David Shaw - Snakepit

"Come on, more champagne all round before we unveil the senior lady in all her beauty," Ravi sneered. "Drink up, ladies, for the clock is already running. Failure to comply would be jolly bad news all round for all of you."

Each of the four women left in the pool found themselves being touched on the head and shoulders by different hands as they were given refilled glasses. Amanda Priller accepted hers as numbly as if she was at some party instead of involved in this madness. Even when the hands which had touched her began to gently rub the lobes of her ears she still sipped from the glass as if her entire universe hadn't suddenly turned inside out. She ignored the fingers gently rolling her flesh between them, but gaped at the sight of both of Ravi's brown hands stroking Carol's breasts again, the woman's blonde hair hanging down as she lowered her head from the watchers. Or perhaps it was in anticipation of the popping flashbulb which suddenly went off above Mr Manji's camera. Yet even Carol's humiliation at the Prince's hands wasn't enough to stop all the women's eyes turning towards a large blackboard being set up on an easel beside the table.

Finely lettered words had been meticulously painted in white on the board. The top line read: "RUNNERS AND RIDERS FOR THE GAZEPORE FILLIES FORNICATION STAKES". Underneath those words was a grid of painted white lines. On top of the left column was the single word, "MOUNTS": underneath it one of the officers had already begun chalking in Carol's name in full: "Mrs Carol Carnac-Smyth". To the right of that column were more columns, four of them, each column with the word "RIDERS" above it. Each still blank but waiting to be filled in. It was past comprehension that these Indians thought they could do such a thing to white women. Yet they seemed quite without qualms as they continued their preparations. Ravi was laughing, now cupping Carol's tits in the palms of his hands and whispering something in her ear which made her lift her flushed face up for all the audience to see.

"Every glass empty now?" The prince asked. "OK, gentleman, please do the honors."

The men on either side of Carol reached out and tugged at the top of her sari, loosening the knot between the pale skinned white mounds that Ravi was fondling so avidly. The material wrapped around her body came loose and slipped down as another flashbulb popped. Camilla Hartley-Dexter heard the men stroking her arms and shoulders gasp with excitement: the fingers rubbing her ears squeezed harder. Up above there was a jabber of excitement like a monkey taunting an enemy from the treetops as the boy on the rafter saw Carol's naked figure – a figure well worthy of the attention it was getting.

Like her friends, Carol rode miles every day, swam in the club pool most days and played tennis or hockey at least three times a week. It was an article of faith in Anglo-Indian society that the surest way to stay healthy in the tropics was through sport, and in a society where all menial work was done by servants the opportunities for sport were many. So, though in her early thirties and a mother, she still had an excellent figure. Rather taller than the average, wide hipped, and well breasted, but with only a few extra pounds to show for her age, and those distributed to good advantage.

She was by any standards a good looking if not a beautiful woman, with a body which any man would want to possess, and all the lustful male eyes in the Moorghi-Khana were taking in her large red nipples and the wet curls of the patch of straw colored hair visible between her legs.

The incongruity of the well tanned arms and bleached hair against the milky whiteness of her soft curves would have seemed strange only to those not bred in one climate and grown accustomed to living in another. But most of the officers inside the hut were in exactly that category and their first sight of a naked European woman bought forth comments of appreciation, many of them in perfect English and clearly audible.

"By Jove, that Carnac-Smyth woman is looking like a jolly good fuck, Musad, old boy," Amanda Priller heard one of the Kultooni officers standing behind her say with glee in his voice. Then a hand patted her on the head as if she was a dog and another officer answered.

"Not to worry, Yasir, I think our mare here will give us all even better rides once we get the whip out to her on the straight."

Everything that was happening was clearly impossible in the real world. Amanda decided this had to be a drug induced dream and very soon reality must break through. She saw Carol putting a foot in one of the stirrups and swinging a graceful leg over the rocking horse.

But instead of sitting on top of the plump red pillow, Carol had to bend forward over the horse as though she were a jockey, her lower belly on the pillow, her hands clutching on the reins and her bottom directly above the toy's tail.

An officer stood on either side of the front of the horse and pushed down on the rockers with their feet, tipping it forward and lifting Carol's bare backside higher up for Ravi's inspection. He clapped his hands, took the riding crop off his wrist and called behind him. The ayahs giggled into the hands they were covering their faces with and formed a line behind the horse. Whether by accident or by her own efforts Manga was at the head of the queue and eagerly accepted the riding crop the Prince offered her.

"More drinks, girls, more drinks," he called out genially. "You must enjoy yourselves for we've gone to no end of trouble to arrange this entertainment for you." The Prince sounded to Amanda like the Garrison Padre introducing a magic lantern show about English cathedrals.

The glasses were refilled, the woman accepted them with shaking hands and sipped from the dew beaded glasses. As Camilla reached up for hers one of the Kultooni officers put his fingers around her hand and rubbed the back of it against the hard projection under his pyjamy jacket. She'd never felt a man's stiffened cock through silk before and she thought it a very erotic feeling. Then again, everything was becoming erotic, with the continual stroking and now a tongue flickering into one of her ears as she sipped from her glass. She'd now firmly decided that ice cold '13 vintage Bollinger was the finest thing ever invented for a parched throat. Whatever else might be mind shrivelling lunacy, the champagne had to be real because no dream had ever tasted so delicious.

"What's your name?" she asked, sotto voce. So quietly that only the Indian nuzzling her could hear.

"I am called Osama, Pearl of the East, and you are to be the flower of my life," her lover whispered mockingly. "Incidentally, I was watching you play hockey the other morning, and I must say you have very attractive legs, old girl. Well worth the trouble of getting up early to come and admire."

Camilla almost giggled herself at the incongruity of the words, but now she remembered seeing Osama at the hockey pitch. He'd been the only Kultooni there because the match at been held at dawn, in the coolest hour of the day, when most of the Irregular's Officers were still abed. A tall, slim man – no, boy – with a broad smile who'd clapped loudly at every goal by both teams.

"Thank you," she said, and then felt totally stupid as Carol called out in pain.

Both the officers beside her had each taken a handful of womanly flesh and removed their feet from the horse's rockers. Now it was only their hold on Carol's breasts which was stopping the horse from tipping back again. And as Carol whimpered one of the Kultooni men was winding up the gramophone on the table. As soon as the spring was tight he put a record on and lifted up the stylus to place it in the groove. Prince Ravi stood aside and nodded to Manga. She drew back the riding crop and lashed it down with the full strength of her arm on the creamy white buttocks offered up to her. Carol twitched and yelped in painful response. The hiss of the stylus became a jaunty tune.