SWIMSUIT ISSUE Part Three
A “Lost” Tyler File Recently Recovered - CONTINUED FROM HERE
The translator nodded, then straightened. "You will serve," she said flatly.
"She will serve," said the one between Tara's legs, admiring what she saw there. "She will serve...well." They all spoke in their native tongue from then on.
"The others who were here...!" said the elder suddenly from behind the translator. "They will come looking for her!"
"Not until later," replied the translator. "We have until the plane she was supposed to be on lands. If London or Paris, tomorrow. If America, even later."
"But they will come!"
"We will keep her concealed," the translator said evenly. "Bridle the cries that would lead them to her."
"Yes," said the one coating Tara's vagina with herbal oils and ancient medications.
"Yes," said the one massaging Tara's left breast with a mixture of scented conditioning lotions, turning toward the elder. "She will do what we cannot...will not. She is sent by...!"
"Hush!" the elder demanded. "Do not say the name and hers in the same breath." The old woman pointed a shaking finger at the female opulence stretched out in the netted bed. "She is an unbeliever, a brazen harlot, and so, must be punished. That is the commandment!"
With that, the elder left the room, leaving the pulpy old translator in charge. "Prepare her well, my sisters," the old woman said. "For tonight it must begin."
The massaging grew in intensity and Tara started to shake...until a thick, sodden cloth with a sickly sweet smell was pressed over her nose. They held the cloth pad, the model's eyes huge and frightened, until the cloying aroma threaded up into her brain. Her eyes rolled up into her head, her eyelids fluttered, and then drooped.
To her dismay, however, she never lost complete consciousness. She felt everything in a waking-dream state, as her sexual muscles were brought to a fever-pitch.
The night was dark as all nights were. There were no street lamps in this ancient village, and most homes didn't even have electric lights. The roads were narrow and winding and the wind swirled the dust from between cobblestones. Occasionally a horse-drawn carriage would clip-clop by, but for the most part, the streets were deserted that night...as they were every night.
Only this night, a close-knit pack of women moved down the street, most of their bodies and faces covered except for a slit for their eyes. The wind howled, ruffling their white head-kerchiefs and dark burnooses. There were six of them and five moved as one.
The sixth fought maniacally under a pile of clothing that was denied even an eye slit.
No one was there to witness or help, so all her blind battling was for naught. She was pushed, and pulled, and dragged like a reluctant donkey, only she made less noise. The wind all but swallowed up what rustling sound of struggle there was.
Finally the group came to a relatively large dwelling at the end of a winding street. There was a low glow from inside, and the heavy wooden door was pulled open at the very first quiet knock...as if the group were expected. No words were exchanged—the five just surrounded the sixth and surged in.
The door was closed behind them and they were in another world. A world lit only by sputtering candles, which illuminated the dark wood furnishings, carpet-draped walls, and stone covered floors in an eerie golden-yellow glow.
A seventh woman was there...the oldest woman...the town elder who had been in the room before. Of course they would start at her dwelling.
"Come," she whispered, seemingly afraid that even that innocent word would be heard by undesirables. The five and seventh gripped the all-encompassing clothing of the sixth and marched through the main room to a draped portal.
They pushed through, letting it shut behind them, revealing a smaller room. A bed-chamber.
And lying on the bed wearing only a light, loose caftan was the true village elder. The oldest woman's husband. Like most men of the village, he was a thin, wiry, tough old bird, beaten by poverty and the elements into coarse leather. That much could be seen in the glow of the single candle on the heavy wooden night stand by the wrought iron bed, which was covered in blankets.
The five women pulled other candles from the top of a heavy bureau in the corner and brought their flickering light over to the hooded, covered figure, who was moving a little like a flickering candle herself.
Then, with as much a flourish as the serious crones could muster, they pulled the draping off the sixth figure with the same skill they had initially blanketed her in the alley.
Tara Barnes stood there, staring with terror and dread at the new room.
The village elder gasped. Between her rich, thick lips was an incredibly cruel bit, made of a short but very thick piece of wood tied cruelly with thin coarse rope behind her neck—so tightly that her teeth were pried all the way open and the bit practically aligned with her ears.
Thick drool coursed over her tremulous lower lip, splashing down onto her long, elegant neck, then continued across the most spectacular body the elder had ever seen.
And he could see almost all of it since Tara was wearing an itsy bitsy, teenie-weenie, hot pink polka-dotted bikini. The top just managed to contain her voluminous boobs and the bottom just barely hung onto slim, but shapely hips.
Then there were her legs: impossibly long, impossibly shapely, ending in hot pink high heels the women had taken from Tara's own luggage. It had been "emancipated" from her hotel room, of course. No one looked twice at a head-kerchiefed "hotel maid."
TO BE CONTINUED