Agents In Harms Way (14 page)

Sarah held her hand; waiting, while Annie, her panties at half-mast, sniffled and rubbed her hurting bottom like a chastised schoolgirl to the roaring approval of the crowd. Thoroughly humiliated, the poor woman could do no more than take a deep breath, and then slowly, reluctantly, resume the mortifying position, letting her hands dangle down while she closed her eyes and waited. The girl helpfully reached out and re-arranged the disheveled skirt, to better uncover her attractive mother’s bare ass. Sarah looked for permission to continue, and soon the sold thud of wood meeting springy, fleshy mounds was heard again resounding in the little arena.

Only when he alone deemed that Annie had had enough, would the Commandante call a halt to the proceedings. Both girls were made to stand with their backs to the audience, and raise their skirts so that their throbbing bottoms might be compared. Sarah showed her saucy butt with its fading pinkish glory; Annie who had not been allowed to hitch up her displaced, sagging panties, displayed her freshly chastised bottom. The two were made to kiss and make up. It was a quick kiss, but it was on the lips, as only that type of kiss would satisfy the perverse desires of the evil commander of the mountain top…at least for now.

The two contestants seemed evenly matched. Greta, a shade taller than her rival, was the more natural athlete: with that lean, hard-muscled body, short, sun-bleached hair and small-mounded tits. Her opponent was stockier in build, with a body that was solid, more muscular, through still richly feminine. Linda had strong legs, robust thighs, and full, bobbing breasts; and had pinned her hair up in a neat chignon in preparation for the contest. Of course, the two women held no natural animosity towards one another, and El Commandante, realizing that, and wishing to bring some enthusiasm to these matches, had provided an incentive to assure a spirited performance.

He had decreed that the loser would spend the day confined in the standings stocks, a restraining device that kept its victim helpless, standing nude and locked in place by imprisoning her bowed neck and wrists. This particular form of discipline was, of course, open to public scrutiny, of which her lordship’s guests availed themselves, taking turns, freely amusing themselves with her lewdly presented nether regions. This dreaded punishment was enough of an incentive to insure a girl’s determination not to lose the contest.

Now the two combatants approached the far side of the muddy pit, and like well-trained gladiators, bowed to their seated captor. The imperial wave of the hand sent them wading ankle deep into the slimy mud, which had the consistency of a thick swamp. The women got down on all fours to assume the wrestler’s classic starting position, side by side. The German girl’s floppy little breasts fell to form two tit bags; dangling down, narrow and pointy. While under her bent torso, Linda’s heftier breasts, hung heavy and pendulous, swayed with every move she made. Greta draped a lanky arm around Linda’s rounded shoulders, and at a signal from the high chair, the wrestling match began.

Muscles tightened; Greta strained to pull her rival over, but Linda stoutly resisted, splaying hands and knees to widen her stance. Quick as a flash, Greta kicked out to knock her rival off balance just enough to press home her attack by shouldering into the scrambling woman with all her might. The two of them tumbled forward, splattering into the gooey mud, legs writhing, arms flinging about as they sought a purchase on the nude — and by now mud-coated — body of their opponent. The audience cheered wildly, partisans of each girl quickly forming to urge on their respective heroine.

Greta, the quicker of the two, managed to get up on her knees behind her rival and slipping her arms under the heftier girl, got a grip on the back of her head, attempting to force her head forward in a painful hold. But Linda, with a twisting effort, managed to shake her off; Greta lost her balance as she was thrown free. Linda spun to face the wiry girl and force her over so that the pressing her flopping opponent into the bed of mud. Greta squirmed wildly, as Linda fell on her, their slick breasts slipping and sliding over each other as Linda struggled to pin the wiry German girl. But Greta managed to wiggle out from beneath the heavier girl. By now both girls were totally covered in the thick viscous mud; their nude bodies so slick that a good purchase was impossible. Even their faces and hair were covered with the soupy goo, so that the two mud wrestlers resembled the sort of swamp creatures the Hollywood movies might dream up. But even though their contest was hindered by the slippery stuff, the two struggled on, each seeking mastery.

Hands and feet flailed out as the two mud-covered bodies closed. Greta managed to get behind Linda and reached around to grab a fat tit. Linda, struggling in the painful grip, clutched at Greta’s muddy hair and grabbing a handful, pulled the other girl by that equally painful method. The two swung round and round, until both lost their footing and flopped back into the mud bed. This time, Greta managed to squirm up Linda’s slick body, tucked her knees under her, and sat straddling her rival’s heaving chest. Linda writhed like an eel beneath her, but somehow Greta managed to stay in the saddle and she soon fell forward, grabbing the other girl’s wrists, raising them over her head, pinning her deep into the oozing, squishy mud. The crowd went wild.

Both women were panting heavily as Greta dismounted, and they struggled to get to their feet. Slipping and falling repeatedly, they made their way out of the pit, to stand before their audience and bow as they had been trained to do. The mud coated gladiators dropped their heads and waited, bodies shiny with slippery coating of mud, shoulders sagging, breasts heaving mightily as they panted for air. El Commandante declared Greta the winner.

The final indignity faced by the pair was when two soldiers appeared running out with a large fire hose. The powerful stream of water that hit the muddy combatants, nearly knocked them from their feet, and they turned and shrieked under the cold blast, gyrating frantically, hopping from foot to foot, breasts bouncing wildly, hands flying down to cover their crotches, in a vain attempt to shield their tender womanhood from the strategically aimed shower. Only when all the mud had been washed from their bodies were they dismissed. Greta to ready herself for the evening’s entertainment; Linda to dry off, and recover, only to assume the vanquisher’s place in the standing stocks.

***

In preparation for the final act, a couple of soldiers emerged from the tent lugging an ornate bedstead between them. The metal bed frame was set down on the grass, close to the audience, and mattress thrown on. The departure of the soldiers brought an air of anticipation that began to build with each passing moment.

After a few minutes, the flaps of the tent were again opened, to emit a single, white-clad figure. He stood barefoot on the grass, blinking in the glare of the sun, dressed in the unbleached raw cotton outfit of a field worker: hip-length overshirt, hanging loosely from his shoulders, and under that a pair of baggy pants hitched up around his narrow waist. An oversized sombrero had been plunked down on the man’s head so that it rode low over his eyes — startling blue eyes with curiously dilated pupils. There was about the slight figure in the baggy pants a certain comic note supplied by the thick black mustache, which was, quite obviously, a fake — painted on, as though for some absurd amateur theatrical, the kind that might be staged by children, dressing up in their parents’ clothing.

Just as ludicrous was the figure, which now emerged to stand at his side. Garishly painted up, she looked like a schoolgirl primping about in her mother’s make up and dress — that is, if her mother had been a whore. Walking hand in hand with the peon, she strutted and stumbled her way over the soft ground, navigating awkwardly in a dress that was much too tight and heels that were much too high. The girlish body was packed into the sexy, low-cut dress of a streetwalker, jet black, and slit up one side to knee-height to expose, with each step she took, a coltish calf that was sheathed in sheer, smoky nylon. The revealing dress also allowed an enticing view of a pair of small, but nicely-rounded breasts, that jiggled and threatened to spill out over the low cut bodice at each mincing step.

The couple came forward, stopped, and presented themselves to the crowd: a young peasant and a teenaged whore. The delightful picture brought catcalls, hoots, and whistles, from the rowdy crowd. The slender peasant doffed his sombrero and held it before him, respectfully baring a head of black hair that was long and pulled tightly back to fall in a thick, ropy pony tail. The girl at his side joined him in a bow to the audience, a gesture that earned the couple a wild round of applause, punctuated with shouts urging them to get on with it.

El Commandante, openly drunk by now, stood reeling over the crowd, shouting crude commands in guttural English. The peasant tossed aside his sombrero, and took the girl in his arms, holding her in loose embrace, as they embraced and kissed before the excited crowd, their passion soon fired them and the act of sex heated and inevitable.

From the first time that Mallory had been forced into a public display of affection with her partner, the pair had become a popular act — called on to openly make lesbian love at the whim of the deranged druglord. At first, the women were intensely embarrassed by what they had to do, but as they became conditioned to the relentless sexual atmosphere of the prison compound, they came to regard such shows of sisterly affection much more casually, and found their own forced performances not altogether unpleasant. Mallory, who would vehemently deny that she had ever felt the slightest twinge of sexual desire for another woman, knew that under the duress of prison life, it was commonplace for sexual appetites to stray.

And then too, there was something about Kip — a cute, frisky kid who looked up at her with big eyes filled with devotion. The girl brought out a protective feeling in her, a sense of possessiveness that warmed her. To hold the younger girl in her arms, clasping that small-breasted body to hers, caressing the firm, tightly knit body, making the other girl moan with pleasure — these things awoke strong, lusty stirrings in her.

Kip, who had always admired Mallory from afar, had grown closer to her since they had been thrown together in adversity. So much so that, far from being repelled when they were forced into intimacy, she found herself hopelessly in love. She yearned to pleasure the older woman, to surrender to her, body and soul. And so it was only a matter of time until the night Kip slipped into Mallory’s bunk, seeking the comfort they increasingly found in each other’s arms. The love they made that night was warmly genuine, yet driven with all the lust of a healthy young woman pent up in this unreal, hot house atmosphere, where even the air seemed charged with sexual electricity.

Now, Mallory as the peon, and Kip as the whore, they sought each others lips, kissed, open mouthed, in a long and soulful kiss, as slow hands moved feeling their way down tightly-clasped bodies. Mallory pulled back to look into Kip’s big brown eyes and got a smile from the girl who stifled a giggle at the sight of the absurd mustache. Grinning back, Mallory laid her hands on the small girl’s bare shoulders, and guided her towards the side of the bed. Then she reached around and ran the zipper down the back of the dress, while Kip stood perfectly still, hands at her sides, simply letting herself be undressed.

The audience watched, mesmerized, as Mallory drew down the thin loops of each shoulder strap, freeing the sagging bodice so that it fell away to uncover that thin, callow chest, adorned with a wispy brassiere — a lacy black demi-bra, the delicate half cups of which nicely served up two precious little titties. Mallory went down on one knee before the half-dressed girl, and worked the snugly fitted dress down Kip’s narrow hips, and on down those youthful nyloned legs. Kip steadied herself with a hand on the kneeling woman’s shoulder, as she lifted each high-heeled foot in turn, stepping free of the fallen dress.

The audience grew quieter, more alert, as the deliberate stripping continued. Mallory slid behind the girl, worked open the tiny catch on the brassiere, and deftly removed the flimsy holster, to let those perky tits settle with a soft gelatinous wobble. Once freed, Kip’s breasts stuck out proudly, firm and high-set; two neatly curved handfuls that sat uptilted and expectant. Mallory stepped aside, like a proud parent, showing off her daughter to the world. Kip, topless now, in just her sexy panties, garter belt and stockings, was an awe-inspiring sight; one that drew immediate, appreciative applause. But it was when the “peasant boy” was stripped that the audience went wild.

As the two performers stood facing each other, Kip reached down to gather up Mallory’s voluminous shirt, lifting the billowy garment up, while her partner helpfully raised her hands high, so that the loose shirt might be pulled off over her head. The smooth, flattened chest that was revealed might, from the distance of the audience anyway, well be that of a young man or a boy. The lithe torso was devoid of all hair, smoothly sculpted, with just the hint of flat-mounded tits. As a murmur went through the audience, the rope belt around the peon’s waist was untied; the loose, baggy pants allowed to drop straight down to ring the ankles — revealing the peon’s surprise: A hard rubber phallus, strapped to Mallory’s waist, bobbed up and down in obscene display, as the girl leaned over to remove her crumpled pants!