The Moroccan was standing at the foot of the bed, and his tongue was moistening his lips as he looked down on her golden body with its two forests of golden hair and two mountains with pink-capped peaks. A little trickle of saliva escaped his lips and ran down his chin. He wiped at it with a giant hand, not taking his eyes off the vision of beauty.
"Come on, Le Boeuf," said Gerault. "It's time for you to open this lovely package!" She rolled her head on the pillow to look at the smaller man. He was grinning in anticipation at whatever was to follow. The Moroccan was naked to the waist when she looked back at him. He was fumbling with his trousers, then they fell down, taking with them the man's undershorts, if he had been wearing any. For she saw with horror the hugeness and the grandeur of the man as God had made him. She gasped in awe and fright.
From the dark loins, where a heavy forest of hair was curled, sprouted a fleshy appendage of mammoth proportions. She imagined that brutal assault weapon at her vulnerable vagina and grew faint. She had known pain when using a single finger to gratify her own desires, and this was as big around as four fingers, and God knew how long!
"You can't! My God! It'll kill me! I'm a virgin; you know that."
Gerault laughed so hard that he bent over almost double.
"Show her, Yvette," he said, when he caught his breath. Darla hadn't noticed the girl entering the room. Now she saw her standing in the doorway, carrying an instant-copy camera by its strap.
Yvette strolled calmly over to the foot of the bed where Darla could see easily. Then she lifted a leg and placed it so that the spiked heel of her shoe was against the upper rail of the iron bedstead. Still lugging the camera, she used the other hand to lift her skirt high, and Darla could see that the girl wore nothing under it. The stretched thigh pulled at the surrounding tissue, and the heavy lips of the girl's vulva were wide open, showing the parted inner cleft and the vaginal opening. "Go ahead, Le Boeuf," Gerault commanded. The Moroccan moved pivoting on one foot, and laid the heavy, purple heed of his weapon against the wet meat of the girl's opening. He shoved slowly, and Darla watched in horrified fascination as the gigantic rod was engulfed by the previously normal-appearing opening. But as the shaft moved in deeper, Yvette grunted audibly, and her eyes grew large. Her tongue slipped out to moisten suddenly dry lips.
Darla could tell that this girl, who obviously had been stretched before by the same weapon – she had shown no fright when faced with it – yet was affected by its size. If anything, the demonstration had served to add to Darla's fear and horror.
Oh, God! I wanted a cock in me, but not one like that! I think I'd rather stay a virgin forever! She tried to shrink back into the bed, praying for it to swallow her up smother her to death. Anything would be preferable to what threatened her now.
Then the Moroccan was kneeling on the bed between her legs. His weapon looked even bigger, now, as it neared her. I wanted to take a cock into my mouth, too. But that would make a meal for a lion! Gerault had pulled the pillow from under her head, and now he forced it under her hips, doubled, making them thrust upward toward the black invader that was poised over her belly.
She was vaguely aware of Yvette moving nearer, aiming the camera at the bed, then clicking the shutter. Thank God! Maybe they only need the horror of a shot like this to shock Daddy Chuck into changing his mind. But she knew, even as the thought came, that she wasn't to get off that easily.
The tip of the hard shaft was lying in the cleft of her moist canyon, and the black face hovered over her own as the Moroccan leaned down to speak to her.
"I tell you this to help you, Mademoiselle Darla. It will not be as difficult for you if you try to want me. Try to wish this thing inside of you. Your body will not fight it as much, and you will have less damage. Understand?" He looked into her eyes, and she could tell that he was not in favor of causing her pain. His brown eyes seemed to reflect a pain of his own.
"Oui, je comprend. Merci." She acknowledged with thanks. Perhaps he could lessen the pain. Then it began. Oh, God! How it began!
It felt as though she was being torn asunder in a hundred different directions. They could have achieved the same feeling with a hand grenade, she imagined. Then she realized she was fighting it, and tried to reverse her muscles. It was impossible. To get to the point where she could will the damned thing to be inside her, she would first have to relax. My God, I can't relax when I'm being torn apart!
Then the black hands were on her breasts, caressing them, kneading the nipples to full erection, gently massaging their sponginess between the dark fingers. She felt herself tingling, becoming impassioned in spite of the pain, and then his hands were squeezing both nipples firmly, and she started to moan her involvement.
The burning sensation just inside the entrance to her tender passage had not increased, but it was a constant reminder of the camel which was straining to get through the eye of the needle. She gasped her need for air, and gulped some into her lungs. Then the kneading hands were replaced by the moistness of a hot mouth, and she felt nipple, aureole, and a large part of the firm mound itself being drawn into the hungry mouth.
She gasped at the sensation, and her throat opened to moan her surprised delight. Then she felt the ripping-tearing-spreading pain of the fleshy instrument which bore into her tender depths.
It's tearing my cunt apart! It's plunging right into my guts like a giant knife. She almost couldn't bear the pain, but as she started to pass out, she felt the delicious sensation of his massaging lips and tongue on her breasts, and she tarried just a second to savor the feeling. Then the pain in her depths lessened, and she thought she might be able to stand it.
Until the pulsing started. The head of the big shaft was now pressing snugly against her innermost defenses, and when it swelled within her, stretching the tender passage in throbbing pulses, she thought she was going to be sick. The hurtful spasms brought her to the borderline of extreme nausea several times, and then it began to feel almost good.
Her body was moving without her willing it to motion; the suction of the hungry mouth on her breast and the pressure of the black padded pelvis against her hard, wet bud carried her past the pain of the gross invader's violation. Her hips thrust upward, and she could feel the rope tension on her ankles as her heels sank into the bed. The Moroccan began to stroke into her depths, pulling the now slippery shaft almost out of its fleshy scabbard, then sinking it again to the hilt. Darla could feel the hairy luggage of the invader as it slapped with a wet smack against her buttocks and crotch. The tingling tremors which were running through her body carried her back once more to the night by the swimming pool, and her passion tripped the memory banks as the black flesh plunged into her.
"Fuck me deep, Daddy! Stick it in hard! My cunt's starved!" She heard her own voice with surprise, and it shocked her, but the intensity of her feelings was so great she couldn't control herself. As it became even more intense, she heard herself cry out again.
"Squirt it in me! Now! Ohhhh!" Then the roller coaster took her up, up, clear to the top of an unbelievable peak, and as she started to fall, she felt the pumping, squirting streams of warm liquid splash into the tender walls of her being.
She fell a long way, and then floated softly in a fuzzy cloud. When she opened her eyes, the Moroccan was leaning back from her, and the black flesh of his rod was retreating from her passage. As it came all the way out, she watched the purplish head appear, trailing strings of white, sticky semen behind it.
The side of the dark sword were streaked with blood, and she knew why as the burning sensation returned to her torn tissues. Her breathing was a labored panting, and it seemed as if she'd never get enough air. She gasped deeply, and felt her lungs start to fill normally again.
The dark lance was bent, curving downward in a tired arc, the purple head resting on the sheet in a little pool of liquid white that gleamed in the morning sun which came in the barred window.
"Yvette! Make Le Boeuf ready again!" Gerault commanded.
The brunette had been doing something at the dresser. When she moved away from it, Darla could see several curved photos lying on top of the dirty wood. The girl came over to the bed and kneeled on the edge, then leaned over Darla's thigh and placed her mouth on the black shaft. With a sideways movement of her head, she stroked the dark length, using lips and tongue, until the dormant rod began to stir slightly.
When the purplish-red head lifted off the sheet, Yvette took it into her mouth and began to rotate her head, working the fleshy tip between her teeth, then snaking out her tongue to lash around the coronal ridge, first clockwise, then counterclockwise. Darla, hearing the wet sounds as Yvette sucked in the remnants of semen, felt truly nauseous. Then the tongue slipped down and stroked the side of the shaft again, cleaning off the streaks of white and red from the dark skin.
Darla fought to keep from getting sick. She knew she would get herself covered with it, and have to lie in it. She forced herself to think of other things, but then she saw the great shaft swell into its former size and hardness, and Yvette gave it a last sucking tug, then slid off the bed.
Le Boeuf leaned over her, and the big meaty stick lay snugly in the canyon formed by her swollen lips. His mouth again sought her breasts, and soon she was inescapably caught up in her passion once more. He was moving the hardness slowly against her excitable surfaces while his hands and mouth worked at her breasts.
She began to moan and move under him, as the burning sensation was gradually dwarfed by the mounting feelings from within. Then both hands were on her breasts, and the Moroccan's mouth was pressed to hers.
As her lips opened to gasp, his tongue entered and plunged around inside, teasing her lips and toying with her tongue, until she could not remain passive. Her pink tongue pushed out to fence with his, and he drank deeply of her warm, sweet juices, then sucked her hot tongue until she shivered in ecstasy.
He leaned away from her, and then the head of his lance was at the opening of her torn passage. He thrust it inside slowly, until it filled her chokingly. Then he resumed the long, heavy strokes that drove her wild. His mouth moved over to her shoulder, where he nibbled and sucked at the tender flesh.
There was a sinking of the bed near her head, and she peered from passion-swollen eyes to see Gerault kneeling by her face. He was as naked as Le Boeuf, and he held his own pallid member in his hand. She watched as the blood-engorged head of the white tool came toward her, then it was against her lips.
"Take this! You watched Yvette. Now do the same!" He pressed the meaty head between her lips before she could turn away from it. Then it was in her mouth!
She almost gagged, but the things Le Boeuf was doing to her had her in a passionate trance, and she closed her lips over the hardsoft thing and soon found herself tonguing it in a rotation which drew groans from Gerault's throat.
He pushed the shaft further into her mouth, until it touched the back of her throat, then yelled to Yvette.
"Cut the ropes, Yvette! Quick!" In a few moments, Darla felt her ankles and wrists freed, but instead of struggling, she was amazed to find that her legs were wrapping around the Moroccan, and that she had grasped Gerault's shaft with one hand, and was using the other to massage his soft bag.
Then the movements grew swifter, as the dark invader below and the white one above plunged into her deeply. She was thankful for the free hand which encircled Gerault's tool, keeping it from choking her completely. Then she trembled throughout her body, and her hips arched upward, thrusting against the Moroccans drive, and clinging around him with frantic leg tensions.
Her mouth began to move on the flesh it held, stroking it in hungry grabs. As she felt herself soaring upward in uncontrollable agony mixed with ecstasy, she felt the throbbing pulsations of the meaty mouthful, and Gerault's grunting sounds marked time with the spurts of his seed against her throat. She swallowed heavily, and managed not to choke.
Then the Moroccan was moaning and humming his release, and the pumping of his spurting liquid inside her passage marked the end of her climb. She fell suddenly into utter darkness.
As she recalled the degradation of the Thursday morning orgy, she felt more violated than she had when it occurred. She could still feet the sticky strings of semen on her cheek, as though she hod just now awakened from the faint which followed the assault.
That had been only yesterday. And most of that afternoon and all of last night, she had slept, exhaustedly. Her young body was mending itself, she knew. But the lack of food since that shocking extent, and the shame she felt as she thought about those photos being seen by her family, made her feel sick all offer.
She jerked to chase away the flies, again. Then the door opened and Gerault and Yvette entered. They removed the gag from her mouth and gypsy-type addressed her.
"You are going to join your family. If you promise to be quiet and cooperate, we will not replace this handkerchief in your mouth. Do you promise to do as you are told?"
Darla's mouth was too dry to speak, but she nodded. Yvette brought her a drink of water from the bathroom, and she held the first sip in her mouth a moment, then swallowed painfully. Soon she was gulping down the entire glassful.
They untied the ropes, and helped her up. She moved slowly to the bathroom on wobbly legs, leaning on Yvette's arm all the way. After relieving herself, she tried to clean up a little. There was no washcloth, but she did the best she could. There was a bidet in the room, and she managed to douche herself satisfactorily, though the clear water burned in numerous areas, as the protecting film of lubricant was rinsed away.
They blindfolded her, and led her off. She was helped into a car, and heard the doors close. Then they were moving. The trip seemed endless. Finally, she began to get frightened. Were they really taking her somewhere to kill her?
"Where are we going? We've traveled long enough to drive clear across Marseilles several times." There was a sob in her voice. She put her hands over her face, out of habit, as she started to cry under the blindfold.
"Do not worry, little cabbage. Your family is no longer at the hotel where you left them. We are going to a different place, and you will see them soon."
As one part of her mind absorbed this consolation, another part worked on his phrasing. The term petite chou had seemed ridiculous and alien in French literature. But these people actually did use the term. Little cabbage! She felt more like a used piece of meat!
She knew that Gerault sat on her left, and even if occasional bumps in the bad road had not thrown her arm against Yvette's breast, Darla would have known the brunette sat on her right, if only from the odor. This woman was a living example of the legend about the French use of perfume as a substitute for bathing. Yet, it wasn't all legend, she knew. In the days when bathing was considered detrimental to the health, even by the medical profession, scents were developed to mask the strong body odors. But there was no excuse for it in the twentieth century!
She realized with a little thrill that when her hands had been pressed to her face, part of her blindfold had been shifted, and a small slit of light was in her eyes. She hoped it hadn't been noticed. Stealthily, she moved her head about, pretending to relieve a stiff neck, adding to the effect by massaging it with her hands as she turned it.
Suddenly she caught a glimpse of a road sign ahead. She tried to memorize what she had seen, but they passed it very quickly. Her mind worked at it, trying to be sure what she had seen. Was it Salon 65 kilometers, Aix 32 kilometers? Or what was the other name and figure? St. Martin something? She didn't know. Maybe the little bit she thought she had seen might be of value later.
She tried to get an occasional glimpse of the scenery, looking for usable landmarks, thanking her special Providence that the thin material was coarsely woven, enabling her to distinguish quite a bit through its screening.
She could see that Le Boeuf, at the wheel, wore a chauffeur's cap, and that a heavy tint in the door glasses probably prevented anyone outside seeing into the car very well. It seamed to be an old vehicle, but rather well cared for. It was some kind of limousine, because there was a partition between the front and back, although the glass had been rolled almost completely down.
Then she began to see people on bicycles, and an occasional car coming from the opposite direction. Suddenly they were in a small town; she saw something which almost made her gasp. She stopped her reaction just before they would have heard her sharp intake of breath.
There before her, definitely recognizable from a photograph in Daddy Chuck's wartime album, was a building which had been called, in 1945, Hall of States. She could remember the signs from the photo; signs which ran around the upper part of the lower-floor facade, each with the name of a state. It had been a sort of service club for troops in the area.
Her heart pounded with the recognition. She had figured out that if she were blindfolded, it had to be because of some advantage she would acquire by knowing the route they took. So she had made some headway without their knowing it.
The big car took off on an oblique angle, down a street which soon became another semi-improved road. They rode for several miles before the car slowed, then turned up a lane between long hedgerows, and approached a big stone farmhouse. They stopped in front of the large door, and Le Boeuf got out and opened the back door of the car. Gerault got out, and reached inside, taking Darla's hand to guide her out.
Soon they were inside the building, and when the door closed, Darla's blindfold was removed. She made a great fuss over blinking and rubbing around her eyes, elaborating on her deception.
Then she was taken to a door at the back of the house, and as it opened, she saw steps leading down into a cellar. Gerault went ahead of her, and Le Boeuf followed behind, as they descended the wooden stairs. Gerault stopped at the bottom, and turned on a switch. As the place filled with light, Darla's breath caught in a gasping sob. The walls of the cellar were of the same heavy stone as the rest of the farmhouse. Arid along two wells of the dismal, dungeon are place, shackles were fastened to the stones with huge iron rings. She saw the three figures shackled to the cruel chains, and cried heartbrokenly as she ran toward them.
"Daddy Chuck!" she sobbed, throwing her arms about the nearest prisoner. She looked up into his face, and his eyes were fun of his mental agony. His face had a beaten look.
She left him in confusion and ran to her mother, who was chained on the adjoining wall, hugging the limply hanging body, which came tensely alive under her daughter's embrace. The two sobbed in unison at their plight, then Darla reached over and squeezed Tommy's hand above its manacled wrist, right next to Ann's position on the wall.
Darla whirled to their captors with the fire of anger in her blue eyes. She almost spit out her words at them.
"What do you madmen think you're doing! You'll never get any money this way!" She was so full of her hate that she couldn't say another word, but just stood there, seething. She didn't even realize that she had spoken to them in English, until Gerault answered.
"You have been treated with more gentleness than we ordinarily use, because you have spoken to us in the language of our country. Now, it seems, you have reverted to the Ugly American, which makes it easier for us to proceed with out next move."
"You see, your greedy father would not part with money, even after he saw the pictures of your little adventure. Now, we shall at least have some entertainment for our troubles. Le Boeuf! Chain her!" She felt the huge hands as they grasped her wrists, and she was taken to the wall and shackled next to her father. Then their captors went up the steps, turning out the light, and left them alone to their misery.