Of innocent merriment!"
The prince pushed the ayah aside, opened the front of his silk tunic and stood close to Carol. The ayah put one hand down in front of him, giggled and seemingly positioned him for his onslaught. He spoke one word, the arms that Carol was clinging to like a shipwrecked survivor lifted slightly to tilt her bottom down to the required position, and then Prince Ravi caught hold of Carol's hips and plunged his manhood deep into her body.
She yelped and arched her back as he began his task of throughly ravishing her. Some of the other Kultani men came closer to the horse, slapping her buttocks and tickling at the soles of her bare feet as she was bounced about as if she was a rider in the Grand National.
Carol's face was protruding from the knot of bodies around her, eyes rolling back like a terrified mare's and sounds coming out of her throat which might have escaped from a steam boiler about to blow up.
A popping flashlight went off inside the shadowed hut like summer lightning. Carol was now officially a hunt trophy, with the picture taken to prove it.
"My object all sublime I shall achieve in time- To let the punishment fit the crime- The punishment fit the crime."
Camilla was gasping as if she was under the sea in a diving suit with a blocked air tube. A tongue in each ear, a hand on each breast, a hand on each buttock and every other woman in the room being treated just as lewdly, Carol excepted, who was being treated about as lewdly as woman could be and looking to get her comeuppance at any second from the royal penis. Then she yelped out like a vixen caught by a pack of hounds and the Prince shouted out in triumph. The music from the gramophoone ceased as the stylus was lifted from the disk. Already one of the men was filling in the Prince's name in one of the boxes alongside Carol Carnac-Smyth's name on the blacboard.
Ravi threw aside his pyjamy jacket and called out orders in his own language. The officers grinned, though they were taking their hands away from the women, even Carol. She was panting as heavily as a hunted deer and clutching the neck of the wooden horse as if it was stopping her from drowning. An officer was, for some reason, pouring a whole bottle of ice straight into an ice bucket. One of the ayahs, the youngest and prettiest one, knelt down in front of the Prince, struggling desperately to control her giggles as she slipped off the contraceptive sheath he'd been wearing. She stood up again, holding it by the open end as if it might fly away like a tiny balloon it was.
When she received another order from Ravi her giggles almost overcame her even as she hurried to obey him. Looking at all the white woman in the pool with delight, she dropped the used condom into the ice bucket.
"A toast, ladies, a toast. To be drunk in turn."
The Prince took the bucket by the handles and walked around the pool.
Towards Camilla first, and her escorts turned around to face him.
"Here you are, my dear," he chuckled. "Take it and drink deep."
The condom was floating on top of the Bollinger like a dead fish.
Camilla considered very briefly about whether to try to avoid the humiliation, even though the choice didn't exist. Not for her, at least. Joan Of Arc would no doubt have spat in Ravi's face. Camilla Hartley-Dexter didn't: she put her own fingers on top of Ravi's hand as he kept hold of the handles and she prepared to drink from the bucket. On one side she could see the horse being swivelled around to face the camera. Carol was sitting up with a disrobed Kultooni officer close on each side. She was smiling in a slack jawed sort of way and holding a brown skinned erection in each hand. Another flashbulb popped to record the scene. Then Camilla lifted up the bucket and swallowed a mouthful of the champagne, the used contraceptive floating in it brushing against her lips.
"Well done, Camilla," the Prince said. "Looking forward to your own fucking?"
His eyes seemed to be holding hers like a snake charmer's: "Yes, your Royal Highness." There was no choice but to answer meekly.
"Then we won't disappoint you. Put her across the horse."
Whether or not the champagne was responsible, Camilla was sure she would have fallen in stepping over the pool wall if so many hands hadn't been holding her up. As she was taken towards the rocking horse she heard applause from around it. A Kultooni officer was on the back of the model, facing the tail, his feet pressed up against the rockers. Astride him, her feet in the stirrups, was Carol. Her hands were holding tightly onto the man's bared shoulders and she was jerking herself up and down on his prick like a performing animal. The hands holding her nipples had drawn her breasts out from her body as an obvious threat of what would happen if her performance wasn't good enough. Further encouragement was coming from two other men swatting at her already chastised buttocks with riding crops. A counterpoint to the clapping sounds of wet flesh slapping together between the two bodies One of the men holding Camilla spoke to the man impaling Carol:
"Having a good fuck, Suhail?"
"An excellent one, thank you. I'm not having to move a muscle now we've got Mrs Carnac-Smythe so well trained."
It was true, Suhail was being used by the wild eyed, snorting English woman as a stage to act out her own humiliation on. Carol was staring down at the man's face as though it belonged to some God whom she was gladly worshipping with her cunt as she frantically galloped herself on his manhood.
A voice spoke to Camilla. It was Osama's: "Oh, Pearl of the East, take this and use it well."
Into her hand he put a riding crop. The men who had been whipping Carol stood back to make room for Camilla. But then their crops slashed down against the sides of her legs, so powerfully that one of the blows cut right through her thin sari. No word was spoken, none was needed. Camilla began to beat Carol's bottom as though it was a piece of dusty carpet hanging up for cleaning. Carol screeched and the quivering buttocks Camilla was lashing jerked up and down Suhail's glistening shaft like a shuttle on a loom. The top of Camilla's sari came undone as she swung the crop, then fell free, and her breasts hung naked and swinging in front of Suhail's admiring eyes Suhail laughed, grabbed Carol's hips and held her down tightly against him as he finally jerked upwards against her, his passion exploding in the ultimate satisfaction. After he'd finished with her Carol was lifted off the horse and set down on her hands and knees on top of a coffee table by the two officers who'd been spanking her. One tapped the end of his crop against her bottom as if reminding her of his presence. The other one took hold of her hair and lifted up her head to show her his upcurved cock nudging against her lips.
Camilla gaped at the sight of the Gazepore garrison's senior lady opening her mouth for an Indian's prick. Yet, though it was a sight she was sure she'd never see, it now seemed to becoming normal because Jean Ellington and Deborah Boxwood were both on their knees in the pool, both kneeling down in front of the Prince and licking on his reviving cock as though they were attending some religious service.
Beside them Amanda Priller was standing upright, kissing and being kissed with open mouthed passion by three cavalrymen. And her hands were darting around, along and over their hardened flesh as if she was at a market stall trying to choose which one to buy.
"Time for your first gallop, old girl," Osama said loudly. "I think we'll have you on your back to start with."
Without any further ado Camilla was prepared for the men's pleasure.
The crop was taken from her hand, her sari thrown aside, half a dozen brown hands pushing her down until her spine was along the silk pillow and the rocking horse's tail between her legs. But that was only for a second, until more hands took hold of her strongly muscled calves and lifted them level with her body. Somewhere nearby she could hear feminine laughter from one of the ayahs. The officers holding her onto the horse were looking down at their captive and smiling as if this was only some kind of horseplay, some kind of a party trick. And then Camilla screeched out with pain as riding crops slashed across the soles of her feet.
Lifting her head up, she saw that the blows had been delivered by two of the ayahs. It was no surprise that one of the women standing near her was Manga. What did astonish Camilla was that the girl brandishing the other riding crop was her own ayah, Jumila. The girl's teeth were clenched in a savage grimace as she punished her mistress, showing no signs of hesitation at all. In fact both of the women seemed to be acting under restraint from the men not to hit Camilla too hard. Even so, the pain was incredible and the pinioned woman begged at the top of her voice for mercy. A sight and sound which distracted Mr Manji away from the photos he was taking of two officers standing on either side of the coffee table and both enjoying Carol's hospitality, front and back. Reluctantly, the cameraman moved the tripod away from the brown bodies straining against the submissive white one and let off a flashbulb to record Camilla's torture. Then there was a babble of voices and people moved into fresh positions, as if staging a rehearsed play.
Jumila and Manga stepped away, both as unwilling to be pulled away from their prey as blooded hounds. Camilla looked up through watering eyes to see Osama laughing at her with a bottle in his hand. He dribbled some of the chilled champagne over her breasts and immediately two mouths settled down on them as lightly as falling leaves and began gently biting her nipples. More cold liquid dripping onto her belly button, and another tongue lapping at it. On her feet, and the blessed coolness splashing onto her raw soles before her toes began to be nibbled.
Another flashbulb popped and Camilla's lungs expelled air as though she was trying to blow out an enormous mass of birthday candles in one breath. Then the draining of more liquid down and around her patch of pubic hair, until the champagne was running down the cleft of her cunt like a strickling mountain stream. To be immediately swallowed up by yet another mouth, another tongue, with fingers moving up between her widely stretched legs to hold her wide open. Camilla arched her back, shaking like a fever victim underneath all the hands holding her, smelling the spicy native smell of the brown flesh surrounding her.
Overhead the boy was now sitting on the rafter, masturbating his exposed organ in delight as he stared down at Camilla's treatment. She screamed again, so loudly that it must surely have been heard all over the cantonment, but caring for nothing except the physical satisfaction being given her, a totality of bodily pleasure enhanced behind belief by the pain she had just endured.
An officer's face appeared above her, laughing as he poured the dregs of the bottle onto Camilla's lips. She licked them with her tongue, then held her mouth open in invitation. He bent over her as if he was about to kiss a sleeping beauty awake, though Camilla had never been less asleep in her life. She was aroused beyond belief, tits and toes and cunt mastered by tongue and teeth, gentle fingers stroking her inflamed soles, and now a finger playing with her clitoris. She wondered whether it was Osama, and screeched out his name. The man bending over her put his lips against hers, their tongues slapped together like mating snakes and entwined in uncontrolled passion. And, second later, Camilla's cunt was opened by a cock that seemed supernaturally thick and of an unbelievable length.
It was what she was lusting for now, body and soul, to be fucked as no respectable woman could ever dream of being fucked, without any restraint or decencies at all. And, incredibly, as she was used by a gang of natives in front of her friends, she heard the gramophone start playing again. Only music this time, with the Maharajah's Own Irregulars singing their own words to another G and S favorite, words laced with obvious sarcasm.
She is an Englishwoman!
She is an Englishwomanman!
For she herself has said it,
And it's greatly to her credit,
That she is an Englishwoman!
That she is an Englishwoman!
Camilla climaxed before the man, and again, and then a third time, snorting out against the mocking words. Her hands were directed to stiffened ramrods of flesh that she jerked on frantically as the man beasting her withdrew. But it was only a mere changing of the guard, for another lusty soldier quickly came to attention in her steaming sentry box. The tongue in her mouth was withdrawn and Camilla blinked up at the brown faces looking down on her. The thing she noticed most was the flashes of white teeth as the Kultooni officers bellowed out their teasing words. An act of humiliation they reinforced by turning Camilla's head to one side towards a cock curved like a scimitar with a top like a ripe plum. She took as much as she could of it within her mouth and sucked on it.
For she might have been a Roosian,
A French, or Turk, or Proosian,
Or perhaps Itali-an!
Or perhaps Itali-an!
But in spite of all temptations
To belong to other nations,
She remains an Englishman!