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Slave Girl Paintings, Pornography And Art

April 14, 2012 9 comments

With digital cameras and willing models, who seem to be in plentiful supply, anyone can be an artist, and images of scenes that tickle our fancies, whatever forms those fancies take, are readily available. But oh how much more difficult it was in times past to create these  image. One had to be really be an artist.

In the nineteenth century there was an art movement called Orientalism. It depicted life, real or imagined, in what looks to be Southern Europe, such as the slave markets of ancient Rome, or the Near East. There were several painters—Jean-Léon Gérôme, Giulio Rosati, et. al.—who specialized in this work. Following are examples for your pleasure and edification.

Slave Painting by Otto Pilny (Swiss, 1866-1936)

In the painting above, the desert tribesmen are enjoying a smoke when two slave girls are brought into camp and held by men sporting leering grins.

Slave Girl by Ansen Hofmann

I love the little blush of hair, and I note the girl—well, okay, clearly a woman—is a natural redhead. She is displaying herself, but the men seem to be distracted. Is she displaying herself because she was ordered to? Trained to? Or is she willingly asking for attention? The man on the right seems as if he’s about to pat the young woman’s ass. He’ll be telling her: Don’t worry, my dear. I’ll won’t be ignoring you much longer.

Pharaohs Handmaidens by John Collier

Ahhh Yes, I remember well the days when I was a Pharaoh, and these three beauties were in my service. The one on the right is asking: do you need me Master?

Selling Slaves in Rome by Jean Léone Gérôme

This young woman is certain to bring a good price. Her clothes are discarded behind her, as she stands before the buyers. I see several hands raised. I wonder what roll is played by the young man in the lower left? Does he bring her and take her back to her cell? I wonder what perks he enjoys.

Jean-Leon Gerome (French , 1824-1904). Snake Charmer, about 1870. French, Oil on Canvas.

It’s not the snake she’s charming, its the snakes. I wonder what the young man is thinking i.e. the boy on the left.

Slaves For Sale by Gustave Boulanger

I wish I could read the girl’s sign. For Sale, plus some other choice words I imagine. He has a sign as well, so I guess he’s a slave too. He doesn’t look happy, but she seems to have accepted her fate.

Bargaining for a Slave by Giulio Rosati

If I owned her I’d drive a hard bargain too, so to speak. The buyer is putting on a tough face, but the seller is clearly holding all the cards.

Slave Market by Jean Léone Gérôme

Nearly every hand is raised for this young woman. I love her figure. The scribe behind her, the one with his writing instrument in his mouth, is certainly checking her out.

I’ve looked at this painting many times, but it wasn’t until today that I realized its story. This is not just a woman being sold. It’s a family—mother, four children, and perhaps a nanny. The oldest child seems to be a developing girl, and I don’t mean woman. Child porn, something I find repulsive, just for the record, seems to be subtly expressed in Léone Gérôme’s fantasy.

White Slave by Ernest Normand

Yes, a White slave indeed.

The Slave Market by Gérôme Jean-Léon

I know a man who is especially attracted to girls with straight teeth. This is another.

Candi Coating

March 31, 2011 4 comments

Candi Coating - Illustration by Andrea and Ale

Brandi saw her aunt on the street, ran past with a breathless “Hi,” ran up the walk to her cousin’s house, and entered without a knock. She took the stairs quickly, burst into her cousin’s room, and found Candi lying on her back, in bed, her face flushed, her dress pulled up her legs, and her nipples impudently poking peaks in the soft cloth of her top.

“What are you doing?” Brandi asked, knowing full well what Candi had been doing.

“Nothing,” Candi gasped, having difficulty coming back from the brink of an orgasm and not in any condition to formulate a convincing lie. She was achingly aroused and terribly frustrated, and she wished her cousin hadn’t come in when she did. Fuck, I need to come so bad, Candi thought, and she cast about, without hope, for an excuse to get her cousin out of the room so Candi could lift her dress all the way again and rub her clit to the explosive climax she had been about to have. Not only was she dying to come, but she had had a hard week in school and was looking forward to whiling away the afternoon with her legs spread, masturbating repeatedly.

“Guess who’s coming to visit?” Brandi blurted, ignoring her cousin’s obvious need for privacy.

Candi resigned herself to frustration and wondered if delayed gratification might add to her arousal and the satisfaction of an even greater climax after her cousin left. “Who?” Candi asked.

“Alessandro, our cousin from Argentina, the guy I once told you about.” Brandi couldn’t stop thinking about her trip to South America with her mom and dad, when she was fifteen, and particularly about Alessandro, her Dad’s relative’s stepson.

“Cousin?”

“Yeah, well, sort of. He’s a God—at lease he would be if he wasn’t such a Bad Boy. I wanted to fuck him more than anything. If only he could have been my first instead of stupid Clint Fengler.”

“You’re such a slut. Clint’s a pig.”

“Yeah, I know, but… He’s coming over now.”

“Clint?” Candi asked with horror.

“No, Alessandro, you idiot.”

“Here? Now? What do you mean?”

“He’s in town, and he called me up.” The only reason he called is because he wants to fuck me,” Brandi thought. “I gave him your address. I knew your Mom would be out, and I figured…” Brandi shrugged.

“I’ll get in trouble,” Candi said immediately. “I’m not allowed to have boys over when my parents aren’t home.”

“They’ll never know,” Brandi said.

Candi calculated the odds of being discovered, the thrill of having a Bad Boy in her bedroom, and the consequences if it was discovered he’d been there. The throbbing need between her legs tended to push her in the direction of saying yes, but what would I let him do? Candi wondered. She wasn’t going to let some strange boy fuck her. She knew that for sure. That’s what Brandi does, Candi thought. She wondered if she had the courage to show herself naked to the boy and then even let him rub her where she wanted to be rubbed most. She clenched her legs tightly and had a mini-orgasm at the thought.

The doorbell rang, but before Candi could protest Brandi ran downstairs and brought back the most delicious hunk of young manhood that Candi ever imagined. In no time at all and with barely a hello he had his shoes and shirt off and was sliding his trousers down his legs.

Candi’s eyes opened wide at the sight of his stiff cock pointing at her, bobbing and waving back and forth as he moved.

“Oh No,” Candi protested. It was happening too fast and was frightening. She wanted to slow down and get control of the situation, but Brandi was behind her and Brandi’s arms reached around and opening the front of Candi’s dress. “Wait!” Candi screeched, but before she knew it she was sandwiched between Brandi and the naked Alessandro. And then Brandi had Candi’s breasts in her hands and was pulling Candi’s nipples and running fingers all over them.

“Ohhhh,” Candi screamed in delight, raising her mouth, which Alessandro took as permission to kiss. He put his tongue deep inside her. Then he positioned himself in front of Candi, while Brandi locked her arms around her girl cousin, imprisoning her against the new boy.

Candi felt Alessandro’s hard penis searching for her prize, coming closer with each probe, and then he found her wet opening and pushed in—not all the way in—just enough not to be dislodged.

It wasn’t that Candi was unwilling—she had even moved to help Alessandro find her wetness, but she felt that feminine modesty demanded at least a show or resistance to being taken so quickly and without so much as tacit permission. Candi tried to rise up, tried to dismount the overwhelming demands of the stallion partly in her, but he followed her up, staying just inside until she could rise no more and had to come down, burying the stiff hot rod all the way into herself.

“Ahhhh,” Candi screamed. The rubbing, pulling, and twisting of her nipples; the tongue swishing wetness all around the insides of her mouth; the hands of a young man she didn’t know holding her buttocks, spreading her cheeks, and stretching her anus as he pulled her tightly to him; and the arousal she felt even before either of her cousins laid a hand on her: it was all too much, and Candi couldn’t help but commence madly fucking the pole inside her.

Before long, Alessandro took pity on the poor girl—he didn’t want her to have to do all the work, and he carried her, still on his cock, and laid her on her on her bed and took over. He drove Candi, and she screamed herself into an orgasm, and Alessandro, holding her pinned with his muscular hands on her shoulders and his rod buried deep inside her, let her writhe.

Candi gasped for breath as she had her first climax, but Alessandro did not let up. He picked up the pace and fucked her fast and furiously, driving her into another and another orgasm, until she was panting, drenched with sweat, and more than overly satisfied.

Alessandro fell on Candi and rested, and then he pulled out. He hadn’t yet come, and his cock glistened with wetness and was stiffer than ever as he turned toward Brandi.

Brandi licked her lips and began unbuttoning her dress.

Vet — A story with a self defense lesson for women

February 9, 2011 Leave a comment

Illustration by Ted Hammond


 

In hand to hand combat there is one and only one effective method for a smaller person who is untrained to incapacitate a larger person, and it isn’t kicking him in the balls.

 

Vet

a story by by Matthew Dyne

 
I was a seriously fucked up dude, but I’m not so bad off now. I found a shrink who went through some of the same shit I did, and understood. Aging also helped wear down the rough edges. Most of all, it was her.

I don’t think of myself as dangerous. It takes a lot to rile me. But, if I vaporize, you’d best not have been fuel for the fire. Hurt me badly and I’ll kill you; threaten a friend and you’ll wish I had.

I own and live in the last house on a dead-end street up against a thousand acres of forest. My father built my house with his own hands. I own another house across the street and down a little ways. My uncle built it.

I had rented my uncle’s house to a woman I badly wanted to get to know, but she made sure to tell me that she had a boyfriend. Shit, I said to myself. She’s not even trying, and I can barely keep my best friend respectful—Down boy, down. What really broke my heart was that, besides being good-looking, she seemed to be a nice person too. She baked me a cake the day after she moved in, and she stayed and ate dinner with me before she went home. She signed the lease using ‘Amelia.’ She told me to call her Amy.

As Amy settled in, she asked me to fix a few things, which I was happy to do. I got to be around her and to know her better. She seemed straightforward and sincere, and I couldn’t help but be stimulated by her appearance in the different outfits she wore. My binoculars kept wanting to wander toward her windows, but I forced myself not to invade her privacy. The only time I did spy on her was one hot day when she was planting in my uncle’s garden. She couldn’t be seen from the street—not that we get much traffic—but I had a clear view of her. She wore short shorts and a peasant shirt that was meant to tease with what was underneath it. It teased me all right—the only thing underneath it was her. I could see through its gauzy material, and I could see into it when she bent over. Her nipples were very pale. Watching her made me harder than I’d been in a long time, and filled me with longing.

Two weeks later, Amy’s boyfriend showed up. He looked to be about six-two, two-eighty. Right off I didn’t like him, but it wasn’t his size. It was my jealousy. After their being apart for so long, I knew what they’d be doing. I couldn’t stop thinking of him fucking her. I had to admit I’d taken a proprietary fancy to my neighbor. As I was going to bed that night, I looked over and saw their lights out. I envisioned a cock that matched his girth fucking her to multiple orgasms. I couldn’t sleep. I thought about jerking off to calm and distract myself, but jealousy dampened my enthusiasm for it. I did it anyway. It wasn’t satisfying, and it didn’t help.

Two days later, their honeymoon, so to speak, was over. It was morning. I heard them arguing and then screaming at each other. I couldn’t make out their words, but I didn’t need to. I felt good about his troubles but bad for Amy. Then I heard a scream that sounded like pain. After that, it was quiet. It was a bad combination. I saw him storm out of the house, get in his car, and drive away.

I didn’t see or hear any activity from my uncle’s house. This wasn’t unusual, but the fight and that final scream concerned me. I got my binoculars, but still couldn’t see her.

I walked over to her place and knocked. There was no answer. I opened the door a crack and called her name.

“Go away,” she said. It sounded as if she was in the bedroom; her nose was stuffed up as if she’d been crying.

“Are you okay?”

There was a long pause before she said, “No. I’m not okay. But I don’t want to see anyone. Go away.”

“Okay. If you need anything, I’ll be home. Call and I’ll come right over.”

She didn’t answer. I wanted to respect her wishes, but I wasn’t comfortable with how she sounded. “Okay?” I said more forcefully.

“Okay,” she said angrily.

“Did he hit you?”

“Yes,” she said, now starting to cry openly. “Go away.”

“If he comes back I won’t let him in. Okay?”

I waited for an answer. Amy came out. Her face was bright red on both sides, and the flesh around one eye was turning purple. I came in, took her hand, and led her to the couch. I filled a doubled-up plastic bag with ice, wrapped it in a dish towel, and told her to keep the compress on her eye—ten minutes on and a couple of minutes off, for the next three or four hours, and she’d be glad she did. She didn’t want to, but I insisted, and she gave in.

“Has he done it before?” I asked.

“Once,” she said disgustedly.

I wondered with whom she was disgusted. For her sake, I hoped it was herself.

“It’s over,” she said. “For good. That’s what I told him, but he wouldn’t accept it.”

I shook my head in sympathy. I was glad, for her, that she had made the decision to drop the prick who was abusing her, but I knew these situations didn’t usually end gracefully. It was ungraceful already. To my credit, I thought of myself only fleetingly. It wasn’t the time for that.

“He’ll come back,” she said.

That worried me. We were becoming friends, but she hadn’t risen to the status of Friend—I wasn’t ready to die for her. I didn’t want to get caught between them. Neither could I let him beat her.

I also thought that she should learn to take care of herself—by calling the cops, running away, buying a gun, or any of a number of other options. Clearly, taking care of herself wasn’t something she’d come to grips with yet.

The reason I’d get involved, if I had to, was that I wasn’t going to allow violence to go on unchecked in my house. That would be a violation of me.

I had another reason too: she was sexy and pretty and kind. I was going to beat the living shit out of him if he so much as laid a finger on her, for the pleasure I’d get out of protecting her. I wanted her to love me. I wanted her to fuck me too. I wasn’t sure which I wanted more.

“Will he be back soon?” I asked her.

“Could be any time. Could be now, could be in a month.”

“I won’t let him hurt you.”

She laughed at me. “How are you going to stop him?”

That, I wouldn’t answer. She didn’t have a right to know. Not yet. Probably never.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” I said. “But I’d like you to sleep in my house tonight. You can sleep downstairs. I sleep upstairs. I’ll take my tractor out of the garage, and you can put your car in there. If he comes back, he’ll think you’re gone.”

She looked at me in a way she hadn’t before—at my face, but not into my eyes. Her expression had relaxed, and she wasn’t focusing. I got the sense she knew how to read people in some way I didn’t understand. It made me uncomfortable.

“That’s generous of you,” she said. “I don’t want to impose, and I’m sorry to have put you in this position.”

“Don’t be, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I’m so scared. I don’t have anywhere to go. It’s hard for me to say ‘No.’”

“You won’t owe me anything.”

“I don’t want you to come on to me.”

“I just told you—you won’t owe me anything.”

“Okay then, but you’re putting yourself at risk, and I’m not sure why. And I can’t live with you forever.”

She hadn’t taken it the wrong way—she’d actually figured me out better than I had myself. Her words “live with you forever” rose in my cock despite the fact that she had preceded them with “I can’t.”

“Would you like to learn how to protect yourself?”

“Can I?”

“I think so.”

“What do I have to do?”

“I’ll teach you.”

“What do you know about it?”

There it was again. Another questions about stuff I didn’t want to go into.

“Look at me,” I said.

This time she looked directly in my eyes and didn’t flinch.

“I won’t come on to you, and you won’t ask me about that. But I know about it—all too well. I can teach you if you’re motivated.” Then I was the one to flinch. I’d said very little but had revealed more than I wanted to—or maybe I did want to, but my defenses were deep and long standing and not breached without trepidation.

***

Amy moved in with me. She tried to confine her belongings to the room I gave her, but her womanly presence was undeniable, especially in the bathroom. She still paid rent, but sometimes she cooked for me, and she kept the house in order. Don’t get me wrong: I like having a neat house too, but it’s easier for me to work at it if someone like her takes the lead. Sometimes I’d come upon a load of her clothing in the dryer, and I’d have to take it out and put it into her basket. I got a special thrill from handling her underwear, but the thrill wasn’t just about her sexiness. It was about intimacy too.

We started with self-defense. “In some ways this is going to be simpler than you thought,” I told her, “because there’s only one way for a smaller person, who’s inexperienced, to effectively attack a larger person. Do you have any idea what that is?”

“Kick him in the balls?”

“There are a couple of problems with that. To knee him in the balls you have to be way too close. If you miss, he can grab you. In defense, distance is everything. You’ve got to attack him but stay out of reach. If you try to kick him in the balls from a distance, all he has to do is close his legs or block you with his hand, and he’ll have a good chance of grabbing your ankle. Then he’ll reel you in and you’re dead.

“You can’t punch him, either. You don’t have enough power to hurt him, and again, you’d have to be too close. The same goes for stomping his instep. If he’s already grabbed you, you can try that, but you won’t be able to do enough damage to incapacitate him. Even if you broke his foot, he’d still have you, and he’d be angry.

“A small person against a big person must go for the knee. You get to keep your distance, and even if you don’t get a good shot on him, you’ll probably make him limp, and then you can outrun him. I’m going to teach you how to kneecap a man. You’re going to practice it five hundred times a day. First, we’ll have you practice on a dummy. Then I’ll pad my legs, and you can learn on me.”

“Five hundred?”

“A practice kick takes less than two seconds. There are thirty-six hundred seconds in an hour. Five hundred isn’t as many as it seems.”

I tried not to be obvious, but Amy wasn’t oblivious to the way I looked at her. I knew it was clear how attracted to her I was. She was considerate and tried not to do things that might stimulate me, and she tried not to intrude on my space. At night, she always waited for me to finish in the bathroom before she showered and got ready for bed. I was usually upstairs by the time she came out, but the few times I wasn’t, I saw her in her robe with her hair all wet. She looked wild and untamable.

She worked hard on her kicks, but she didn’t think she was getting anywhere until I let her kick me. We set up in the basement and fought. I came at her as if she were vulnerable. I taunted her, I pretended to dominate her, and I pretended not to expect a fight. She pretended to be afraid, she was good at faking it, and then she attacked. She had very good balance, and she adjusted quickly to the addition of my forward momentum to the equation of forces. Each time her heel penetrated into the foam of my protective gear, her grunts of effort gave me satisfaction. She became very excited. Eventually, I had to be the one to call it quits.

***

She was still excited after her shower. I could hear it in her voice when she called out, “Can I come up?”

She’d never been upstairs—I knew because I’d laid down a sprinkling of dust I always stepped over—and I’d certainly never invited her. “I’ll come down,” I said.

“No. I want to come up, or forget it.”

Forget what? I wondered, though my imagination provided plenty of possibilities. I didn’t want her in my domain, but I could hear in her voice that she was still excited. If she’s that kind of excited, and wants to go to bed with me… Don’t be stupid, I told myself.

She didn’t wait. She climbed the stairs. I had my boxers on and met her halfway. Her hair was wet, the way I loved to see it. She had a towel around her. I couldn’t stop glancing at her breasts swelling above its edge.

“I’ve been trusting you,” she said. “I want you to trust me.”

I wanted to say ‘Yes,’ but my head was shaking ‘No.’

“You’re helping me,” she said. “I want to help you. Please. Let me.”

“What do you want?”

“Let me upstairs. And tell me why you are the way you are.”

“I can’t do that,” I said, averting my eyes. “You agreed not to ask.”

She started to turn around, but I touched her arm. “Wait… This isn’t easy for me… Give me a minute, and I’ll think about it.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll wait here until you give me an answer.” She turned and sat on the steps and rested her head on her hands as if she would wait forever. It was hard to think while looking at the towel riding up her legs. She knew what she was doing.

I went up and lay on my bed. Let her wait, I thought. This is hard—she can suffer with me. I kept seeing her legs in my mind. They were hard to ignore. I wondered where the towel might have risen to by now. After a while I made a decision. I hoped it would satisfy her. I went back to the stairway. She stood and faced me once more. “You can come up, but I’m not ready to talk about it. If you come up, you might understand why.”

She shook her head in agreement, and I allowed her into to my room. She stopped at the doorway. I could tell she was uncomfortable. She seemed not to want to enter, but she got up her courage and took a few steps in and looked around. Instruments of death were everywhere: pistols, rifles, shotguns, knives, ammunition, reloading equipment, gun-cleaning supplies, a compound bow, tools of obscure usage, military and outdoor clothing, survivalist catalogs. Some of it was my grandfather’s, some of it was my father’s, and some my uncle’s. Most of it was mine. I wasn’t proud of it, and I wasn’t ashamed of it, either; it was just who I was when I wasn’t that other person she thought she knew.

Her gaze turned to my bed. It was the only thing that was soft and inviting.

“Can we go downstairs now?” I asked.

“No. I’ll stay.” So saying, she faced me and took off my underwear, being careful to pull them over my penis, which, with her standing so close to me and being nearly naked, had risen beyond my control. Then she dropped her towel to the floor, took my hand, and pulled me into my bed with her. She wrapped me in a hug and firmly wedged my leg all the way up between hers, and hers between mine. “I like you,” she said. “There are things about you that I like very much. Take all the time you need, but if you want me, if you’re motivated, and if you’re willing to tell me who you are, then you can have me.”

“Have you?”

“You can have me now—this once. But if you want to have me again, you’ll have to give.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“I won’t get pregnant. Is there anything you can hurt me with?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I’m trusting you. With my life. Do you understand?”

“I understand… I was… in the war.”

Amy spread her legs and pulled me on top of her. My eyes filled with tears. She stroked my back and rubbed my cheek with hers as my erection came to full hardness. I dipped my penis into her vagina. Then I took it out and slid it up and down between her labia. I did it again, spreading her wetness over us both. I kissed her mouth and spread her saliva over our lips. I kissed her breasts. Her fingers caressed my ears as I tasted her lovely pink nipples. And then, with a deep sigh of release from the prison of my obsessions, at least for the moment, I pushed on into her. Then I pushed all the way in. And then all the way in and a little more.

Her hands caressed me as I rested in her embrace until I could rest no more, and I began to stroke to her moans of delight. Each time I entered, she pushed gently on my buttocks. I give you me, she said wordlessly. I risk, but I allow. I could be hurt, but I trust. What I promise, I fulfill. I am loyal. Over and over and over again she delivered her message as I reveled in the pleasure she had initiated and now shared with me.

Then she sprinted into animalistic thrashing and a series of undulating moans that grew and grew until they culminated in the violent spasms of her orgasm. For a moment she threw me off pace, but I regrouped and rose to her needs and to my own, and I met her halfway, or so I hoped. My orgasm was violent too. I hoped I hadn’t hurt her, though I’m sure, right then, she was beyond caring. I was hardly in control. Her offer of her self was too generous, too poignant, and too promising. My future was no longer only in my hands; by giving, she had taken it into hers too.

We spent the night together in my bed. It was a long time before we fell asleep, but before we did, I gave up the second of my secrets. “It wasn’t just war,” I said. “It was combat.”

***

I hoped we were rid of him, but I knew better. He came back six weeks later. It was evening, after Amy got home from work. We heard him banging on the door of my uncle’s house and yelling for Amy to come out. I told her to stay inside, and I went to meet him.

“You’re banging on my house. Amy doesn’t live there any more. Get off my property.”

He looked up the road. So did I. Amy was coming toward us.

He towered over me. A sadistic grin covered his face. “You’re fucking my girlfriend. You must want to die young.”

I thought of my friends who had died young, succumbing to the same mindless brutality as his. He was starting to piss me off. He pushed me. I let him.

“I don’t think you ought to do that,” Amy warned.

He laughed. “What are you going to do? Call the cops?”

He pushed me again. I took two steps back, but other than that, I didn’t react. If it came to violence, I wanted him to hit me first. I wanted him to give up his civil rights, because I knew that if we had to call the cops we’d be calling an ambulance too.

It all happened very fast—it always does. He came at me. I turned to the side, placing one foot behind me for balance. I’d been here countless times before, and even more often than that in sweat-soaked nightmares. I could see he was untrained. I was relaxed and ready. He was one step away from being dead meat. And then, in that instant between rest and explosion, I saw that I wouldn’t need to touch him. Amy was moving forward. I stepped out of her way. She turned sideways, and with twenty thousand practice kicks behind her, she drove her foot like a pile driver into his knee, following through just as I had taught her. It was a sideways blow, but it wouldn’t matter. I heard a satisfying crack, followed by a scream and a thud as he fell to the ground, holding his knee and writhing in pain. He turned white. After about thirty seconds, he passed out.

I looked at Amy and saw that she didn’t share my glee. Her mouth was open, and her eyes were horrified as she stared at her ex-boyfriend lying unconscious on the ground. She was trembling. I knew the reaction. I took her home, laid her down, and covered her with a blanket before I called the police and gave them a brief rundown on what had happened. I held her and tried my best to comfort her. The cops came. One of them was a woman. She interviewed Amy, and a policeman interviewed me. I was glad I could honestly say I never touched him. I didn’t think he’d ever walk right again, and who knew what charges the cops might have leveled against me.

***

It was a long time before Amy came to my bed again, though I tried my best to deserve her. Compared to what happened to me, her brush with violence was minimal, but it gave us something to share that went deep. That helped me open up a bit more.

On her birthday, I gave her a party. I invited two vet buddies, and she invited two women co-workers. They made unlikely couples, but there was enough harmless flirting for everyone to have a good time, and no one expected more. After they left, I gave Amy her present. I had embroidered a campaign ribbon for her. It didn’t look like one—I didn’t want it to, but that’s what I told her it represented. I explained it was what soldiers wore on their uniforms to show where they had fought. It was the only time I ever embroidered, but I’d sewn plenty of ripped clothing. I took my time, and I picked thread to match her eyes. It came out pretty.

After her shower, she called me to her room. She’d lived with me long enough that it was warm and feminine. She stripped me naked and laid me on her bed, and then she took out clothing she thought I’d like best: a knit dress that clung to every curve; a bra that hid everything, but barely; a string bikini that came to just above the trim of her hair; and stockings and a garter belt that showed beneath the knit dress, but who cared? We weren’t going out in public.

She dropped her towel and watched me as she dressed. I gently stroked my hard-on, but not enough that I’d waste anything I had for her. After she dressed, she dried and brushed her hair and tied it in a bun. She put on makeup and a dab of perfume and topped all of it off by pinning on her campaign ribbon. She gave me her camera and had me take a picture of her.

Then she took it all off—in reverse—one slow step at a time.

I was so hard I felt as if I would burst my skin. “I see you’ve got another present for me,” she said.

“Ohhhh,” I groaned. “Please. Let me give it to you.”

“I don’t know. One present a day seems quite enough.”

I flashed on a whore I met on R and R, back when I was a kid. She pretended to love me, she got me excited, and then she asked for money. I walked out. But with Amy, it was different. It wasn’t about money, and I wasn’t walking out. I knew what she wanted; I knew I was going to give it to her.

I put my head in my hands and closed my eyes. I couldn’t do what I had to do and look at her naked, standing in front of me, waiting, but I tried not to see too much of what I didn’t want to remember. “I killed men… with my bare hands… more than once. I had to.”

She came and put me inside her without delay. She knew I needed it quickly: not to forget, but to honor those I killed but never hated. I could just as easily have been them. They could just as easily have been me.

Leslie Loves Lavender — Part 3

February 6, 2011 2 comments

Leslie Loves Lavender was only my third story that was professionally edited, and I was still learning to be a much better writer than I had been. This story strikes me as something of a boyish fantasy and in that regard is somewhat embarrassing, but it departs from that boyish, amateurish, flavor at the end, when naive Leslie has her explosive climax. Mmm hmmm. I know what you’re thinking–Leslie’s climax–but I know something you don’t, and you’ll be surprised.

If you want to read them first here are links to Part 1 and Part 2.

Leslie Loves Lavender–Part 1
Leslie Loves Lavender–Part 2

Leslie and Katie Forced to Put On a Show. Illustration by Juan Puyal.

Leslie Loves Lavender

Part 3 of 3

Chapters 9–10

by Matthew Dyne

*****

Chapter 9. Dinner and a Show

Leslie was a busy woman. Every man who entered got to strip her—completely, if he wanted to, or lift her slip and make her hold it up while he unhooked her bra and took it off her cute breasts, or pulled her panties down. She’d never dressed and undressed so many times in one hour in her life, and each time for a different man or group of men. She was a doll to make naked, and then dress back up.

After a while Jacques brought over the suitcase with her clothing in it, and the men got to choose what they wanted her to wear. Some wanted her in stockings, garters, panties, bra, slip, and a dress—the works. Others wanted her in a thong and nothing else. Some made here parade around naked. One got imaginative and made her take the cloth belt out of her silk robe. He tied it around her waist and ran it down her front between the lips of her pussy, and up the back where he pulled on it and made Leslie walk around on her tip toes under his control. That, she especially didn’t like. And all of them felt her breasts and explored the outside of her pussy, maybe cheating a little and running a finger inside, though they weren’t supposed to.

Meanwhile Katie was setting the table for eighty men by wheeling in carts of dishes and silverware and napkins and glassware and setting them out. She was fuming—All Leslie has to do is get dressed and undressed. I’m doing all the work. It was way past midnight and Katie was getting exhausted, and she still wanted to come awful bad.

When she was done she sat a moment to rest, but her respite was short-lived. More and more men came into the dining area and started pulling out the top of her dress to look in, and then they started feeling her up too.

Both the girls were stripped, poked, and prodded; rubbed, pinched and tickled; stimulated and debased; and manhandled in whatever ways eighty men given free reign over two women could think to do. Other than to screw the hell out of them, which all of them wanted to do except for Emile and his secret gay fuck buddies. It seems like probably we won’t get raped, Leslie thought to herself with some relief. After all, they’re religious men, she thought sarcastically—Evangelicals, the worst twisters of gospel for their own purposes on the face of God’s sick earth.

The food finally arrived, delivered to the hall by more Sons’ of France who wanted a look and feel of Katie and Leslie, just like their pals. Then the men started filing into the dining room and seating themselves, with the most senior members up front by the stage.

“Time to get your clothes off,” Jacques said. Katie and Leslie looked at each other. “All of them—rings too, and your hair bands. Let your hair down, everything. I want you as naked as the day you came into this world.”

Leslie slowly stripped off her slip, for about the millionth time it seemed to her, as the men watched. Katie waited until Leslie was in bra and panties. Katie went next and began to unfasten her dress, it buttoned in the back, and Leslie helped open it. Then Leslie started unhooking her skimpy bra which latched in front. “Let’s do it together,” Katie said. The women took a deep breath. “One, two, three…”

Katie lowered the top of her dress and Leslie took off her bra at the same time. The women’s breasts were exposed to the audience. Cheers erupted, and applause, and catcalls, and lewd remarks about which girl had the finer set of tits. Fullness was compared by those who liked them that way, shape and erectness of nipples by others, the loveliness of particular curves were noted, whose breasts stuck up, which ones aimed to the side, nipple color was discussed, and skin tone analyzed. Eighty men could come up with a lot of comparative anatomy on the loveliness of the breasts of two sexy young women like Katie and Leslie.

“Shit, this is worse than getting felt up,” Leslie said.

“It gets me horny,” Katie replied, “I wish I could come.”

“You’re such a slut. But the guys are right—you do have a nice set. I like your freckles.”

“Oh,” Katie groaned. “You too? Can’t you suck my clit for me?”

“Maybe later, though I’ve never done that.”

“I’d be glad to teach you. It’ll be a learning experience.”

“Get the rest off,” Jacques ordered.

“Oh shit, here goes,” said Leslie.

“One, two, three…” Katie counted, and she pretended to lower her dress while Leslie slipped her panties down to her thighs.

“Hey, you cheated,” Leslie said and started to pull her panties back up while Katie laughed.

“Get them off,” Jacques commanded sternly.

Katie lowered her dress and Leslie took her panties off, and the girls stepped out of their clothing. Jacques had his hand out, and Katie handed him her dress, and Leslie handed him her bra and panties, and a couple of rings and hair bands. “You won’t need these,” Jacques said. “I’ll put them by your suitcase.”

The girls were now separated from all their clothing and possessions, and were naked and vulnerable in the midst of a crowd of eighty fully dressed men. “Now start serving,” Jacques said.

Katie and Leslie had to work very hard, and they were very tired. Their day had started early in the morning when they each awoke to catch their flight out of London. Then they’d been made sleepy by the sun and sand and sea at the beach where Katie had coaxed Leslie into revealing her breasts. It seemed like days ago to them. And then they went dancing, and exposed themselves suggestively to a lot of guys and women, and got a little drunk too. And then they were abducted and stripped and their legs were spread and they were felt up by Jimmy and Beef in the van, and then they had been purposefully aroused to the point of orgasm but not let come. And then different men—many, many different men—had pulled their tops opened and looked down their dresses. They’d been stripped and dressed in different bras, panties, thongs, dresses, skirts, shirts, and jeans. Their nipples had been twisted and pulled, and their breasts squeezed and stroked and scratched, and their pussie’s had had hands all over and in them. They’d had their legs held opened while men poked and examined and discussed their sexual anatomy. And now they were totally naked. Jacques had even taken Leslie’s rings, which she never took off, and which made her feel even more naked. And they were hustling and sweating, and their bare feet were beginning to hurt, as they served dinner to a crowd of eighty horny men. On top of it all, Katie needed to come so bad she felt like crying, and Leslie wanted to come too, but more than being horny she was pissed at Katie for getting both of them into this big mess in the first place (even though she knew it wasn’t really Katie’s fault).

The girls met for a moment in the kitchen. “I’ve got to come,” Katie said. “I’ve got to,” she wailed, and she bent over a butcher-block countertop and spread her legs and stuck her hand into her hot wet gash and began madly rubbing her clit to get off.

Leslie looked out the kitchen door, Jacques wasn’t far away, he couldn’t see Katie but he was looking in their direction. Leslie pulled Katie up and pulled her hand out of her pussy. “Look busy,” she said. “Jacques is coming this way.”

“I was busy,” Katie said, nearly crying for real.

“Take this tray and get out there before he gets mad. He said he’d punish us severely if we didn’t do what he said. It’s for your own good.” Leslie was tired and fed up and was secretly glad to frustrate Katie. Maybe next time she’ll keep her tits in her bathing suit where they belong, she thought. Katie took the tray and began to walk out of the kitchen, but Leslie grabbed her arm. “Did you notice that guy with the black shirt and the pants with the big pleats?”

“I don’t think so. What about him?”

“Do me a favor. See if you can find out if his name is Jean.” Leslie gave Katie a nudge to send her on her way before Jacques came looking for her.

Dinner was finally finished and the women were allowed to sit and rest, but up on stage where the men could still look at them as the Sons cleaned up the dining area. The women were given food to eat and water, and were allowed to go to the bathroom one at a time, but they had to keep the door opened and a group of men who were into that sort of thing watched as they peed and wiped. Katie took it more or less in stride, but Leslie was so embarrassed it took her a long time to let go, and she could only do so when she closed her eyes and buried her head in her hands and pretended that no one was watching.

The Sons had a lot of tradesmen in its ranks—metal workers, woodworkers, and the like, and they had gotten together and fashioned a device they used at dinners like tonight’s, which they put on twice a year. It was a bed, somewhat narrower than a single, a cot it might be called. One end was fastened to the floor, and the other was fastened by ropes to ceiling joists so the cot was at an angle and a woman could be placed on it and displayed as she was stimulated. It had foot rests at the lower corners, and the woman would of necessity have to spread her legs and place her feet on the rests to keep from sliding off. They could also tie her legs opened if she was uncooperative, and tie her arms up as well. A pretty woman fastened in restraint created quite a tasty spread.

They put Katie in first. They didn’t tie her, but forced her to display herself, and Jacques told Leslie to give them a lecture about stimulating a woman. Hmm, Leslie thought, I’m no expert on the subject. The only woman I’ve stimulated is myself. I’ll have to feel my way around the subject so to speak.

Leslie had always been a good student, and she went about the task with the thoughtfulness she applied to any new endeavor, and used her experience with herself as a guide. She was still miffed at Katie though, and decided to take her anger out on her friend. Leslie lectured on, in French of course. What she didn’t know she made up, and she spoke so quickly and with such a sophisticated vocabulary that Katie could only catch about half of what she was saying. The gist of it seemed to be a lot of bullshit as far as Katie could tell, and there wasn’t near enough touching for her liking. She did get a lovely stroking of her breasts—Leslie had a fine and gentle touch, and Katie’s nipples were rolled delightfully though she would have preferred a firmer pressure behind the squeezing. But there was no denying Katie’s panting throaty begging reaction when Leslie stretched out and displayed Katie’s inner labia, while she droned on about them being a woman’s perhaps third or fourth favorite spot. Katie could have killed her. She just wanted Leslie to get on with rubbing Katie to a blinding, blasting, mind-destroying orgasm. Which Leslie refused to do.

“Do it to me, Leslie,” she whispered. “Do it now, please,” but Leslie wasn’t in a charitable mood.

It wasn’t a great show, and Jacques thought it time to have the girls switch places. He sensed there was some tension between them, and he knew from Jimmy that Leslie was a virgin and therefore inexperienced. Let’s turn the tables, he thought, Maybe the other girl will be more enthusiastic.

Jacques ordered them to change places. Katie got off the bed. Shit, she said to herself, I’ve wanted to come since Leslie showed me her breasts a week ago, so it seems, and no one will help me, not even my sexy supposed-friend Leslie—the bitch. She could have helped me if she wanted to.

Meanwhile, Leslie, all of a sudden, became very anxious. It was one thing to have a couple of men strip and feel you up she thought, and another to hustle around serving dinner naked, yet quite another thing entirely to lie on a bed with your legs spread, in front of a huge audience of men, while your friend opens your vagina to the core and pokes around demonstrating how to stimulate you.

Katie wasn’t the only woman who was aroused by the evening’s entertainment and, though Leslie was wet and wanting like Katie, her mental blocks about sex and men made her terribly ashamed of the vulnerable position she was about to be put in. She absolutely, positively didn’t want to be made to climax in front of them. If she did, if she couldn’t hold back despite all her shame, she knew it would be the climax of the evening for everyone. And especially for Katie who, Leslie was sure, had wanted to make her come since they were on the beach together.

Leslie lay on the bed, and slowly, reluctantly, spread her legs and placed them on the foot rests. “Tie her up,” Katie said to Jacques. Katie was pissed.

“No, no,” Leslie screamed, and she became hysterical and jumped up and tried to get away. Katie grabbed her in a big hug, holding Leslie as much to prevent her in her panic from hurting herself as to keep her on stage. Their naked bodies pressed together, never before so intimately and, with that warm and intimate touch, Katie realized again how frightened and out of her element Leslie was. Katie felt a great surge of love for Leslie and, she couldn’t deny, lust too. But love more so, and deep sympathy.

“I’m sorry Leslie. I won’t let them tie you. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have suggested such a terrible thing. Really I am.” Katie looked at Jacques and got up her courage and gave him an imploring look over Leslie’s shoulder, and raised her eyebrows to ask him if he wouldn’t mind not tying Leslie up after all.

Jacques shook his head “Yes, that would be okay,” but he pointed downward as if at a bed, and jabbed his finger at it.

“Come Leslie. You must lie down. Jacques orders it, and you don’t want him to punish you, severely, do you?”

No, Leslie shook her head emphatically, and she turned her head quickly toward Jacques, and then toward the bed.

Katie gently released Leslie and helped her lie down. “Lie on your front,” Katie said. I think it will be okay with the men if I rub your back and make you feel good. Okay, my sweetheart? Will you let me make you feel good?”

“Okay,” said Leslie meekly. She lay as Katie suggested and spread her legs, knowing full well the sight she was presenting.

The men had been making quite a bit of noise when Katie was being displayed, but now even they were wrapped up in the emotional tenderness that seemed to have come over the women, and there were only quiet murmurs from the audience.

“Forget those nasty men are out there.”

“Okay. I’ll try.”

“It’s just you and me.”

“Okay. It’s just you and me.”

“I’ll make you feel good. I’ll show you how. And someday you can do it for me, okay?”

“Okay.”

Katie thought a moment. “I’m going to get something, I’ll be right back.”

“Don’t leave me. Please don’t go.”

“Okay. Okay. I won’t leave you if you don’t want me to,” Katie said soothingly as she stroked Leslie’s back to reassure her. “How about if I cover you up, so the men can’t see you? Could I go away for just a minute to get something to make you feel good, and I’ll run right back?”

“Okay, if you cover me, just for a minute. But hurry, I’m afraid.”

“I’m going to ask Jacques to give me your dress, and I’ll cover you with it.”

“Okay.”

Katie kept a hand on Leslie, and turned and asked, “Jacques, please get Leslie’s dress.”

“Which one?” he asked.

What an idiot, Katie thought. He just doesn’t get it, does he? “Any dress will do,” she said politely.

Jacques had one of the men get a dress. It was one of Katie’s, but she took it anyway, and turned back to Leslie.

“The stupid men don’t know one dress from another,” she whispered. “They got mine. Can I cover you with that?”

“I like your dress.”

“Okay. I’ll cover you with it, and then I’ll go and come right back.”

“Okay, but hurry.”

Katie covered Leslie, not rushing, spreading the dress smoothly and evenly over Leslie and taking special care to drape the cloth between Leslie’s legs so that Leslie knew she was modestly covered there. Katie gave Leslie a kiss, and quickly went to find Leslie’s handbag. The men loved the way her breasts bounced and swayed as she ran.

Katie found what she was looking for, and ran back as quickly as she could, bouncing and swaying delightfully.

“I got your hairbrush,” she told Leslie. “My aunt used to brush my hair for me.” Leslie started to brush Leslie’s hair with long slow strokes. “She loved to do it. I loved it too.” Katie stroked a long, slow stroke again. “It would take her forever.”

“Mmm,” Leslie said. Katie could see Leslie’s shoulders beginning to relax.

“I’m going to ask Jacques to put the bed down.  Okay my love?  That will make you more comfortable.”

“Okay.  That would be more comfortable.”

Katie kneeled at the front of the stage and Jacques came over.  “Leslie is very frightened,” Katie said.  “She’s very inexperienced—I’m trying to get her to relax. Do you think you could put the bed down… please?  I think it would help.”

Jacques shook his head understandingly, and he directed two men to go up onstage and lower the bed.  Katie stood by Leslie protectively, with a hand caressing her back.

After the men left Katie resumed brushing Leslie’s hair, and continued to talk quietly to her. Leslie stopped answering, but Katie knew she was listening. She told Leslie about her childhood, and about her aunt who loved her perhaps even more than her mother, because her aunt had wanted children desperately, but couldn’t have any. Katie was the closest person to a child her aunt ever had.

The men were very quiet. One time one of them made a loud noise and Leslie startled, and started to turn her head to the audience. Katie calmed her, then turned to the men and put a finger to her lips to tell them to keep silent. Jacques nodded his head in agreement.

Katie finished with Leslie’s hair, and she draped the silky strands gently to one side around Leslie’s neck and shoulder. “I love you, Leslie,” she said.

“Mmm” Leslie murmured. It sounded like she was crying. Katie kissed her again, and Leslie lifted her arm and found Katie and gave her a squeeze. Katie took Leslie’s hand and kissed her palm, and laid her arm back down so she would be comfortable.

Katie gently rubbed Leslie’s temples, and then her ears. She took each ear between thumb and forefinger and traced its contours, pulling delicately, and then explored the inner folds with little fingers. She kissed Leslie again on her cheek, and then inside her ear which elicited a plaintive sound that was heartbreaking.

Katie had tucked her dress around and under Leslie so she was still mostly covered. Only her shoulders and arms, legs, and head were exposed. Katie now undraped Leslie’s back down to her waist and began kissing all around Leslie’s neck. Leslie’s neck was very sensitive—the kisses tickled her. She squirmed under Katie’s caresses, but she loved it—Katie could see her smiling. Katie massaged Leslie’s neck and shoulders, and Leslie rolled her head from time to time to allow Katie access to both sides—then Katie began massaging Leslie’s back.

For Katie, massage was not manipulation, but exploration. She massaged a lover’s back with her eyes closed, discovering features as her hands wandered. Sometimes a muscle—she’d stop with interest at the tiniest ones. Sometimes bones, even bones had unnamed finds for her fingertips—protrusions and depressions as individual as eyes, or lips, or labia. And she had many ways to touch skin as she traveled her lover: with hands, with sweet kisses, or by lying on her sweetheart with a full-fleshed pressing of her breasts. When Katie was your lover, she gave you everything.

Katie moved her hands over the dress covering Leslie, never losing contact, moving down to Leslie’s legs. She knew Leslie was afraid of being aroused, but the signs of arousal were there. Katie also knew neither of them had a choice—Jacques expression was unforgiving, and he clearly indicated that he expected Katie to bring the show to a climax. She took her time, and worked from feet on up. When Katie reached the backs of Leslie’s knees, she let out the first of many unrepressed moans. Katie felt it between her legs. She was sure eighty penises twitched.

Katie stroked Leslie’s thighs, outside first, then inside, working her way to where she had desired to give Leslie the best feelings of her entire young life—lust unbearable, but for the love Katie would bring with it. If only the circumstances could be different, Katie lamented—this is no place to experience sex with a lover for the first time. Leslie’s head lifted from the mattress, mouth open, eyes closed. Katie timed her movements in concert with Leslie’s breathing. With each stroke, with each breath, Leslie made a tiny noise of indescribable pleasure that could be heard clearly in the silence of the hall.

Katie removed the dress and dropped it to the floor. Leslie cried out, one sharp note of shame. Katie quickly hugged and held her, and stroked her buttocks tenderly to let her friend know that Katie was with her in her time of need.

Leslie calmed, and Katie released her, and stood and put a hand on each buttock, her thumbs by the crease between them, and she moved her hands along the crease, spreading Leslie’s buttocks gently, stimulating, but trying not to frightening her. Katie was very aware that this was all new to Leslie, that it was the first time another person had touched her lovingly in places Leslie had heretofore only touched herself.

Katie slipped her hand between Leslie’s legs. Leslie spread wide, and Katie stroked the insides of her vulva, long and slow, keeping one hand on Leslie’s lower back and stroking there at the same time.

Katie sensed Leslie was ready. Her arousal was high. Her sounds and movements were in concert with Katie, and the men seemed to have disappeared from her awareness.

Katie put her fingers together and placed them at the entrance of Leslie’s vagina. Leslie raised her butt, tilting her pelvis for penetration. Katie slowly put two fingers in. Leslie wailed a long, drawn-out “Ohhh,” and then another, and another, and she sank back down to the mattress as Katie unselfishly began to treat her to a good girl screwing.

It took a long time for Leslie to approach climax, but her progress never wavered. Her rate of breathing increased steadily, and the noises a woman makes when making love became more intense. Katie let Leslie do most of the work, pleasuring herself on Katie’s fingers at whatever rate, and with whatever motions felt best. And Leslie, after a while, rose up on shins and knees with her legs spread wide to take advantage.

Leslie was ready to travel the last part of her journey. Her motions increased, and Katie reached under Leslie and placed the fingers of one hand on Leslie’s clit. Leslie screamed and rose up high, arching her back, her eyes closed, her head up and her mouth gaping, her legs trembling with exertion, panting deep and fast while she fucked Katie’s fingers  and spread her legs wide to give Katie access to her clit. Sweat and vaginal juice poured out of her.

She was wild with need, but she couldn’t quite get there… couldn’t quite get there… Katie was doing everything she could to stay with her, to help Leslie get where she desperately wanted to go, but Leslie couldn’t quite make it. She was tiring, it was now or never, and Katie did from instinct exactly what Leslie needed.

Katie took both hands out of Leslie’s sweetness and, keeping contact all the time, she came around the side of Leslie, and slid under her, and pulled her down so they melded breasts to breasts, and hugged her. She slipped one hand under Leslie and put her fingers back on her clit, and she kept on hugging Leslie while stroking her that last little bit more she needed. Then she kissed Leslie, hard and full on the lips, a kiss of uninhibited lust and love. She put her tongue deep into Leslie’s mouth and, as she did so, she stopped rubbing, and instead just held Leslie’s clitoris in gentle fingers, giving it tiny, tender squeezes through which she conveyed all the sadness and apology and caring and hope for the future that she could well from within her. And then Katie placed Leslie so their heads were side to side, their cheeks touching, and she whispered in Leslie’s ear, “I love you, my sweetheart. I love you, Leslie…” and Leslie came.

It was not the screaming pretend orgasm of the type of whore the Sons of France were used to. It wasn’t the wild gyrations and spread legs and vulgar humping they’d seen so many times before. It was almost silent. Leslie let out a few quiet cries of release and satisfaction as she pumped a dozen times, more and more gently each. And then she lay still, although her legs stayed tightly locked around Katie’s hand for a long time after. Leslie’s eyes remained closed as her breathing calmed. Only she and Katie had felt the spasms of contractions that accompanied Leslie to a heaven her father never acknowledged.

The girls lay in each other’s arms. The men were respectfully silent. They knew they had seen a show like no other, and one that they would never see again.

It seemed like hours passed before Leslie raised her head and kissed Katie tenderly. “Surely we can go now,” she whispered.

“Yes. I’m sure they’ll let us go. They’ve seen it all.” Katie smiled. Leslie smiled with her.

The girls rose slowly from the bed. Leslie held Katie’s dress over her front to cover herself. “Did you get his name,” she asked? “Is it Jean?”

“Yes. His name is Jean. Why do you ask?”

Leslie stepped to the front of the stage. The men were beginning to get up from their seats. “You,” Leslie screamed—she raised her arm and pointed to the audience. “You,” she said again, moving her arm with its accusing finger slowly across the field of men. “You sinners,” she screamed.

“What are you doing?” Katie whispered loudly, trying to pull Leslie off the stage.

You’ve defiled me,” Leslie screamed. “And you shall pay, saith the Lord.”

“What are you doing,” Katie pleaded?

“Who the hell are you to say God’s word?” yelled out a member of the Sons from the floor.

I am Deborah,” screamed Leslie, and then in a quiet voice she repeated, “I am Deborah, the Lord’s prophet, and the Lord has come to judge you. You are defilers, defilers of women. You have not much time to repent.”

“Who the fuck are you?” someone yelled.

“Bullshit!” someone else shouted out.

“Go home,” shouted another.

Leslie turned and crossed the stage, and came quickly down the steps onto the main floor. Her finger still pointed accusingly, and her arm traversed to take in the crowd as a whole. “I told you who I am. Do you doubt the word of the Lord? Who wishes to doubt the word of the Lord? You?” she asked, pointing to one man. “You?” she asked another? “Do you wish to burn in hell forever because you think I’m a charlatan? Do you?” she shouted. “Who wants to chance it?—for it can be arranged.”

“Go fuck your girlfriend,” a man said, but it was a man on the edge of the crowd, not one of the men near Leslie. For the men near Leslie could see the fires of hell burning in her eyes as she scanned them, and they could feel the radiance of the Lord piercing them as the tip of her finger pointed to each man in turn, and as she looked each of them in the eyes. The Sons of France were no longer so cocky.

Leslie waded into the crowd, her arm still raised. As she moved through them, they pushed back against themselves to avoid being close to her. There was something about her that frightened them—a mysterious mix of God, woman, and psychoses. She still held Katie’s dress in front of her. Other than that, she was utterly naked.

Leslie walked among the men with complete confidence and, more than that, with an air of mastery. The fear they had seen in her earlier had vanished. Her voice was no longer meek—it was piercing, it commanded, and it demanded obedience as if from God himself. When it came to sex, Leslie was an insecure and inexperienced young woman—her parents had seen to that, and they had hurt her in other ways—but, when it came to holding sway over a congregation of sinners and making them understand they were in the house of the Lord, and that the rules of the Lord had been laid down and could not be controverted with impunity—her parents, either of them, were as good as it gets. Leslie had learned from the best.

Leslie waded through the crowd, making her way toward the little man with the black shirt and the pants with the big pleats. As she approached him everyone realized he had been singled out, and he realized it, and he started backing up looking for a route of escape, but she had him cornered—there was no way out. Leslie reached him; he was blocked in against the far wall and between a table and stacks of chairs.

“You,” she said. “You are the worst. You, the messenger of the Lord, shepherd of his flock, their spiritual leader. And here you are, a defiler amongst defilers—you shall be judged most harshly.”

“I don’t believe you,” he said, but he did not sound convinced.

“Jean… Alain… Bouchard. Reverend Jean Alain Bouchard,” Leslie called out, naming him much to everyone’s astonishment. “The Lord comes for you. What saith you now?”

“I say the Lord put women on earth to be men’s servants. The Lord has said so in the scriptures: ‘Let the wives be to their husbands in every thing,’ Ephesians 5:22-24.” The reverend started rattling off scripture. “Women should shut up, just like you: ‘Let your women keep silence in the churches: for it is not permitted unto them to speak,’ 1 Corinthians 14:34-35… Women shouldn’t wear clothing like that dress you came in with: ‘…women adorn themselves in modest apparel, with shamefacedness and sobriety,’ 1 Timothy 2:9.”

“You dare use the words of the Lord, you dare, to rationalize what you just did to me, and to my friend? You tie me up and bring me here against my will, you strip me naked in a hall full of men, and you use God’s greatest gifts of love and sexuality… Don’t look away! Look at me! You take God’s greatest gift to woman and man and you use it against me for your own sick pleasure. And then you dare, you sanctimonious hypocrite, you dare quote scripture to the Lord himself who wrote it? You dare? The Lord sent me here today to give you one chance to repent, and you throw his words at him? You impudent scum. Bow down to the Lord. Bow down now, He saith.”

“Who are you?”

“I am the Lord’s prophet. You don’t believe me? Then look at me! Look… at… me… and tell me I am not the prophet of the Lord our God.” Leslie cast away Katie’s dress and stood in front of the reverend, and spread her arms and legs wide as she did so, and thrust herself toward him. “Look at me!” she commanded.

The reverend looked at Leslie and quailed. He had been looking at her all evening. He had found her very arousing—much more so than Katie—but he had remained in the back of the room, for he was uncomfortable participating in this event which, in his heart, he knew was blasphemous. He was a spiritual man, highly devout by his own reckoning. And yet, he had given in to his base urges, and pressure from the men of his flock, to follow the other Sons.

Now, with Leslie not five feet from him, spread so he could see the supreme gifts God had bestowed on her, the reverend had serious doubts about whether she might not really be a messenger from God. He didn’t believe that she was Deborah reincarnated, or a prophet. That was going too far. But she was some kind of messenger, with a message particularly meant for him. That he could believe. He looked again at Leslie, and this time he saw Eve, innocent and pure. He looked at her again, and saw Eve, sullied and defiled by his hand—he, the snake who had led her into a world of shame and pain.

“Look at me” Leslie said again, now in a quiet voice meant only for him, and she advanced on the reverend causing him to back into the little space left for him. Slowly she came forward, thrusting her body toward him, tempting and castigating him at the same time with the flesh of God’s special creation, and the flesh of the devil, as he tried to shrink from her. And as he cringed, now with his back against the wall and on his knees in supplication, she came to him and stood over him, and she reached down between her legs and thrust fingers deep into her vaginal mucosa, and worked them all around, coating them fully, and she took them out all wet and slimy and brought them toward him.

“No,” he pleaded as he sank to the floor: “Please, God… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I beg your forgiveness…”

But Leslie had no mercy for him. She had had it. She’d had it with her mother and her father, she’d had it with the elders of their church in New York who had poisoned her childhood, and she’d had it with this sanctimonious hypocrite of a prick who had participated indirectly in her abduction, and the abduction of her friend. No, not her friend—more than that. Of her lover, Katie. She lowered her fingers, reached out, and marked his forehead with a handful of slick juice from inside her body. And then she raised her hand from his forehead and lowered it to his cheek, and she laid a trail of slime upon it before she rubbed her fingers dry, back and forth, beneath his nostrils.

“Oh…” he cried in agony. “Oh…” he cried repeatedly in fear and shame before God. Leslie turned her back on him, leaving him in a pose of debasement and contrition.

Without permission Leslie and Katie went to their suitcase and dressed, in modest clothing for the first time since they had gone out dancing practically naked. They packed all their things away and wheeled the suitcase out front. “We’re ready to go now,” Katie said to Jacques.

“You can go,” he said simply—there was nothing more to say.

Chapter 10. Leslie Loves Lavender

Jimmy got Emile and Beef, and they and the two women went out to the van. Jimmy opened the back door and put the suitcase and his own duffel in. Emile drove, and Jimmy sat up front with him. Beef sat in the seat behind the driver and promptly fell asleep. Leslie and Katie sat in the seats toward the rear, and the van took off for the city.

The girls dozed, and sometimes held hands, until they could see the Cannes lights in the distance. Katie quietly got up from her seat. Leslie didn’t know why, but Katie put a finger to her lips and slipped into the rear. It took her no longer than a minute, and then she was back. Leslie gave her a quizzical look, but Katie said nothing.

Jimmy let the girls out in the parking lot under the hotel and unceremoniously dumped their suitcase with them. Without a goodbye, he turned and got back in the van and drove off.

Katie and Leslie took the elevator to their room, wheeled the suitcase in the door, and flopped together onto a king size bed. “I’m so tired,” Leslie said. “I could sleep for a week. I guess we’ll miss most of the conference.”

“The restoration part is the third day. We can still make that,” Katie said without enthusiasm, and with a deep sigh.

“You seem so sad. Is there something the matter?”

“I hate to mention it. It seems so selfish, but I’m still terribly horny.”

“Yeah, I guess I had all the fun,” Leslie teased. “If you’d like me to I’ll return your favor, though I won’t do as good a job as you did, that’s for sure.”

“Would you be willing to now?”

“I’d love to. Turn over and I’ll brush your hair.”

“You’re sweet, but wait—there’s one more thing I want to do for you first. Come on, we’ve got to go downstairs.”

Leslie had no idea what Katie had in mind, but it was morning and light was filling the sky, and the girls were getting another wind.

Katie unzipped and fished an envelope from the outer compartment of the suitcase Jimmy had taken to The Sons, and she took Leslie’s hand and the girls rode the elevator to the lobby. Katie led Leslie to the shop that had caught Leslie’s eye after they had spent the morning on the beach, and after Leslie had generously shared her breasts with Katie. Katie took her right inside.

“Well take it,” Katie said to the bitch of a shop lady. “Go get it,” Katie said to Leslie, and Katie opened the envelope and started counting out three thousand Euros.

Leslie’s eyes lit up. “That’s… that’s Jimmy’s money, isn’t it? You took it in the van.”

“Jimmy’s money? Fuck no, it’s our money—we earned it. Looks like there will be a lot left over too.”

“Finder’s keepers,” Leslie said. “I love lavender.”

“Come on,” Katie said, taking Leslie’s arm and pulling her along as Leslie fondled the dress folded over her arm. “I need you upstairs.”

Leslie Loves Lavender – Part 2

February 5, 2011 3 comments

Leslie in Art Class. Illustration by Juan Puyal.

Leslie is inhibited. It has to do with the way she was brought up. She is having trouble filling in part of her drawing. To find out about that and what happens when she and Katie are abducted, read on.

If you missed Part 1, here’s a link to it:

Leslie Loves Lavender–Part 1

Leslie Loves Lavender

Part 2 of 3

Chapters 5–8

by Matthew Dyne

Chapter 5. Leslie

Leslie’s mother and father were ministers. Their flock was a church in an ultraconservative town in upstate New York. As a child Leslie had grown up highly repressed. She’d first been schooled at home, then in a religious school for young women. She hadn’t been allowed to play with boys since she was ten, and her movements and behavior were proscribed and controlled lest she be an embarrassment to her parents and their church.

Though fiercely controlling and strung tight, Leslie’s mother was artistic, and Leslie had always had art supplies to play with. Art was the only endeavor in which she was allowed to be free. She had talent, and she won accolades in school and in contests.

What saved Leslie from a life of misery, probably by being forced into a marriage of convenience—convenience for her parents that is—was that her mother and father were so isolated from the outside world that, when Leslie said she wanted to go to art school, they were happy to grant permission. If they had known anything about what an art school was like, they would have locked their only child away in a tower.

Leslie left home, and at first was scandalized when she saw how the other students acted, and what the other girl’s wore. But she was a woman now, no longer a girl, and she had needs—powerful sexual needs that burst into bloom as she realized that, for the first time, she was on her own, and free. Like many a repressed young woman she began behaving in ways that were opposed to the dogma she’d been programmed with, but the repression had taken its toll—she’d been wounded—she had limits beyond which she could not go, except in the reaches of her fertile imagination.

Her first big breakthrough came with her first life drawing class. The model was a man, and she’d never seen a man naked, even in pictures. She’d only imagined what one might look like from seeing baby boys and farm animals. For a long time she could only draw the model from the waist up, but her instructor, assuming Leslie’s reluctance was motivated by technical insecurity, ordered her to draw the model’s whole body. She finally ventured down below and sketched his legs and, at the very end of class, drew his penis in. That night, she masturbated freely for the first time.

She had played with herself before, touching herself with compulsions that partly overcame her inhibitions. Over time, she’d brought herself to be quite wet, but she was always afraid her mother would find evidence on the sheets, or smell her secretions in the air. At home, Leslie could never let herself go. But, after that first life drawing class, her floodgates opened. She went home to her apartment and couldn’t stop lying on her bed with her legs spread, rubbing herself in wild abandon. After two hours of practice, she fingered herself to her first orgasm, which frightened her with its intensity. The feelings were unlike anything she’d ever experienced. She was afraid they might never stop. For long moments she couldn’t bear the exquisite agony of even the slightest movement of the fingers pressing on her clitoris. She thought perhaps something was wrong with her, and that she might have to go to the hospital, which was an option without possibility. She wondered if those unbearable sensations would ever stop, and if she would be able to function with those sensations going on between her legs—she didn’t think so.

After the sensations abated she realized what had happened, and she was never the same again. But that was only the beginning of Leslie’s sexual awakening. What really opened her to lust was the first semester of her second year when she took a course named “The Nude From Prehistory to the Nineteenth Century – Art or Pornography?”

The professor of “The Nude” was an old guy, definitely past his prime. Maybe he couldn’t get it up at all any more but, whatever his reasons, he liked to titillate, and he especially liked to titillate the women. The fourth week of class he introduced a collection of slave paintings; by Gerome, Rosati, and others, and then he got the life drawing teacher to talk one of his models into being tied and displayed in a mock slave market, completely naked. They raised her arms and tied her stretched between two pillars. The professor outlined an imaginary scenario: he had the model turn to look over her shoulder, petrified with fear of an imaginary crowd of men approaching her, led by her master, accompanied by a slave master carrying a fierce whip. It was the kind of modeling Katie would have loved to do.

John-Leon Gerome, The Slave market

It was a four-hour class, a tour de force for the model, who was untied every thirty minutes to take a break. By the end of class, she was drenched with sweat. And Leslie was drenched with sweat, and dripping from her vagina. She ran home as fast as her legs could carry her, threw her pads and pens on the floor, ripped her clothes off, jumped into bed, spread her legs wide, and had so many orgasms that she lost count. She kept waking through the night to have more and then, in the morning, as she was leaving for class, she turned around and stripped all her clothes off again, leaving them strewn on the floor as she raced to bed one more time to splay her legs and her worn-out pussy open and do it again and yet again. She missed all her classes before noon. That’s the day she learned what it was like to be really sore.

Yes, Leslie had grown up highly repressed, and her powerful sexual feelings had propelled her to overcome some of her inhibitions, but at first only in the privacy of her bedroom. Leslie’s mother and father loved her, she knew that intellectually, but they rarely expressed love in a way that satisfied Leslie. Her parents, particularly her father, were not well equipped with parenting skills. Perhaps if Leslie had been a son her father might have done better. But he didn’t know how to talk to a girl and, once Leslie reached puberty, he could barely look at her. He fell back on what he was comfortable with, which was to demand accomplishment with perfection, as he defined it, and to enforce his demands with stern admonition. Leslie suffered, always trying to meet the unrealistic goals of her father, trying to obtain his approval—trying to feel loved.

Until Leslie left home, her father, her two uncles, and the church elders were the only men she knew well, and the only ones she was allowed to receive attention from. But Leslie was exceptionally beautiful and, when she got to school, she got attacked, figuratively, by half the guys in her classes—the other half must have been gay. The lines of her curves, the proportions of her body, the grace of its transitions, the symmetry of her features and, above all, the perfection of her skin—perfectly smooth and without blemish—grabbed one’s attention when she walked into a room. Among strangers, double-takes were the norm. Katie had voiced the type of beauty Leslie had when she looked at Leslie’s breasts and said she’d like to have a copy of her in marble: Leslie’s beauty was classical.

Leslie reveled in the attention she now got from the men around her, and she quickly learned how to get more of it. She learned how to use makeup in ways that were subtle, but attractive. She learned how to dress—her clothes were always color coordinated, artistically designed, constructed with quality, and tasteful but sexy. She got from men a lot of what she had always wanted from her father, which was unconditional admiration. But there was a point beyond which she still could not go.

Though Leslie loved to flaunt her body from beneath her clothes, and have men desire her, she couldn’t imagine any circumstance in which she would be willing to let a man see her undressed. Even undressing in front of women she found trying, and in gym class, which was mandatory, she tried to hide herself and change as privately and quickly as she could. Taking her top off for Katie on the Cannes beach was a courageous sacrifice, and the reason she did it—the only possible reason she could ever bring herself to do it—was that she’d fallen in love with Katie. She loved Katie’s free-and-easy ways, her sweet, gentle teasing, and that Katie clearly desired her and made her desire known in kindly and sensitive ways. And also, importantly, Katie was a woman, which meant that Leslie could fall in love without needing to confront that mysterious sexuality of men that intimidated and frightened her. She’d never fallen in love before. She’d never even thought about falling in love with a woman and, though she’d fallen hard, she had yet to realize it consciously.

Chapter 6. Taken For a Ride

They took the women to the parking lot under the Hotel Metropole and parked in an isolated spot. Beef and Emile stayed in the van, hovering threateningly over the women. Jimmy went to their room and collected a suitcase full of clothing and lingerie. He returned, and they were quickly on their way, heading out of town on the highway toward the hills.

Jimmy closed the curtain between the driver and the rear of the van. “Let’s see what we got,” he said, and he turned on the lights. “Let’s look at this one first,” he motioned to Leslie, and he and Beef brought over a couple of boxes to sit on, and they made themselves comfortable by Leslie’s legs.

The women were strapped face down on fully reclined seats, with their arms at their sides. They were strapped at shoulders, waist, and legs, and the strap ratchets pulled the webbing tight so they couldn’t move at all. Leslie’s dress had ridden part way up and her beautiful smooth thighs were exposed. Jimmy rested a hand on the back of Leslie’s left thigh and curved his fingers to the sensitive skin on its inside. Leslie shrieked. “No! Don’t! Don’t!” And she started screaming and crying, and thrashing within her bonds, trying to move away from the hand that had barely touched her. Katie had turned her head, and had watched as Jimmy put his hand on Leslie, and she was as surprised as Jimmy at the extremity of Leslie’s reaction.

Katie called out Leslie’s name, trying to get her attention. “Leslie, Leslie, over here.”

“Don’t let them rape me,” Leslie cried out. “Please, don’t let them.”

“Nobody’s going to rape anybody,” Jimmy said, but neither Katie nor Leslie believed him, and Jimmy’s prick told a different story. Fuck, he said to himself, I’m hard as a fucking rock… If I could get away with it… They’d never do the show… Big Mike—she’d be the last fuck I’d ever get to do. “No one’s going to hurt you,” much, he thought to himself, “but I’m going to feel you good. You’d better get used to it.”

“No!” Leslie protested. “Please, please let us go.”

“I’ll let you go tomorrow. Tonight, you’re going to make me a lot of money.”

Leslie started sobbing. Katie got Jimmy’s attention. “Take my hands out, and take hers out too—I’ll hold her hand.”

Jimmy thought it was a good idea. “I’m going to untie your hands—your feet too,” he said. “Don’t do anything stupid, and I’ll let you stay that way.”

Jimmy and Beef untied the women’s hands and feet, but left straps around their middles. Katie took Leslie’s hand and squeezed it encouragingly. Then she let go, put her hand on Leslie’s back, and petted her soothingly. “Let the man do what he’s going to. I won’t let him hurt you…” If there’s any possible way I can do that, she thought.

Jimmy lifted Leslie’s dress up her thighs exposing the dark hollow between her legs, which were shut tight. Then he lifted her dress over her buttocks and up to her waist. He sat back. He looked at Beef, who looked at him. They both looked at Leslie. She had no panties on.

“Let’s turn her over,” Beef said.

“Just a minute, this is too good.”

Jimmy took Leslie’s shoes off—he wanted to complete the picture. Katie could feel Leslie trembling. “Easy, I’m with you,” Katie crooned, trying to calm Leslie. “I’m with you, my good friend” she said, as she stroked Leslie’s back, caressed her neck, and touched her cheek.

Jimmy was not a complex man. Under other circumstances, he might have jammed his hand between Leslie’s legs and squeezed her hard right from the outset. But he’d never seen the likes of the woman strapped tight before him and even he, with his primitive brain, didn’t want to defile such a rare and pretty creature. He started at Leslie’s feet and slowly stroked his way upward.

Leslie squirmed and squealed, trying to move away, but there was no escape. Katie continued to talk to her, soothing her, telling her that her friend was with her. Jimmy reached the apex of his travels and forced his hand between Leslie’s legs, which she was trying desperately to keep closed. He firmly gripped her, and then squeezed, rhythmically stimulating her. Leslie fought as hard as she could to repress her sexual feelings, but it didn’t take long before her distress at being exposed and felt turned to distress at becoming aroused.

It was horrifying and humiliating, because it was brought on by a man. A strange man. A brutal man who had kidnapped her. The first person, other than herself, who had ever touched between her legs.

“Oh” she said.

“Oh… Oh…” she said with each deep breath, despite how hard she wanted not to give the man the satisfaction. She couldn’t help it—for the first time the hand of another person was squeezing her vulva, and in a way which she had never done to herself. It was too much to resist. When he started squeezing her between thumb and forefinger around her clitoris she became so humiliated by her own reactions that she wished she could die.

Katie was jealous. She wanted it to be her hands treating Leslie to her first orgasm to come from another person, and she decided to do something about it. “Hey,” she shouted. “That’s enough. Leave her be.”

Her words pissed Jimmy off, so he came and smacked her on the back of her head. But, even before he smacked, the shock of Katie’s words brought Leslie back from where she had fast been heading. She was glad of it because, even though she’d been in the throes of powerful sexual feelings, she didn’t want to be brought to orgasm by Jimmy any more than Katie wanted her to be.

“Maybe you want your turn,” Jimmy said to Katie. “You don’t want your girlfriend to have all the fun, is that it?”

“Where are you taking us?” Katie asked, hoping to distract him.

Jimmy smacked her on the back of the head again. “Ow” Katie said. “That hurts.”

Jimmy motioned Beef over and they held Katie down and strapped her arms again, and then Jimmy lifted her dress up to her waist. Her wispy blue panties were exposed, barely more than a ribbon covering her pussy. Each man took a leg and spread her wide. She didn’t fight them—she didn’t want to be smacked again. Jimmy slid his hand under the ribbon covering her sex.

His fingers pushed against her, and he slid his hand far up with his middle finger exploring her crease. He rubbed gently but insistently, not hurting her, but teasing her purposefully. It wasn’t long before he felt her becoming wet, and heard her sounds of arousal and distress, even as she tried to hold her feelings in check.

Katie now felt Leslie’s hand on her shoulder, and on her back, and then on her neck and cheek—calming, petting and soothing her as she had done to Leslie. She felt love, and caring, and ministering—those things that had been so thoroughly and finely inculcated into Leslie during her upbringing. Leslie had rejected God as her parents knew him, but she had learned from her parents how to bring God, as she knew God, to others. Through her touch, Katie was pulled towards her emotionally in a way more powerful than even those compulsions excited by the stroking of her sensitive pussy. Katie grabbed onto Leslie and her caring, not with her hands, but with her feelings, and it allowed her to be distracted enough to repress her sexual stimulation and not become orgasmic. It was tough going, but Katie forced herself to stop responding to Jimmy. She looked at Leslie. “Thank you” she mouthed silently.

“I love you,” Leslie mouthed back. Tears filled both girls’ eyes.

Chapter 7. Katie

Katie had a strong sexual nature. She liked sex a lot, even more than her friends seemed to. Sex was a strong thread in her artwork, it was never far from her thoughts, and she knew that intense desire was a trait inherited from a line of women stretching back at least as far as her great-grandmother.

Katie’s great-grandmother was born in 1895, and was an activist in the Free Love movement during its heyday. She would have called herself a Communist, though it didn’t mean the same then as it does now. The most important thing it meant to her was that she was free to have sex with anyone she wanted to, and society could fuck itself.

Katie’s grandmother was born in 1918, and was a Socialist, active in the labor movement of the Thirties, but what being a Socialist meant to her was the same as what being a Communist meant to her mother: that she was free to enjoy sex without inhibition, and the mores of the day be damned.

Katie knew her grandmother well. She’d taken care of her until she died a few years previously. And her grandmother told Katie how much she liked sex, and she told Katie many funny and lusty stories such as about the day Katie’s grandmother and grandfather had been discovered screwing before they were married, because someone had come to the door, and Grandpa had to answer, but in his rush he didn’t put on his belt which he always wore.

“Don’t ever take any shit over sex from anyone,” her grandmother said to Katie. She didn’t mind using coarse language either. “Don’t get yourself in trouble, but have as much sex with a good man, or a good woman, as you want, and never regret it.”

Katie’s mom turned twenty in the sixties. She was a hippy flower child in the era of The Pill, before herpes and Aids put a damper on licentiousness. Katie’s mom had learned about sex from her mother, and also loved it in a wild and uninhibited way, and Katie knew that the gene that had done it for her great-grandma, her grandma, and her Ma, was not recessive.

“I’m going to let you sit up,” Jimmy said, “but I’m tying you to your seats. “No fucking around. You do what I say, and you’ll get home none the worse for wear. No one’s going to rape you—no one’s going to hurt you.”

Jimmy and Beef turned Leslie over first, and put her seat up and let her sit comfortably, but with a strap around her waist buckled behind the seat where she couldn’t reach it. They tied her wrists to the arms of her chair and wouldn’t let her pull her dress down. It was still bunched around her waist, but she kept her legs closed. She couldn’t hide the upper fringes of hair peeking out enticingly, though.

Katie was tied likewise, with her dress around her waist, and Jimmy stripped her panties from her. “Let’s see the front view,” Beef said excitedly.

The men pulled their boxes over to Leslie first. Each took one of Leslie’s legs and they spread her wide. Leslie groaned with embarrassment, and kept her eyes toward Katie, who tried to smile encouragingly. The men were agog and, when Katie looked down between Leslie’s legs, she was too. Three mouths opened. Three jaws dropped.

Katie had never seen anything so beautiful. Leslie’s sexual center was as perfect as the rest of her classically formed figure. The outer lips were white vignetting to the bright pink of her arousal, and were accented and adorned with waves of curly auburn fluff. The leaves of her inner labia were formed and tinted as if by a goddess—their color that of the purest coral, their shape like the waves of the fluted hem of that lovely dress Leslie wanted so badly; and those coral petals forming her most private entrance, now all wet and wanting, were arranged in an oval of perfect symmetry. Her clitoris, hooded too in pure coral pink, was as perfectly smooth as a mountain ridge adorned with the melting snows of a spring thaw, and thrust up as a range risen from great Mother Earth.

And Leslie’s clitoris itself, its tip just barely peeking from the smooth folds of its hiding place, teased them all. Katie could barely contain herself. Her nature drew her yearningly toward that sweet soft nubbin—she wanted her lips around it, her tongue tasting Leslie, and giving her all the pleasure that Katie could ever hope to offer. Katie moved unconsciously toward Leslie until her bonds restrained her.

Jimmy reached to touch that sweet clitoris peeking out from hiding. Everyone watched as he moved his hand, finger pointing, toward it. Leslie shrieked, “Don’t! No! Don’t!” But it didn’t stop him and, when he touched it, she arched up as if electrified and screamed “Nooo!” She tried as hard as she could to get away. Jimmy had his fun with her, for a long time, making her scream repeatedly, while Katie looked on with jealousy and anger.

Then they turned to Katie, and Jimmy and Beef directed their attention to her as the van hurtled down the highway. “Open your legs,” Jimmy ordered. He wanted to humiliate her by making her expose herself. Katie raised one leg and opened wide, and set her leg to rest upon her bound wrist.

Jimmy looked at Katie, Beef looked at Katie, and Leslie looked at Katie, and again three jaws opened slack. When everyone looked at Leslie their thoughts were that no woman, between her legs, could be more beautiful; and as unrealistic and nonsensical as that claim might be, it was close enough to true to make the point. But the view of Katie was something else, something vastly more elemental, something that excited primitive urges lurking deep in the recesses of the collective unconscious of men and women alike. It was a view of raw femininity stripped to its core.

Katie sat with one leg up, not both. Both would be vulgar and, though Katie didn’t want to excite those men and give them what they wanted, she couldn’t help herself, for that’s the way she was—sexuality embodied. She sat with one leg up, spread open, her pubic hair wet and in disarray, her face up, her chin out, her expression fearful but trying to be courageous. She didn’t know what they would do to her, but she knew that if they started exploring her, and didn’t hurt her, she might not be able to resist her urges, and she’d be shamed in front of Leslie.

While Leslie’s vulva were small, tightly closed, and raised so you could imagine gripping and squeezing them between the fingers of your closed fist, the swell of Katie’s was wide, and her lips would open even if her legs were only slightly parted. The flesh inside looked raw and wet, her hair was wild and full of loose curls. Though she tried to fight the men when they took her, now she was frightened, yet though she was frightened of what they might do to her, and that there was no escape, she still emanated the message “Fuck Me.” She wished she could turn it off, but she couldn’t.

Jimmy pushed her leg down, and he even pulled down her dress—the view was too much for him. He wanted to fuck her badly and, in other circumstances he would have, and forcefully if he had to. But, because of his need to deliver her in a condition in which she could participate in what awaited the women, he couldn’t take her now, and to look at her without taking her was more frustration than he could stand. So Jimmy did the next best thing. He sat behind Katie’s chair and pulled its lever and reclined her, and he put his hands into the bib over her breasts, and under the lace trim of her bra and into the cups nestling Katie’s fruit, and he punished her by giving her breasts a good feel all over, and by pulling her nipples and tweaking them until they plumped and hardened, and he heard her panting and other sounds she couldn’t help but make. He figured he’d gotten the best of her.

Chapter 8. Sons of France

“No one’s going to get raped. No one’s going to get hurt. I’m getting a hundred euros a head to have you serve dinner and put on a show for the guys.”

Katie was frightened. She imagined what kind of show they would want, and didn’t trust that anyone could guarantee things wouldn’t get out of control. Leslie was frightened too, and mortified by the idea that she would have to be naked and on display as a form of entertainment for a group of men.

Jimmy and Beef went forward to talk to Emile. Katie put her leg out toward Leslie and grabbed the hem of Leslie’s dress between her toes and pulled it downward. Leslie raised her butt to help, and between the two of them they got Leslie covered up. “Thank you,” Leslie said. “What are we going to do? I can’t stand this.”

“We’re going to stick together. Whatever they do, I’ll be there with you. Try to lean on me.”

“You’re so much better at this than I am.”

“It’s not like I get a lot of practice.” Both girls laughed.

The van came to a stop in an alley next to a church. Jimmy and Beef unstrapped the women and took them out, and Emile walked to the back of the van to get the suitcase of clothing that Jimmy had taken from the women’s hotel room. Leslie, being an expert on Christian art and architecture, was momentarily distracted by the church which she identified as Romanesque, circa 1100—old, cold, musty and dark.  Also being an expert on Christianity and its denominations, and personally experienced with the running of a small town church, she studied a sign by the church side door and gleaned a lot of information from it, among which was that the congregation was Evangelical. “Humph,” she said to herself with a scowl on her face. Katie wondered what she was thinking.

The men hurried the girls, treating them roughly, not into the church but to a building on the opposite side of the alley. A sign at its entrance proclaimed, “Sons of France.”

Once inside, the door was locked and guarded to prevent entry by unexpected persons, such as someone’s wife. The police would not be a problem—the police chief was present, though not in uniform—he was a Son of France too. Katie and Leslie were handed over to a group of men. They were all well, though informally dressed. Jimmy left to get the head count and get paid. Beef sought out Big Mike, who was a friend of his—birds of a feather. Emile went to find a friend too. If truth be known, he didn’t like women, though he wouldn’t admit that to Jimmy or the other men. He knew a few of his kind in the Sons, and went looking for them.

“Thank you girls for coming,” the leader said. “My name is Jacques.”

“We didn’t come willingly,” Leslie said. Her French was much better than Katie’s. Where she’d grown up the population was American and French Canadian, and there were more French Canadians in her father’s congregation than not. French and English were equally her first languages. “We were abducted. Please let us go.”

Jacques seemed to consider her request, but Leslie saw him staring at her nipples which were clearly revealed through her lingerie dress, and she put her arm across them in embarrassment. “Please,” she begged, and tears filled her eyes. But her begging made Jacques’s cock harden. She saw him adjust himself, and knew that begging would only further engorge him.

“Take your arm down. ’Don’t hide yourself, or I’ll punish you severely. I may anyway—it’s something I like to do. I advise you not to provoke me. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Leslie said meekly, lowering her arm and her eyes. From birth she had been programmed to defer to men in charge, and she accepted his order as something to be obeyed. I wonder what he means by “punish,” and by “severely,” she thought with dread. I don’t like pain, I can’t take it, I hate going to the dentist. A new rush of fear burst forth along with a flood of new tears. Jacques noted her teardrops, which she tried to wipe from her eyes with her arm. He smiled sadistically.

“Nice dress,” he said. “Take it off.”

Katie felt sad as she watched Leslie being forced to strip. There was nothing she could do to help her, and she felt guilty because she found Leslie being stripped arousing.

Jacques grabbed Leslie by her upper arm and held her tightly while his hand felt all over her ass. Then he slid it under her legs, forcing her to spread. His fingers played at the entrance to her vagina, going in a little way and circling to open her. Then he put two fingers up inside her, and bent her forward and fucked her with them until she was nice and wet.

“Oh… oh…” she squealed, as she tried not to hump in time to his probing, wanting to get away, yet finding it difficult to be able to resist the heretofore unknown pleasure of a man’s, or even a woman’s, fingers exploring her vagina. It was horrible, but it felt so good, and her reactions shamed her. “Oh, God…” she kept saying to herself. “Oh, God… Oh, God”…” she panted as she squirmed. And then she squealed, “Oh… Oh… Oh…” as Jacques found a particularly sweet spot.

“You like that, don’t you?”

“Ohhh,” she answered, out of control and panting. Jacques had a much more refined touch than Jimmy. Katie watched Leslie approaching her orgasm while Katie waited her turn.

Jacques took his fingers out of Leslie and began rubbing her clit, sliding its hood over the clitoris beneath. He was good at it—he’d had a lot of practice. Leslie was panting and rutting, and with every breath the sound of a woman being fucked would sing in the high reaches of her vocal cords, and harden the cock of every man within earshot, and flood the pussy of Katie and inflame her jealousy.

Leslie started squealing and thrusting in earnest. Jacques knew she was close. And then, he tortured her. He pulled away, turned her quickly with his forceful grip on her bicep, and spanked her ass hard with a big roundhouse smack that raised her off the ground with its splat. “Ahhh!” she screamed. The blow burned terribly.

She was full of all kinds of feelings—the tumescence of her sexual tissues, the emotional pain of her abduction, her humiliation, the frustration from unfulfilled lust—albeit abusively induced—and the sting of the spanking on top of that. She grabbed Katie in desperation trying to hug her for comfort. “Oh, Katie,” she implored, “Help me”…”

Jacques laughed and pulled her away. “Find a bra and panties in that suitcase of stuff you brought, and a slip, a short one if you’ve got it. Put them on. That’s all you get to wear for now. Your job is to greet men as they come in the door. And, if they want to look you over, you let them. Understand?

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

“That’s right. Yes, sir. And it’s ‘Yes, sir’ to every man in here.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll great the men at the door” she said, still breathing hard, but receding from the intensity of her stimulation and spanking.

“Take the men’s coats. Hang them up. Take their briefcases. Get them a drink. Anything they ask for. Make yourself useful.”

“Yes, sir,” said Leslie, while thinking to herself, Anything they ask for? The other thing she was thinking was, I wish I was in my bed all by myself and I could come, and then hide under my covers and sleep for a week.

“You’re next,” Jacques said to Katie.

Jacques pulled Katie over to a row of chairs. He sat on one, and laid Katie over his lap, face up. He worked the top of her dress down to her waist, and the bottom up, and he spread her legs wide, one tucked behind the row of chairs, and one on the floor, exposing her completely. “Put your arms over your head.”

Katie stretched her arms out straight as Jacques had ordered, and Jacque took his time exploring her as a group of men watched. He started at the swell of her abdomen and ran his hand over its sensitive skin, and then he put his finger in her navel and poked her to get her to squirm and try to pull away, but he wouldn’t let her. He held her tightly with an arm around her holding her on his lap. Then he explored and played with her breasts, trying to gauge which one was the more sensitive, which nipple got the more erect, and which parts yielded the greatest reaction. Besides her nipples, Katie liked to have the sides of her breasts stroked, and Jacques was quick to discover that and take advantage of it.

Then he moved on down to her mons, and he smoothed over and patted it, teasing Katie by not moving to those parts she now badly wanted touched. He’s not going to let me come, she thought. This is hell.

Then Jacques ran his fingers up and down her slit, opened the lips of her cunt, and ran his fingers up and down its insides making her wetter and wetter, and more and more wanting to get fucked for real. If he wants to fuck me I’ll let him, she thought. It would be worth it. Oh, please let me come.

“What did you say,” Jacques asked?

“I want to come so bad. Please let me come, Mr. Jacques, sir. Please” she begged, now humping his fingers with serious intent.

Jacques put his fingers in the opening of her vagina, and Katie let out an “Oh,” or an “Ah,” with each gasp of breath as she tried to fuck the fingers he maddeningly wouldn’t put in.

Then he did, and he fucked her slowly, pushing all the way in, and then out, searching for and running his fingers along the ridge behind her clit with each stroke. “You want to come?”

“Yes, sir… Yes, Yes. Please, please,” she begged, now bucking wildly.

But he wouldn’t let her. He wouldn’t let her get any further than that, and Jacques rolled Katie off himself and tumbled her unceremoniously onto the floor. She wound up on her hands and knees. “Ohhh” Katie moaned in frustration, looking up at Jacques imploringly.

“Save it for later” he said.

“I could come now and later, if you let me.”

“I bet you could. Get up. I want you in a dress. The nicest one you’ve got that when you bend over I can see down the front. No panties. I want to see all the way down the front. Do you understand?

“Yes, sir” Katie said quietly as her head lowered in submission and resignation. Her bright red pussy wept for attention.

Leslie Loves Lavender–Part 1

February 4, 2011 2 comments

This is a long three part story that I wrote in 2005. It was the third story I wrote for RuthiesClub.com (no longer in operation). RuthiesClub contracted an artist to illustrate each story it published.

Leslie and Katie on the Beach. Illustration by Juan Puyal.

Leslie Loves Lavender

Part 1 of 3

Chapters 1­–4

by Matthew Dyne

*****

Chapter 1. New Jobs

Her boss had taken sick—that’s what he told the owners. They said he was out with the flu, but Katie knew he was out with the floozy—his new secretary who’d been there a month but was already fucking for a promotion. God, his taste in women sucks, she thought.

All of that was okay with Katie—his bad fuck was her good luck, because the owners sent her to The Cranston Gallery in Westford to help hang a show of late eighteenth century watercolors. Not many twenty-eight-year-olds got to handle a collection of that stature.

By the time she got back, her boss and the floozy had been discovered and fired, and Katie got a promotion.

“You’ve been doing a wonderful job Katie,” Mr. Fahrno, one of the owners said. “They liked your work at Abbot Hall so much they made a point of calling and telling me. Thanks for the good job—they’re a big client.”

Katie knew she had done a good job. She had been inspired by the paintings, and the gallery had been impressed by the creative ways she had grouped them. But the reason for the phone call was that the curator she’d worked with, Jeff Daniels, had wanted to fuck her in the worst way and, though she had politely declined, she’d let him down easy. He wanted to show he appreciated it. She knew he was laying groundwork for the future.

Yes, Katie was a good-looking woman, very good-looking, and full of sexual energy. It was so evident that it made a lot of men nervous to be around her—they wanted to get in her pants, and they were afraid it would show. Men couldn’t keep their eyes from her curves, and Katie knew that many of them used her in their fantasies.

“We want you to manage projects,” Mr. Fahrno continued.

“I’m flattered,” Katie said, “but don’t you think I’m a little inexperienced to be a project manager?”

“You’re short on experience, but your work speaks for itself, and it isn’t only Cranston. I’ve seen you do it all—curate shows, manage restoration, write catalogs. We have a lot of faith in you.”

“Thank you. This is a big step up for me. I don’t suppose there’s a salary increase to go with the fancy new title, is there?”

“As a matter of fact there is. We’re going to pay you what we were paying your boss—Mr. Couldn’t-Keep-It-In-His-Trousers. You always did his job anyway.”

“How about a secretary? I don’t think I can do all three jobs myself.”

“Secretaries are an old-fashioned idea. We’re modernizing. We’re hiring you an assistant. The two of you should be able to juggle a couple of projects.”

“That sounds great. Thank you very much. I won’t let you down. Would you like me to write up a job description for my assistant so we can start interviewing?”

“We already picked someone. She just graduated college. She’s very smart and has a strong background in religious art, which we’re weak on. She’s an American. I hope you like her.”

Katie was thrilled with the promotion, her head was already filling with new ideas, but she wished she could have been consulted regarding an assistant who she was supposed to work with on a daily basis. I hope I like her, Katie thought.

To be the object of men’s fantasies thrilled Katie—it aroused her to tease men and not let them touch her. What aroused her more, though, were women. She would be glad to have someone who was intelligent and hardworking as a colleague, but she would have liked to choose her partner herself, and find someone who might also be a friend. They may be modernizing, she thought, but not enough to think my opinion worthwhile. I hope they didn’t pick some bimbo like that last girl.

“Four weeks from now we’re sending the two of you to France…” Katie’s ears perked up. “There’s a conference on restoration we want you to attend. We’re going to be getting more into that end of the business, so pay attention.”

“Of course I’ll pay attention.”

“What I mean is, this conference is in Cannes, and there are a lot of distractions there for two young women. Business first, then you can have fun.”

“Trust me. I won’t get into any trouble.” I wonder who this girl is you’re sending me with, she thought. Cannes sounds fantastic, I’ve never been there, but it’s going to be a drag if I have to play nursemaid to some snot-nosed American brat. Mmmm, they have nude beaches in Cannes.

Chapter 2. Birds of a Feather

Katie’s first thought when she saw Leslie was: Wow, she’s cute. Her second thought was: Wow, she’s cute.

They were both cute, and from the rear, if it wasn’t for the color of their hair, their figures were so similar that you might have thought them twins. Leslie’s hair was dark, almost black, and glistened like ripples of moonlight on a still lake. Katie’s hair was golden—bright as sunshine. Their tresses cascaded like falls down the bones of their backs, and if you could ever see them walking naked together you’d see cascades swish side to side in time to their sashay, and though many a foolish man would disagree, I say you’d enjoy glimpses of finely sculpted scapula as sensual as any breasts.

The curves of their torsos flowed to waists I longed to smooth my fingers down, and out to hips, chalices of their fertility. And, were I invited to touch even those chaste curves, or even not to touch but just to gaze upon, I would live my life to its end and never want again. And down below, cute as cute can be, two sets of rounded, full-fleshed buttocks—Leslie’s with little shadowed dimples high upon them, and Katie’s running down to parted thighs that drew me into realms I longed to share, but sadly, was not invited to go.

And that was only the rear view, which I was once given privilege to see, if but in a photograph—an image forever burned into the cells and neurons of my memory. I’m a lucky man already, I ask no more, but I digress. That is my story, not the story I wish to tell.

Leslie and Katie introduced themselves and shook hands, and sat and chatted. Their first impressions were pleasing—they thought they could work well together. Katie thought it would be nice if they could be more. She fantasized how nice it would be if they could be much more, but she was a sensible young woman—she knew how to keep reign on reality, and wasn’t about to go down the road of her slimy ex-boss. That didn’t mean that she gave up on finding out about her new colleague, and vice versa. Learning about each other is a woman’s way. Nice shirt she’s wearing, thought Katie, Nice bra too. Not like she’s giving much away, but enough to show she’s got what’s worth the getting. I would love to help her take it off. I wonder if she’ll go to the beach with me.

Chapter 3. Beach at Cannes

Katie and Leslie flew to Cannes, chatting all the way, and checked into their hotel. Mr. Fahrno’s company didn’t consider them important enough to reserve separate rooms, but they liked each other, and were happy to share one. It was first class, with a balcony and an ocean view. Katie took Leslie’s hand and brought her outside for a look. They could see the ocean, feel the sunshine on their faces, and smell the sea air. “I can see what Mr. Fahrno meant when he told me not to get distracted.

“I could listen to the sound of the waves all day,” said Leslie.

“The conference doesn’t start until tomorrow.”

“We’re supposed to study.”

“It’s all just common sense,” said Katie. “To a couple of smart girls like us” she added.

“All just common sense,” Leslie affirmed, and then she pointed to a group of women lying on the sand. “Are you going to take your top off?”

Katie shook her head yes. “Definitely, yes” she said.

“What about all those men? I don’t think I can.”

“You don’t have to. We’ll just go down there and you can see how you feel. Plenty of women keep their tops on.”

“What about you? You don’t mind?”

“I like it. They can look but they can’t touch. What do you think that does to them?”

“It drives them crazy.”

“Exactly. They want us, but they can’t have us. Can they?”

“I love teasing, I really do, but with my clothes on. I’d be embarrassed to show myself like that.”

“Well you shouldn’t be. You have a great body.”

“You think so? It’s not as nice as yours.”

“Are you kidding? I’d take yours in a minute. Want to trade, just for the day?”

Leslie laughed. “Let’s go down to the beach. It seems the guys go nutty no matter what I’m wearing. The two of us will probably draw a crowd.”

Leslie changed into a bikini in the bathroom, and Katie changed into hers by her bed. Leslie came out in a cover-up, but you could see right through it. I’ll be disappointed if I can’t get her to take her top off Katie thought. Her breasts are gorgeous, though she hides the details. I hope she doesn’t always change in the bathroom. I wonder if she’ll let me come in to get my hairbrush when she’s in the shower.

The women went down to the beach and got towels from the hotel staff, and they found a nice spot, back from the main promenade and relatively secluded. Katie was hopeful that with the sun and the sounds of the sea Leslie would relax enough to let herself go. She’s quite conservative, Katie thought. Her suit doesn’t reveal much, but it is very stylish, and very sexy. She’s definitely not comfortable being naked in public.

“I’m a blond,” Katie said. “I’ll burn to a crisp if I don’t cover myself with lotion. You wouldn’t mind helping out would you? Be glad to return the favor.”

“The old suntan lotion trick, huh? A boy once tried that on me and nearly got my foot where it hurts.”

Katie suffered a pang of disappointment. She’s straight after all, she thought. Damn, that would be a shame. I’m here in Cannes, all expenses paid, with a sexy friend, and she likes men. Maybe she’s bi? Maybe she’d enjoy a full body massage no matter what she is—I’d give anything to rub oil all over her.

“If you don’t want to… I’ll just have to do it myself,” Katie said.

“No, I’d love to give you a rub. Why don’t you take your top off now? You obviously can’t wait to show them off.”

“Just a minute, I’m going to wait until those guys get closer.”

Leslie rolled her eyes in disbelief.

Katie waited until the two guys walking past them were close. She pretended not to notice them, but she could tell they were looking right at her, and even more at Leslie. Then she reached behind herself and pretended to be having trouble with the tie of her top. “Would you untie me?” she asked Leslie, loud enough for the men to hear.

“There’s nothing I’d like better than to help you take your top off for these two nice men,” Leslie said teasingly.

Katie gave her a dirty look, and showed her disgust to the two men while pointing toward Leslie with her head, but it didn’t stop her, and she held the cups of her top on her breasts as Leslie pulled open the bow, and then Katie took it off and revealed her breasts to the men. She shook out her hair and her breasts bobbed sympathetically. “Thank you dear,” she said to Leslie, and she gave the men a wink, but then she turned on her stomach and lay down to indicate she wasn’t inviting company.

Leslie surprised her. Without warning, she loaded her hands with suntan lotion and straddled Katie, sitting right on her buttocks, and proceeded to spread oil and rub it firmly all over her back and neck and arms. Katie was in heaven. Besides the feeling of Leslie’s hands all over her body, …at least my upper body, she thought, she could also feel the hot crease of Leslie’s spread vulva pressing into the cheeks of her ass. Katie started getting wet. She couldn’t imagine that Leslie wasn’t too.

When she was done, Leslie slid off and put the lotion bottle next to Katie and said, “You can do your front yourself. We are on a public beach you know.”

“Want me to do you,” Katie asked hopefully?

“We dark-skinned girls don’t need it,” Leslie said. She could see that Katie was disappointed, and she was sorry she didn’t say “Yes” whether she needed lotion or not. But as she had been massaging Katie’s strong back and shoulders she had, as Katie hadn’t failed to notice, been inadvertently massaging her spread pussy on Katie’s tight backside. She could feel the wet spot that had developed in the crotch of her suit. “Lotion your front and I’ll meet you in the water,” Leslie said. She left Katie, ran down the beach, and quickly jumped into the sea.

Katie finished oiling herself. Her breasts glowed with the polish she’d given them. Her nipples were aroused, but not nearly as much as they could be. Even Katie would be embarrassed walking through a crowd with her nipples looking the way she knew they could get, but she strolled slowly enough that every man she passed could take his time to memorize her loveliness, so he could take her home in memory and fuck her at his leisure.

They swam and cavorted in the sea, and then walked back to their nest, laughing playfully—the one who was remembered for so blatantly displaying herself, and the other, her friend, chaste and modest. It was more erotic than if they’d both been bare.

They lay on their backs under their umbrella, away from the crowd near the water, and Katie took a risk, put her arm under Leslie’s neck, and cupped Leslie’s shoulder with a light touch. She was rewarded—Leslie touched her back—tentatively, resting the back of a hand against Katie’s thigh. I’d love it if she’d like to go further, Katie thought. I really like her—she seems to like me.

“Do you want to take your top off now,” Katie whispered? “I think you’d like the feel of it.”

“I know I’d like the feel of it. I love walking around my apartment without a top on, but I’m too hung up to do it in public.”

Katie gave Leslie’s shoulder a friendly squeeze, and Leslie, to Katie’s surprise, turned on her side, came close, and put her arm over Katie in a modest hug. And, much less modestly, she snuggled her face into the curve of Katie’s neck. They lay together, each with an arm around the other, enjoying the touching of their skin and being held.

Leslie put her lips close to Katie’s ear and said very quietly: “I’ll show my breasts just to you.”

“You don’t have to. Really, I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

“I want to. We’re here in Cannes, I’ve never even been in Europe before. I feel like being adventurous. I want to have fun.” Then Leslie touched her lips to Katie’s ear and whispered, “I want to be naughty.”

Katie didn’t know if she should encourage Leslie. She wanted to encourage her. She wanted very badly to be sexual with Leslie, but she wondered if she’d been too pushy, and if Leslie was only offering to show herself because she’d been pressured.”

“I know you want to see them,” Leslie said.

Katie smiled. “What makes you say that?”

“You’ve been looking at them all day.”

Katie laughed. “You caught me! What can I say? Well if you really want to… I think you’re beautiful.”

Leslie took a deep breath, and let it out slowly between pursed lips. “I’m going to cover myself with a towel.” She covered up and, beneath her towel, she untied the bow holding her top together, and slid its straps off her shoulders. “I’m giving this to you for safe keeping,” Leslie said with a flirtatious smile. She slipped her top out from under the towel and gave it to Katie. “Don’t run away with it, okay?”

“How about if I walk down the beach a little way, like to those guys over there, and lend it to them for a while? I’m sure they’d be glad to give it back to you if you asked them nicely.”

“Don’t you dare,” Leslie said, looking scared for real, like Katie might actually do it, being the tease that she’d been when she took her top off in front of the two men. Katie tried to give Leslie back her top, but Leslie wouldn’t take it. They started pushing it at each other, each refusing to hold on to it, and Leslie’s towel nearly fell off and she only grabbed it at the last second. They giggled, and looked around, but no one seemed to have noticed their playful tussle.

“Okay,” Katie said. “I’ll keep it safe for you. No man’s touch shall ever cross your precious bra. Now let me see them.”

They lay on their sides, facing each other, and Leslie lifted the towel so that only Katie could peek under, and she kept it that way for a long time while Katie studied her. “What a body you’ve got,” Katie said. “I’m jealous. I’d like to have a copy of you in marble.”

“Those girls had really hard nipples.” They both laughed. “Thank you for the compliment.”

Katie stretched and yawned. It made Leslie yawn too. “The sea air makes me sleepy,” Katie said.

“Mmmm.”

“Why don’t we get a bite to eat, and then take a nap? Sleeping during the day is so luxurious.”

“I can’t imagine,” said Leslie. “The last time I slept during the day I must have been a baby.”

“Then we’ll be all rested up to go out for the evening.”

The girls put their breasts away and went to the hotel. As they walked to the restaurant a dress in a shop window caught Leslie’s eye. “I love lavender,” she said. “And those little gold flowers on the black ribbon sewn on the collar, and around the waist, really make it. It’s gorgeous, but subtle.”

“I like the fluted hem,” Katie said. “Want to price it just for fun?”

“Sure. Maybe they’ll let me try it on.”

The women went into the shop and the dress was exquisite. It was a one of a kind, designed in Paris, but cut and sewn locally. It would have fit Leslie perfectly too, but the shopkeeper wouldn’t even take it out of the window, let alone let her try it on. “It’s yours,” she told Leslie, “for three thousand euros.”

“Screw the bitch,” Leslie said to Katie. “What a sucky attitude. She could have at least let me look at it up close.”

Chapter 4. Bar Fright, Bar Bawl

“Don’t give me that crap,” Jacques said. You tell her to get her ass up here or she’s finished for good.”

“She don’t give a shit,” said Jimmy, “You don’t pay enough for her to give a shit.”

“You mean you don’t pay enough. I give you plenty, you greedy bastard. If you split it with her fifty-fifty like I told you, we wouldn’t have this fucking problem.”

“Yeah, well she’s gone. Deal with it.”

“I’m going to deal with it all right,” Jacques yelled into the telephone. “I’m going to come dawn and wrap your scrotum around your scrawny neck, you little prick. You’d better get that girl up here with by midnight or I’m sending Big Mike to fuck you up. You hear me?”

“Don’t worry, and don’t send Mike down here. I’ll get another girl, but we’ll have to pay her a fortune.”

“Don’t keep saying ‘we,’ asshole. You’ll have to pay her a fortune. Midnight at the Sons, Jimmy, or you’re a dead man.”

Jimmy slammed the phone down hard. He was in his office in back of the bar he owned, on a side street off the Rue Napoleon. He got out his phone book and started dialing pimps.

*****

“Let’s get dressed up,” Leslie said.

“Let’s get dressed up sexy,” Katie replied.

“Sexy, yeah. You and me—Sassy and Sexy.”

“Which one of us is Sassy?”

“That’s you silly. Not that you’re not sexy, but you’ve got fire.”

“You’re the one that’s hot.”

“We’re going to drive those men crazy.” Leslie started taking dresses off hangers and laying them out on the bed. “Got it,” she said, and she picked up a dress and held it in front of herself to show Katie.

“Is that a dress or a slip?”

“It’s called a lingerie-inspired dress. It looks like you can see right through it, but you can’t.”

“I know what I’m going to wear. It’s an informal cocktail dress. The material is slippery like satin, and the skirt is swishy. It shows my legs, and it hugs every curve. It has a bib for a top, held up by tiny straps. It’s like a pocket you can slide your hands into, or if I bend over, a great view.”

“If you do say so yourself, and of course you won’t be wearing a bra.”

“Uh-uh. I am going to wear a bra—one that covers my pretty little titties with a tease.”

“They ain’t that little, dear.”

“It comes to just below my nipples, but there’s a little lace strip on top you can see right through, or down into it. Want to see?”

“If I know you, you’ll show me whether I want you to or not. But okay, when you get it on, if I must,” Leslie pretended to be long suffering. Katie returned a lusty smile.

They put their makeup on, and a dab of perfume, and took turns brushing each other’s hair. Then they were ready to go.

“You look like you’re naked,” Katie said.

“That’s cause I am silly.” Leslie picked up her dress and gave Katie a quick glimpse of her side from thigh to hip. Katie had already noticed that Leslie wasn’t wearing a bra either. “No one will know,” Leslie said, “except you and me.”

Oh, my God, Katie thought. She’s going out in a slip, without panties or a bra on, and she doesn’t like to show her breasts on the beach… Who does she think she’s kidding?

*****

Both Katie and Leslie loved to dance. They danced together, and with a lot of guys, and got hit on repeatedly from the moment they walked into the club. They loved it. Each of them was a tease—together they lit up the room.

Each got hit on as much as the other: if they’d kept score it would have been a dead heat. They were in heat and, though each of them got plenty of attention, Katie was jealous. She wanted to kill every guy that Leslie danced with. It must have showed, because, after a while, Leslie came to Katie and gave her a peck on the cheek. “I’m not going home with any guys,” she said. “Don’t worry about that. I’m going home with you.” Leslie gave Katie another little kiss, which made Katie very happy. Her eyes became wet and glassy.

Leslie noticed. She took Katie’s arm. “Come, Katie, my friend. Let’s go home.”

“Thank you.”

The girls left the club, much to the disappointment of most of the men, and many of the women too, though all had memories of two most exquisite beauties to ravish in reveries.

“How about one more drink before we go back?” Katie asked.

“I think you’ve had enough.”

“Just one more. It makes me frisky.”

“You’re frisky enough. I don’t want to have to carry you to bed.”

The carry-you-to-bed part sounded good to Katie. “Just one more. Really, I haven’t had that much. Let’s go to that bar over there and have one more teensy-weensy one.”

“I don’t know… It looks kind of seedy” Leslie said. Against her better judgment she let Katie—a little drunk, but only enough to start to make her frisky—pull Leslie toward the dimly lit bar tucked away on a side street.

Katie was in her flirty sundress with its top you could easily look down into, a lacy bra through which her nipples were clearly visible, and a wisp of barely nothing for underpants, which she hadn’t bothered to mention.  Leslie wore her lingerie inspired dress that looked as if you could see right through it—that was all she had on. Both women, under the influence, their shit detectors not up to full strength, walked right into the dingy bar and slid into a booth.

Jimmy was on the phone with the eighth pimp in his book and fast running out of time. It was way too late in the day—any pimp who had a whore who might take on a job like what Jimmy had in mind was booked solid. And Jimmy was painfully aware that Big Mike was waiting in the wings. The flash of flesh out his office window caught his eye. It was the ripe flesh of two party girls the likes of which he’d rarely ever seen, and Cannes was no mean source of lovely women out for a good time. Holy shit, he said to himself, My prayers have been answered. He was a very religious man: he went to church without fail the sixth Sunday of every month, and definitely on February thirty-first. Fuck, this is dangerous, he thought, but then he thought of Big Mike. He buzzed the bartender and told him to send in Beef, the bouncer, and told him to get ready to close up early.

“I’ve got a girl show to do,” Jimmy said to Beef.

“I know. Up in the hills, like last time.”

“Trouble is, I don’t have a girl.”

Beef’s head turned slowly toward the window looking into the bar. “I see.”

“I’ll give you five hundred if you help me out.”

“I get to go to the show?”

“And you get to go to the show.”

Beef took another look at Leslie and Katie. “I should be paying you. What do you want me to do?”

“Bring the van around back. Get the webbing we use to strap cargo. The ones with the ratchets. We’ll need a bunch of them. Lay the rear seats down all the way, and do it quickly.”

“Yeah, boss. I’m on my way.”

“And turn out the lights out back.”

“Right.”

Jimmy quickly cut a couple of cloth napkins into quarters and stuffed them into his right pocket, and a couple of whole napkins into his left pocket. He smoothed his hair back, tucked his shirt in, and went to talk to his bartender.

“You want to come to the show tonight?”

“Sure, if you can get me in.”

“Those are the two girls who are performing.”

“You’re kidding. Where’d you get a couple of lookers like that?”

“They don’t know it yet.”

“Ahhh. Sounds dangerous.”

“It’s them or Big Mike. I need you to drive.”

“Ahhh. Big Mike—the greater of two evils. What’s in it for me?”

“Five hundred.”

“Done.”

Beef came back in, and Jimmy met him at the rear door. “When they leave they’ll go toward the Rue Napoleon. I’ll delay them while you get the van in place at the mouth of the alley. When they walk past, we’ll drag ’em in.”

“Why don’t I get it in place now?”

“If they go to the ladies room we’ll grab them there and take them out back. Wait here and we’ll see how to play it.”

“Right,” Beef could see what Jimmy was getting at.

Katie finished her drink. “I’m going to the rest room. Then I’ll be ready to go.” She took her purse and walked, a little unsteadily, toward the back hallway. Beef watched her from the cracked open door of the men’s room, and Jimmy watched from his office window. Jimmy gave her sixty seconds, and then walked from his office out to Leslie. “I believe your friend needs your help,” he said, looking quite concerned.

Leslie wasn’t comfortable standing up in front of Jimmy who was straining his eyes to see through her dress. She had suddenly become very conscious of her nudity. Katie didn’t seem that drunk, she thought, but she took her handbag and went out back.

The moment she went out back, beyond the view of the few patrons in the barroom, she realized that something was dreadfully wrong. A big man was standing in front of the ladies room door.  He was blocking the way. He was sizing her up. His fists were like claws. His arms were ready to grab.  And then, behind her, she heard the heavy tread of another man coming quickly forward. She knew, her instinct as a woman told her, that she was trapped, and that all escape was shut off. I must be imagining this, she thought. It’s my fear of men—it’s happened before. I’ll just turn and go back… But the bar man said Katie needs me… He must have tricked me… No it’s just wild paranoia, all I have to do is go back where those other people are and wait for her. But Leslie couldn’t make herself turn. She didn’t want to know the truth for as long as she could avoid knowing it, even if it was just for one more second.

In the next instant Jimmy was upon her, and Beef was coming on fast. Then Jimmy had his hand over her mouth. Leslie tried to scream. Jimmy stuffed a wad of cloth into her throat. She started gagging. Jimmy stuffed a rag into her mouth, so she couldn’t even close her jaw. She couldn’t get enough breath, and Jimmy’s arm was around her squeezing her tight. Her arms were immobilized. She tried to kick, but Beef caught both of her legs and lifted them off the ground. It had only been seconds, but the two men were carrying her out the rear door.

The van door was open and they roughed her in. They threw her facedown on a captain’s chair that had been fully reclined, wrapped her with nylon webbing, and ratcheted her tight. Jimmy tied another rag around her head so she couldn’t get the gag out. She’d been captured.

Minutes passed. It seemed like hours. She was breathing in gasps through her nose, two or three times a second, needing more air than she could get. And she knew—she knew but she couldn’t admit it to herself—she knew what they were going to do to her, and that it would be horrible and degrading and probably painful. In her despair, the only other thought she could wrap her mind around was that she didn’t want them to do it to her alone. She wanted Katie with her—she wanted her more than she’d ever wanted anything in her life. It was selfish, and she knew it, but it was pure joy when they brought Katie into the van, writhing and screaming into her gag, and crying. They strapped her like they had strapped Leslie—facedown, and immobile. The van door shut. In moments they were on the move.

Katie looked at Leslie. Leslie was panicking, her eyes were bugging out, she was making movements with her head, thrusting her jaw toward Katie while gasping through her nose. Katie realized Leslie was suffocating.

Katie had squealed and squirmed more than Leslie. In their rush to get her under control they were only able to get one piece of cloth in her mouth, and they couldn’t gag her tightly. Now she scraped her face against the cloth of the seat and got the tie around her head to come down to her chin. With her tongue she pushed the cloth out of her mouth. “She can’t breathe,” she screamed. “Get the cloth out of her mouth. Hurry!”

Jimmy rushed over. He didn’t want a girl dying on him, and he untied Leslie’s gag and pulled the rag out of her throat. Leslie was gasping, breathing in great draughts, scared to death. “I’ll leave the rags out of your mouths,” Jimmy said, as if it were a threat. “But if you scream I’m going to hurt you. Do you understand?”

Katie shook her head “Yes.”

“Don’t hurt us, please,” Leslie begged. “We’ll do anything you say.”

“You’d better,” Jimmy said. “If one of you acts up I’m going to hurt the other one, and I’m going to hurt her bad. Get it?”

Both girls shook their head “Yes.”

Jimmy searched through Katie’s purse and he located her hotel-room key-card. “They’re at the Metropole,” he said to Emile, his bartender who was driving.

“What room are you staying in,” Jimmy asked Katie?

Katie didn’t answer—Jimmy turned toward Leslie.

“Three-forty, Katie said. Please don’t hurt her.”

“Behave yourself, and no one’s going to get hurt.”

“What are you going to do to us?” blurted Leslie.

“Shut up. You’ll find out when I’m ready to tell you.”

“Please don’t rape me. Please. I’ve never done it before. Please. Katie, don’t let them rape me.”

What can I do about it? Katie thought. She started to get angry with Leslie, but she could see that Leslie was deeply frightened, and that she was begging Katie to help her. Katie felt horribly guilty. I teased her on the beach, Katie thought, and then I pressured her into being naked to tease myself. Then I encouraged her to dress sexy, and she took it way too far—she’s so naïve. Then I insisted we go into that bar. I should have listened to her when she said it didn’t look right. I’ve acted terribly—I’ve got to learn to control myself. And now…Whatever they do to us, please, God, don’t let them hurt us.

Then Katie thought about what Leslie had said, that she hadn’t done it before and, though Katie was scared out of her wits about being hurt—raped, and who knows what, maybe even killed—how much more frightening being kidnapped by three men must be for Leslie.

***

If you wish to keep reading, here’s a link to Leslie Loves Lavender–Part 2:

Leslie Loves Lavender–Part 2

US Women’s Water Polo Team

January 27, 2011 2 comments

2010 -- ESPN The Magazine -- The Body Issue -- USA Women's Water Polo Team. Photo by Art Streiber.

I love a good photo, and this one is amazing.

ESPN, for those who don’t know, is primarily a sports television network, and they are taking a page out of Sports Illustrated’s playbook.

Sports Illustrated has their very popular Swimsuit Issue that I’m sure makes lots of money, but the Swimsuit Issue has nothing to do with sports. It’s basically soft-core porn.

ESPN’s magazine is now putting out The Body Issue, which shows the bodies of world-class athletes. Besides the above photo, the following link will show you the other athletes ESPN has focused on in its 2010 issue.

http://espn.go.com/espn/flash/zoomGallery?section=gen&photoGalleryId=5650718

In the magazine, the above water polo team photo also includes the following quote and attribution:

US Women’s Water Polo

2010 FINA World Cup Champs

POWER PLAYERS: “Water polo players believe our sport is the most physically challenging in the world. There’s no rest. We tread water the entire time. If you aren’t in good physical condition, you’ll die – literally – because you won’t be able to keep your head above the water. The stronger, faster, better-conditioned team will typically win, which is why we have two three-hour practices daily.” —Adam Krikorian, coach

PHOTO BY ART STREIBER

JUNE 18-19, LOS ANGELES

Categories: Art, Bodies, Nudity, Photography, Sports