THE LIBRARY: Swimsuit Issue Part Four

wrap03SWIMSUIT ISSUE Part Four
A “Lost” Tyler File Recently Recovered - CONTINUED FROM HERE

Tara's exceptional shoulders moved, her arms trying to dislodge the thin, murderously tight ropes that held her crossed wrists behind her...ropes which then moved tautly down to hobble her ankles twenty-four inches apart.

The bikini goddess moaned, gurgling. The elder could only stare in amazement at a bead of drool which oozed down her chest, between her massive breasts, under the bikini string, down her flat, firm stomach, into her oval "inny," out of her navel, then down her loins.

It seemed to pause right at the edge of the mini-bikini bottom. Then, with a glimmer in the candlelight, it disappeared into her crotch.

The man leaped from the bed, clamped his arms around the goddess, and swung her back to the blankets.

Tara screamed, even from behind the massive bit, mucous flying like a mad dog as she slammed across the bed onto her back.

"Quiet her," the elder panted, holding her waist and rubbing the outside of her right bikini top as if it were a precious gem. "Quiet her!"

And then the old women were there, encircling Tara's head, one untying the rope from the bit, another wadding up a filmy scarf, another spinning cloth into a muffler, and the fourth gathering up Tara's hair into a pony-tail.

Then, all moving at once, the wood was removed. But before the girl could even speak, the balled scarf was pushed into her mouth. And before she could even choke, the cloth was adhered over her lower face, sopping up her spittle, and tenaciously knotted behind her neck.

Tara's head came up, coughing, but then the old man's hand was there, pushing her face back down. "Her legs," he said. "Unloose her legs...."

And the old women were there, too, doing just that at the other side of the bed. Tara's legs snapped free, but she had no time to appreciate it. As soon as that was done, the old man grabbed her hair, wrenched her head back and shoved his coarse hand under her bikini bottom.

Terror petrified her as he slobberingly suckled her chin and neck and masturbated her as if he were milking a sheep. She started to kick her legs and heave her body, but the man just kept hooking and clawing inside her, while slavering across her throat and shoulders.

"Release her teats," he panted between suckles. "Now."

The old woman who had knocked Tara out moved forward with a small, wicked knife. Purposefully letting its wicked blade reflect the candlelight into Tara's widening, frightened, upside-down eyes, she reached down, took Tara's hair from the elder's grip, and jerked the captive's head up until the supermodel was forced to look down at her firm, smooth, young body and the wizened old man lying across it.

Then, with a flick of the blade, she neatly cut the bikini strap behind the base of Tara's neck in two.

The top snapped down. The round, small, aureoles and nub-like nipples were revealed.

In the candlelight, it looked like the old man would go mad. Her eyes rolled, and his mouth went lax. But as fast as the seeming seizure started, it ended. He leaped up, his knees going on either side of Tara's waist, tearing at the hem of his caftan in his haste to pull it up.

His long, hard penis dropped out like an iron bar falling from a toolbox, and landed with an audible smack between her protuberant mounds. It looked like a toughened nine-inch slab of solid beef jerky lying between two tremulous water balloons.

"Moisten her," the man croaked. "Moisten her for me...."

And the women were there, two gripping Tara's ankles and spreading them wide, while a third—the translator—cut loose the bikini bottom and kneeled before her ebony snatch.

"No!" Tara screamed repeatedly into the scarf and cloth as a tongue found her clitoris. She kicked her legs mightily, but they hardly moved. Hands had gripped the sides of her head and held it up to witness the man reaching for her breasts.

He took them cautiously at first, but as he slowly accepted their incomprehensible size, his toughened hands sunk deeper and deeper into them, squeezing....

Tara threw her head back, and the hands rode her hair. Falling back, apparently, was okay. It was shaking her head "no," it seemed, that was verboten.

Tears poured out of her eyes as she heaved with her body, but the old man was surprisingly heavy, and locked her torso in place on the soft bed. All she accomplished was wiggling her bulbous boobs in his hands and around his crank.

And then she could see no more and hear no more, but she could feel plenty as the translator's astonishingly adept tongue assailed her clit like a lesbian blow-job expert with thirty years of experience. Tara felt her vagina bloom like a rose, a wave of fire roaring up from her loins to smash into her mind.

The goddess wailed as the wave crashed, breaking back down to drench her vaginal muscles, and even sodden her silky thatch.

Distantly she heard words. "She is prepared, elder."

He never took his eyes off Tara's tits as he continued to squeeze them and force his shaft through their mashed valley.

"Excellent," he breathed. "For so am I."

He abruptly hopped up off her waist and landed between her legs, never removing his hands from her round boobs. He stood there, at the ready, and the translator took his shaft and quickly positioned the crown between Tara's vaginal lips.

The women holding Tara's ankles anchored themselves and tightened their grip.

The man leaned forward quickly, ramming with his hips as if he were trying to drive a nail with one powerful stroke.

Tara's head shot up, her eyes huge.

And then the old man started to move. He slammed into her so fast and so violently that only the women's gripping fingers kept her in place. To keep himself from falling over, the old man's hands finally left her enormous chest and anchored themselves on her sleek hips.

The woman at her head, however, took the occasion to grin meanly down at the captive model and reach over to fiercely grip one of Tara's tits herself.

The elder thrusted like a man possessed, spittle flying around his head. To her horror, Tara realized that the earlier vaginal ministrations were not just to make her cunt a pulsating pit of wet warmth, but to protect her from this very sort of crude onslaught.

But then she could think no more, for the preparations and rape were doing its work on her hormones and nerves. Tara gargled deep in her throat, then wheezed as the man fell atop her, his hips still insistently surging.

"Hold...," he gasped. And more old women were there, snaking their arms under Tara's back, strongly pulling loose the binding ropes and clasping her suddenly freed wrists in their claws..