Chapter 7
It seemed to Julie that she had only just closed her eyes when she was awakened by the brassy sound of a gong that echoed through the rooms of the convent. Trying to pull her drifting senses back to her surroundings, she became aware of increased activity as the women gathered excitedly in the courtyard outside.
Gently shaking the sleepy girls, she sent them out to discover the reason for the chattering, voluble group outside the window.
Within minutes, the girls returned breathlessly.
"Julie, Julie. Get up quickly. The swami has sent for all the Chosen Women. There is to be a sort of ritual, and then your initiation ceremony. The women have asked permission to come in and dress you in your robes."
Julie sprang off the bed and landed cat sure on the cool tiled floor. Her still swollen breasts bounced gaily for an instant with the impact of her landing.
"I wonder what's going to happen," Julie asked. "But I'll bet it's going to be groovy."
The little girls pulled her back into the room.
"Remember you are a priestess. You can't go rushing about like that. Call the women in to dress you. You want to look your best."
Remembering what the swami had told her earlier, Julie couldn't help but agree. She didn't know what was going to happen, but from what she had learned already about the oriental mind, she guessed that it was going to be way-out.
Surrendering herself to the clutching, pulling hands of her attendants, she allowed herself to be led out of her rooms and into the courtyard.
The many-tongued chatter of the women ceased abruptly as she entered. One by one, the assembled women dropped to their knees as Julie passed by them. The Negress, who had been so assiduous in purifying Julie's still raw twat earlier, was the first to address her.
"Come, my priestess." Her rich, deep voice was like molasses as she spoke. "We must prepare you for the ritual."
Drawing herself up to her full height, Julie looked every rounded delectable inch the priestess as she answered.
"Fetch me my finest robes that I may go forth as befits me."
She had taken part in several school plays when she was younger and found that she could play the part with ease. A sort of nude Lady Macbeth. A slight smile played about the corners of her mouth. No matter what happened, she felt equal to the situation. Motioning her two attendants to follow her, she made her way over to a low stone bench that stood beside the tinkling fountain.
"Begin your ministrations," she commanded firmly as she sat down arranging herself regally.
Suddenly, the Negress' full black robes swung pendulously as she turned away. Her voice rang out again over the courtyard.
"Open the gates and let them enter. We are ready."
A couple of naked girls ran laughing to the doorway, where Julie had first entered the convent. Opening it fully, they stood back to let a line of robed monks enter.
Chanting, they made a circuit of the courtyard, each monk selecting one of the chosen women and escorting her to a resting place. Within minutes, the chanting had stopped and each monk was standing over a girl. Some of those that had been selected first, were reclining on stone benches, like Julie. Others were lying on the grassy areas under the bushes. The rough stonework of the pool's edge had a fresco of young girls, each with their waiting monk poised over them. The sound of distant music came to Julie's ears as she lay on her bench. She alone among all the women was without a priestly attendant. The two young girls had even been selected and were now reclining on the flagstones beside Julie's seat. Two expressionless priests stood over them, their finely chiseled, ascetic faces seemingly indifferent to the suppliant girls at their feet.
The music came closer and closer as Julie lay wondering what the significance of it all was. Reaching the doorway, the music suddenly stopped and the deep tones of a gong vibrated with a low menacing note that caused Julie to shudder with anticipation.
As the last echoes of the gong died away, the swami swept through the open doorway with a rustle of silken robes. Following him, two bearers carried a gold-inlaid throne.
Without a single glance at the waiting crowd, Guram Zubri strode into the middle of the courtyard and halted. His two bearers placed the throne carefully behind him. Feeling behind him for the arms, the swami lowered himself onto the richly embroidered cushions.
Arranging his gorgeous costume around his thin body, he cleared his throat before speaking. "I have come amongst you. You, the chosen out of all my flock. Tonight we welcome our High Priestess into her duties. But, most auspiciously, her arrival has coincided with the date of the Shearing of the Lambs."
He gazed intently at his listening audience as if encompassing them with his holiness. "As you know, it is the custom for the most holy of my apparel to be woven from the yoni-hair of the chosen women. It is fitting that I should be clothed in the fleece of my lambs."
He looked closely at the girls nearer to him. His snakelike eyes flickered like forked tongues over the ripe fullness of their bodies. He licked his wet lips sensuously as his gaze concentrated on the darkly curling pubic hair of the Negress, who lay with her legs spread a few feet away from him.
"Some of you," he continued pointedly, "some of you are indeed ready for the shearing. The wool grows fast in this salubrious climate."
He turned to an older priest who stood near him. "Make a note that the lambs are to be shorn monthly instead of quarterly. Apart from increasing the yield, I like to see them clean and unencumbered by body hair. It gives my pure mind much joy to observe the childish sweetness of a hairless yoni."
The swami smiled indulgently as if he was aware of the honor he was bestowing upon the attentive girls.
"But to continue," he went on. "As usual, a monk will cut away the silken cunt locks from each of you and the wool will be saved for spinning into vestments by our workshops. But the virginal yoni of our High Priestess," he waved his hand toward Julie's reclining body as he spoke. "She is too pure to be defiled by the touch of any other but I. I alone will feel the parting of the golden hair from its bed of pale flesh. Only I will hold the petallic lips of her vagina to one side and shave the outer folds of her delicate pussy hole until it is as smooth as the lilies that float upon the waters of the Holy Ganges. My questing thumb alone will anchor itself firmly into the moist passage of her passive twat as I manipulate it from side to side under the sharp edges of the sanctified razor. My hands and my hands alone can fondle that alluring morsel without out-stepping the bounds of sanctity. I alone am capable of reciting passages from the Writings when engaging in such practices. To be able to see the Infinite Beauty while your fingers are moist with the juices of an eager yoni, that is Sublimity."
His voice mounted with the intensity of his conviction. "I am pure, pure."
His voice rose to a shrill piping. "All the outside world thinks about is sex, sex, sex. Thank God that there are such as I who can rise above it."
He singled out various of the younger monks and directed his attention to them as he lowered his voice into a more fitting, relaxed tone. "Practice and yet more practice is what some of our brothers need. Those that do not show the right degree of detachment during the forthcoming ceremony will be sent out among the lower members of our flock to practice the sacred shearing there until through a surfeit of shearing juicy slits, they can alienate themselves from all carnal thoughts while doing so. It is a long hard path to follow, but need I tell you that there are other, less inviting twats that need ministrations. You are fortunate to be working upon young wholesome flesh at the moment. Let me remind you that there are many like Mrs. Ogglethorp, who pay heavily to be accepted into our society. If you cannot control yourselves during the delicate tasks of shaving the Chosen Women's pussies, we will see whether a month or so in New Admissions will dampen your ardor."
Guram Zubri shuddered delicately as he remembered the years of dedicated toil he had put in before his sect had grown and become prosperous. The brittle widows and frustrated, elderly women had been attracted by the mysticism of his words and the virility of his insatiable Hindu prick. Legacies had been received from elderly ladies who had died happily because of his oily words of comfort. His practiced tongue was able to mumble pious phrases even when lapping at the dried well of some rich old woman's love pit.
He rubbed his hands together in a gesture of satisfaction. Yes, he was pleased with the progress he had made since leaving the parched Indian village of his youth. The clamorous cries of his hungry brothers and sisters still sounded in his ears at times. Most of them would be dead by now. He thought of their going with indifference. The more fools they. How they had derided him when he announced that he was leaving the doubtful security of his father's overworked farm. The ridiculous peasant preoccupation with the dusty soil. Each son, on reaching maturity, was given a portion of his father's farm to support his family. The swami's mind ranged back over time and distance until he could see again the small mud-walled plots of barren ground. The farm was divided again and again among the children and children's children until each plot measured only a few, well-guarded feet. The back-breaking work under the merciless sun to grow a few scant vegetables while a brother's hungry children peered enviously over the separating wall from their own empty piece of earth. The strangled cry of a woman in childbirth. Her undernourished, emaciated body contorted in the effort to bring forth yet another hungry mouth to be dependent on the lifeless soil for its existence. He remembered again the few times when there was food enough to go around. Like when his elder sister was sold to a visitor to be transported to distant Bombay to work in a brothel; her young flesh to be pawed over and corrupted by the pricks of the cast-less British. How he had hated them for their easy assurance and their overfed arrogance. Occasionally, a mendicant disciple of the Holy Mahatma Ghandi would visit the village and speak the words of fire about the work of the Master. The sonorous, glib words assuring them that the example of passive resistance laid down by Ghandi would soon rid the land of the British.
Once they had left, all would be right for India. The swami remembered the chaos after partition in 1946. The unending clashes between the proud northern Muslims and their richer Hindu neighbors of the south as they fought over the spoils after the British withdrawal. For centuries, the British, French, Portuguese and Dutch had raped India of her wealth. Screwing the minds of the people as surely as they plundered the natural resources of the vast country. It was justice that he should come among these effete white fools and grow rich while corrupting their minds with a debased form of the religious philosophies that they had scorned while they ruled the land of its birth.
The centuries of shit that whites had daubed over the fair face of India was being returned with interest. Now they in turn were being fucked and it was a pleasant task to plunge his prick into the flesh of a corrupt society. He had these fawning fools begging him to empty his aching balls down their gullible throats. In some small way it made up for the countless times he had been forced to stand helplessly by while gangs of loutish British soldiers took turns to lay with the terrified women of his family. Yes, they had indeed corrupted his people and should pay for the pleasure. His starving people had sunk so low that there was no perversion that they would not pander to. The memory returned of a pudgy eight-year-old girl's fingers wrapped around the prick of a gloating soldier in a Bombay bar ... the cringing manner in which she let him shoot his load into her young face before running off eagerly with a flung handful of rupees.
The swami laughed to himself gloatingly. Now, praise be to God there was a change in the order of things. In turn, he was fucking them and what was more, they were paying him well to do it. He would never be able to get enough of their flesh, or their money either.
As he sat upon his gilded throne, he surveyed the patiently awaiting throng that surrounded him. The fools, with their white, asinine faces. Looking at him so devoutly, believing his thoughts to be occupied with sweeping concepts of theology and brotherly love.
His glance fell upon Julie's two childish handmaidens. Within a few short hours, he told himself gloatingly, he should be upon them like the wrath of his people. Their blossoming bodies should feel the tearing intrusion of a thrusting prick as surely as his hungry sisters did as he watched helplessly. But now, he had had enough of these mental rejoicings. There was work to be done. And work that wasn't altogether unpleasant.
He lifted his head and spoke aloud to the silent, watchful throng around him.
"I must apologize to you for my abstraction. A mind such as mine is in tune with the Infinite. The words of God come upon me at times that are incomprehensible to the Western mind!"
He held his arms out wide to them. "You will be relieved to hear that I have not forgotten you. In fact, you, all of your benighted race has been the subject of my thoughts. Great things will happen. I have plans for you. It is written by the hand of fate."
He lowered his hands and smiled upon them tenderly. "But I digress. We must continue with the ceremony. Bring forth the shears for the blessing."
Obediently, each monk withdrew a pair of sharply pointed barber scissors from under his robe. The instruments gleamed metallically in the sunshine as if they had been coated in pure gold. Fumbling further in the folds of their robes, the monks each withdrew a safety razor and broke it free from its cellophane wrapping.
Fascinated, Julie watched as the monks lined up before the seated guru. As each man passed before him bearing the barber's tools on little squares of white cloth, the swami mumbled incomprehensible Indian words over him in a singsong voice.
Thin, bony wrists protruded from the wide sleeves of his robes as he raised his hands in an unctuous blessing. One by one, the monks filed past and took up their stations in front of the waiting girls.
All eyes were upon the swami as he lowered his raised hand and signaled for the monks to begin the delicate task of shearing the curly pubic hair from the prostrate girls.
"Begin, cut closely leaving only the slightest stubble for the razor."
One by one, the monks bent over their task, spreading the legs of the girls apart to get an uninterrupted, unencumbered access to the silken-haired groins of their partners.
The golden orb of the setting California sun had rarely looked down on such strange activities, even in a state that was notorious for its way-out acceptance of the bizarre. The long, low angle of the sinking sun threw a harsh, intense light on the industrious fingers of the bending monks as they took the delicate fuzz of pubic hair between their fingers and carefully snipped it off close to its white-fleshed roots. With painful concentration, they transferred each soft tuft to a small cloth bag that was carried on a cord around their necks.
The eyes of the swami darted to and fro, intent on every detail of the operation. Zealously he watched the transference of each individual snippet in case some careless monk allowed a single curly hair to fall and be lost on the paved courtyard.
As each monk finished his chore, he made his way across the courtyard. On reaching the throne of the waiting swami, he bowed and placed his small bag with its precious contents reverently at the feet of his master.
Slowly, the small pyramid of bags grew in height until the last monk had placed his offering in place. The size of the bags varied considerably. Those from the two younger girls naturally held less of a crop than those of the older, more developed girls. Even among these, there was considerable variation. The dark-skinned brunettes with their heavier, coarser pubic growth would yield, in many instances, two compressed handfuls, while the fair-skinned blondes and redheads, even though the monks assiduously explored every delightful nook and cranny of their groins, rarely gave more than a shimmering palm full of their golden treasure.
Looking around to ensure that all the contributions were in, Guram Zubri clapped his hands.
In answer to his command, two novice monks entered the courtyard. The first carried a steaming pitcher of hot water while his companion followed closely at his heels with a large brass tray bearing ten finely worked metal bowls. A cake of scented Kashmir soap and an old-fashioned shaving brush lay beside each bowl.
Quickly, they made the rounds of the couples. Each monk received a bowl of hot water and the necessary brush and soap.
As the last couple was served, Guram Zubri gave the order to commence. Excited giggling arose from the girls as the hot soapy brushes began to lather their shorn, unprotected pussies. The soft bristles of the brushes searched out the sensitive secrets of the lathered slits with an implacable determination. Driven to a frenzy, many of the girls called out in their passionate stimulation.
Sternly, the swami called for silence. "Let there be quietness and less levity. This is a ceremony fraught with esoteric significance, not the occasion for debased sensuality. If any of you do reach a climax, let it be in sanctified silence."
He motioned the men to continue. Julie lay motionless on her bench in the middle of it all. Glancing down, over the soft roundness of her stomach, she saw the soft, corn-colored crop of her own pubic hair ruffle slightly in the mild, California evening breeze.
"Why?" she asked herself wonderingly. "Why have I alone, out of all the girls, been neglected?"
Her fingers stole down to her thighs and caressed her downy pussy hair. She felt coarse and somehow concealed among all these smooth, hairless girls.
And Roddy? Where the hell was Roddy? He was supposed to be a head monk, or some other kind of big wheel in the organization. Why wasn't he here assisting in the ceremony?
Suddenly, the boom of the gong interrupted her train of thought. A tenseness seemed to sweep among the reclining women. The swami half turned on his embossed throne and looked towards the door leading from the Temple. Julie raised herself slightly and followed his gaze.
Roddy MacGowan strode purposefully through the opening, dressed in the yellow robes of a full fledged monk. In the harsh, searching light of the setting sun, his appearance was far removed from that of the clean cut all-American boy. His hands were folded reverently on his chest in an attitude of prayer. His face shone with an apparent religious fervor as he made his way across the courtyard.
Ignoring the couples on either side of him, he came to a halt in front of the swami. Guram Zubri looked at him with approval.
"Well, my son. Have you completed the prayers of purification?"
"I have, oh Divine Swami," Roddy replied firmly.
"Is your mind cleansed of all carnal thoughts?" the swami questioned. "It is," Roddy replied dogmatically.
"So be it. Go forth among the women and pick out those that have fallen from grace."
Turning on his heel, Roddy went to the first of the women as she lay waiting for his judgment. The swami looked on with an attitude of boredom as the farce proceeded. And farce it was. Decision had already been made days before. The swami was a sufficient psychologist to know that nothing kept the girls quite so eager to please as uncertainty. By keeping the number of Chosen Women down to ten at any one time, he was able to cope with them sexually. This way his visits to each girl were not spaced so far apart as to leave her hopelessly frustrated. At the same time, with ten girls to choose from, he would not become bored with repetition. But human nature being what it is, even a perfect paragon of docile femininity would tend to become a little bitchy and demanding if confined to the close life of the Inner Courtyard of the Chosen Women indefinitely. When the swami's practiced ear and lunging penis detected a sign of discontent among the girls, he invariably arranged for a shearing and ritual inspection to weed out the malcontented.
Roddy had been well briefed as to how to make his selection this time. Now that Julie had entered into the close circle of Chosen Women, there was a danger of active rebellion among the more established members of the harem. These would be firmly weeded out and sent back to the fields and workshops of the community to repent for their sins in hard back-breaking work. The swami was a firm believer in hard work, especially for other people. The swami raised his head and idly watched Roddy's progress. Grasping each reluctant girl firmly by her ankles, he spread her legs far apart and scrutinized her clean-shaven twat closely.
Carefully peeling back the white skin of the clean-shaven labia lips, Roddy ran his finger along the tender pinkness of the exposed twat as if testing the sensitivity of the moist folds.
Then placing one hand upon the hairless, revealed crotch and the other upon the forehead of the trembling girl, he would close his eyes and concentrate as if completing some magnetic, mystical circuit through the girl's body. If the girl was on the reject list, Roddy would open his eyes suddenly as if he had received divine inspiration and look with horror at the weeping girl. Ignoring her pleas, he would signal her attendant monk to lead her to the waiting door and thrust her naked, dejected body out of the hallowed grounds.
From a distance, a crowd of devotees watched the sobbing girls as they walked with slumped shoulders in the direction of the bazaar. Here and there among the silent, watchful throng, a young girl would smile as she saw a rival fall from grace. With luck, some of them would be chosen as replacements and acknowledged as suitably pure recipients for the Sacred Seed of the holy Guram Zubri. This was an honor that every watching woman coveted in her heart of hearts.
The men in the crowd paid careful attention to the girls. Marking them well so that they would recognize them again at the next meeting, the men knew that any girl who had spent time as a Chosen Maiden would be well trained to give a good head job. After sucking on the tool of the jaded swami for a few months, there would be little that she didn't know about the exacting art of sucking a cock.
A few of the younger, more brazen men broke away from the crowd to offer a consoling word to the crestfallen girls. A quiet word, a shared meal and the offer of a bed for the night was the least that one could do for another on an occasion like this.
The deep-throated clang of the gong sounded over the enclosing walls of the convent, announcing the completion of this stage in the ceremony.
In all, six of the ten Chosen Women had been removed from the grace. Tomorrow would be a busy day as the replacements were chosen and admitted to the Order.
Inside the walls, the feeling of relief was a tangible, living entity as the four remaining girls knelt before the swami and humbly kissed his feet. Julie breathed a little sigh of happiness as she saw her two young friends prostrate themselves before the gilded throne. The firm buttocks seemed so familiar and reassuring as they crouched above the slightly soiled soles of their exposed feet. The firm unwrinkled lips of their young pussies peeped out at Julie from under the half moons of their asses.
Narrowing her eyes, Julie looked at them closely in the fading light. It was probably her imagination, but the smooth, stretched lips of their tight twats seemed to be pouting slightly as if blowing her an intimate, passion-wet kiss. Some instinct caused Julie to look around.
Silently on sandaled feet, the monks had formed a circle around her. Strong hands closed in on her naked, body and lifted her up to bear her towards the waiting swami. As if detached from her surroundings, Julie watched the flaming sun slip behind the mass of the distant mountain. The sudden hush of a summer's evening settled on the land.
The swami glowed in the last rays of the vanishing sun as if he had arranged it all like a clever Hollywood lighting director.
"Bring torches, Julie," he commanded.
Within minutes the courtyard flickered in the eerie light of a dozen flaming torches. Julie felt herself being lowered to the ground inside the circle of spluttering, flaring torches.
Ponderously, with dignified tread, the swami advanced towards her. Snapping his fingers, he held out his hand towards a monk, who offered him a closed, teakwood box.
"Open it. Open it, you fool. I cannot profane my sanctified hands."
Reaching inside, Guram Zubri brought forth a similar pair of scissors to the ones that the other monks had used in their tonsorial tasks. Where the others had the appearance of being gold plated, the slight difference in the sound of the metal as he snipped them experimentally, indicated that these were solid gold.
Julie's pussy twitched excitedly. Really, she thought to herself. If you are going to lose your cunt hair, this is the only way to fly. Golden scissors to match my delicate coloring. The swami is a riot. He's just thought of everything.
The sound of movement caused Julie to peer into the gathering darkness as Roddy made his way into the circle of light cast by the torches. Dociley, he stood at her feet holding a shallow bowl in his outstretched hands.
The swami moved in closer and motioned her to spread her legs. Ignoring the fixed stares of the surrounding monks, she obeyed the swami's gesture. The torches cast a ruddy tinge on her supine, white body.
Reaching down like a surgeon performing a delicate operation, the swami took a tuft of her luxurious pubic hair between his thin brown fingers and cut it loose from its fleshy bed. The watching circle of monks moved in closer like attentive medical students over an operation.
Julie heard the snip, snip of the scissors from some far-away world. Some built-in defense mechanism seemed to come into play, protecting her from the bizarre reality of what was happening to her here and now. Remembering the swami's disapproval of the other girl's reactions to the stimulation of their slits, Julie tried to fight down her mounting desire as the swami's hand worked on her moist opening. With practiced ease, he held the covering lips to one side as he ran the scissors closely along the soft flesh of her crotch.
At each snip of the blade, he would stop and meticulously pick up the precious crop of pubic hair. The glistening sheen of its honey-blonde texture appeared like beaten gold against the paleness of the shorn flesh. Taking the little tufts of curly pubic hair between his fastidious finger, he motioned to Roddy, who stood at his side with the shallow metal bowl. Imperceptibly, the golden fleece mounted higher in* its receptacle until almost a handful of the feathery fluff shimmered in the flickering torchlight.
The warm California night breeze felt chill and fresh upon the plumpness of Julie's hairless mound of Venus. The swami's thumb manipulated Julie's dewy clitoris, absent-mindedly, as he stretched her labia about seeking the last of its silken crop.
Biting down on her lip, Julie stifled a sob of burning desire as her dilated clit responded to the stimulus of the pious swami-caressing thumb.
"If he doesn't quit shortly," Julie muttered to herself desperately, "I'm going to shoot my load right in his holy hand."
As if realizing that he had driven her almost beyond the tolerance of flesh and blood, Guram Zubri straightened up and pronounced himself satisfied.
Julie's hairless pussy gleamed whitely, contrasting with the darker color of her tanned body. The swami stroked it approvingly "Now, my dear," he pronounced purringly. "You are childlike and pure again. There is great symbolism in this simple ritual. Now you can enter into your new life in innocence of all your past knowing. You are reborn, naked and unknowing, but biologically capable of giving yourself in holy innocence to the rituals of our faith. Do you understand the meaning of my words?"
Julie nodded doubtfully. "I think I do, Swami Zubri. You mean that no matter what I do, I do it purely like a child, I do not understand?"
The swami looked around the assembled circle of monks, exalting. "I was right again. When I first saw this angelic child, a voice whispered within me that she was the All Pure, All Knowing One that we had searched for. It has indeed been revealed that no matter what the rest of the world would call the rituals of our faith, she can approach the most complex ceremony with a clean mind and not be degraded."
In his excess of joy, he ran his hand over her exposed body. "Look at this perfection." He patted her breasts fondly, the thrusting flesh trembled with a fluid plasticity under his touch.
"All of her, each gloriously eager inch of her innocent beauty is ours to worship according to the creed of the Most Holy Rama Krishna."
He wiped the tears of emotion from his lidded eyes with the sleeve of his robe.
Turning to Roddy, he spoke again in a pent-up stifled voice. "Take over, my son. I am too overwrought to carry on. My trembling hands are not to be trusted with a razor. As a High Priest of the yellow robe, you are sanctified enough to shave this virginal creature."
Nothing loath, Roddy took his place between Julie's outstretched legs and called for water and scented soap.
Beseechingly, Julie seized the swami's hand. "Guram Zubri, sir. Though I can control my nature when touched by your revered hands I doubt if my flesh will remain unresponsive under the ministrations of your youthful priest."
The swami nodded understandingly. "That can be understood and allowed for. There are stages of sublimity in our order. We do not expect more than the human entity can give. I will watch and rejoice in your release."
Happily, Julie resigned herself to whatever was about to happen.
She had warned the swami and it seemed that if she did get her rocks off, it was going to be all right by him. She closed her eyes and waited.
A sudden shock, like nothing she had believed possible ran through her. A warm bubbling slickness flowed sensuously across her hairless, helpless twat. Shuddering waves of delight coursed through her as Roddy deftly applied the lather-laden brush to her tender pubic area.
In an ecstasy of delight, she felt his gentle, soap-coated hands rubbing the foaming lather into her genitals. Thrusting her hips up to coincide with the rhythm of his massage, she squirmed delightedly under his touch.
Disapprovingly, Guram Zubri motioned the monks to hold her still. "It must be all in the mind," he clucked between his teeth. "Hold her firm so the body does not indicate its pleasure."
He bowed slightly to Roddy. "Please continue. Do not rush the soaping. Exercise this sensuality out of her high-strung body."
Pinioned firmly by the monk's restricting hands, she found herself powerless and unable to escape the steady, persistent circular motion of the soapy brush across her gaping love hole. Her stomach muscles heaved and knotted as she fought to thrust her yearning cunt upwards to meet Roddy's ministrations.
The guru's eyes gleamed as he witnessed the struggles of his willing victim. "See how she writhes in the grip of the demon of desire." His pointing finger indicated her heaving titties as they shuddered on her panting chest. "The desires must be drawn out of her. Two of you will take that delicate flesh between your lips and give a counter stimulation. Draw forth the milk of her lust."
Nothing loath, two of the monks leaned over Julie's writhing body and she felt the hotness of their breath upon her tits before their mouths closed over her erect nipples.
With increased speed, the tongues lapped, licked and pulled at her rubbery ju-jubes. Electric shocks ran through Julie's sweaty body and merged with the crescendo of delight that fermented between her wide-open crotch.
Unable to fight back the paralysis of her rapidly approaching climax, Julie surrendered herself to the hot flush of tingling near oblivion that heralded the approach of her orgasm.
Gauging her reaction to a nicety, Roddy abandoned all pretense of lathering her soapy cunt and concentrated on her erect, protruding love button. The clammy love juice mixed with the foaming soap and formed a lubricating film that allowed her hairless cunt to slip through his fingers with a wet, slurping sound. Round and round slipped his questing hand, playing over the smooth hollows beside her gaping, eager slit.
Sliding with soapy ease past the lips of her labia, he chased the springy button of her throbbing clitoris around the fleshy confines of her foaming twat. Reaching out again, Julie found the hand of the watching swami and held it tight as the convulsing hysteria of an orgasm swept through her. Clutching his hand tightly, Julie could feel the sanctity of the man cleansing her of all animal sensuality until the passion of her climax seemed to become a religious ecstasy. Like an exhausted child, she let the last throb of her ejaculation ebb out of her limp body and surrender herself to the steady scrape of the razor as Roddy removed the last trace of fuzz from her completely relaxed love pit.
Now she felt absolutely drained, with all the animal passion gone from her mind as surely, as the symbolic sexuality of womanhood had been shaved from her sweet, hairless honey pot.