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!
After she'd been taken twice and filled her mouth once with sticky sperm, Camilla was pulled up to her feet and given another glass of champagne. Staggering, she was pushed aside as Deborah Boxwood was seated on the horse, in a rider's position as Lucy had been, and Camilla was forced down on her knees to lick Deborah's clitoris from behind. She hardly knew what she was doing, nor cared, but felt some vestiage of relief when her mouth was required again for another male's pleasure, a waiting cock which seemed ready to plunge into Deborah. Looking up, Camilla saw that the brown baton she was giving suck to belonged to the Prince, renewed again by Jean's and Deborah's harem tricks and eager to put his name on the rider's board again. He was laughing and drinking from a bottle, then threw it aside.
'Put me into your friend's cunt,' he roared. 'Come on, Camilla, put me in.'
Still on her knees, Camilla aimed the tip of the royal prick with her fingers in between Deborah's puffed out cunt lips. Deborah called out, perhaps in encouragement, and louder again as the Prince filled her void. The Indians crowded around the horse again as Camilla was taken back to the pool.
There seemed to be some kind of a game going on in the middle of it. A kind of daredevil game for the Kultooni officers. A table had been set down in the middle of the pool, underneath the bowl of kraits. An officer was sitting at each end, risking his life from a possibility of the bowl falling in return for the pleasure of spurting his seed into the mouth of one of the British wives. At one end of the table Jean Ellington was bobbing her head up and down in an Indian's lap as Amanda crouched on her knees in the water to lick the same man's ball sack. The Kultooni at the other end of the table was holding Carol's hair in one hand as he apparently did his best to suffocate her by ramming her lips right down the length of his cock again and again, like a terrier shaking a rat to death in its jaws. Carol was snorting and snuffling through her nose and feverishly stroking the native's thighs with her fingertips in a kind of mute plea for mercy, until she was suddenly realised to go fall down on her knees, face tilted back and dribbles of come running down her chin.
Then another rampant native took his place at the vacated end of the table. Camilla was pushed towards him and quickly joined Carol in providing the same duality of pleasure that Jean and Amanda were providing for their own master. Once again, Mr Manji and his assistant turned the camera around to let off more flash bulbs at the scene of the garrison wive's degredation. The pair of them must have already used up about a year's supply of bulbs Camilla thought: she wondered how long the orgy had lasted already but had no clear idea of the time that had passed since the the cavalrymen had entered the hut.
One of the ayahs came to the edge of the pool holding a tray with newly filled glasses. As each pair of white woman suceeded in bringing an officer to satisfaction they were ordered to come and drink more champagne before their services were demanded again. As Jean and Amanda were draining their glasses and having their tits and cunts felt, Deborah began screaming on top of the wooden horse in an uncontrollable fit of passion. Both of the women's heads turned towards the scene, each knowing full well that what was happening now to them was only a pale dawn compared to the full heat and fury of the mob awaiting them. Yet Camilla felt she would have gladly taken their places if she could. For in the depths of her own degredation she had found a depth of pleasure beyond belief. Perhaps she'd been driven as mad as Deborah sounded to think so evil a thought: but when Camilla saw Carol's eyes also flickering towards the horse she would have sworn she saw the same wildness in them as in her own, the same desire to be sacrificed once again on the alter of male lust.
If so, neither Camilla or Carol had any reason to complain. For a new game soon began, with all four women bent over the table at the same time in a tangle of jammed together bodies as men circled them, each giving the woman of their choice a few swift strokes between their opened legs before moving onto the next offering. Whenever one of the prowlers finally lost control in one of the captive bodies, another name was included in the list of successful riders. Amanda was taken away for her ride on the fairground horse, and then Jean. Both of them staggered back, neither quite sure how many more men had taken them as lovers in the gallops, and past caring.
For a few moments there was a kind of interval, when they were allowed to stand around smoking and drinking, as if they were at some kind of lunatic asylum cocktail party. The only exception was Amanda, still on top of the table as Mr Manji undid his flies and made the beast of two backs with her, grinning all the time as his assistant photographed the coupling. Camilla found herself surrounded by a group of men as naked as herself, also smoking and drinking champagne, and apparently all of them having known her in the biblical sense.
'Good God, you haven't all fucked me, have you? No wonder I'm so sore.'
'Awfully sorry, old girl,' Osama had said, not sounding at all apologetic. 'I'm afraid we've all got terribly big cocks in our regiment – it's a condition of entry, ha, ha. And it is so much fun diddling a girl with such nice legs as yours. I thought so since I saw you playing hockey. I say, chaps how about we dress Camilla up in her hockey gear the next time and tie her ankles to her hockey stick?
Wouldn't that be great fun?'
The suggestion was greeted with a round of approval even as Camilla opened her mouth to say there wasn't going to be a next time, a statement which would have been incredibly stupid: with the photographs the Kultooni officers had they could make her do whatever they wanted to, anything at all. If she doubted that there was proof enough at the next table where Deborah was bent over a table while Manji's assistant fingered her bum with what seemed like a pot of ghee, the cooking oil used in every Indian kitchen. The officers were also turning their heads to look at this new diversion. What Camilla hadn't expected was for the babu to take his place behind the camera again.
The Prince was shaking with laughter. Two of the ayahs moved the coffee table behind Deborah's legs, laughing and looking upwards. Then the Prince also looked up and spoke to the boy on the cross beam. He smiled in delight and swung down to hang from the rafter by his arms, the knife now clamped between his teeth. The boy had obviously seen an Erroll Flynn or Douglas Fairbanks motion picture and was acting out his Hollywood fantasies. But it was a fantasy with a sequel which few boys are granted.
For as soon as he'd dropped down neatly onto a table he jumped off again, and onto the coffee table positioned behind Deborah. She looked back and gaped at the sight of his erection, and then at the touch of his hands on her bottom. But although she was under no restraint she stayed where she was as the urchin began to bugger her like a coupling monkey, yelping his delight as the officers and the ayahs applauded the performance. Another flash bulb popped in a blinding flash as though the devil himself was winking in approval at the scene.
Later, not much later, the gee was used again. Two tables, end to end, the five women all bent over them, and facing the camera, each with their anal holes well greased with gee. Then the eager natives all queing up to get their pictures taken above the row of white women's faces and the expressions on them as they got repeated experiences of having Indian pricks rammed up their backsides. There was no doubt about it, Prince Ravi would have some interesting snapshots to show his father and his father's harem when he went home again.
'You know something, ladies, perhaps I should write a book about this.
All I need is a good title. 'Five brides for twenty two brothers' perhaps? What do you think?'
