Chapter 3
Robin's excitement could no longer be contained. The girl's excited thrusting in the throes of her orgasm aroused him to unbearable desire. He caught hold of her ass with his hands, squeezed, lifted, brought her up, rose to his feet carrying the girl with him, lifting her right to her feet.
His desire was urgent. His energy was uncontrolled. He was no longer master of his passions.
He picked up the girl, like a weightless bundle, and threw her down on her back on an area of the floor covered with rugs and mattresses. Quick as a flash he was down beside her. His feverish hands tore at her flimsy clothes. One, two-he had torn the dress right off her body, torn it into rags and flung it across the room. In only seconds more he had torn her panties to shreds. He divested himself of his own clothes in a moment, without being aware of it even.
Then he flung himself on the girl's body. Instinctively she had drawn up her knees and brought them together. He pulled them apart but left them raised, then he sunk his long lean body between hers and in the same thrust he shoved his cock deep into her crack.
The girl's cunt had been liberally lubricated-first from her own self-manipulation, then from Robin's assiduous work with his tongue and lips and fingers. Now, for a moment, fright tended to dry up her juices so that his cock, after having slid through the opening of her cunt as if it were greased, now found itself retarded slightly by muscular tightness that served only to increase the excitement he was feeling. His cock lunged, despite the temporary tightness deep in her cunt; he withdrew an inch or two and lunged again. This time the force of his thrust would have been enough to settle the cock deep in the girl's cunt even had it been as dry as the desert but she, having recovered from her temporary fright, now began to regain her earlier sexual passion and from high in her cunt the juices started flowing copiously again. His cock slithered in and out of her cunt, his balls jangling against the back of her slit. She raised up her knees and grasped his waist tightly between her thighs, digging her heels into the small of his back.
Robin lunged forward and backward, in and out. His chest slammed against the firm mounds of her breasts each time he plumbed her depths, and each time as he rose on his haunches, her breasts bounced back into their shape.
The excitement was mounting in his cock, spreading through his balls and from there throughout his body. Rays of pleasure were shooting out through his toes. His back was aflame. His head wore a crown of golden daggers. His eyes saw with a piercing whiteness. "Fuck you! You goddam bitch!" he yelled. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Godammit you Fuck-Fuck-Fuck!"
Elizabeth, the child-worn an lying underneath was reacting to each of his strokes. She was thrashing with her ass like a woman crazed, whipping her pelvis from side to side to the extent that it was free despite the thrust of his massive cock that held it impaled. She was heaving backwards and forwards and her shoulders were rolling from side to side. She tried to form words but only gurgles came out: "Aaaguh! Ouytrugh! Ayotyortyo!" Her eyeballs were turning in their sockets. She was as excited as he although she had come only a few minutes before. She kept trying to formulate her words, trying to make meaningful sounds out of the gurglings that arose from her throat.
At last they came.
"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck me hard! Fuck!"
Robin's motions were speeding up. He could feel the hot fluid boiling up in his balls and beginning to spill over the top of the dam. His toes dug into the rug and he became a veritable battering ram, a relentless cock at the end of a body that had only one aim.
"Fuck! Fuck! Fuckacku-u-u-u-k!" Robin yelled.
And then the two bodies thrashed together in discordant unity as the sperm spilled over the dam and his consciousness dissolved into the animal gratification of desire.
His head sank slowly and came to rest between the delicious mounds of her breasts, cool now to his fevered head. His breath came slowly and slowly, too, his cock emerged, limp now but still long, glistening and dripping wet, from the yawning chasm of her cunt. It slid out, trailing behind it slippery slimy tracks of spent semen and sex-lubricant from the commodious twat in which it had been fucking for the previous ten minutes.
Robin's breath came in short gasps. His eyes, which had opened into a paralytic stare as he was going through the throes of orgasm, had shut closed and now he closed his mouth, too, relaxed at the breast of the woman he had just fucked, and in a few minutes he was asleep.
He awoke with a kick in his side. He looked up, disbelieving, and instinctively tried to cover his nakedness with a non-existent blanket.
Towering over him was a woman!
But what a woman!
Robin rubbed his eyes, trying to drive away the sleep. He was sure he must be dreaming. This was unreal. This could not be happening to him. He shut his eyes and turned his head and rubbed the knuckles of his hands in his eyes and tried to drive away the demons of his sleep. Then as he felt another kick in his ribs, he turned around once more to look at the apparition.
She was real. There could be no doubt about it. The kick in his side hurt too much to be the work of something which was only the product of his imagination. This was no illusion. She was real.
She was a woman, a tall woman, statuesque, standing well over six foot in her spiked heels. Her head was adorned with a close-fitting helmet of black leather that was strapped under her chin. Her dress-if it could be called a dress-was-likewise made of black leather. It had a halter top cut low under the armpits and above the breasts with a gap, reaching almost to the navel, that was bridged with laced leather thongs. The skirt fell away in a slight flare from the waist, not too much of a flare though since it was obviously tight against the powerfully muscled thighs of the woman. To top it all, or rather to serve as underpinnings, she wore a pair of soft glossy black boots, set on high spike heels, that rose to well above her knees and were fastened with strap and buckle around her thighs, a bare four inches below the hem of her skirt.
She was kicking him with those spike-heeled boots.
Robin gasped.
What was that woman doing here? How has she got here? How, for that matter, had Robin gotten here? He tried to throw his mind back, tried to recollect what had happened.
He was in New York, that he could remember. He recalled having gone to Greenwich Village, recalled the girls he had so much enjoyed seeing there-some of them dressed not quite un-like the woman who was impatiently kicking him in ribs and midriff now. He recalled the "innocent" girl with the soft complexion, Elizabeth or Lizbeth as he later found out, Lizbeth who had lured him to this place, Lizbeth whose strange perverted tastes had given him so many strange surprises from that moment she had sat down at his table to the moment when he had finished fucking her-one of the most thrilling and satisfying fucks he'd ever had-and had withdrawn his weary cock from the relaxed clutches of her cunt.
Where was Lizbeth?
Surely this wasn't Lizbeth now, in another transformation that denied the innocent air she kept trying to maintain. No, Lizbeth was fairer and much shorter, too, and it didn't seem to Robin that Lizbeth, even at the depth of her perverted soul would transform herself like this and treat him in this manner.
This, obviously, wasn't Lizbeth.
In that case, where was Lizbeth?
Robin raised himself on one elbow to look around, but immediately he was kicked sharply in the ribs, so that he fell back on the rug-covered mattress.
"Pig!" the strange woman yelled at him. "Swine!"
Her voice was naturally deep, a deep contralto, and even raised into an angry shout it remained deep and commanding.
"Pig!" she yelled again. "Swine!" and with that she kicked him, first in the ribs, then when he rolled away, right in the groin.
Robin roared with the pain. It seemed he blacked out for a moment. When he came back to his senses, he felt a lash stinging across his bared ribs. The woman had produced a bull whip from somewhere and now she was laying it across him, raising angry red welts.
This was certainly no joke. Robin had no idea what the woman thought she was or what she was after.
"Look!" he started saying. "Look, look...er...er...there must be a mistake."
"Mistake! You rotten wretch! You're a mistake!" With each word she laid into him with her leather whip.
Robin tried to get to his knees but a well-aimed kick from the woman forced him back to the ground. He crossed his hands over his cock and testicles to protect his vital and sensitive areas.
"Please. I'm sorry. Whatever it is I'm sorry. Now please stop. Please stop." It was not an order, it was a plea, a request, an earnest entreatment.
"You're damn right you ought to be sorry. And you know damn well what you've done. You'll pay for it, don't worry. This is just a foretaste."
With that she commenced a barrage of kicks and blows, both from her high-heeled long boots and from the whip she was wielding. There was no escaping for Robin. He was completely at her mercy. Blows rained on him from all directions, striking every available surface of his body. There was no way to turn, no way to escape, no way even of mitigating the force of the blows.
At first Robin was terrified of the blows. He screamed and screamed from both pain and fright, and the sweat poured off his body and mixed with the blood that was oozing out of the cuts the kicks and lashes were opening up. After a while, however, the surprise went out of the attack and so did the novelty. He was almost getting used to it. And, getting used to it, Robin discovered not only that the agony of the pain was not as insufferable as it had been in the beginning, but that in a perverse sort of way he was actually getting a measure of pleasure out of it. It wasn't so bad at all. Of course it hurt, hurt devilishly, hurt as much as at the beginning and even perhaps more for now the blows were landing not on fresh skin but on bruises and welts and cuts that had already been laid open by earlier blows. But strange as it seemed, there was pleasure in the blows, the more they hurt, the more they seemed accompanied by a perverse sense of pleasure.
Kicks from the long legs of the stately woman kicked at his ribs and at his back. Since her first blow into his crotch when it had seemed he would forever be paralyzed, she had apparently taken care not to injure him there any further and he was grateful to that. If she kicked him again, he knew, it would cause irreparable damage for now his turgid cock had by some strange transmutation become fully engorged and erect so that it stuck out, an inviting target, straight and firm, seven inches of vulnerable flesh.
She spared his cock, though, both from her heels and from her whip, but the rest of his body bore the full brunt of her blows. Then she seemed to tire of kicking and instead placed her high-heeled boot squarely on his chest, pressing him down to the floor with utter humiliation. He was her prisoner, pressed down under the high spike heel and under the flat of the narrow sole, but even more held down by the simple and majestic mastery of the woman.
She held him down, now, with the full weight of her boot on his chest, and with her whip continued flailing at him. His cock, standing vertical, gave an indication of the transformation going through him. This woman aroused him. This woman excited him. These blows were giving him pleasure!
Robin thought he was in a nightmare. Only in a nightmare could he experience these pains and consider them pleasures. Only in a nightmare would he surrender like this to a woman. Only in a nightmare could he consider such humiliation and such pain as being any way pleasurable.
But now he was enjoying it. Really and truly enjoying it. Enjoying it. Enjoying it for all it hurt--nay, the more it hurt the more the pleasure. He wanted to kiss that boot that was pressing him down, kiss this symbol of his subjugation, kiss this symbol of a woman's mastery over his masculinity. He wanted to worship this boot and what it symbolized, the woman now raining down blows on him at her will.
A perverse thought went through his mind. He wanted to peek. He wanted to look under her skirt. Her leather clothes were moving with her body, glittering and rippling with every movement, moving with every blow she landed on him and with every motion of arm or leg. The softly clinging leather left little to the imagination as to the workings of her body, and served if anything to emphasize and exaggerate the action of her body. Her thighs, under the restraining leather, seemed unbelievably powerful, her bulging bosom heaved like twin mountains, her belly under the leather cover seemed to rise and fall with each breath.
But he wanted to penetrate her secret, he wanted to see her fully as a woman, he longed to see her cunt, her hairy sweaty cunt, he wanted to see the gaping gash as her legs moved in accord with her lash. He could imagine it, a huge, dark, hairy monster smelling high, dripping with sweat and excitement, directing the eyes and the senses to that which was contained therein, her twat, her hairy, gaping blood-red, sweaty cunt.
Despite the pressure of her boot digging painfully into his chest, he strained and moved his shoulders and his neck. Now he had a better point for viewing, painfully won but worth the effort and the pain. He could see up her skirt, see up the darkness under the heavy leather covering, look along the length of the thigh that was planted vertically and see up to the point where it joined the other thigh, the thigh whose leg was pressing down on him.
He looked up along her boot and her thigh and saw what he had sought. Her twat was, if anything, hairier than he had imagined. The hairs swished and swayed as she whipped him and he watched them with studied fascination. Each time she rained a blow the gash of her cunt opened wider and he could see the varying contours of the flesh inside, layered like a delectable cake, stripes of pink and red and purple alternating, all moist and glittering.
The smell that hit his nostrils was largely that of his own fear and his own pain mixed with sweat. But some of the smell, he knew, was part of the odor of excitement this masterly woman was exuding, and part of the sweat was hers and part of her smell must come from that cunt. And all of it seemed wrapped in the heady smell of good leather, rich and supple and exciting. In his imagination he saw the woman sinking down on him, enveloping him in the folds of her leather skirt, shutting out the light, covering his face with her leather skirt as she slowly squatted.
Her boots, long and limber and black and glossy, were folding themselves-in his imagination of course-along the length of his body, pressing him down in agony and helplessness but at the same time transmitting to him the pleasures and excitements generated in her animal power and her feminine mastery. She lowered herself-still in his imagination-so that the folds of her narrow skirt covered ever more of him and as she lowered herself even further, the smell of enveloping leather gave way to the overwhelming smell of her woman-ness. Her cunt came closer and closer to his mouth and his lips-in his imagination the leather skirt had long since blotted out the light and he could not, therefore use his power of sight-and the smell of sweat and cunt-juice, of stale piss and farts, of everything that made this woman smell like a woman, became an overpowering one. She sat down heavily on his chest, the lap of her skirt focusing the smells into his mouth and nostrils, and then she slowly moved her haunches along his body until-in his imagination-she was sitting fully athwart his face. Her cunt was all over him.
It was a strange mixture of sensations. In reality, in life as he was living it now under her blows, he could see clearly the object of his veneration: the cunt, the enticing triangle of thighs and hair and slit. He could see it in fine detail, all the hairs, all the drops of sweat, both stale and fresh, every glistening opening and fold of her twat, even the twitching point of her now erect clitoris. He could see it all in reality, but he could neither smell properly nor taste nor feel. In his imagination, on the other hand, the sense of sight was denied, but instead he could sense everything else-the heady, overpowering aroma, the sour-sweet taste, the fluid-soaked flesh and hair. He could feel it pressing on his eyes and nose and mouth. He could feel his tongue impaled in her cunt. He could feel the dripping hairs prickling him all over. He could feel the full weight of her body, transmitted through her ass, her haunches and her cunt, pressing him down and humiliating him.
And he experienced nothing but joy and triumph.
Reality was whipping him, cutting him, bruising him. Reality was so intense that it brought on fantasy, fantasy of such an intensity that reality faded into the distance. The more blows that were directed at his helpless body, the heavier the pressure of the woman's boot on his chest, the more he was pressed and suppressed-the more his senses fled from reality and entered the realm of fantasy.
Fantasy became enjoyment. Every blow thrilled, every dig of heel and sole gave joy. He was thrilling to every moment. Each lash of the whip seemed to be like a thrust of sperm from his balls into his cock and from his cock into a non-existent cunt. Every blow was a caress, every whip a kiss of love. He was excited beyond belief. He was crying now and sobbing but it seemed to him he was crying not with pain but with pleasure, with pleasure so unbelievably great that he could not control it. He was crying from a surfeit of joy, joy at being held down by this woman, joy at being her slave and worse than her slave, joy at being entirely powerless, joy at being humiliated to an extent he would have believed impossible, joy at being tortured and pained beyond the level of tolerance, joy at being allowed to experience a sensation that went to the very limit of the experiencable-and then beyond.
Fain was joy. Each wound became a source of erotic pleasure. His whole body was one large erogenous zone. He could no longer feel one part separately; even his cock had dissolved in the anonymous unity of his whole body. He was all sensation, all feeling, all pleasure. His body was one, his pain one, his suffering one and his pleasure one.
And as his pain mounted and become one in pleasure, and as his cock, now only an insignificant and anonymous part of him, weakly and unknown to him spurted and throbbed and splattered out its few weak drops of colorless fluids, and as the woman above him continued to bear down with her boot on his chest and with her whip all over his bruised and pained body, his mind turned a metaphysical somersault and marked the transition from bare consciousness to full unconsciousness.
Robin had fainted but the blows on his body did not cease.