Digitally transcribed for the Gardner Francis Fox Adventure Library
They came at me with their flesh aroused by the doses of imsak they had taken. The taller man, whose ghendureh came just below his navel, threw himself on top of me, sinking his fingers into my buttocks as his zubb also sank within me. He caught me, rolled over, and his companion fell on me in the classical Arabian istaneh position, from behind.
I was a living sandwich between the bhang boys.
Under laboratory tests, bhang—Indian hemp or hashish—has no aphrodisiacal qualities. Yet even science admits that to the Arab, to the Indian, the Persian, the Turk, bhang is just what they say it is. Made from the cannabis indica plant, the same plant from which marijuana is made, it can be smoked, chewed or drunk as a liquid. The name derives from the Arabic word hashishin, which means ‘hemp eaters’.
The leaves of the Indian hemp plant are resinous. When dried and mixed with its stalks, the cannabis indica furnishes dreams of sexual powers far beyond norm, it intoxicates and yields a sense of extreme well-being. It is from the word hashish that we get the name assassin, for it was hashish that the Old Man of the Mountain fed to his followers in the thirteenth century, when he formed them into that dread band, the Assassins of Alamut, that ruled the Arabic countries with terror and the threat of death. Like A.L.L. A.H. today.
My hashish honeys were working away like the sex crazed kooks they were. I took no pleasure from the act, it was as if I were being ravished by a rapist. But the two tail-test pilots who had been hired to give me a working-over and see that all my sexual parts were fit and ready, could scarcely care less about my feelings. They were enjoying their dok. The hell with me. They just went on sawing away—expedier les bon membres, as the French call it.
They hurt, after a while. I tried to fight them but they were lean men, with dark skins and muscles that stood out in ridges all over their bodies. They stank of sweat, they panted fetid breaths at me, they panted and slobbered in their male heat. There was no tenderness. Only dok.
I fainted twice. Always I revived to their steady pounding. I would have screamed but there was no one to help me. If I were a masochist, or had any elements of masochism within me, the pain would have brought me delight. But I am regular, I like my dok with kisses and some gentility.
I knew that if I had been drugged with imsak, I would be dreaming those strange, frightening dreams which come with so many of the mind-affecting drugs. But I was more afraid of the drug than I was of these dok-wallopers. They would go away, in time. A dependency on imsak would not.
I lay and suffered. I thought of David Anderjanian. I thought of my nation and the perils I was plunging into because of my duty to L.U.S.T. I am as patriotic as anybody else, but sometimes I think fate overdoes the flag-waving bit.
The door opened after a while. Tamar stood there, staring in wide-eyed disbelief at what she was seeing. She snarled and ran forward.
Her hand came down across a male neck. “Tafu! Tafu! for Shame! Get up, you desert rat! Jerboa!”
The man rolled away from me, staring up at the woman crouched above him, hissing in her anger. He was still furiously excited—that imsak is mighty powerful stuff, no matter what the lab boys say—and to him Tamar was no more than another female on whom to slake his lust.
He reached for her but Tamar clouted him across the face, screaming, “Idiot! Son of a debauched mother! Down the hall to the next room. O fool—Allah will steal away your manhood if you linger here! Hurry! Hurry!”
The other man realized something was going on. His frantic pace slowed long enough for me to twist free of him and throw myself in among the coverlets of the cot. I listened to Tamar shrilling at them, I heard their growling answers, the pad of their naked feet as they walked toward the door. The door opened and closed.
Tamar put a soft palm on my back. “Poor darling! I didn’t know they were scheduled to come here so soon. I would have been back sooner, except that certain duties could not be postponed.”
She was stroking my spine with her red fingernails, up and down, back and forth in little spirals. Those faint scratchings ran down around my buttocks, slid up between them and back down again. And the nerve endings of my erogenous zones stood up and clamored.
“Wait,” she whispered, leaning to kiss my hip, “Let me get warm water and a soft cloth, to bathe you. I can make you feel better within minutes.”
I watched her walk away, fascinated by the shake and jump of her soft buttocks, that part of the female anatomy which the Arabs call bedour, which means full moons. She had full moons, all right. Already I was feeling better, but I wanted to be pampered after my experience with those Hashish Harrys. I rolled over and lay on my back, thighs slightly apart.
Tamar was back within moments, a basin and a moist cloth in her hands. She began to wash me gently, very slowly, so that it was more of a caress than a cleansing. The warm wet cloth, her tender words of comfort, touched a wellspring of wantonness deep inside me.
I spread my thighs to make her work easier, I arched myself to her. She could move the cloth back and forth very easily now, covering my entire pubertal area.
She smiled roguishly, saying, “I think that’s enough.”
“No. Go on. Please!”
She shook her head at me. Tamar had changed her garments. Now she wore a tissue-thin bolero with short sleeves extending halfway down her dusky arms, and a long skirt of the same black nylon that began four inches below her navel and ended about her ankles. Her midriff was bare, and under the black nylon of the bolero which gripped her heavy breasts I could see the large brown nipples.
“I will rub you dry, little blonde bint,” she laughed softly. “Then I will apply a salve to your injured parts.”
I watched her heavy breasts swing forward as she bent to place a kiss on me. I whispered, “Don’t go ’way.”
She laughed softly, throatily. Her mouth was dark red with lipstick, and her tongue-tip moistened those big lips as she stared down at me. “You shall die this night from pleasure,” she breathed.
My body was alive. It tingled and ached pleasantly, needing relief from the slow throbbing that had begun in my loins and was extending upward into my breasts, where the dark nipples protruded. Almost unconsciously, my hips were moving lazily.
Then Tamar was back, a rough towel in her hand. She threw a cushion on the floor and knelt to wipe my flesh. The shaggy wool was like a giant tongue, exacerbating, thrilling. I moaned and writhed to the ministrations of the towel. There was the smell of musk in the room; later, I discovered Tamar had lighted a cone of incense to add to the delight of our senses.
The towel slipped from her fingers.
“Your keuss is a scarlet flower, ripe for plucking,” Tamar whispered. “It is the fruit of Paradise, which will be given to all True Believers.”
Her breath blew upon me like the sirocco wind howling hot and wild off the great Sahara. Her soft palms and avid fingers slipped up my thighs and across my heaving belly to my hard breasts. They climbed my breasts, they caught my nipples.
“You are the peach broken apart, the figlet made to be eaten,” she murmured. “For this art of sekhaukeh were you born.
I could have disagreed with her, but did not. Let Tamar think what she might about me, I was no sapphist. I knew that in the Arabian countries, where harems were the order of the day, this lesbian love flourished as might a flower with tender care. No one man could properly satisfy anywhere from five to a hundred women, and so each harem kept its own, a female teacher whose duty it was to instruct the young brides in the tribadic art.
Once taught the art, once she had become addicted to this act of lisaun-fee-gubb, the wife selected a favorite from among the other wives, who became her merseeneh, and who practiced the rites of Sappho upon her body. In such a manner was harmony and peace insured among so many women. The Arab man holds the female in low esteem, believing that a woman was created by Allah solely for the enjoyment of the male. Yet so many Arab males turn to young boys for their sexual thrills, that the woman oftentimes find themselves doomed to seek solace from their own kind.
Though they themselves indulge in homosexuality, the Arab males look down upon lesbianism between women. They have different names for those who enjoy the caress of the mouth and tongue. She who looses her trouser string so she is available to her merseeneh, the Arab male calls contemptuously, Mejool-el iarbund!
Me, I didn’t care what the Arab boys called it. Tamar was an expert at this el-qutayti, she might have been the esh-sheyk-heh-el-bezeh for these white slavers, for all I knew. Maybe she was hard at work right now, teaching me to be a merseeneh for some lonely little harem honey.
She sent me on a tongue trip. I swung like a pendulum. I was a surfer hanging ten. I was the mushroom cloud of an atom bomb. It was in that ecstasy that the Arabs call kayf. I was turned on, all over me.
A long time later, I came to in her arms. She was smiling at me, kissing my lips with her mouth and fondling my breasts. There was the light of happiness in her black eyes, brilliant with kohl.
“I shall be sorry to lose you, my sweet,” she breathed. “Me too, Tamar. How long do we have?”
“A week. No more. Then you and the others—there are three more girls who are going to Beirut—will be bundled onto a Saudi Arabian plane and flown to market.”
“I suppose I’ve got to endure some more dok from those animals who were doing me earlier?”
Her fingers smoothed my blonde tresses. “Not the same ones, but others.” Her full lips quirked. “No two men could perform those sexual deeds, day in and day out. We recruit from the streets, we find hardy specimens, who, once having learned of our needs, come themselves or send their friends.”
“Hey! What about diseases ?” I yelped.
She was indignant. “They are all examined most carefully! Her palms slapped my belly. “You are worth more than your weight in gold, blonde girl. The other girls are not worth so much as you, but they will bring plenty of dinhars in the slave souk. Do you think we would dare sell diseased girls to the sheikhs and emirs of Saudi Arabia or Jordan? No, no.”
I let myself be comforted.
The pattern was apparent on this first day. Selim went on jabbing water into me, I pretended to be groovy with bhang, and healthy male specimens of the Medina streets of Marrakesh were fed to me in relays, two or three at a time, or in company with a female.
The female was not always Tamar. Sometimes they brought in another girl from the rooms where these girls, like me, were being taught how to be submissive slaves. They were pretty, they were clean, and they had an aptitude for their job.
We played games with one another, the man, the girl and I. We drove one another to distraction before we granted relief to the excitements our hands and mouths had created.
My cot was a sea of flesh, day after day, night after night, hour after hour. I reclined on my back, I knelt on hands and knees, I squatted like a frog. I thought I knew the art of making love. The men and Tamar taught me something new about the female body.
The western civilization are all puritanical at heart. The near eastern and far eastern peoples approach sex with an entirely different attitude. From babyhood, the boy and girl are conditioned to the fact that sex will be paramount in their lives. The boy rapes the girl when and where he can, the girl expects it, even solicits it by her conduct in the shadows of an alley or a doorway.
Physicians have been asked to treat boys who had been sexually abused by other boys to the point of fainting. They prescribe medicines for girls who have been repeatedly raped by wandering gangs of boys aged twelve to fifteen. Vaginitis and vulvitis are common complaints of the young girls of North Africa and Arabia.
The land Tamar knows is shocked by these happenings. They are an everyday way of life. Even in the homes of the wealthy, servant-girls are kept whose duty it is to initiate young men into the delights of nayk, that word for the coital union which is peculiarly Arabic. The fact that these women also initiate their female charges into the lesbic enjoyment of giradzeh is apparently beside the point. Or maybe it’s because a female doesn’t amount to much in their world.
I was being given the full treatment, a cram course in carnal relations, a lifetime of lewdity shoved into seven days. What the Arab street woman knows by the time she is fifteen, I was to learn in a week. And the organization that owned me made certain that I was an apt pupil. Like it or not, I absorbed what they wanted me to know.
I had one thing going for me. They had not broken my will, as the imsak would have done, had Selim continued his injections. I owed Tamar a lot for that, as well as for the daily lavings with which she washed away my soreness. I actually came to look forward to her visits.
One morning she entered, followed by a beardless boy carrying five suitcases. I recognized my Wing luggage at once, and sat up. Tamar laughed when I asked how she had come by it.
“It was no problem. We employ thieves in our organization, you know. It was a simple matter for one of them employed as a porter by the Hotel Mamounia, which knows nothing of it, of course—to slip your things onto a dolly, put it in a taxi and hand the taxi driver a dinhar to deliver it here.”
I needed no invitation to open the bags, to make sure everything was safely inside. The organization had even returned my charm bracelet and initial ring. I slid them out of the paper that held them, slipped them up my wrist and on my finger.
“But why?” I asked the woman. “Surely you aren’t including my wardrobe in my sale?”
“Oh, yes. Many sheikhs might like to pretend you are a proud Inglisi woman, such a woman as they see passing them by on the streets of Cairo or Damascus. They do not dare kidnap the woman, but they can imagine that you have been kidnapped, that you are helpless to prevent their enjoyment of your white skin and golden keuss.”
Great for games, these Arabs. I got dressed in front of Tamar and the boy. Tamar was intensely interested in my Cantrece nylons, in the garter-belt that held them up, in the Accentuette bra that contained my breasts. I paraded around the room for her in my high-heeled shoes, so that she could study my figure in the underwear.
The boy was staring, too, his mouth a little open. Since he was wearing only a white linen ghendureh that came to the middle of his thighs, his boyish excitement was very apparent. Tamar laughed throatily at sight of it.
“Mustafa is my own little slave,” she laughed, putting a bare arm about the boy and drawing him to her. “He will be busy tonight keeping me happy, because I shall be so sad at seeing you leave.”
“Then the flight to Beirut is scheduled for today?”
“You leave within the hour.”
Tamar sighed and let her eyes go from my shoes to my brassiere. “I shall miss you, my golden girl. Very much. So much that if Mustafa does not make me forget you, I will take the lash to his back.”
The boy grinned impudently. He was a handsome youth, perhaps fourteen years of age, and a little taller than his mistress. He was as much a man as any of those who had come to my cot during the past week, I noticed.
Tamar saw me staring at him. “I should have brought him sooner. I am teaching him to be a great lover. I feed him milk and eggs every day. You would have liked Mustafa.” She glanced at me. “We do not have the time for you to enjoy him now. Just look. Maybe it will keep you excited all the way to Lebanon.”
Her hand raised his ghendurah to his bellybutton. I gulped and the boy laughed.
Tamar said, “I chose him myself. Every morning I rub powdered herbs onto his zubb so that he walks around all day in perpetual excitement. In the evening when he comes to me, he is like a wild beast.”
“Yeah, hey,” I nodded. “I see what you mean.”
Tamar dropped the ghendureh, laughing softly when her hand had to pull it far forward so as to hide him. She said, “Mustafa is a good boy. Someday I shall sell him to a rich widow for many dinhars. Then I shall find myself another boy and train him.”
I think Mustafa was sorry that Tamar had not brought him to meet me sooner. I gathered from the way his wide eyes ran all over me that he had never seen a blonde woman before.
I slipped into a multi-stripe silk shirt-dress, picked up a purse and gloves, and was ready for the fight to Beirut. I began to feel the first prickles of worry running up and down my spine. The waiting is always the worst, they say. It was for me, because I was going off into unknown country, I would be among strangers. I was going to be sold as a white slave to some Arabian shaykh.
I walked up and down, nervously. Behind me, I heard Mustafa gasp and moan, as Tamar giggled. I did not turn around. The sight of what was happening might have unnerved me further. This white slaver room had become like home to me in the past week, despite all the sexual attention I’d been getting. I was an anchor of sorts to which I clung, and did not want to let go.
All things come to an end. So did my wait. A big man in a loose white jellaba appeared in the doorway. He grinned at Tamar and Mustafa where they stood so close together, he ran his glance over me, then walked to my luggage and picked up my bags.
Tamar ran to me, hugged and kissed me.
Mustafa grinned and made a forward movement with his hips. His eyes were very bright and there was a flush on his beardless cheeks. He was a very wise child, he knew Tamar could not see him while she was hugging me.
Then I turned and marched for the door. I swung back, half in and half out of the doorway, for one last glance at the room. Tamar had the boy bent back, her hand was under the hem of his ghendureh and was moving steadily. I sighed. I would have liked to have joined them in their play.
Instead I turned and started on my trip to Lebanon.
The Marrakesh airport is located a few miles west of the city proper. The big, enclosed car that swept three other girls and myself along Route P 10 at a dizzy speed was big and powerful. The driver was armed, so was the man beside him. Not that he expected trouble from us girls. We were all under the influence of dope, or supposed to be. I was the sole exception to the rule.
The car braked. The door opened and we got out, one after the other. In the car I had the chance to study my traveling companions. One was a dark Greek girl with glossy black hair done up under a flat cap, the hotos, from which her haik, or veil, hung so as to hide her face. Her eyes were glassy, I noticed. There was a Spanish girl, also wearing oriental clothes, dark-skinned and with black hair. The third girl was an Italian. Her hair was brown and her figure was even more developed than that of the Greek or the Spaniard.
The plane toward which we were being herded had been a twin-engine bomber in its original state. The white slave crowd had converted it into a cargo plane, with a human cargo in mind.
The interior was sound-proofed, and resembled a sitting room at any hotel. Twin sofas, three chair, a small bar, cushions here and there on the floor, indirect lighting: it had the works. I theorized that it was used by the bosses from time to time, maybe even to hold an orgy or two.
I sank my hundred-odd pounds into a comfortable chair and stretched my legs out. I knew the flight would take about ten hours and I wanted to be at ease while we were air-borne.
The man who had been sitting beside the driver of the car was to accompany us. He shucked out of his coat, tossing it on a cushion. Then he went behind the small bar and poured himself a drink. With my eyes half-closed, pretending to be in a doped trance, I studied him. He was not tall, nor especially strong, but he was wiry and lithe. While I felt I could take him in a judo match, I figured, What the hell!
My original destination was Beirut. I was being taken to Beirut. I fingered my heavy gold initial ring and grinned to myself. One press of the fingers and the man sipping his martini on the rocks would be dead.
The plane revved its engines to a deafening roar. The Greek girl began to sob, sitting very straight on the edge of the sofa. The imsak was wearing off, and she was coming around to normal.
Shorty-pants cursed in Arabic, he came around the end of the bar and walked up to the girl. He bent and slapped her face, knocking her back into the sofa where she sprawled limply.
“Keep quiet, you slut!” He punctuated his sentence with a slap, then snarled, “Understand? Comprenez? No more noise.”
The Spanish girl stirred lazily and opened her eyes. “She is frightened of the plane. She has never flown before.”
The little guy whirled. “Ah, an aviatrix,” he leered, moving toward her. His hands were poised to slap her, too. I got the feeling he liked the girls to make a little trouble for him, that he enjoyed knocking them about. Maybe it gave him a feeling of power that was a compensation for his shortness.
“Why stir up trouble?” I asked softly.
He turned on me. I assumed that since the other girls were snapping out of it, it would be safe for me to pretend the drug no longer bothered me. However, my think tank told me that Shorty-pants probably knew what he was doing. The girls might be conscious but their physical responses to stimuli were so slowed, they were unable to defend themselves.
I could defend myself. I am a wearer of the red and white Sixth Dan belt in judo, which is a rank higher than a black belt. I would be able to make mincemeat of this bantam bastard.
The only trouble was, I didn’t dare. I might give away the game. I didn’t want the white slavers getting suspicious of the only blonde doll in their cargo of cuties. So I couldn’t use physical prowess on Shorty-pants. I had to resort to other ways and means.
There is a legend in many countries (in those, at least, where people believe in the Devil), that if a woman is visited by Satan, she can frighten him away by lifting her skirts and showing him her privacy. Me, I don’t believe in legends. But I figured I might as well try it on for size. Bantam-boy looked pretty devilish to me at the moment.
So I sank back in the chair, lifting my stockinged legs as if to ward him off and spreading them apart. I whimpered, “Please, master!”
He stood rigid, staring between the white inner thighs that formed a wedge pointing at my golden puff. So long accustomed to seeing the women he guarded robed in shrouding kaftans, the sight of a mini-skirted westerner really hit him where it counted. His anger dissipated before a more compelling emotion, but it was an emotion he could do nothing about.
We girls were not for the likes of him. All he could do was look and suffer.
He licked his lips, he ran his eyes up and down my shapely gams and settled on my yellow fur. He rocked a little and made a gurgling sound. These Arab lads have the reaction speed of nitroglycerin.
My leg and belly muscles were getting tired, holding the pose. I lowered them, slowly. Shorty-pants took a deep breath and staggered toward the bar where he made himself another martini. Double.
The Greek girl was smiling at me. So were the others. In halting French, the Spaniard murmured, “Thank you. He was going to hit me. You saved me.”
“Forget it, honey.”
All this had happened while the plane was trundling along toward its take-off strip. Now that she was angled for the runway she began gathering speed. The old Martin bomber began to shiver and shake, and the Greek girl whimpered, hiding her face in her hands. We had no seat belts, I guess maybe they figured if we were thrown out of the chairs or off the sofa we would land on the cushions. So I waited until the plane lurched and began its climb into the sky before I slid out of my chair and moved to sit beside the Greek.
“What’s your name? Votre nom?” She stopped shaking long enough to say, “Titsa.”
“How’s that again?” Titsa giggled, “It’s a Greek name, very honorable. In the American, it becomes sexy, no? My whole name is Titsa Macropolis.”
“My, yes,” I smiled. “And does the name fit?”
She wrinkled her plucked black eyebrows over that, before her face cleared and she laughed. “Oh! I understand. Well! You shall be the judge.”
Her glossy black hair tumbled about her cheeks as she bent her head and began fumbling at the buttons of her kaftan. She opened it to reveal a plain blouse which she also unbuttoned.
Titsa spread her blouse and kaftan. Her globes were big and dusky, tipped with huge purple aureola. They trembled slightly as the plane vibrated to its climb. I glanced at Bantam-boy where he stood beside the bar, staring with bulging eyes. I told myself he would never forget this ride.
“Walk around, honey,” I whispered. “Aim those bombs at tough stuff. Let him sweat a little.”
Titsa caught on. With a faint smile she lurched to her feet and stood with her teats stuck out of the folded blouse and kaftan, giving the Spaniard and the Italian a good view. Then she started to parade around the little cabin until she was right in front of Shorty-pants.
Arms at her sides, she began to quiver. It was not a shimmy, it was slower than that, it was a faint trembling that sent those ample breasts into orbit. Up and down they jounced, sliding back and forth between times. They were jelly, they were molten milk, they were set on springs. Bounce, bobble, bobble, bounce. And the little tough guy was ready to climb a wall. He was sweating, he was wild with excitement, he was a time-bomb ticking off the minutes.
Much as he hated to do it, he turned back to the bar, hunched his shoulders and stared down into his martini. Titsa laughed softly and ran a fingertip down his spine. He shuddered.
The plane leveled off and began its run over Meknes, Fez, the Cape des Trois Fourches and the Mediterranean Sea. The motors hummed steadily, making a droning noise inside the cabin.
Titsa came over and sank down beside me. Her face was flushed, she was excited. She had forgotten all about her fear. She glanced up from her stiffened nipples as the Spanish girl spoke to her.
“My name is Josefa Bahamonde. We will probably never seen one another after this trip. So let us enjoy ourselves.”
She stood up and began unbuttoning her kaftan.
The Italian girl smiled lazily. “I’m Caterina Gallina. I think what you say is a good idea. I think we should tease that bastard Arab until he wets his pants.”
She looked at me. I nodded and said, “I’m with you, girls. This trip’s going to take about ten hours. We ought to be able to get in a few licks in that time.”
Josefa was pushing her garments down to the floor, lifting a shapely white leg to step out of them. She had a real good body, with ample hips and breasts like gourds. She stood naked and ran her palms up and down her body, slowly.
“Hey, tough man,” she called.
The little man turned. His eyes went wide at sight of her nudity and then they began to bulge. His eyes weren’t the only things bulging on him. He made a choking sound in his throat.
“You can’t do that!” he shouted. “You’re supposed to behave yourselves! Get dressed. Put your clothes back on!”
Josefa hooted. Caterina was lifting her kaftan off over her shoulders, together with her blouse. All she wore now were thin selwar trousers. Extending her slim bare arms out as far as they would go, she began a wicked shimmy.
Bantam-boy gurgled and took three steps from the bar, arms and hands stretched out as if to beat these roguish rebels into some semblance of obedience. The fourth step found his legs tangled up with an ankle that Titsa extended. He went down on his hands and knees.
Josefa and Caterina hurled themselves on his back. They tried to reach his arms to hold him helpless, but the little man was strong and mean. He put an elbow in the Spaniard’s belly and was turning to slap Caterina when I dove.
My hand chopped down against the back of his neck in a karate blow. I hit him with the edge of the hand; I did not hit him hard, just enough to stun. As he collapsed, Titsa came off the couch to catch him.
“Give me a hand,” she panted. “Let’s tie him down on the bar, then gag him. Eve, Caterina, Josefa—help me!”
We got him to his feet, dragged him to the bar and managed to get him up onto it. We extended his legs out straight. Caterina slipped out of her harem trousers and used them to fasten his ankles together. She ran one silken leg under the edge of the bar, the other over it, then knotted them together.
We dragged his arms down on either side of the bar, using Josefa’s selwar to tie one wrist to the brass rail and the other wrist to a beer-tap. Banty-boy was absolutely helpless.
Josefa began undoing his clothes while Titsa slipped out of her own garments. Within seconds, the little man was stark naked and absolutely helpless on the bar-top. Josefa slapped his bare belly with the palm of her hand and said what I assumed was a naughty word in Greek.
Titsa bent over, pushing down her selwar. Her black eyes gleamed up at me gleefully. “What about you? Aren’t you going to join us?”
I started to lift my mini-skirt but other hands were there ahead of me. Josefa on one side and Caterina on the other lifted it up, baring the Drum stockinged legs and thighs and garter-belted middle. Then the mini-skirted skirt-dress was gone and I was right out there in the cabin air in a matching Accentuette bra and garter-belt, with Cantreece stockings of spun black nylon.
“Oooooh,” said Josefa.
“Mmmmmm,” murmured Titsa.
“Wheee,” giggled Caterina. “Show tough boy.”
I got on the bar and stood with my legs apart. Caterina filled a glass with water and dribbled it slowly down his face. Bantam boy opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling, or where the ceiling might have been if I hadn’t been standing in between. I let my hips revolve slowly.
Tough Stuff gurgled deep in his throat. His face went a royal scarlet, the veins standing out in his throat and forehead. He realized after a moment that he had been stripped and tied down on the bar. He looked from me to the other girls, and his flesh reacted.
Josefa clapped her hands at sight of his manhood. “He will be a lot of fun,” she cried. “We will tease him until he bursts a blood vessel—or this.”
She flicked him with a fingertip.
“The Chinese used to have a special kind of torture,” I found myself saying. “Octave Mirabeau wrote about it. It’s the death of a thousand caresses. Why not go oriental, girls?”
“Magnificent!” cried Titsa.
Caterina ran a soft palm up the little man’s thigh and paused to tickle him. The Arab opened his mouth to scream for help but Josefa was there with a torn strip off her blouse to ram it between his lips. There was a ripping sound where Titsa was tearing off a length of her kaftan. With it she tied the gag down tight in his mouth.
I bent my legs, I squatted down to give Bantam-boy a better look. He could have closed his eyes, I guess, but he kept them open while Caterina and Josefa and Titsa began stroking his naked zubb with their fingernails, scratching lightly, then caressing with their soft palms and fingertips.
He was moaning deep in his throat, his body trembling.
The play went on until Caterina cried out sharply. “No more! No More!” The girls stepped back away from the table, leaving the tough guy weeping with frustration, as big tears rolled down his cheeks and his body arched and quivered in the pleasure which had become acute agony.
Josefa put up her hand. I caught it and stepped down of the bar. I said, “Let him relax, girls. I’ll mix us a few drinks in the meantime.”
I played bartender, whipping up four martinis on the rocks. I had no way of knowing the capacities of my companions, but I figured I’d start things of right. I handed the martinis out with a cautioning word that they should sip them and not play Chug-a-lug.
Tough Stuff was struggling to free himself all this while, but he was getting nowhere. Nor was he crying any more. His face looked grim, fierce with the desire to escape this pleasure-pain routine. A vein throbbed steadily in his temple as if a miniature snake were trying to get free.
I leaned an elbow on the bar and said confidentially, “You know, you’re really pretty lucky, fella. We could try out the Chinese kittee on you—by putting the bar lemon-squeezer to your fingers or toes or even to your genitals. I doubt that you’d want us to choose kittee for a nasty bastard such as you.”
I took a sip from the martini. “Or we could use the mazzatello which—”
Caterina yelped delightedly. “I know that one. You hit a man over the head with a mallet and—skkkttt—you slice his throat open!” Her finger ran past her pretty neck and she laughed.
“In old China,” I went on conversationally, “women were hired to jerk a man to death. What begins so pleasantly, ends up in awful pain, I am told.”
Bantam-boy was sweating profusely by this time.
Titsa shivered and rubbed her hardened breasts against my arm. Her nipples were so stiff they almost scratched. She ran her soft palm down my back and fondled my buttocks while moving her groin against my thigh. I saw Bantam-boy look at her and then at me, in something akin to horror.
Josefa saw the look and shouted, “Go on, Titsa. Put on a show for our jailer. I’ll make sure he watches.”
I said, “Now wait, girls! Let’s not go overboard with—”
Titsa was kissing my throat while Josefa undid the clasps of my brassiere. As soon as she pushed it down, the Greek girl was nibbling on my nipples. I was too weak to fight her lips, so I just gave a little moan and sank down to the floor.
“Hey, he can’t see you down there,” Caterina shouted. “You’ve got to stand up. Or go over to the sofa.”
Her hands held his head so that his cheek was flat against the top of the bar. The sight of all our female nudity would have been enough by itself to arouse him, and when he saw Titsa crouched over me kissing my breasts, while Josefa knelt between my thighs which her hands held open and began the lisaun-fee-gubb, he came damn near dying.
Tough Guy moaned. Caterina gurgled laughter, crying out, “Oh, girls—you’re better than a shot of imsak! Is he ever—wow!”
I heard a steady moaning from the bar. I glanced over and saw Caterina holding his face flat on the bar-top facing us while with her other hand she was slapping him in an extremely sensitive part of his anatomy.
This was when the knock sounded on the cabin door.