Jonathan Everest - The tortured tourists

The flies were the worst of the many indignities. Even the odors of decayed fish from the nearby wharves, and the sharp, acrid smell of male urine from the pissoir outside her window, h, had become part of the accepted background. She was aware that her own body had begun to add to the aroma. Next to the flies, she hated more than all the rest to feel the acute needs of her unwashed body.

She tried to shift her position, but the bonds which kept her spread-eagled on the soiled bed linen were not loose enough to permit much movement. She looked down through the valley of her proud young breasts, over the creamy flat tummy and the blonde curls of her womanly forest, to the iron rails at the foot of the bed. The ropes which secured her ankles were tied to the two corner posts.

The shifting movement had caused a little chafing, but her ankles didn't bother her as much as her wrists. She couldn't see them but she could imagine the red rawness of the skin from the burning sensations. Yet, this misery paled by comparison with the flies.

The insects, which had awakened her by crawling over the damp stickiness of her exposed vulva had flown away as she moved. She knew she would have to move repeatedly to keep them away. She tried to scream past the gag in her mouth, but the only sound it inside was in her own head, where the pressure was so great, that she gave up.

If only the La Jolla crowd could see her now! Darla Fleming, princess of the tennis courts, pacesetter of the flashy younger set, untouchable virgin with a reputation for semi-frigidity! If she had only given herself to Jeff, or Alan! She choked back a sob, knowing from bitter experience how much more miserable she'd be if she let herself start crying with that gag in her mouth.

Some flies had returned to feast in the forest of her sticky golden curls. She rolled her hips, and the movement made all but one stubborn insect buzz off. She could feel it moving across the moist outer lips, then into the slit of her sensitive inner lips. She thrust her hip upward, and it flew out and away, joining one of the groups of its fellows hovering in the air, or crawling on the many unclean surfaces in the shabby room.

The perspiration was gathering on her skin, and it added to the discomfort and to the closeness of the room, as if the June warmth and the humidity of the harbor area weren't enough.

She tried to take her thoughts off her misery, to get away from the unendurable present. Not daring to think of what might lie in the immediate future, she could only dwell on the past. And the most immediate experiences of the last two days were so luridly etched in her memory that they flashed past her all too slowly.

The sights and sounds of Marseilles were novel and intriguing to Darla Fleming. Her four years of French were just enough to add spice to the adventure. She and her mother did all the translating and interpreting for the family. Daddy Chuck's meager vocabulary, acquired in the latter part of World War II, was almost completely lost, and Tommy had chosen Spanish for his language courses. Well, little brother was anxious to do the honors when they got to Spain. He insisted that he didn't care much for the French.

At nineteen, Darla was in full flower. Her luscious body and charming personality were almost the exact replica of her mother at the same age. But her goals were different. Ann Fleming had become a bride at seventeen, marrying Charles Eldon Fleming II in 1946, the week after his separation from the army. Captain Fleming and his bride were a handsome couple, and Darla enjoyed looking at the old photographs in the numerous albums at home.

Darla wanted a few more years of freedom before committing her entire life and responsibilities to another. She had her hands full with the young males of her acquaintance, finding it difficult to convince them of her true wishes for non-involvement.

But underneath, the juices of her flowering womanhood ran swiftly and warm. She knew her susceptibility to the healthy maleness of her friends, and took great care to avoid temptations. She blushed when she thought of how she had been aroused even by her own father, on several occasions. Well, she knew better than to blame herself for that. The constant denial of her womanly desires increased her sensitivities. It was no wonder that being embraced by a proud and loving father could stir her unreasonably.

Especially a virile man like Daddy Chuck. Even now, at 42, he was more man than many of his juniors. Darla had seen numerous females make a play for the handsome industrialist. His six-one frame was in trim condition, only ten pounds heavier than he'd been in those wedding photos. And he still satisfied the constant hungers of his loyal wife.

Darla recalled all too clearly the scene she had witnessed by accident only a week before the trip started. At 1:30 in the morning, she had been unable to sleep, and decided to take a swim. The warm evening and the high walled security of the Fleming estate had lulled her normal precautions, and she simply tossed a shorty-short terry cloth robe on her naked body, and went across the patio to the pool. Bare footing over the cool concrete, she had stopped short at the sight of her parents on the huge canvas pad at the far side of the big pool. The five-foot, eight-inch length of her mother's ripe body lay in serene repose on the mat, elegant in the creamy skin which glowed under the bright moonlight.

From her shadowed vantage point, Darla watched as her equally naked father knelt at Ann's feet. His short, brown hair glinted in the moonlight, and Darla could see bright droplets of water on his muscular body. Obviously, her parents had decided on a midnight swim, believing her to be in bed. Tommy wasn't due home from college until the weekend.

Daddy Chuck's hands took the slim ankles and moved them aside and upward. He went forward, and his face pushed into the valley of Ann's lovely breasts. Darla's breath caught as she watched the kisses he bestowed on the creamy mounds. Her own full globes ached as she watched him nibbling and tonguing the peaks, and she felt her nipples distend in sympathetic passion.

A mild guilt feeling tried to move her away from the scene. It was a private thing, between a man and a woman. What's more, it was her own father and mother. But her hungry body was tingling with its own fevers, and in the self-imposed restrictions of her young life, this was the only direct sexual play she had ever encountered. It was too much for her susceptibilities. She moved quietly and stealthily along the shadowed edges of the tall shrubs which surrounded the end of the pool. She didn't stop until she was behind the bush nearest the canvas pad.

She was only a few yards from the damp bodies, and she could hear her mother's low, purring sounds, and the wet, lapping sounds of her father's tongue and lips. He had moved down, now, across the sleek belly into the blonde, feathery curls be low.

Darla knelt in the grass, her hands clutching her fevered breasts, fingering the swollen nipples frantically. She saw the creamy tanned thighs open wide, and one of the feet, with its neatly pedicured nails pointed right at Darla's hiding place.

Chuck Fleming's lips and tongue were searching tenderly among the blonde curls, and Darla knew he had found what he sought when Ann's purring sounds became a louder, continuous moan, and the full hips rose from the pad. Ann's hands reached down and grasped the brown curls of her lover's head, pulling the ministering mouth tighter to her damp, heated flesh.

He's eating her cunt! Darla thought to herself. My God! That must feel wonderful. The girl dropped one hand from its clutching, squeezing movements at her breast. It sought the blonde jungle at the juncture of her quivering thighs. Her fingers parted the wet lips, and began to massage the stiff little bud of her passion.