the red lips descended, closed over Marty’s open, uplifted mouth, and took possession of it.
An age later, Marty felt his ankles being untied, while his arms were left pinioned beside his head. The backs of his legs were lifted, held firmly by Ramzan, as he knelt between them. He was naked too, his prick jutting potently, urgent in his need. And Marty lifted his hips obediently, his neck arched, he stared up at the ceiling and shuddered in rapture at the steady, stabbing penetration he had so longed for.
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