P
Pia
Guest
Really really clever - what a super ending! Love it totally!!!!12.
My eyes flick open. I am lying naked on my back. A man in a coverall bends over me, holding my legs together while another winds the end of a rope around my ankles and binds them tightly together with a firm knot.
He tugs experimentally at the rope leading away from my bound ankles and calls over his shoulder, "ok, mates, she’s ready ... string her up!"
My legs fly up with a jerk ... a second tug and my butt is off the ground ... a third, and all but my outstretched hands leave the ground ... a final tug and I hang, suspended by my ankles, upside down, twisting slowly round and round … the beam from which I hang creaking and groaning under the weight of myself and four others.
A world turned upside down ... as I slowly circle round, I see the other girls ... dozens of them hanging, like me, naked and upside down ... bodily contours shadowed in the late afternoon light.
Alongside me hangs Siss ... flattened tummy, raised ribs, mounded breasts, undersides exposed, small pointed chin, open blue eyes staring back at me, the ends of her tangled blonde tresses just grazing the ground.
My attention diverts to the legs of hunters ... gathering around, black riding boots and white jodhpurs spattered with mud and blood ... camera tripod legs ... everyone in motion ... taking up positions ... group "trophy" photo ... posing with “the kill” ... the dapper, bearded one kneeling beside me, one hand squeezing my breast, the other pointing proudly to the shaft in my shoulder ... camera flash ... "Stay where you are everybody, while I take another."
Voice of the Laird, speaking behind me, "Is the Moore girl still alive?"
"Appears she is," replies a coverall, crouching and placing a finger against my neck. "She and the blonde hanging alongside her are the only two to have made it this far."
"And what of the two that escaped the slaughter in the stream?"
"We got the Irish girl ... she's hanging over there ... almost got away, she did ... shot out of the tree in which she was hiding a few minutes shy of the hour of six."
"And that cunning little French bitch?"
"She got away sir. Pity that."
"No matter. We'll hunt her down tomorrow."
"But it's past six, sir; hasn't she earned her freedom?"
"You didn't really believe that line for a minute did you?"
"No sir. Sorry. Not to change the subject, but my people just informed me that the coals are hot sir. All is ready. Everyone is hungry after a day in the field. Time we get the roasting started."
"Good! Do the Moore woman and the blonde ... a special treat ... I'm sure we will all enjoy the sight, smell and sound of a right proper "live" roast!"
"No, I must protest ... you don't mean ... we can't ... I mean, we are civilized ... that would be cannibalism!!"
"Relax, the party will feast on pork as always. The suckling pigs are spitted and ready to go. But, the dogs are hungry too. I intend to spit Moore and the blonde to feed to the dogs and provide a little extra entertainment for our guests!"
Eager hands lower me to the ground. I am carried ... suddenly wide awake, kicking and screaming ... and placed face down on a heavy wooden trestle. The shaft jutting from my shoulder snaps off. I shriek with pain.
My wrists and ankles are pulled down and quickly bound to the stout trestle legs. I am immobilized, hanging breasts and thighs pressed tight and bulging against the rough sides of the heavy trestle spine.
I watch in horror as a coverall approaches, shiny metal 6-foot-long pointed spitting rod in hand.
On a second trestle nearby, Siss struggles vainly, similarly bound. We exchange glances.
People gather all around, drinks in hand, crowding closer, keen to witness a live spitting. They point at Siss and me, and comment cleverly … much laughter and gaiety … an unexpected delight.
I shudder as the coverall takes up his position behind me. Helping hands spread the cheeks of my tight little ass, crushing my mound down hard, bone on wood, against the spine of the trestle. Someone jerks my head back by the hair, stretching my neck so that my chin juts out, my body aligned for proper impalement.
I feel the cold metal point of the spit probing and pressing against my anus. Someone squirts some lubricating fluid on its tip and I feel a finger smear the fluid around the tips tender puckered target.
I shudder again and brace myself for the inevitable.
The poking and probing continues. Why don't they just do it? Spit me and get it over with, please!
Still more poking and probing. I drift in and out of consciousness.
I open my eyes to look around. The light is failing. It's late in the day. Why don’t they spit me?
Lazily I turn, half on my side, remembering at the last second to hold the loose black fabric triangles of my untied string bikini to my chest.
I look up. A dapper bearded man, smiles down at me, removing the tip of his walking stick from where he has been using it to prod my buttocks.
"Best you get up off this beach miss," he says. "You must excuse the intrusion, but I couldn't help but see that you were sound asleep and unaware of the tide coming in, so I thought I should wake and warn you. Guessed you were not from around here, or you would have known. Be quick about it now. Won't be long."
He turns and wanders off. I sit up, hastily reaching behind my back to tie my top. I lean over to grab my cut-offs and pull them on. As I stand and wiggle into them in that all too familiar little dance we all do, I notice my pussy is wet. Thoughtfully, I slide my feet into my Keds and gather my things to leave, my mind wandering back to my mercifully interrupted nightmarish dream.
What was that? I wonder. Who am I? What kind of person has fantasy dreams like that? God, I am totally soaked down there!
Oh well, I think. Tomorrow my holiday ends. I only have tonight in the cottage before I head for home. I decide that I am going to make the best of it ... a nice salad and a glass of wine ... and then I will stay up and write it all down before I forget what happened.
