THE LIBRARY: Swimsuit Issue Part Nine

A “Lost” Tyler File Recently Recovered - CONTINUED FROM HERE

They really honored me...except for one little boy. Every time I went to change, he tried to peek. But it was just him. All the others had seen it all before, I suppose....

—Tara Barnes

Making of the Bathing Suit Issue


In the dull light of the early afternoon, Tara was being attended. The incidents of the previous night had taken their toll on the poor girl. Despite the translator's warnings in the alley, the morning brought intensive care. Even so, she was bound tighter, her cloth bonds supplemented by thin, coarse, tough rope wound tightly through the middle of the material.

Her mouth, however, was not shut. Just the opposite, in fact. It had been pried open with a cunning wooden ring which had a groove all the way around its outside; into which Tara's teeth snapped. She was unable to pull them wider and get loose, no matter how she tried.

And she tried...desperately to alert the translator to what the senior's cousin and persecutor had done, and what they might have planned for her...!

But then over the ring, over Tara's mouth, and over her struggling head they quickly laid filmy, aromatic pieces of gauze, soaked in the brain-numbing mixture.

Soon, against her will, Tara's eyes grew smoky, and her eyelids heavy. Her grunts became groans, and then tiny gasps, and finally mews. Her head drifted slowly back until it hung over the headboard's opening. Then each crone came forward with a different clay pitcher. In each were different thick liquids: some nutriments, and some medications. But all were carefully poured atop the gauze so that they slowly dripped through the filmy material and into Tara's forced-open mouth.

"Swallow," said the translator, lightly stroking Tara's throat. "Swallow...."

Tara had no choice. The fumes, it seemed, were not only narcotic but hypnotic. And the liquids did make her feel better, spreading a soothing warmth through the rawness of her throat, chest, and vagina. And then there were the salves they rubbed on her and forced up her.

The persecutor coated her rectal and vaginal cavities with the stuff, unable to resist giving her clitoris a particularly thick covering.

In her sleep-state Tara moaned in sensual pleasure, her tongue attempting to lick her mouth, her fingers struggling to reach her own breasts and beaver.

"Sister," the persecutor said with faked alarm. "Her demon lips speak even in a stupor!"

The translator could only look gravely down at the slowly undulating amazon. "Her actions, then, did not lie," she intoned. "I prayed she was truly innocent and only being foolish. But it seems her true desire was to inflame our men, then leave them without fulfillment."

"Harlot!" another crone exclaimed, to her own surprise.

The translator looked sadly at the other women, then motioned resignedly toward the sex goddess on the bedclothes. "Contain her suckling mounds and spurting hole," she instructed. "Use one of the costumes she used to taunt us."

The persecutor quickly found the tiny black string bikini Tara had lounged around in on the last day of the photo shoot. Since it tied around her hips, back and neck, they didn't need to disturb the semiconscious captive to tightly affix it to her chest and loins.

The crones stepped back to "admire" how her ample orbs filled the poly/lycra spandex triangle cups and tiny panty—her body shining with their oils, lotions, and ointments.

Before they could decide how to further contain the sexual beast within the comatose, abused girl before that evening's activity, the elder crone suddenly appeared, her face twisted in alarm.

"He is here!" she cried. "The whore's man is here!"

"What?" the translator exclaimed. "Here?"

"No, no," the elder gasped. "My...our dwelling. He knew where to come! He seems to look through walls!"

"Calm yourself, foolish old woman!" the translator snapped. "Who is he? Does he bring allies?"

"One," said the elder breathlessly. "A white man...American. With a cane."

"One?" the persecutor echoed in surprise. "Only one?"

But she fell silent at a glare from the translator. "Quickly, bring us there. I must know what he is saying." She turned toward the oblivious Tara. "One must stay with the girl...." She looked quickly around to see who was the least needed.

"Please," said the persecutor quickly. "Allow me to stay, sister. I would only be a distraction at the elder's dwelling. It would be my honor to remain behind...!"

The translator was obviously distracted. She merely nodded blankly, and said, "Make sure she remains silent and still...." Then she and the others charged from the room.

The persecutor watched them leave, then when several seconds had gone by, she turned back toward the bed, a sadistic smile cleaving her face. She stared at the bikini-clad Venus, who twisted and shook in her bonds—seemingly gripped by a bad dream—then moved quickly out of the room.


Tara slept in the thick atmosphere of the dusty room, golden light streaming over her from the high, rectangular window. Occasionally her bound, elegant hands would reach for nothing, then collapse back to the bed.

Sometimes her back would arch and her knees try to bend, but then she would settle back into fitful sleep. And occasionally her head would rise, her eyelids exhaustedly opening. But when she felt the wooden ring still in her mouth and the gauze sill covering her lower face, she would drift back into slumber.

She even slept through the rustling at the window above her, so she didn't see the small boy in pants and shirt slide through the opening and drop to the floor beside her.

It was the one who had peeked...the one who had leered at her from the abduction alley. He leered again, this time hopping around the wrought-iron structure to sidle up between her legs. Wasting no time, he grabbed the string bikini's laces and pulled open the bow. He audibly gasped with pleasure at her trimmed, but full snatch. He placed both palms around her warm cunt, then stuck his thumbs into her vagina as if he were Little Jack Horner.

Tara groaned, her head rising again, but her head was too full of the aroma, so it sank back down again. Only then the curtain over the secret room's doorway swung wide and the persecutor stepped in...followed by the senior, his cousin, and two more of his friends.

"You see?" said the boy, looking happily over his shoulder. "I told you it was real!"

"Yes," growled the senior, who had sent the boy to peek behind Tara's changing room sheet originally to see if the sex sprite was an actual girl. "And be glad our female comrade has assisted us in determining this location, or you would have suffered a beating you would have long remembered."

"Aw, I would have found this place eventually," the boy complained, returning his attention to the captive's deep snatch.

"No need," said the persecutor with pleasure. "But hurry, my friends. I know not when the others will return."

"Eah," the senior snorted dismissively, already striding forward and pulling his cock from his pants. "What could they do now? Throw us out?" The other men laughed as the senior cuffed the boy out of the way, plugged his penis back into Tara's cunt, then roughly grabbed her waist and surged back into her.

Tara's head came back up, more quickly this time, and her persecutor took the moment to sweep the gauze off the ring in her mouth. Grabbing Tara's head in one arm, she then picked up the wooden bit with her other and pushed it in the captive's mouth, brutally holding down the girl's tongue with it.

Tara, rapidly becoming awake, choked, coughed, and made gagging noises which seemed to satisfy the persecutor beyond anything else. The senior, in the meantime, just kept plugging away, beginning to make lip-smacking noises.

"Cousin...?" the younger man said cautiously.

"Climb on, boys," the persecutor said for him wickedly. "Hurry. I said there is little time."

But still the younger man looked at the senior. Only when he curtly nodded, did his cousin give out a little whoop, yank out his own cock, and hop back onto Tara's torso. He removed Tara's tits from the bikini top as if he were peeling a fruit from its peel with two fingers. They popped out like jello molds.

"Senior!" another man said. "What about us? Are we to wait and watch?"

"She still has two hands, boys," the persecutor suggested. "Why not make use of them?"

Reason and comprehension snapped back into Tara's eyes, and she squealed, struggling. But with a man on her stomach slapping her tits together around his cock, another gripping her hips and repeatedly jamming a spike into her, and a woman holding her head in a hammer lock while nailing her tongue down with a thick stick, there was little she could do.

The men assuredly moved to where her hands were tied, took out their cocks, and placed them in her cold fingers.

The persecutor moved her head down level with Tara's right ear. She spoke rhythmically, insistently to her. Tara started to cry, wailing, unable to understand completely what was required of her.

"She says 'stroke,'" Tara heard. The senior was speaking without slowing his rape for a nanosecond. "Make their seed sing, or the others will not find you here when they get back."

Tara sucked in breath, stilling for a second as the men on her continued their thrusting, and the men beside her punched her palms with their cock crowns insistently.

"She says that she will tell them that more of your friends found you and took you away," the senior continued after a moment's chattering from the persecutor. But then she could see the hated man, leaning over her right thigh with a huge evil grin on his face. "But we will know better, enh?"

Tara immediately started to masturbate each of the cocks in her hands.

The woman continued to egg her on, continuing to push down her tongue. "Maybe you had better not stroke them,....!" The senior used the word for "cunt" again. "Maybe I would like for you to go missing, enh? Where would you really be? In my bed? Under my bed? Staked out in the hills where only we would know where to find you? Perhaps in the bed of the woman holding your head. You would enjoy that, enh?"

Tara stroked faster, sobbing, the sound of slapping mammaries and schlurping inner muscles filling her ears.

"Woman!" the senior called. "Stop your playing. The cunt's mouth is not for a stick! Not when there is a boy here with much to learn!"

The boy brightened up and the persecutor instantly reacted to the idea. She pulled out the stick, released Tara's head, but before the captive could react in even the tiniest relief, the crone grabbed her hair and yanked Tara's head all the way upside down.

Tara shrieked in pain but the persecutor and boy seemingly ignored it.

"You see?" the crone said to the boy, pointing at the wet interior of Tara's pried-open mouth. "When her nether regions are not open, your male pole can find sanctuary here."

With no further instruction, the smiling boy had his dick in Tara's pried open mouth. She wailed when his legs filled her vision, struggling with all her might.

"Stroke!" the men at her suddenly spasming hands hissed.

"Stroke!" the senior repeated, thrusting all the way in her again, faster and faster.

"Stroke!" said his cousin happily, grinding Tara's massive mounds against his erect pole.

"Stroke," the persecutor whispered, touching her knife to Tara's smooth, long throat.

Tara choked, babbled, sobbed...and started stroking again.