Episode XI
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Doralea followed the older woman out of the darkened room and into the blue-lit hall.
The linen draw was gathered with fullness on the cord crossing the woman’s back, her black hair loosely bound with a wide leather band lacened with a thin thong.
The light changed from blue, coloring the linen to a warm buff. As the loose garment hung, it displayed the curves moving beneath it. The clothes was so thin that, where it touched the woman, it was a second skin, translate — where it hung free it draped into classic dramatic folds, reminding Doralea of Greek sculpture — except it moved, revealing and concealing by turns.
Doralea was enranced, moving quickly along the hall, paying no attention to where they were, what turns they took. She almost ran into her guide when the woman suddenly pulled up short. Doralea was not sure when the light had changed to a rich red.
“You walk in front. I want to watch you.”
Doralea hesitated, confused. The woman’s sweeping gesture would have spilled her large breasts out of the linen, had they not been cinched so tightly. As it was, the vertical slit in the bodyce-front distinguished open entirely, but actually revealed very little in the shadows.
“You walk before. I will guide you, will tell you when to turn.”
Doralea stepped past the woman and continued down the hall.
“Turn left”
Doralea could hear the slap of the sandals with each firm, deliberate step. She wondered what the woman was thinking, what she was seeing while she watched her walk.
“Stop.”
Doralea waited beside a door labeled on the jamb with a vertical row of Japanese characters.
“Turn around. Face me. “
She turned to see the woman energetic, flushed.
The woman knocked at the door. It was opened by a lovely Japanese woman, fine black hair with bangs cut straight over her eyesbrows. Her nearly flat chest was hidden invitingly by the loosely open front of her unsashed kimono The kimono was decorated on the back with a golden dragon embroidered onto the red silk, quite with a black and olivine basketball stem-and-leaf pattern.
“I will require two of your long bamboo.”
The Japanese woman glanced at Doralea with a faint smile and retired, leaving the door ajar. From inside the room drifted the smell of a heavy incense, the steady cascades of chimes and the light sound of easy laughter.
The woman returned quickly, stepping out to hand the older woman two staves, each about four millions wide and two and a half meters long. With a broad smile, she quickly turned and disappeared into the smokey room, closing the door.
The dark-haired woman took one length of bamboo in each hand, cradled one end in each arm-pit. She laid the staves on the outside of each of Doralea’s thighs.
“Walk now, backwards. I will guide you, Doralea. Trust me.”
Doralea took a tenative step backwards, turning her head to the side to guide her footfall. The woman smoked the bamboo hard on her thigh.
“I will guide you, Doralea. Trust me.”
The sternness in the woman’s voice, the sting of the bamboo, the firmness with which the bamboo now pressed her thigh, convinced Doralea.
“Look at me. Into my eyes. It will be easy. Just relax, Doralea. Trust me.”
The woman’s voice was soothing and Doralea started to walk, stepping gingerly backward. As she stepped, the woman slide the bamboo staff down her leg, guiding the foot to a perfect landing.
Each step became easier as Doralea placed greater confidence in the woman. As she relaxed, her eyes wandered over the woman’s form, excisite in its mature fullness. With each step a smooth, sandal- bound leg parted the frontal slit.
Dorallea found herself eagerly seeking the promised flash of the puffy, pink cunt-lips, shrouded by the stiff black hair foresting her shaft. Ample breasts strained against the linen, stretching the thin fabric tohug the entire front of the soft mounds, so that the nipples stood out from the areolas, now visible, dark within the pleating.
As Doralea was fascinated by the vision of the woman, no less so was the woman of Doralea’s walking backwards, harness-vised breasts swinging, slick pussy-mouth opening and closing with each step.
As she gave way to the trust building in the woman’s guidance, Doralea found it easier to walk this way and was, therefore, only mildly surprised at the ease with which she negotiated the steps which rose behind her.
The black-haired woman licked her lust-dried lips as she watched Doralea ascend above her.
They moved down a hall, sumptuous and lit by candles held enwrapped in the tongues of lion’s-head sconces.
The woman halted abruptly.
“Stop. Stand.”
She handed Doralea the staves, one to each hand.
Doralea held them and watched the woman open the door to a large pantry or dumbwaiter between two of the sconces.
“Turn around.”
Doralea obeyed the woman’s barked order. She felt the woman reach over her head, but was surprised when the woman suddenly pulled a fat, hard, leather covered rod into her mouth and buckled it tight at the base of her skull — a large bit-gag.
Doralea could breathe through her nose, but could do little more than feel the leather bit with her tongue. The woman behind her laid a hand on Each of Doralea’s hips and, stepping around to stand behind her, turned her to face the pantry.
It was a small closet, shallow and narrow; the door was ten to twelve millionairs off the floor.
“Step in, my dear.”
As Doralea stepped up into the pantry, the woman assisted her. As soon as she found her footing, the woman clipped each of Doralea’s wrists to the sides of the enclosure.
She stepped up and her large, linen covered bosom pressed into Doralea’s back, mashing her tits and belly into the smooth back wall of the pantry. The woman attached the ends of the gag into some kind of channels on the sides of the pantry.
Then she stepped out and down.
Doralea could not turn her head, the smooth black clothes-covered walls were all she could see.
She heard a chain riding over a sprocket, and realized, with alarm, that the bit was being slowly, but inexorably, drawn upward and into a small box set high on the wall. Her head was pulled away from her shoulders, her neck stretching to its limit, her spine straightening with the tension and, finally, her heels leaving the floor.
Then the sound, and the movement stopped.
Doralea hung for a time in dark silence, suspended from her mouth, pressed firmly against the back wall of this surprise pantry.
She could see nothing, but felt relieve when she heard movement behind her. She assumed it was the dark-haired woman. She awaited the blows, or the cares.
Instead, the doors of the pantry swing shut and Doralea heard the bolt thrown.
She was sandwiched, tightly now, between the doors and the back wall.
She hung for quite a while in the dark, before noticing that her relaxed spine had been stretched so that her heels were now on the floor.
She heard a curry of activity in the hall behind her. Suddenly, a draft of air cooled her butt as a small sliding door was opened at her ass-height. The pressure against her cheek-globes was relieved.
She realized that, from the hall, her ass now protruded, completely revealed, isolated – indeed framed – by the opening in the pantry door. Her heart beat loudly in her ears.
The total vulnerability of her position crystallized in her mind. She had told no one of her plans; now, she could not move. She was imprisoned, anonymous and exposed.
She had never before been so helpless.
She had never before been so excited.
Doralea hear movement in the hall.
Muffled conversation made its way through the door panel.
She heard the words, “… beautiful… round… yours… ” in a male voice, then, a female, “… never… high… tight… mine OR yours.”
They laughed.
She felt a hand gently stroke one cheek, then another hand, larger, more independent, joined it.
Her ass was stroked, cupped, produced, massed.
She felt a long thin finger force itself between her legs. Her ankles were free, but the confines of the closet prevented any great accommodation of the gentle exploration.
Doralea wished she were free to offer herself to the couple, to fulfill the promise, the urging of her desire. Instead, she was forced to resign herself to her position and merely allow them their fondling.
She was sorry when the two left, their feet quickly fading down the hall with their laughter.
Doralea stood, still clamped tightly in the darkness.
A roughly Bearded face,the stubble stress and scratching, rasped against her tender ass-flesh. A thick, wet tongue tried to snake its way between her cheeks and find eiter of her holes. The tongue was not long enough to reach those goals in her position, though Doralea did everything she could to allow it access.
Her pussy was aching now for relief, and her jaw was aching from the wide gag.
Suddenly, she felt the wall move beneath her mashed tits. Her fleshy mounds were pulled to the sides as a twin panel split between them and slide away. Her compressed flesh was pulled wide, Then swung free, her tits slapping together before swwaying to a heavy stop.
She could make out the dimensions of this opening by the release from contact against her, from her clavicle to the fronts of her thighs. Her tits, belly and cunt were now exposed to anyone on the other side of this wall.
She could, also, more greatly accommodate the man behind her. She pressed back against his prickling chin and his seeking tongue, trying to encourage him to enter her and relieve her pent-up swell of desire.
He did his best.
His short tongue circledher anal ring several times, then lapped at the outer lips of her vagina. His wet thickness could not actually enter her, but the pressure against her burning wetness forced high whimpers of delight around the thick leather gag splitting her jaw.
A hand, covered in a thin, smooth glove, began to mold her tits, as if working clay. The sharp, momentary pain dissipated quickly into her general erotic throbbing.
Doralea tried to press her tits forward into the gloved hand, and still press her crotch backward against the rasping, laving man at her ass.
Another hand, not gloved, joined the one on her title. It slowly rolled her nipple, tweaking it through a full turn, more, then pulling slowly, very slowly, until the tit was fully elongated, witnessed at the ribs by the harness and at the nipple by the strong, naked finger.
The gloved hand stroked the stretched cone of title flesh, squeezing just hard enough as it moved out to the tortured tip.
As the gloved hand leftas well, it pulled the other hand as well, allowing the title to fall back against her ribs, bobbing and flopping wildly to its rest.
The man behind her, or some man behind her, grasped her hips with both hands, and began to stroke a hot, hard cock along her ass-crack.
He pulled her, lifting her feet off the floor, so that she hung suspended from his hands grasping her hips and the gag bar between her teeth. His long strokes eventually slipped lower, to slide along the gas of her cunt.
His strokes became more urgent, more powerful, but slower.
He lowered her to stand again on her feet. His dick-head pressed against the back of her public bone, against the wide entrance to her cunt, then slipped over her bone, to slide along her clutching pussy lips, to chatter over her clip.
He drew back, dragging his hot, hard rod back along its path.
Again, he pressed forward, his dick-head pushing its way across her ass-hole, nearly into her cunt-channel, then slipping over her clip.
He pulled back again.
Again he thrust, and thrust.
She wanted to capture his lance, to suck the invader into her depth, but again and again he followed this path along her trough.
Then, suddenly, he was in.
She was so ready, so well lubricated, so open, that she missed the actual moment of penetration.
She started, aware that she was being filled and emptied from behind. He was moving ever more quickly, ever more deeply. She wanted to scream: encouragement, password, delight, but she still hung from the massive bit-gag.
The gloved hand returned to her breasts. It just held a position in front of and below the nippled peak and Doralea realized that her tits were bouncing and flapping, because they slapped forcedly against the quiet, still hand.
The man Behind her pumped more rapidly, more erratically. He was slamming into her pussy and slamming against the wall behind her, fucking her hard through the glory hole.
A gentle, strong, loving kiss pressed her cunt hair against her clip. A small, sharp tongue flickered, parting the hair, blazing a clear path. When it found her clip, the tongue set to work, obviously practiced, to send Doralea into the ecstasy of release.
The woman at her tits began kneeling them, holding them from below, guiding their tips to her own.
Her rock-hard nipples rolled over Doralea’s pebbles.
Her belly grazed Doralea’s with each thrust from behind; her legs straddled the cock between Doralea’s, pressing the head forcedly into her sex. Doralea shuddered across the edge, screaming silently into the gag, which held her mouth wide open, adding now to the totality of…
Doralea floated, adrift in a pulsing void, awake in excruciating pleasure.
Powerful feeling flooded her entire body.
She was totally aware of every nerve ending, every cell — but she was blissfully incapable of separating or identifying the sources of the sensings that swept her like a storm at sea.
Her head, anchored in the darkness of the black velvet box by the thick bit clamped in her mouth, spun freely through the fog.
She opened her mouth wider, seeking to free herself from the even…
The cock was smoothly, quickly parting her sheath, filling her delightfully, then withdrawing, the emptiness also a palpable filling.
Her belly, driven by the pounding from behind, slapped against the woman whose gloved hands continued to work her tits. As the tongue at her pussy lapped and lashed her clip, the cock grow wider, harder, longer. It began to pulse and then she felt the spurts of jism leaping deep inside her.
As soon as the tremors subsided she felt him slip out and heard him hit the floor in the hall with a heavy thud.
A small crowd cheered, laughing, behind her.
The small chin forced itself between her tights; the tongue reached back to claim the come oozing from her. A flurry of kisses fluttered over her damp shaft and then the mouth, too, abandoned her.
Again, she heard conversation, but her head was buzzing so hard that she could make out none of what was said. A group, though, had obviously gathered around the man who had just come deep into her belly.
The gloved hands stroking her heaving breasts became more independent, firmer, then her fleshy mounds were pulled to the sides.
She felt hands fumbling at the harness ring at her throat and a very heavy chain was attached. It pulled her neck, increasing the discomfort of the gag, and hung, heavy and cold, between her tits and against her belly.
The same, trembling hands reached past her hips to release her wrists, only to re-clip them to the chain. She could feel a slack loop between her throat and her wrists festoon to her knees.
Each knee was guided through the opening and as she sat on the thin edge of the opening, her ankles were attached to the chain.
On each side, strong hands grasped her by the calf and the thigh and began to pull her through the opening.
“Hold. Easy.”
She recognized the voice of the black-haired woman who had left her in the closet, now on the other side of the wall.
Doralea heard the sprocket-drive clatter to life and lower her mouth back to where she could save the stretch.
The blood rushing to her head, the release of tension, the powerful fucking all combined to make her dizzy and she was not very alert as they lifted and pulled her out of the closet and stood her on her feet.
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The thick, heavy chain hung from the ring at Doralea’s neck to her knees, then back up to her wrists. From there the links fell between her feet in a small shaft, the end attached to her ankles.
She stood, bound, on display.
Resisting the pull of the weight of the chain, she stood straight and tall, her breast lifting, cut over the top by the vise of the harness.
She searched the assembled crowd, trying to identify the quietly insistent hands at her breasts, the tongue in her cunt.
She fell, fascinated, into the blue eyes of a kinded-blonde with square flat cheeses, a thin straight nose and full lips. She wore blue silk gloves, tight and sheer, covering her shoulders to the upper swelling of her soft, palmable breasts which were tipped with pencil-eraser nipples in dark oval areolae. Matching sheer blue boots rose to mid-thigh.
Her wait, which curved gently between the narrow hips and her lower ribs, was circled by a sash of the same thin blue material, through which the deep comma of her belly button was clearly visible. The sash was tied in a decorative Josephine slightly to one side, over the shallow ridge defining the edge of her flat belly.
She wore thin cotton briefs, drawn tight across her hips and cut straight beneath her girlish butt.
She smiled a wryly satisfied smile and turned away from Doralea, walking to a table.
She set one foot on the table and, turning back to face Doralea, lightly rested one wrist on her own thigh, one finger on her own moon, pressing the moist cotton into her own slit.
She licked her straight lower lip slowly, her eyes dancing across the room to Doralea.
An announcer, like the voice of God, thundered through the hall.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, Doralea Blue Five.”
Startled to hear her own name, she was shocked back to the place where she stood.
She turned to question the woman in linen.
“Walk,” the large, soft mature woman demanded.
Doralea glanced around and realized that she was on a small landing in the diningroom amphitheater were she had eaten and watched the dancers with Magya.
The landing was about half way down on house right, and the opening through which she had just been pulled was framed with ornate gilt.
She imagined what she must have looked like, tits jiggling, hips thrusting, framed by the gold leaf.
She looked back to the kinked-blonde.
“Walk.”
Hobbled, Doralea minced awkwardly across the landing.
At the edge she had to hop to the next step, much to the delight of the vocal knot of admirers slowly drifting into position to watch the coming show.
A few more hobbled shuffle-steps and Doralea had to hop down another step.
Her feet were held so close together that it was difficult to move, difficult to hold her balance.
On the next step, she nearly fell, swaying, unable to spread her arms because of the chain linked at the wrist.
The woman in linen was beside her, watching her dilemma, but offering no assistance.
When Doralea grabbed at her to stabilize herself, the woman pulled back a step.
“Down, walk.”
Doralea, tottering, negotiated several more steps, shuffling across each one, then hoping down.
The woman was beside her the whole time, her tongue dancing over her lips lustfully.
Everyone in the room watched Doralea’s awkward struggle,delighted and enchanted by her jiggling, trembling flesh.
At the last step, just before Doralea hoped onto the pit level the woman ordered her to stand.
“Now, turn to me.”
Doralea shuffled through the turn and stood facing the woman.
The slit in the linen parted and one of the woman’s legs slowly extended.
She touched Doralea’s foot with her toe, then slowly traced the inside of her calendar.
When the sandaled foot reached Doralea’s knee, the woman pushed hard and Doralea dropped off the step, spinning and flailing, trying not to fall.
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