Andrew Laird - Young girl sex club

He was so driven by the demon of doubt that he reneged on his very proper, early training and forgot to knock. He opened the door to a sight such as he had never expected to witness in his rather narrow and stuffy lifetime. On Lynn's bed was a Hawaiian, so big, so dark and so ugly he could only be one person… the gardener known as Old Moke. On top of Old Moke was Lynn Charles. They were both quite nude, and it was apparent that Moke had his cock in Lynn's cunt up to his ponderous balls. Standing over the two of them, also naked, was Koko, the bell captain. In his right hand was a white whip which he was industriously wielding, as evidenced by the red welts on the very attractive ass of Miss Charles.

Elmer fainted.

The participants in the orgy were not aware that he had come, seen and gone quietly to sleep just outside the door of the room, so they continued happily to enjoy themselves. Some other servants found Elmer there, carried him to his room and revived him. He sat up in bed, dismissed them and looked at his watch. He had seventeen minutes before his boss was due to arrive. He spent five of the seventeen minutes making a decision. It was not a question of whether or not to fire the three girls… only a matter of when. What he would really like to do, he thought savagely, was to roast them in the imu instead of the pig, but that was impractical. Unfortunately, it was not even practical to fire them immediately. No, in this case, expediency must rule the day. He would pretend that nothing had happened. For, without Lynn and Kalola, the whole thing, the days and days of frantic preparation, would fall apart at Euclid J. Barrington-Phaff's expensively shod feet. Having made his decision, he arose, combed his hair, adjusted his tie and made sure his jock strap was firmly in place. He then, chin up, went bravely to the airport.

Euclid J. Barrington-Phaff was what is sometimes referred to as a solid citizen, although all two hundred fifty pounds of him was not really solid. Around what had once been his waist, he tended to run to blubber. Nevertheless, he was an imposing person, his air of pompous dignity surviving even the bright green Aloha shirt he wore and the shorts that exposed rolls of oyster-white fat above each knee. He acknowledged Elmer's greeting with that delicately adjusted mixture of dignity and joviality considered proper when dealing with upper-echelon employees. On the short ride to the hotel, he admitted that he was quite well satisfied with the financial returns of his investment to date, but he saw fit to remind Elmer that procuring the convention for the Hale-Kaahumanu was a stroke that had been accomplished strictly in New York.

"Yes, you're doing a fine job, I'm sure," he said, unbending enough to place a fat, fatherly hand on Elmer's knee. "But you worry me, my boy. You seem all tense and tight. Something bothering you?"

"Oh, no, sir, nothing at all," Elmer assured him hurriedly. "Everything's fine… just fine."

Had Elmer at that moment been gifted with telescopic vision, and had he been able to see across the few miles of sugar cane fields and through the several walls that separated him from the kitchen of the Hale-Kaahumanu, he might not have been able to answer so glibly. As a matter of fact, he probably would have fainted again. For it was at that moment that Ellen, piqued at what she considered unjust condemnation, stood by the giant punchbowl, dropping tablet after tablet of LSD into the fruity mixture.

She had a smile of serene contentment on her pretty face.

Elmer McFarthingale should have been pleased and greatly relieved at the way things went, at least during the initial hour of the luau. The food was superb, the two native orchestras magnificent, and the series of singers and dancers outdid themselves. Even the punchbowl was very popular, although neither he nor the big boss sampled it, both being confirmed non-drinkers. He had a bad moment when the time came to introduce Lynn Charles to Euclid J. Barrington-Phaff, but the beautiful redhead looked as fresh and sweet and as innocent as a sophomore, accepting the hotel baron's compliments on the job she had turned out with becoming grace and modesty. Elmer could hardly believe that she was the same girl he had seen, less than two hours earlier, astride a naked Hawaiian while a naked Japanese lashed her fabulous fanny with a white whip.

Yes, Elmer should have been pleased, but he wasn't. Instead, he was running scared. After the things he had witnessed in the kitchen, and in Lynn's room, was there any limit to the catastrophic possibilities germane to this perilous predicament? Furthermore, although the big boss was apparently delighted with the program, his fat face beaming with joviality, Elmer sensed a strange and alarming mood that seemed to be slowly gripping the guests. True, the punchbowl was liberally spiked with several kinds of rum and brandy. But this was something more than mere drunkenness. From the assembled throng of revelers he got the distinct impression of a kind of lazy, dreamlike, to-hell-with-it-anyway permissiveness, as though the bars of their inhibitions had not only been lowered but had been cast entirely aside. He noticed, for instance, that all the guests at the feast sat cross legged on the ground in the style traditional at luaus, but, whereas the women had begun the feast with skirts decorously pulled down to hide their knees, most of them now had allowed the hems to hike up until many thighs were bare nearly to the crotch. He glanced nervously at his boss to see if the big man had noticed, but apparently he had not.

A low stage had been erected at one end of the courtyard and it was there that the entertainers had been performing. A change in the tempo of the music drew the attention of everyone back to the stage as though they knew by instinct that the next act was to be the grand climax, the great finale for which all the other acts had been mere preliminaries.

Elmer shuddered. Kalola! She wouldn't dare!

He allowed himself to breathe again when she came running onto the stage to a fanfare of music. He saw that she was clad in a full-length grass skirt, halter top and at least six flower leis. The dance she did was one of the innocuous routines worked out earlier. It was greeted with applause but with no mighty ovation. Kalola smiled – and held up a small hand for silence. Elmer saw that she was going to speak, and fear crept back to walk with cold fingers up his spine. What was the little savage up to? This was not part of the program. Oh, well, maybe no one would be able to understand her anyway. Then she did the thing that eternally baffles mainlanders… she abandoned the patois she most frequently used and spoke in clear, precise and perfectly enunciated English.

"Thank you," she said simply. "The dance you have just seen might properly be labeled a theatrical version of our native dances and bears about as much resemblance to the real thing as oatmeal mush does to poi. You've been a great audience and I think you are entitled to view the Hawaiian hula-hula in its original form, and in a way in which it has only rarely been done since the days of Kamekameha The Great." She signaled the orchestra and all of the instruments remained silent but for the dull, hypnotic beating of the drums and the sharper, rhythmic clatter of the hardwood sticks on gourds. She fumbled for a moment behind her, then her halter top came off to be tossed off the floor of the stage. Her brown, beautiful breasts bobbed free, thrusting themselves out through the garlands of flowers that decorated her bosom. Her feet began the shuffling dance and her hands to move in the melting, liquid grace that is the soul of the hula.

"McFarthingale, what is this?" Euclid J. Barrington-Phaff demanded, his face purpling and his small, piggy eyes glowing with rising indignation. "That dancer… that savage… she's… why, she's completely topless!"