Shameless Exposure (11 page)

“The spirits are not at rest,” said Regina. “He has been possessed by a bad spirit. I saw it. Did you see it?” she asked the proselytes. Some nodded. They had seen something strange, for certain.

“The bad spirit must be exorcised. Take him to the dungeon. There we have the tools to chase the bad spirit away. The wild cat has told me how to release his seed. Jocasta, you must come too.”

Robert was still breathing heavily when he was seized again by the Wimples, assisted by willing acolytes, and bustled out of the great hall and down the steps to the dungeon. His captors giggled as cold air stung their skin on leaving the warmth of the hall. But the fervour of the women was not diminished by the coldness of the night. Nor did Robert feel the chill. Such was his nervous anticipation of what might be done to him he didn’t notice any discomfort other than his overwhelming desire to have an orgasm and go to bed. He thought about running away, but there was nowhere to run to except a barren hillside or a cold sea. He didn’t fancy his chances of surviving long enough in the water to make the shore of Sporran.

When the group had made it down the narrow steps and into the undercroft, Regina took Jocasta to one side and asked her if she would help exorcise the bad spirit. Jocasta nodded enthusiastically when Regina explained her role and the exact form of words she must use to draw the spirit out.

“The wild cat guide has given me the words you must say,” explained Regina. “It is a kind of spell. Repeat it. It must be correct or the spirit will not respond.” Jocasta repeated the mysterious words.

“But how will I know the right moment to use the spell?” said Jocasta.

“Fix your eyes on his penis. When it begins to quiver, but before it erupts, you must say the words. You must be strong. It is a very evil spirit. You may have to endure much pain.”

“Thank you for choosing me, Regina.”

“May your guide be with you.”

“It is with me. I met it on the dais when you were instructing me. My animal spirit is an otter.”

“Sleek and fast, strong and impervious to extremes,” said Regina. “May the otter be with you.”

Regina took Jocasta into the dungeon. They lit every candle in the holders around the wall and four calor-gas heaters in each corner of the room. Then Regina asked Jocasta to stand on a chair and she fixed her slight frame to a pair of manacles on the wall.

“Now step off the chair… carefully!”

“Could you lift me down, Regina?”

Regina wrapped her arms around Jocasta and pressed her into her bosom, lowering her to the ground, the balls of her feet resting on the freezing floor. Regina opened a cupboard in the corner and took out a spiked metal choker, snapping it shut around Jocasta’s neck. She found a thick leather belt and fixed it tightly round her narrow waist, telling her to breathe in, and pulling it in another hole.

Regina stood back to admire her handiwork. She returned to her cupboard of delights and took out a riding crop. She stroked it three times across Jocasta’s breasts then drew it slowly down to her belly button. Jocasta shivered in anticipation. Then Regina lifted Jocasta’s light body up and turned her round so that her arms were crossed and she was facing her wall, her toes barely touching the ground. She tapped the soles of Jocasta’s feet, making her hop from foot to foot, then very gently ran the crop up between her legs and across her bottom.

“Bring Robert in,” called Regina. The troupe filed in, bringing the miscreant spirit with them. There was a hubbub of surprise when they saw Jocasta hanging on the wall, the pert globes of her shining bottom facing them. Most of them, hearing the tales of punishment for unauthorised orgasms, had secretly been down to explore the facilities, but none of them bar Jocasta had used them extensively. Georgina and Joni sat on the edge of the rack to get a good view.

“Put him in the stocks,” Regina ordered, tapping the riding crop in the palm of her left hand. “Facing Jocasta.”

Robert just stood there, refusing to move. Tonight he felt he had the strength of ten men and two Wimples could certainly not move him towards the stocks.

“The bad spirit will not co-operate,” explained Regina. “It has to be persuaded.” She spun round and hit the small creature hanging from the wall with the riding crop, aiming below the belt, and writing a line of red across the white skin of Jocasta’s firm, cyclist’s bottom. The proselytes gasped, surprised by the sudden blow on their spiritual sister, but Jocasta didn’t make a sound.

She raised the crop ready to sting the skin again, but paused.

“Put him in the stocks.” He walked forward under his own steam. Wimple One raised the top bar and he put his neck and hands in the half-moon holes, the wood worn smooth my centuries of miscreants, rebels and masochists. Wimple One brought the top bar down over him and fixed him into position, demonstrating a practiced knowledge of the use of medieval punishments. His face was just a few feet away from Jocasta’s body, white and fragile against the hard cold stone. Once the clasps were fixed Wimple One stood back and gave Robert a hard slap on the behind, and several of the women giggled and pushed forward so that they could have a turn.

“Wait,” called Regina. “The bad spirit enjoys pain and suffering. The more you punish Robert the more the spirit will enjoy possessing him. We want to release the spirit, release his seed. Georgina, Greta, get down below him, begin to release the spirit from its prison. Linda, Joni, all of you, line up to take your turn with Jocasta.”

Greta understood Regina’s logic, or at least was prepared to go along with it in order to play with the fantastic erection. She wormed her way between Robert’s legs and sat under the frame of the stocks, taking his bulbous penis in her hands. Georgina stood behind him and caressed his buttocks and his balls.

Joni was first in the queue beside Jocasta and Regina handed her the riding crop. She tapped Jocasta lightly on the thigh.

“That’s no good,” said Regina, ‘the spirit must see you inflict pain. That will excite it, make it lose control.”

Joni tried again, but her swing decelerated just before the crop landed on its target globe.

“Harder,” ordered Regina.

Joni gritted her teeth, stood back, and swung her arm freely. This time there was a loud slap of leather on skin, but no visible mark.

“I’ve never done that before,” said Joni, flushed with embarrassment and excitement.

“Do it again,” said Jocasta, quietly. “It will help release the spirit.”

Gaining in confidence, Joni lined up the crop by touching it on Jocasta’s pert bottom, drawing back her wrist and slapping it with speed against the white skin.

Joni examined the red mark she had made, which was not as angry as the weal made by Regina. She rubbed Jocasta’s buttocks gently, then kissed every inch along the two red marks. Jocasta’s orgatron flashed yellow. Joni was unable to resist the temptation to stroke the labia exposed by Jocasta’s uncomfortable position, and then reached further to rub her hood. Jocasta came, wriggling like a worm on a hook and clanking the chains of the manacles but otherwise silent. When she had subsided, Joni passed the baton to the next contestant, satisfied that she had done her bit in releasing spirits.

The sight of Jocasta’s thrashing orgasm had stimulated Robert’s bad spirit and he was desperate for Greta’s mouth. He shifted his legs, trying to find it, but she knew the spirit was very bad indeed and would take some shifting. Instead, she teased him with her tongue, licking him deliciously. Georgina teased too, running her fingers down the crack of his arse and cupping his balls.

Linda was next in line and without consultation lifted Jocasta up and turned her round. She nibbled Jocasta’s nipples, watching her face. Jocasta betrayed no reaction. She bit harder, and Jocasta bit her own lip to prevent a cry escaping. Linda held the crop up before Jocasta’s eyes, showing it to her carefully. The flat end she drew across her cheek. Then she turned it round and showed her the thick ribbed handle, pushing it a little way into her mouth.

Jocasta sucked and bit it. Linda left the crop there between Jocasta’s teeth and sank down to her clitoris, sucking it whole into her mouth. Jocasta bit on the handle, but made no sound. Linda sucked hard, then softly, making Jocasta’s orgatron flash yellow again. Jocasta’s breathing became heavy, as Linda’s tongue explored every crevice and darted in and out of her tight vagina. Sensing that Jocasta was holding back from the red zone, she stood up and took the crop out of her mouth, tapped her bold clitoris with the striking end, and slowly eased the ribbed handle into her hole.

Greta could tell from the quivering of Robert’s penis that the demon spirit was close to losing its grip. She finally allowed the penis to find her mouth. She held her lips tightly around his shaft and allowed him deep inside her throat. Georgina pushed a slim finger into his arsehole and that spurred the spirit on.

Linda used the handle slowly at first, allowing it to become wet with Jocasta’s rising excitement. When it was as slippery as an otter, she plunged it further in, raising Jocasta’s feet from the floor and causing her eyes to screw tight. Linda let her regain her footing, then eased the stick from her. She walked over to Robert, and held it under his nose so that he could smell the fruit of Jocasta’s excitement. He groaned as Greta’s tongue swirled around the tip of his penis.

Georgina was getting impatient and kicked Greta to indicate that she wanted a turn on his tool. Greta gave a few more hungry sucks before they swapped positions. Georgina wriggled under Robert, took his penis in her mouth, and rubbed her pussy to ease the tension that had built up in her watching Greta being fucked in the mouth and Jocasta being fucked with a riding crop. She quickly became unaware of what was going on around her and became entirely focussed on the rising tide of pressure in Robert’s urgent thrusts, and the swirling shoal of climatic sensations that were building in her vagina.

Robert began a series of groans that signalled the final approach of his long-awaited orgasm. The undercarriage was down and the bright lights of the airport were clearly visible below. Unfortunately, just as he was coming into land, a riding crop gripped between his teeth, there was a message from air traffic control.

“Wait,” shouted Regina, who had not lost sight of the significance of the proceedings. “The seed must be spilt inside the vagina. Wimples, get him out of the stocks. Jocasta, your words, now.”

Jocasta looked up to recall the senseless words she had been told by Regina:

“Um…
Come to me, leopard of the mountain. Bluebell the voracious vixen will never be satisfied by you alone.
”

Freed from the stocks and shocked by her words, Robert grasped the helpless Jocasta, as if possessed by the spirit. He lifted her off the ground and onto his engorged cock. She sighed heavily as she slid down its length. He cupped her reddened buttocks in his hands and she swung her legs behind his back, locking her feet together and drawing him further into her.

She grabbed the chains of the manacles to gain purchase, and rode up and down his ramrod. He tensed. He groaned. She felt his penis erupt and shoot jets of come deep into her. She cried out in joy, shaking as her own climax rippled through her from toe to fingertip. They remained locked together for a long moment, breathing heavily. Then Jocasta whispered into his ear:

“Thank you, Robert. That was beautiful. At last I have felt something deeply again.”

“Don’t thank me. I don’t know what came over me. Did I hear you right? How do you know about Bluebell?”

“The words were given to me by the spirit.”

Their audience didn’t know whether to clap or cheer at the climax to the show, but Regina broke the awkward silence:

“The bad spirit has been expelled. The seed has been spilt. The ceremony is complete until the next full moon. May the vagina spirit be with you.”

“May the vagina spirit lead us to eternal ecstasy,” they responded.

 
Ten

Caroline had sampled everything the Copacabana Palace Hotel had to offer and was ready to venture out into the world outside. The day had started beautifully with a spectacular sunrise over the bay viewed from her suite facing the ocean. Now, after a morning trying out the hotel pool, a massage in the spa, and a coffee in the bistro, it was time to explore the beach playground which lay just across the Avenida Atlantica.

First though, she would need a bikini. This being a work trip, she hadn’t packed one. The one-piece Speedo, which always travelled with her since the skinny-dipping debacle in Spain, hung dripping in the bathroom.

The huge bath was in the living room, not in the bathroom. Lounging in it the previous evening, she wished she had someone to share it with. She could easily imagine Robert enjoying this languorous luxury, ordering a bottle of champagne from room-service, taking her down to dinner and enjoying the sight of every man’s head in the restaurant turning in her direction. They would finish with a brandy and then make love in the bath, laughing at the indulgence of it. She felt all warm in her stomach and soaped herself between her legs.

Or what if she had allowed Erik to come with her? The thought of him staring at her with his cool, critical, artist’s eyes as she assumed a number of poses in the oil-scented water sent a wave of excitement through her body. He would have her lie still like a modern day Ophelia, her red hair fanning out in the water. He would make some sketches without a smile. Then, when it seemed he didn’t care for her at all except as the raw material for an image, he would hand her a towel, touch her gently on the waist, and she would be consumed with uncontainable lust. She reached for the knobbly natural sponge that bobbed in the water and used it to stroke her clit.

Then Robert appeared again, stroking her breasts and offering his penis to her mouth. She imagined his familiar taste, delighting in exciting him while Erik licked her to a wet orgasm. Yes, in an ideal world, she would have them both, like she had those two young men at the party. Of course it could work. Perhaps Robert would agree to try a ménage a trois in return for her promising never to moan again about the football?

Her fantasies, as she bobbed in the warm bubbles, did not involve her dynamic boss. Oh, no. It was a relief to spend some time away from always-on Andreas and she hadn’t argued when he had offered to fly to the meeting in Sao Paulo alone, a day trip by plane. The hotel was nice, but she had been shocked by the drive to Rio from the airport.

Even in a chauffeur driven limousine it was impossible to ignore the poverty and squalor lining the main road, a breeding ground for the crime she had been warned about. Julia Sinbad’s risk assessment of the trip had flagged up a particular kidnap risk for business people in Sao Paulo. She didn’t fancy being kidnapped. Rio was okay as long as you didn’t get lost or talk to the wrong people, and she was happy not to talk to anybody. Hardly anyone spoke English, anyway.

“You deserve a day off,” said Andreas. “It’s been seven days non-stop travelling and meetings. Have an afternoon on the beach. Just make sure you stay close to the hotel and the lifeguard station – and don’t take anything valuable with you to the beach.”

“I have travelled before, you know.”

“Of course, but it’s different here. You can’t tell if someone’s a crook until it’s too late. The people seem friendly then – bang! - your wallet’s gone, or your watch.”

He had an annoying tendency to patronise her. The past few days had been exhausting. Not only the endless smiling at suits and enthusiasm for medical devices, but also the emotional expenditure of keeping Andreas at arm’s length without being overtly hostile.

It had been a big mistake to respond to his stupid text games. It was obvious he didn’t just want to know the colour of her knickers; he wanted to get inside them. He’d been trying everything to get her to drop her guard – plying her with drink, taking her to fancy restaurants when a quick meal in the hotel would have been fine; and that nightclub he took her to yesterday was inappropriate, even for a racy city like Rio. She was no prude, but work was work and simulated sex between a large black man and a chained white woman had no place in business entertaining, or in her disturbing dreams.

However, she had held firm without slapping him and now she was going to take her e-reader onto the beach and get lost in some trash. She asked at reception to borrow a beach towel and where she could buy a bikini.

They directed her to the Rua Santa Clara, a couple of blocks down the Avenida and told her to look for a shop called Kitanga. She found the shop easily enough, but finding the right bikini out of the hundreds on display was another matter. She engaged the help of a pretty little shop assistant who measured her carefully and said something about her bottom in Portuguese, which Caroline guessed from her gestures was complimentary. The assistant returned with armfuls of the latest designs.

She chose a plain white one. It had more fabric than most and reminded her of the ones film stars wore in old films. Caroline tried it on, the assistant peeking round the door and smiling encouragement. It was a glamorous design. The lycra mix supported her boobs elegantly and the tie-sided bottoms were not too low-cut.

“How much?” asked Caroline, gesturing at the tag.

“Is most expensive in shop,” said the assistant, laughing. “But good. No fall off in water.” Caroline checked her bum in the full length mirror and smiled back at the assistant, nodding that she would buy this one.

She had felt an edge of nervousness walking through the unfamiliar streets to the shop, but having successfully made a transaction, adding a bottle of sun cream at the cash desk, she felt confident to tackle the beach. She scooted across four lanes of traffic, dodged two bicycles, a scooter and a skateboard on the cycle track, and made it in one piece to the promenade.

The black and white stone pattern of the promenade seemed to stretch for ever in both directions. After ten minutes walking and gazing in amazement at the beach scenes, she left the joggers and promenaders to kick off her shoes and join the throng on the beach.

She loved beaches; she loved the way people behaved on beaches. This one was on a grand scale, even by the standards of Newquay in August. Although the bay was nicely framed by green promontories, the long sweep of yellow sand went on for miles. She turned and picked out her hotel to get her bearings. She stood and watched a dozen bronzed young men play a fast game of volleyball, displaying a level of skill way beyond her childhood experience of beach games. Further down the sand past a clump of palm trees, there were sets of full sized goal posts and a sizeable crowd was watching a football match. Hundreds of people were swimming or playing in the surf, and a little way off the beach a flotilla of small boats bobbed around.

She spotted a fixed lifeguard station and lay her towel down in sight of it. Everywhere she looked there were attractive young people sunbathing, some of them groups of women with tiny bright bikinis, wearing the smallest of thongs to get their bottoms brown. There was obviously not too much concern about nudity, so she got undressed without fussing and put on her new outfit, taking great care to apply plenty of sunscreen before wriggling into the bikini.

When she looked up from fixing the hooks of the bikini top, hidden under the bow at the front, the two lifeguards both appeared to be looking straight at her through high-powered binoculars, the lenses glinting red in the bright sunshine. She gave them a wave and stuck her tongue out, in case they really were looking at her, though she couldn’t imagine why they would be with all the South American beauties of every size and skin tone anywhere they cared to look.

She made a neat pile of her clothes and made sure her purse was pushed deep inside her bag. She took out her e-reader and settled back on the beach towel to read chapter ten of the novel that everyone was talking about, but no-one dared speak its name, let alone buy it in paperback, wrapped as it was in a suggestive cover.

It was a preposterous story. People, especially women, did not really behave that way; but it was fun to speculate how the heroine would resolve the mess she had got herself into by trying to relive the past with an old flame. Would she really turn her back on her solid and reliable husband for a bit of excitement, a hint of perversion, a notion of romance? It was corny and predictable, obvious that the heroine would eventually fall for the charms of the rich and charismatic boss. He would turn out to have hidden depths and a wife in a long-term mental institution. Or would the real love of her life drag her back from the edge of her own idiocy? She would have to read on and find out.

She heard the whirr of a lens and the snap of a shutter and looked up to see a young man, a boy really, with two cameras around his neck, taking close-ups of her. She shook her head and wagged her finger. He gestured to her to turn over for another angle. She frowned and put her arms into an x shape. He clicked away.

“Stop it. Why me? There’re plenty of other women on the beach.”

“Redheads only.” It wasn’t much of an explanation but she decided to ignore the brat and carry on reading. That seemed to work, and the lanky lad gave up pestering her and continued down the beach in search of other redheads. She applied more sun cream and closed her eyes for a moment, letting the healing power of the sun relax her whole body. She listened to the drowsy rhythm of the surf, the backbeat to the happy hubbub of people playing on the beach.

Some time later she felt a shadow fall over her and when she opened her eyes two muscular men, one black, one white, were blocking the sun. The white man, bald, his head shiny with sun screen, waved an eight by ten glossy print and nodded.

“This is her,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” she said, half sitting up. “I don’t want a photo.”

“A hundred dollars, gringo,” said the black man, smiling in a threatening manner.

“I don’t have any dollars,” said Caroline. “I’m not American.”

“Then why did you agree to buy a picture from the boy?” asked the bald man, blocking out a bit more of the sun.

She looked towards the lifeguard station and waved towards them, concerned that this proposed transaction was not going the way she wanted it to. The lifeguards’ lenses were trained out to sea. The smiling black man grabbed her arm.

“You come with us.”

In seconds they had scooped up her bag and clothes and lifted her, one arm each, so that her feet were off the ground. They must have been well over six feet tall and built like boxers. They frog marched her into the surf. She screamed and kicked her legs, but if anyone was looking they would have seen the kind of playful scene that happened all the time on the beach, as cool water hits hot skin.

By the time she was up to her waist in the water they were alongside a white speedboat. They bundled her into it, and climbed in after her. The bald man sat on her in the bottom of the boat while the black man took the wheel and raced the boat out into deeper water.

“You’re wasting your time,” she shouted, trying to be heard above the scream of the engine. “I have nothing of value and my cards are in the hotel room. And can you please get off me? I can hardly breathe.”

“You can breathe well enough to talk,” said the bald man. “Shut up and do what we say. Throw me the zip cuffs, Michael.”

“You weren’t supposed to use my name, Junior. Here, catch.” Junior caught the plastic ties with one hand and began securing her hands behind her back.

“Look, there’s absolutely no need for that,” said Caroline. “If you want me to buy a photo I’ll buy a bloody photo. Just take me back to my hotel and I’ll get some money. I’ll even get dollars if you insist. They’re very helpful at reception.”

He threaded the strip through the ratchet and pulled it tight. As he moved towards her feet, she managed a well aimed kick between his legs. He doubled up in pain.

“Arghh… you bitch.” He slapped her hard on the behind and it stung.

“Junior, what you doin’? He said we mustn’t hit her.”

“Well, she hit me first.” He pulled the plastic cuff tight around her ankles, leaving no room for movement. They were the kind of devilishly difficult to undo plastic clips used in the packaging of large items. Caroline had no idea what fate awaited her, but certainly hoped she wasn’t for sale. She thought back to the management briefing last year at Monsaint on crisis resolution. She mentally flipped through the morning and afternoon sessions before realising that the training had assumed the crisis had happened to someone or something else and you had to manage the fall-out. She would have to make it up herself.

The boat bucked noisily across the swell for fifteen minutes and headed round the promontory to where trees came almost down to the sea. Michael cut the engine and they drifted towards a shingly shore. The boxers unloaded their human cargo, carrying Caroline onto dry land and pushing her into the back of a white van which was parked near the water’s edge. Her captors in the cab made a phone call, but she couldn’t hear what they were saying. A few minutes later she heard the engine start up and the van began climbing up into the wooded hills.