Michael Jaeggers - Honeymoon hotel

Fog moved sinuously – billowing, as it hugged the surface of the lake – and from a distance the dark castle looked as if it were floating atop a cloud. No light showed within those crenellated stone walls; it was as if the structure were some ghostly apparition – a mirage of the past.

A fish jumped; the splash of its return to the water was muffled by the fog. Above the swirling vapours, one large, black night bird flapped its way across a starless sky. Then, as if giving lie to its ghostly appearance, somewhere within the confines of the castle a clock struck midnight.

A flashlight flickered briefly in one window on the third floor. It moved on to the next window and then, at the corner of the castle, the lights came on in a large room.

"I say, Morgan, isn't it a bit chancey; I mean, lights and all that?" The question came from the older of two men as he gazed somewhat apprehensively down at a deeply sleeping girl.

"You should know me better than that, Lord Medwell. She won't awaken until I tell her to. Watch." He laid down the camera case he was carrying and lifted the covers from the reclining girl's body.

Lord Medwell's breath whistled out of him in one lewd groan when he saw the full ripe contours of the girl's lush young body. The blue nylon gown had crept up to mid thigh, and the left shoulder strap had slipped down revealing a luscious mound of flesh the size and shape of a ripe melon. Tom Morgan simply reached forward and pulled the bodice down until it revealed the brown areola and nipple. "Watch," he ordered again. Taking the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, he cruelly tweaked it. The girl did not stir, but the nipple – like some slowly awakening thing – came erect.

"Watch," Morgan repeated, and lifted the hem of the gown to uncover the pouting mound of Venus between her legs and its luxuriant growth of sparse black pubic hair. He parted the girl's legs and, using his right arm under her knees, raised them until the soft pink lips of her vagina came into view. Morgan glanced over at Lord Medwell and laughed at the rapidly breathing older man. Slowly, he placed the tip of his middle finger against his thumb and then flicked at the pouting clitoris. The girl remained motionless, but a low moan of lust was wrenched from Lord Medwell's throat.

Morgan dropped the girl's legs; they remained spread lewdly out with the vaginal lips slightly open… the entrance to her secret-most regions was completely exposed, defenseless.

"Satisfied?" he queried with a slight knowing smirk.

Lord Medwell trembled in eagerness. "Oh my, yes!" he said hurriedly. "Such a beautiful young creature. Such a fine tight little cunt. I can hardly wait to pay a visit there." He placed his camera on the chair.

Tom Morgan grinned at the older man and mentally laughed as he said to himself, "The old goat is really in heat tonight." And why not! Hadn't he carefully built Lord Medwell up to this point; hadn't he spent weeks and weeks in preparation for this moment. Morgan knew Lord Medwell's proclivities – as well he should, having catered to various wealthy and powerful men like him for over seven years. As with most of Morgan's clients, Lord Medwell at sixty-six years of age, liked his women young, helpless, and tearfully innocent. Most important, however, Morgan's operation was practically foolproof. There had been no repercussions during the seven years; there was no reason why there should ever be any in the future. In Lord Medwell's case, he liked young brides – newly married, still with the dew freshness of their wedding ceremony clinging to them. And what better place to get them than at a honeymoon resort, a romantic old castle where for over seven years brides had come to be deflowered by their adoring husbands.

"These women," Lord Medwell had earlier explained unnecessarily, "present a great challenge to a man like me. Young, arrogant, proud, and sure of their undying love for their new husbands, they have to be humbled – almost broken in spirit – before they can be taught to crawl to their real master's feet."

Now as Lord Medwell watched the sleeping girl, he began to feel a familiar awesome power growing in his loins. The sheer nylon gown, above the girl's waist, showed the smooth white plain of her belly and the mysterious crater of her navel. Her pubic hair was like soft black down, and the thin fleece-lined vaginal alit was an open invitation to a warm and heavenly tunnel. His eyes fastened on the contours of her buttocks and then moved up over the rising and falling of her breasts. He could see the little nipple still standing proudly erect. Although his throat was dry, his mouth watered. He was impatient to get his teeth and hands on those magnificent mounds of young, almost virginal flesh and to twist, tease, massage, and bite them until they became unbearably trembling volcanoes of passion struggling to erupt.

"Hurry, Morgan," he snapped, not taking his eyes from the girl. "Let's start with the pictures!"

"In a moment. Wait until I get the camera on the tripod." A second later, Morgan grunted his satisfaction with the setup and said, "Okay."

The thought of those young, almost untouched lips mewling and begging in passion, brought a rocklike hardness to Lord Medwell's penis. The blood pounded painfully throughout its throbbing length, and he could feel droplets of thick white seminal fluid already beginning to ooze from its urethral opening.

"All right," Morgan directed. "Stand close to her. Start unzipping your pants."

Lord Medwell opened the fly of his trousers. His large prick, almost eight inches long and of astonishing circumference, leapt out as though it were some voracious tiger suddenly released from an insufferable cage. The flash of light was brighter than a sun as Morgan snapped his first picture. Hastily, Lord Medwell dropped his trousers and underdrawers. Another flash, together with the sound of film being wound on the next exposure.

"Go on," Morgan commanded. "I'll shoot as you go along."

Lord Medwell hesitated now for the first time; he glanced apprehensively toward Morgan. "Are you positive she's under all the way?"

Morgan sighed in exasperation and walked over to the bed. He stared intently down at the girl.

"Dorothy… Dorothy, can you hear?" he asked in a flat tone of voice.

"Yes." The word was a monosyllable without inflection.

"Dorothy… you are with your husband. Open your eyes, Dorothy." He pulled Lord Medwell over alongside her. "See, Dorothy. This is your husband, Roger. Say 'hello' to Roger."

The girl blinked, then smiled and said in a loving voice, "Hello, Roger."

"Dorothy, you will do anything your husband asks. You'll do it because you love him, and you know it will give him great pleasure. You will feel much pleasure from him when he makes love to you… so very much pleasure."

She was silent only a second, then she woodenly nodded her head and said, without blinking, "I will do anything my husband asks… it will be pleasure."

"Satisfied?" Morgan asked the older man.

Lord Medwell eagerly nodded his head. Morgan went back to his camera.

Lord Medwell squeezed the thick foreskin back from his painfully throbbing prick and bared his teeth as he advanced toward the girl again. The proud young bitch was totally at his mercy. He had heard her giggling as she talked to her husband about him earlier that evening. She had said, "That Lord Medwell is a dirty old man. A nice rich dirty old man, but a dirty old man nonetheless. Did you see the way he looked at me during dinner?" Well, the huge cudgel he held in his hand was a great equalizer between the generations. He'd teach her. He'd see if she still called him a dirty old man when his prick was rammed deep between those white thighs of hers and its head buried far up inside her quivering little belly.