If possible, this sight excited me even more than I had been. I started to move, my weight resting on Peggy’s haunches. I moved inside her like a corkscrew—not in and out at first, just around and around. It drove her frantic. Under me her crotch jerked this way and that uncontrollably. I reached down with my hand and stroked the cleft between her cheeks. She cried out and her shaven hump bounced against the underside of my cock, urging me to pump up and down inside her so that she might feel the length of my prick caress her innermost flesh surfaces.
While I was doing this, I bent my head and caught the nipple of one of her breasts in my mouth. I rolled it around between my lips and licked it with my tongue. It was too much for Peggy. She screamed and clawed me and took off on the wings of an orgasm which was obviously mindless.
I rode with her, but restrained myself from coming. I was enjoying my power to arouse her and bring her off and arouse her again. My own orgasm, when it came, would be very powerful indeed.
My gaze fell on one of the seesaws not far away. Two naked couples were riding it. One man sat at each end. The women sat on their laps facing them. As the seesaw went up the man would slide hard against her, his penis forced deep inside her by his weight. As it went down, the woman would slide against him, her weight impaling her until she’d swallowed his organs up inside her. The four of them had obviously established a very satisfying rhythm.
The small French girl at the foot of the sliding pond was still impaled and bouncing on the black man’s staff; the pale young man was still buried in her bottom; and the corpulent man was still filling her mouth; all had enjoyed one orgasm; now all were going for seconds. Opposite us on the lazy Susan, the bearded man in the mini-skirt and the thin girl with the dildo were also working their way to a second climax; the double-pronged dildo was deep inside her vagina and his anus was a blur of motion; he reared like a bronco; she bounced like a rodeo rider; soon they would ride off into the sensual sunset together! The Oriental girl, the Filipino, and the blonde were also at it again—-spanking, scratching, flagellating; they were sticky with the fruits of their first go-round; soon they would be stickier.
As for me, the moment was at hand. Long-legged Peggy was kicking like a speared toad; her breasts were flopping from side to side, slick with sweat, nipples blood-filled to bursting; the velvety cushion of her behind, on which my weight rested, was rolling like a frenzied pinball. I was rolling with it, my cock moving inside her like a roto-rooter. Then I changed the rhythm and imposed the will of my own tempo upon her. She half screamed aloud with this new sensation. Her body moved with mine, up and down, deep thrust following deep thrust, slowly, then faster, then slowly, lingeringly again. Our senses savored every millimeter of the flesh in contact. I was drenched in the honey of her repeated orgasms. The muscles of her vagina rippled over the length of my organ like lingers on a flute. I felt myself stretched and pumped and squeezed. In turn I battered at her so hard that my scrotal sac bounced rhythmically against the soft-muscled base of her lust-tunnel. Finally I slammed into her with all my might and my balls were swallowed up. She rose to meet me. We stayed like that, poised, for a long moment. Then, as Peggy relaxed, I released the hot stream of my passion, over-filling her, feeling the excess gush over her thighs and mine. And still I pumped while the lazy Susan turned . . . and turned. . . and turned. . . .
A while later—I don’t know how long—I reminded Peggy that while fun was fun I had really come with her on a “specific mission.” She somehow misinterpreted what I had said to mean that my coming with her had been a “terrific emission.” Straightening that out took a bit more dallying and so more time passed before she agreed to escort me to the dungeons where we would find Manuel, the Lilliputian who would presumably dictate to me the terms of release for Alicia Alvarez, the President’s secret daughter.
The dungeons were something else again. They were on a level below the basement of the lavish mansion on the Ile de la Cité. The foundation was old and slimy with cracks. It leaked and the stone floor and walls were dank with puddles from the River Seine. If I hadn’t been forewarned by Peggy, I might have taken seriously what I found down there. Chains and spikes, racks and an Iron Boot, whips and knouts, delicate instruments for extracting fingernails and gross mechanisms for vaginal enemas and castration -- all in all as grisly a collection of torture devices as I’ve ever seen. They were in use—sort of—but really the people involved were playing at using them, or using them playfully, whichever you prefer.
Manuel, an African Pygmy, was in a rear cell. He wore a leather apron of the kind favored by executioners in sixteenth-century France. Two girls, one black, one white, were spread-eagled and chained to a wall facing him. Manuel was laying it on, lightly but deftly, with a blacksnake whip. Embedded in the tip of the lash was a sharp piece of metal. It left a thin streak of blood wherever it struck.
It would be wrong, however, to imply that the two girls were being beaten against their will. On the contrary, like all those in the dungeons, they were getting their jollies out of the S-M proceedings. True, they writhed and cried out, but from the way their lower bodies pumped and jerked, it was obvious that they were also getting a lot of sexual compensation for the raps they were taking.
Peggy stared at the scene, fascinated. I understood that she was both attracted and repelled by discipline. She stayed behind, in the background, while I walked up to Manuel.
Manuel was very dark-skinned, with uncharacteristic Latin features, flashing black eyes, and the slenderness of a Castilian noble. It looked like a Spanish strain had diffused his Pygmy heritage. He wielded the whip very gracefully, moving on the balls of his feet like a panther, all but choreographing the S-M as he lashed first the black girl, and then the white, and then the black one again.
The black girl (her skin was actually a beautiful shade of dark purple) had very large, full breasts. Each time the whip tip flicked the nipple of one of them, she would jerk her body in such a way that each breast would rotate in turn—the unhit one about half a revolution behind the one that had been punished. Streaks of blood spread out from her brown aureoles like cracks in a window which has been shattered but not broken. The sleek black bush between her supple thighs was likewise flecked with blood; these drops had been spattered there by the lash stroking her hips and belly.
The white girl (auburn-haired, slender, and more muscular than her black counterpart) seemed to have been whipped much harder. Rivulets of red ran between her small breasts and over her belly. After watching a minute I could see why.
“Oh, yes!” she kept moaning to the lithe Pygmy. “Whip me! Let me feel the lash! I’m coming! I’m turned on! More! Harder! I’m coming! I’m coming!”
With this kind of urging, Manuel gave her more than her share of the lash. When the black girl complained of being short-whipped, he would try to even it out until she too was driven to the throes of orgasm. First one, then the other-—and so it went.
Which, as you may imagine, made it kind of hard to divert Manuel’s attention, let alone hold it once diverted. After a few futile throat clearings, “Ahems,” and “Excuse mes,” I just reached out and grabbed his whip arm to attract his attention.
“Manuel,” I said. “I’d like to talk to you.”