Jonathan Everest - The tortured tourists

"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.