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Dressed For Show by Lizbeth Dusseau


Dressed For Show by Lizbeth Dusseau


Excerpt from Bad Girls & Dangerous Men © 2000 by Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved


I wake, feeling the warmth of Bailey’s crotch behind me. His sensuous pulse transmits through my ass into my cunt. I turn, kiss his rough face, the night’s growth of beard, and wait for him to open his eyes, which happens slowly. I inspect him, waiting, wondering what he’s been dreaming, if he dreams. Everyone dreams, but does he remember his? I’ve never asked. Three months, I’m still in awe. He wants me with him every night and every morning when he wakes. Few men says these things aloud. Bailey does.

“Mornin’, sugar,” I say sweetly.

He growls a bit, then smiles.

“It’s early, you don’t have to get up yet,” I tell him.

“What’s the time?”

“Time to fuck,” I giggle, and wiggle on him, nuzzling into his side, smelling the rich flavors of his body—the sour, the sweet, the tart, the aromas of leftover sex from a very good night. I’m still wearing the bondage dress he wove on my body the night before. The knots are still place, including the one just above my clitoris that stimulates it every time I move. My flesh pulses, radiating with need.

There’s an open place where the ropes go through my crotch, open for Bailey’s cock to pass between. As I squirm against him, my hand floats around his scrotum—playfully avoiding a direct assault on his rising organ. I let the momentum build.

In minutes, his whole body is engaged, coming after me as passionately as I go after him. Our lips lock; our tongues reach inside the other’s mouth. My legs scissor to fit the enormity of him inside me. I feel the ropes strain with every movement. My skin’s alive, as animate as another being, tingling, raw, sensitive to even the slightest graze of his palm. I rise on top of him as he rolls over on his back, and begin to hump in the saddle of his hips. Bailey’s cock slides freely inside the messy interior of my vagina. The accumulation of old semen, wet female remains and fresh dew merge to lubricate the ride. He’s fast, and I follow with him, allowing my body to swell and then burst brightly with orgasm, knowing that Bailey’s climax will follow seconds later.

He comes just as my tremors are departing, while I’m left with the prickly remnants and the well-being that floods even my addled head—at least for awhile.

I collapse against him in a languorous faint when the fucking is over, and run my hands absently through his hair. I’m about to say, ‘I love you’, when he suddenly pushes me away and jumps from bed on his way to the bath.

“Sorry, Maddie, morning calls!” he yells to me.

I smile. I’ll mention love later, I think. Now, I’m content to drift.


“Hey, sleepy head!” I hear Bailey’s soothing roar knock me from my nap. “You’re due at work by noon.”

“Yes,” I agree.

“You said you had errands?” he asked.

“I do.” I remember that fact with a frown.

“Then I’ll see you later. Noon on the dot,”—he’s always reminding me to be on time. My stellar reputation for tardiness is one small sore spot in an otherwise pleasant relationship.

“What about the ropes?” I ask, staring up at him, realizing that he’s ready for work, while I’m still naked, sweaty and streaked with last night’s come and this morning’s new batch. Still, I have two hours before I have to be at work, plenty of time for what I need to do.

“Leave them on,” he says.

“Under my clothes?”

“Yes. Sponge your crotch and pits, put on a little perfume and wear them the rest of the day.”

“You want me to be miserable?”

“Is it misery?”

Of course, it’s not. I smile. “Maybe, a little…”

“You’ll survive. You need a reminder of who’s in charge, slut.” His eyes twinkle playfully and then he’s gone.




I feel the ribbons of crossed and knotted hemp when I walk. Their feel is comfortable, comforting, stimulating. I hardly slept the night enjoying their sensuous tug and jerk, and I let them titillate me now. This is good. I’ll need to generate a bit of sexual prowess for what I face. It might prevent the scene from getting ugly—I can always hope.

This part of town could scare a thief, but I’ve negotiated it for years. The abandoned businesses and broken houses are familiar to me. I remember when this wasn’t such a trashy place—when fucking in the alleys and back alcoves was sexy fun. I wouldn’t dare do that now.

Scofield’s current address is new—though the building is ancient. Once a factory, then a warehouse, now it’s been cut up into sections with several marginal businesses. At the moment, the whole place looks deserted. I feel an annoying sensation at the back of my neck, and then without warning a pair of hands on me. I get pushed into the alley, and shoved against the wall.

“I see you kept your appointment,” I hear his unmistakable voice.

“What the hell are you doing, Scofield!” I yell.


“Why? I’m here on my own. You don’t have to act like a jerk even if you are one.”

He angrily pushes my face into the brick.

“Scofield, stop!

“No, you stop!” he seethes behind me. “You shut your mouth and listen. Fight me, Madison, you’ll regret it.”

I regret I ever came here. But I had little choice.

He shoves me through the alley into the backdoor of the building. Why the front door wouldn’t do as well, I don’t understand, but obviously I have no say in the matter. He has my hands behind me. Ah, so much like Bailey in the dark, but this man has no morals, and I’m honestly afraid.

“I have your money, Scofield. There’s no need to get rough,” I tear away from him. I rummage through my purse and pull out the envelope with the five one hundred dollar bills.

Scofield throws it on a paper-strewn desk without looking inside, “It’s not enough.”

The man’s an ass—but an odd one for his underworld of losers, thugs and opportunists. He keeps himself impeccable; wears clean, pressed clothes on a muscled, well-built body. His black hair is trimmed short and his face cleanly shaved. He could almost pass for a business suit professional—without the suit. He’s got the manners and the attitude to deal with bankers and corporate types, but he prefers his riffraff, and making dirty money.

“What do you mean it’s not enough?” I ask him with contempt, trying to hide my concern. This was not what I expected.

“You owe me a whole lot more plus the interest, Maddie.”

“And that’s the payment you asked for,” I snap rudely.

“Yeah. Two months late.”

“You’ll have the rest. You know that.”

There’s movement on the fringes of our conversation. Looking beyond him, I see his goons arising like phantoms out of the gloom of the nasty building. Two I recognize—one of them, Jude, was a lover several years ago. The other two men I’ve never seen before. They don’t belong here, not in their fancy suits and ties looking like lawyers or Wall Street tycoons.

Scofield starts to smirk, but his eyes maintain that deathly serious look I’ve seen before. “I’m not content to wait, Madison.”

“What does that mean?”

“Just a change in the deal. It’ll make it easier on you.”

“I’m just fine with the deal.” If I could back out of the room, I would; but there seems to be no escape.

He shrugs. “But I’m not. And since we’re following my rules, I get my way.”

“What is that?” The adrenalin starts to flow. My nerves are fried. My mouth is dry as desert sand.

“You can help me help my friends here,” he nods to the duo, who look back at me with interest.

Scofield’s hands are all over me as if he has the right to be familiar. He squeezes my ass and I jerk away. He laughs and then starts to roam my back with his palm.

“Ah, interesting.” He’s felt the ropes. “I think we have a readymade slut about to show her true colors. Take off your clothes, Maddie.”

“I will not!” I attempt to withdraw from his oily hands, but I am so outnumbered the whole idea looks foolish. I bolt for the door, and Jude is there to catch me, pull me back and slap my ass.

“Take the clothes off or I tear them off,” he warns.

The two vultures in their slick black suits wait for me to obey, knowing I will, knowing I’m afraid and enjoying every second of my fear.

“Go on, Maddie,” Scofield adds his two cents.

I’m mad. I want to cry. I want to beat my fists against the ass’s chest. Instead, I start to strip, removing my sweatshirt first, and then my pants, until I’m stripped of everything except for Bailey’s ropes, the neat knots and perfect symmetry.

“What a find!” Scofield exclaims. “What did I tell you?” He turns to his friends, whose smiles are wide as a mile and fixed on my pudgy breasts, now distended and unnaturally pushed into conical shapes by the tied rope. It’s a slutty picture, eye candy for the horny and degenerate.

I hear a grinding sound behind me and sense the impending doom. Then my eyes stray upwards following the eyes of my captors, who look with glee as a meat hook descends from the inky black of the ceiling above, then finally stops with a jerk, swinging freely in midair.

“Dammit, Scofield, no!” I plead with him.

“Honey, you’re too good to pass on. Better than I thought. This new boyfriend of yours should be here to watch. I’d bet he’d like the show.”


“You want me to call him? Bailey is it? Albert’s brother? What do you think?”

“I think you’d better keep this between you and me.”

“Gee, Maddie,” he smiles wryly, “that’s what I thought, too.” He creeps around me, plunking the ropes like guitar stings. No sound. Not even a thud as they thump my flesh. “Cuff her hands,” he orders Jude.

My ex-boyfriend obeys the man making quick work of his job. Locked in cuffs, I can already feel the blood pulsing in my constricted wrists. The hemp dress starts to itch as I begin to sweat. Tugging on the chain that connects the cuffs, Jude pulls me with him to the center of the room and throws the wrist chain over the meat hook. The motor grinds again from somewhere off stage, and my body is slowly pulled up right as the ugly hook rises.

My pussy throbs, the whole of my sex feels liquid and squishy. I’m on tiptoe, straining, trying to stretch myself enough keep a hold on the ground.

“Stop!” Scofield orders the unseen man in control. I jerk as the pulley ceases to climb just before my toes are lifted from the cement. My body lengthens with the hemp cutting into my skin in several places, while my tormentor admires the look of me and assaults me with his sickening smile. “Trust me, hon, this won’t take long at all. A little debasement just for sport never hurt a slut like you.” He delights in his mocking observations. “In fact, we know you like it. Why else would your beau be dressing you so stylishly?” He twangs the ropes again and I wince. “Pretty. You always were so pretty with that mop of red hair.” He lays his hand on my cheek pretending to enjoy its softness. His hand is warm, his words cunning but effective. Behind me, Jude gives off sex with a pulsing crotch I can feel without seeing it. Soon my body will betray me and I’ll hate it for its lust.

I’m loving Bailey now, not these thugs and voyeurs. God help me!

Scofield backs away, Jude’s energy retreats, and the two suits on the sidelines step forward.

“Let’s put the mask over her face before we start,” one says—the tall one with the hefty body and the greased black hair. I’m thinking Mafia—his swarthy complexion suggests a mobster, but he talks smoothly with an educated ring in his voice.

The second fellow, smaller and more slender than the talking one, seems even more professional than his friend. His walk is elegant. In another world, he might be charming. I don’t understand their game, how two so civilized men could be playing these chilling games in this rancid warehouse office.

The mask slips over my face—one made of feathers intended to cover my eyes and nose but leave my mouth free. Two eyeholes allow me to see through the blur of feathers, and my nostrils are free to breathe. I’m not masked for torture but to disguise who I am.

I see why now, when a video camera appears to record the session. A black-market film is the obvious conclusion.

The two suits step back, the big one taking off his coat, and rolling up the sleeves of his white dress shirt. His cufflinks gleam—for several seconds, the two gold ornaments reflect the morning sun as it filters though the grimy windows overhead. The smaller man operates the camera, while I’m accosted by the other. The bold, impressive man stares into my eyes. His are remote, disconnected from the feeling man who owns them. I anticipate his cruelty.

While I watch, he fits a slick leather glove over his left hand and thrusts that hand between my legs. The camera rolls, recording every move and gasp I make. He finds me wet. All the leftovers from sex with Bailey not washed away this morning appear on his leather-covered hand as he withdraws it from my crotch. After showing me the sticky find, he returns to tug, to poke, to thrust his fingers in my cunt and bumhole, to jerk me so my body thrashes loosely. My feet lift off the ground and I’m forced to hold my weight with my strained shoulders. He stops and my feet settle down, touching concrete again.

He starts to smack my ass, landing blow after blow with his leather hand. I’m gasping, moaning, though the punishment doesn’t hurt that much until he changes implements and begins to slap me with a spanking tawse. The split end piece is like others I’ve seen before. Maybe it came from Jude’s store of sex toys. This one stings. It whaps my ass and thighs, then as this suited gentlemen strolls around my body, whaps the front of my thighs and right across my pubic mound. I try holding back my cries, but when he slaps me repeatedly on my pussy, I have to cry. But even letting out a decent wail there is no mercy. He keeps on until I’m thrashing senselessly, twisting like a sail out of control.

He stops and I faint for several seconds before coming to when he lays his palm across my face—not angrily, but enough to wake me.

“Lift her off the ground,” he orders.

The engine grinds again, the meat hook rises higher until my feet dangle uselessly.

“Oh, gawd no!” I moan, believing that I won’t be able to stand the suspension much longer.

“Do as I say, and I’ll let you down,” this cruel man tells me.

His leather hand returns to my cunt and my legs naturally widen to accommodate him. As he thrusts fingers in both my holes and begins to fuck me, I sense my sexual body roar awakened like an angry tiger. I’m battered back and forth, while using the strength of the man’s arm to take the heavy weight off my shoulders. I begin to come, spasming, letting my ravished body speak. While the camera whirs before me, I follow their orders, play their game as if I wanted it this way.

I’m sated and sore when I’m finally released. The men in suits have disappeared. The camera’s gone. Jude left along with the friend who worked the pulley. It’s just Scofield and me in the mangy office warehouse. I’m on the floor, trying to gather my wits and some strength.

“I always thought it a plus that your skin never marks,” Scofield says, while observing that most of the red on my ass and thighs has disappeared. “You won’t have to explain yourself to your boyfriend.”

“Oh, go away!” I hiss.

“Don’t you want to know how much I’m knocking off your debt?”

“As if I believed you would?”

“Honest, darling. Between the proceeds from that video tape and the cash they gave me for the pleasure of abusing you, you’ve paid your debt.”

“Like I believe you,” I groan.

“Hey, honey, trust me.” He’s all smiles. “Hell, you got off too. What more could a slut ask for?”

I’m suspicious, but I’m not about to argue. I split the warehouse as quickly as I can.

I’m late for work and Bailey won’t be happy—but that’s another debt to make amends for and I’ll have to think about that one later.




The Barefoot Girl by Lizbeth Dusseau

The Barefoot Girl
From Crimes & Lovers by Lizbeth Dusseau © Copyright, all rights reserved


In a land beyond time, in another world, in a country of castles and kingdoms, of slave queens and noble whores, a barefoot girl with the virtue of an angel stood shivering before an audience of thieves, and traders, gawking noblemen and their ladies, her future ripped asunder, irrevocably altered by a foolish whim.


Torches blazed serving as fire-spewing heralds to the evil done in the counting house dungeon. The theatre had not yet begun this night, and the chaotic company chattered like magpies. Gossips whispered tales into the shocked ears of the unknowing. Gamblers laid their last illegal bets on outcomes, and under the table, money was exchanged that would not be taxed by Lord Nor’s magistrates. Under other tables, whores took cocks in their mouths for pleasure, while roving hands lifted the skirts of rich harlots and gentle ladies, their asses fondled in plain sight. Breasts were bared for the eyes of ogling men, nipples were pinched and squealing women blushed to have their wares displayed so lewdly. Two, three, even four rounds of ale had been poured into tankards held by outstretched hands. And the drunkenness that followed only lifted the last shreds of decency in this teaming mass of uncivilized humanity.

The master tradesman beat his gavel for nearly ten minutes before the barbarous assembly finally took their seats to gape at the spectacle about to be performed before them. And yet, none desired to miss this brutal ravagement. It was, after all, what they’d come to see. The laying waste of an innocent maid, a mere breath of spring, one of the earth’s fair flowers, just as she was about to bloom, was an act so repulsively vile, so cruelly treacherous, and yet so deliciously pleasing as to make it a ritual that warranted its repetition. For twenty years without exception, in the spring of the year, the rite launched the legal bartering season. Lord Nor blessed this act of graceless savagery to appease his restless masses after a bitter winter, even though he’d not attended the ceremony in several years. He was superstitious, and often feared these ravaged maids were strangely magical with the power to upset the steady waters of his kingdom. With that in mind, he was often away at war or hunting—those activities twin pleasures he pursued with as much relish as this throng in the counting house dungeon relished the moment about to explode before their eyes.

The barefoot girl was already on stage. Her hands were chained behind her, her head held proudly high, though the fear in her eyes was alarming. She quaked beneath the thin frock that covered her slight form. With torches flaming behind her, the outline of her fair body could be seen in silhouette. Her breasts were yet slight, surprising perhaps, since she was of the right age, eighteen. Many previous girls were much more well-endowed than this one. Ah, but her body was delightfully curvaceous, her hips well-rounded, her waist slim and her nipples were curiously large, the two generous buds poking through the sheer fabric of her attire. Her pale red hair was tangled in wild locks that dangled across her face. Though she tried to fling them back, tossing her head, she was hardly successful. But how that hair gleamed in the light of the flickering orange flames—as though a part of this innocent lamb was as savage as the company she faced. The pale scared eyes peering out from behind that hair looked panic struck. She stood frozen with fear, though her heart beating hotly in her chest. Perhaps she’d fought when she was captured. The spit and fire would be expected and enjoyed. Such moments bred all kinds of speculation.


In the clamoring crowd with necks straining to get a better view, one pair of womanly eyes looked on, with both the lust of her fellows, and the sheepishness of the tender flower before her—thinking back in time.


The master tradesman pounded the gavel again, irritated. This year’s assembly was especially rude.

“Shall we give the maid a reprieve, or will you nasty folk hold your tongues,” he roared.

There were a thousand shushes around the room, the agitation subsiding for a moment, though it would only be brief for the way it still brewed just underneath the surface of their collective quiet. The master snarled and then sneered, though it was unclear for whom that sneer was meant—the girl or the audience.

“You have another, my fine folk,” he addressed the crowd, “plucked from the teaming streets, a babe, a mere child, a virtuous innocent. Shall we celebrate her purity?”  The master posed the question seriously and the crowd murmured, stirred, but yet silent. “Or shall we rip her virtue from her and make her an offering to lust?”  The crowd roared, hands pounded the tables and boots hit hard against the floor. It took another ten minutes of the master’s hard hitting gavel to calm them again.

“So be it!” he roared as he smashed the heavy hammer into the block of wood.

The crowd roared again, but quieted on its own as three men advanced on the fainting beauty from behind. One stood at each side, dressed only in trousers, their brawny muscles had been oiled and gleamed like the maid’s lustrous tresses. Their hair was loose, falling around their shoulders. Their faces had been freshly shaved. The third man stood behind her, with his bald head oiled and gleaming as dearly as the chests of the two men at her side. He wore a leather vest and leather britches with a laced codpiece, and boots polished to a shine. His dire expression was meant to capture the eyes of the audience. The girl gazed side to side, but she did not see the man behind her or his menacing grimace. Yet, she could feel his hands enclose her bound ones and hold them tightly.

“She is your prize,” the master shouted, “how would you have her?”

A thunderous clamor began, “Bare her breasts!”  And the boots pounded the floor again as the throng cheered.

“Whip her,” other voices shouted from the sidelines.

“Strip her!  Make her dance!”

The whole room rocked wildly. Bets were placed on how long it would take to de-virginize this appointed damsel.

While the bald man held the maiden’s hands, one of the men at her side, grabbed the bodice of her dress and ripped the garment to her waist, exposing the delicate breasts to the teaming air and the eyes of the entire theatre.

Tears steamed down her flushed cheeks as she tried to look away. The bald man’s free hand massaged her breasts from behind. His lips descended to the crook of her neck and the barefoot girl shuddered.

“The whip, the whip, the whip,” the crowd roared and one of the bare-chested brutes withdrew the dreadful implement from the belt around his waist.

“Against the cross!” The crowd knew each act of this ghastly play, each scene, each line by heart.

Hearing the crowd’s commands the three men complied. The bald man released the girl’s hands, and then turning her about, shoved her toward the two crossed beams of wood that had been pushed into the center of the make-shift dais. The three, binding her wrists to the ends of the cross, and her feet to the massive beams below, immobilized her. One of the long-haired pair would begin with the whip against her back. She was to be flogged with force—and finesse. For these spectacles it was not wise to deplete the maiden in the first minutes. She would have to last some time to satisfy this expectant crowd. And she’d have to fight, to scream, to suffer and then to be pleased. Not one step in the thrilling process could be missed or wasted.

The flogging began gently, and the maid’s fair-skinned back jerked softly with each blow of the three-taloned leathers that hit the tender surface. As though teasing the audience that wanted the full force of the whip laid on, these first strikes were more like caressing love-play than invigorating cuts that would send shocks of pain through her body. Yet, as the leather played with her undulating shoulders, the cries for more force rose throughout the close confines and began a chant that the whip-wielding brute heeded. Laying on the talons with a crescendoing fervor, he made the barefoot girl shriek. Her cries, both sad and anguished seemed as loud as those of the hundred men and women in the theatre who demanded this beating. As the intensity mounted, so too did the lust of the audience. Seeing her striped back take on the color of a setting sun inspired more brutality, and then the next phase of the girl’s torture.

“Bare her body!”

“Thrash her ass!”

“Her cunt, her cunt, her cunt!” Even the women in the audience screamed.

The flogging ceased and the three men descended on the limp child, pulling her from the cross. The master tradesman rose to the podium again as the girl was brought around to face the crowd. She tugged at their confining hands, an angry spirit in her rising. The crowd went mad.

“Let’s see her fight!”

“Let her kick!”

“Impale her ass!”

The roar was deafening.


From the second tier of spectators, a woman’s eyes swam with tears, even as she cheered with the others. Those around her jabbed her with their elbows and shouted in her ear about the assets of this poor young maid. She smiled and cried inside, at the same time her salty tears stung her eyes.


The master tradesman banged his gavel once again, and once again the wild crowd subdued its incessant demands, heeding the man’s booming voice.

“You have your offering gentle people. She stands before you the sacrifice of spring. There are dozens more slaves awaiting your inspection, would you not have compassion on this one, let her be free, auction this beauty with the others?”

“No!” the shout rose in an instant.

The gavel hammered again and the crowd squelched its cries.

“Then you shall have her,” the master informed them. “Make her naked,” he said turning to the three who held the girl captive.

“NO!” she shrieked. “Please.” Her wail was breathtaking and pitiable. She had no clue to the trial that awaited, and yet, she rightly feared the worst.

“Let her plead,” some rabble rouser in the front row barked.

“Let her beg us,” another chided with glee.

The master turned to the barefoot girl and she looked at him with anger and sorrow both mixing with her tears.

“Ah, master, please!” she whimpered so that hardly anyone could hear her, though the audience could see she was desperate. “Please.”

The master looked on as the girl and crowd played two sides of a jarring song in a dissonant counterpoint. He was persuaded by both. Though he was not an inconsiderate man, he was more a man of expediency and self-interest. He took his eyes off the barefoot girl, and with a sneering glance to the crowd turned to her three attendants and gave the order.

“Strip her naked!”

The crowd went wild. Officials with staffs moved before the dais to block an onslaught of zealots from charging forward. The girl shook with fear.

“Take your seats!” the master ordered the crowd with the gavel hammering the block. “Or I shall have her removed!”

Quiet reigned for a time, the audience reduced to hushed and passionate whispers as they watched with anticipation.

While the two long-haired attendants held the struggling girl’s body by her arms, the bald-headed man stepped around her and placed his hand at the waist of her dress. Then with a fierce tug, he ripped the cloth into shreds, leaving it to settle at her feet, as he exposed her nether regions for the eyes of the audience.

More tears streamed down her face. She trembled, tried wearily to jerk away, but knew her fate was written. Her perspiring thighs quaked while the curls of her pubis took on a lovely rose-brown hue, glistening with female dew, leaving some to believe she was aroused. The bald man stepped to one side of her and sunk to his knees so that most of the audience could see the full disclosing. After prying open her thighs with his hands, he parted the pubis so the pink skin and bud of her clitoris could be seen by those in the first several rows.

The girl blushed, but not so anyone would notice, save perhaps the woman in the second tier, who could read the young beauty’s expression as though it were her own.

“Rip her free!” the crowd began to chant.

“Let the blood spill!”

“Give her to us!”

They were driving for the end, perhaps too quickly, but that was to be expected. It had been a hard winter in Nor’s kingdom, and his minions needed relief. They needed the spectacle of this sacrifice and perhaps even more they needed what would happen in the hours afterwards when the auction of slaves would proceed. The good master tradesman knew them well, he knew that the timing must be precisely right. He knew the time for plucking this flower from the bed of virginity was now. And he gave them their most desired wish. “Pass lots and take her to the stone!” he announced. Then he swept from the podium and waited in the wings while the ravagement proceeded.

The girl struggled with every ounce of strength she had, trying to wrest herself from the grasp of the two long-haired men. Yet, their strength was too much for her and they pulled her to the stone bench in the center of the dais.

While she struggled, the bald man made the rounds of the room with an earthen vessel filled with stone tiles. Each man in the room drew a tile from inside until three had pulled out the marked stones that gave them the right to plunder this girl’s virtue.

With the girl laid back on the cruel granite bed, her thighs were spread wide by her two attendants and her hands clutched tightly overhead, secured in the fist of the bald-headed man. Prepared for the violation, the three lucky men descended on her. As the first stepped forward, he stood some moments looking into the girl’s frightened eyes. Banging his erection against her pubis, he watched as her eyes filled with tears, but he was too aroused to be moved to sympathy.

“Please no,” she murmured softly, but he could not hear her for the noise of the crowd cheering him on. Then, too overcome by lust to draw out the moment any longer, he plunged his erection deep into her unspoiled vagina, and the crowd thundered to hear her anguished cry rise as if it was going heavenward.

The girl thrashed about in anger and lust. The pain present, but not foremost in her thoughts, she seemed on a strange precipice between revolt and sensuous joy. Her body deceived her. And even her cries were not the screams of a maiden being tortured. The longer the hefty cock pummeled her insides, the more she seemed to relinquish to the incessant probing. Her attacker held off his climax for some time, which only added to the amazing spectacle of raped victim and the rapist finding some common ground within her body. Though she might have spat on him when he withdrew from her and moved to her face, she licked the depleted stalk almost lovingly.

Her next assailant was poised for her mouth as well, coming forward almost before the first was finished. Mounting the granite slab, he straddled her chest so his organ could be taken by her open mouth. He drove it deeply, forcing his way inside beyond her moaning cries and her attempt to gag and spit him out. He implored her to give him entrance, to suck the hot rod with lips and fondle it with her tongue. Though she resisted to the end, he was not displeased with her, and she not as disgusted as any witness would think. The more she got used to the taste of a manhood in her mouth, the more this too was less vile. When the climax finally came and he spilled his seed about her face, she looked at him without contempt, unconsciously licking her lips of his residue. She was lost to herself, vacant and depleted, wary and yielding, yet strangely satisfied.


The woman in the second tier recognized the look because she could recall the feeling in herself.


With the third man descending on the withering maiden, the crowd began its rumbling again. Cries for the final justice resounded off the walls. It was time to complete this ritual and time to move on. The agitation in the room grew strong. The master tradesman was tempted to return to his gavel, but he remained on the sidelines watching the proceedings carefully, lest they become too tumultuous as they had several years ago when the victim did not survive the sacrifice.

This crowd was, however, immediately deterred by the man with the marker. He was a roguish, blackguard from some territory beyond Illusia. His dress was peculiar, marked by a gold threaded cloak that covered most of his hefty form, and skin the color of freshly turned earth. There was just a fuzz of hair at his chin, while his head was as bald as the man that held the maiden’s hands. As he approached the barefoot girl, she whimpered seeing the blackest of eyes peering at her.

“Give her to me,” he said with a power of command that her captors could not ignore. He’d removed his cloak, handing it to a young man that attended him. Reaching the girl’s loins he took her hips in his hands while her attendants freed her. Then with a gentleness uncommon at such rituals, he turned her about, drawing her knees under her.

“You shall take her ass?” one long-haired man whispered to him.

“So, I shall,” he agreed, though first he brought the girl’s nether crack to his face and ate of it as though he was eating exotic fruit, and drank of it as though it was fine wine. His tongue probed both orifices and the girl began panting and cooing. It no longer seemed to matter that this indignity was being witnessed by an attentive company that would never forget the look they saw on her face.

The more she took this pleasure, the louder she cried. Her body bucked freely against his face. He had his fingers in her vagina and his tongue at her nether hole when she cried the loudest. Then, at the moment when her body wrenched wildly with orgasm, he pushed her down, grabbed hold of her sides and planted his erection beyond the mellowed sphincter, deep into her ass. He stretched her wide and made her full. But she rode him without the pain that might have marked this violation. Though she screamed in reply, only the woman in the second tier guessed the girl’s state of mind. Sharp pleasured spasms ripped wildly through the maid’s ass until the black man’s climax broke free as did her own.