Jonathan Everest - The tortured tourists

They were actually going to do it, she realized. And she could never get to the window, now. Then her wrists and ankles were being tied, again. She struggled fiercely, now, but it was too little and too late. The Moroccan was helping, and soon she was spread-eagled once more, this time with her clothes gone.

Then she felt the cool hands on her thighs, moving over the soft skin, tracing upward across her belly, until they reached the full, ripe mounds of her breasts. The hands clutched, one on each proud hemisphere, and she felt a sharp pain as something tiny pricked her.

"Give me your cigarette, Gerault," said the Moroccan. "It will not help to burn her with your ashes."

So that's what felt like a needle; a spark from his cigarette. She felt the hand leave her left breast, then return. The Moroccan's footsteps had neared that side of the bed and retreated, as he took the butt from the gypsy. Is his name Gerald? It's so hard to tell French names just from hearing them.

A tremor ran through her as he put his lips on her right breast, nibbling the peak with tantalizing slowness. She felt the nipple distend as it betrayed her, and then his lips were around it, and his tongue was tattooing its spongy fullness. She writhed under him, and he chuckled with his mouth full of her breast.

He toyed with her nipples until her breasts ached, and her teeth were clenched in a firm refusal to show her emotional involvement. Then he moved his mouth down her body, trailing his tongue across the sensitive nerve-ends of her belly, dipping it into her navel and swirling it around the touchy dimple. She arched away from his kiss, but the bed springs were too weak and the mattress too matted to provide any significant distance between them. His avid tongue followed her no matter where she moved.

When his mouth was nibbling its way through the blonde forest of her loins. She gasped as his lips nibbled at the edge of the golden jungle, then his tongue found her open slit, and her ankles were secured too far apart to give her knees the freedom they had to have if she were to try to close her thighs to him. He was enjoying his feast. Little moaning sounds slipped past his busy lips as they worked at the pink, moist meat of her vulva. She finally could hold back her tension no longer, and a loud gasp escaped her just as he found her tightening bud with his searching tongue.

Her body arched again – upward this time. Her need had been so emphasized by his expert mouth that she reached out for fulfillment. His head was buried in her loins, and she could hear the moist workings of his lips and tongue.

He's eating my cunt! Oh, God! It feels wonderful! She couldn't control her thoughts any more than she could control the thrusting of her hips, the shuddering tremors that ran through her body. His lips and tongue are driving me out of my mind!

She felt her hips wiggling from side to side, getting the very most from his hungry mouth, then she was trembling in every part of her body, and she knew she was reaching her pinnacle of passion. Her memory came back to haunt her, like the vision of guilt that it was in her mind, and she saw her parents on the mat at the pool side.

Suddenly she was her mother, and as Ann's demands had triggered her, so Darla's were now controlling her every sensation. I'm creaming all over the place, and he's drinking it like wine! She felt her last barrier crumble, and she moaned at him, then yelled.

"Oh, Daddy! Drink me! Drink me dry!" Then her mind closed as a pink cloudy mist surrounded her, and she felt herself falling, floating downward, endlessly.

She opened her eyes to look into Gerault's face. He was standing beside the bed, and he was now naked. His hard tool was standing rigidly out from his belly, and the wiry black curls at its base seemed coarser than the brown ringlets her father sported. She was afraid, really afraid for the first time, she knew. He was going to pierce her maiden head, now!

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.