Chapter 2 – Chapter 2

"When the Arab rides away from us, I wish you to follow him and give him what he wants." Horst whispered this to me as we rode a horse path at the base of the Bavarian alps, where the manservant had driven Horst and me on Saturday morning. Horst had a large chalet on the side of the mountain, where three male guests already had gathered.

He told me little about what would happen this day and why I was here, but my handlers had told me to do what Horst wanted this weekend and that it would entail being fucked by multiple men.

There was an Arab, wearing one of the white robes many Arabs wear that are called dishdashas. The robe didn't seem to hinder his ability to sit in the saddle, maneuver the horse, and look good doing so. The other two men were middle-aged East Europeans of somewhat swarthy and unsavory appearance. They were muscular but going toward pudgy. The Arab, although older, was of larger and more commanding stature than they were, and, although having a cruel look about him, was in much better shape than the other two and much more adept at riding a horse.

He also proved adept at riding me.

I had known when I'd come out of my bathroom that morning that the day's activities would either involve horseback riding or a costume party. The manservant had laid out a riding outfit complete with frilly white blouse and skin-tight riding pants, as well as shiny black boots rising almost to my knees. The fit of the pants was snug—I'd almost say provocative—but they did fit.

At Horst's bidding I had ridden a bit behind the others, but if he thought that meant I couldn't hear the business they were transacting, he was sadly mistaken. I suppose I was taken just as a bimbo woman would be who was brought on outings like this to hand out to clients one was trying to sell to. I guess I was considered too young looking and cute to have a brain and to understand deals being discussed of exchanging East European contraband weapons for drugs controlled by Middle East terrorists. But I wasn't dumb, and I wasn't here because I was dumb.

The Arab and I hadn't ridden too far away from the others, only into a copse of trees with a babbling brook running through it, before he pulled up and said, "Let us rest the horses here for a bit."

He was already dismounting when he was saying it and left no doubt who was in command, so I came down off my horse too. I thought it was a bit too much accommodation to the resting of the horses when he unsaddled his—expertly—until I realized why he had. He fucked me doggy style on the grass beside the brook, with my belly bent over the seat of the saddle he'd placed on the ground there and him riding my ass hard and pulling my arms back painfully on either side of his torso.

Neither one of us was disrobed, although it turned out that, other than an easily discarded loincloth, he was wearing nothing under the dishdasha other than a condom and only needed to bunch the robe up around his waist to be in fighting form. I would gladly have peeled my tight riding pants off, but he preferred slitting the seam running down the center of the buttocks with a curved knife he'd had strapped to his calf and inserting, first, his fingers, and then his cock in the rift thus created. I hadn't worn briefs of any sort under the riding pants; it had seemed futile to have done so and none had been laid out by the man servant.

He rode me hard and cruelly with a noticeably thick cock. When he released my arms after having worked himself deep inside me, he also used his riding whip on me while he fucked me, although still having my clothes on took away much of the sting of that.

He claimed to have been pleased with my servicing, but that didn't stop him from just jerking the saddle out from underneath me while I was still lying there, moaning and trying to catch my breath, quickly resaddling his horse, and riding back to the chalet without me.

I had no trouble understanding that use of me was part of what Horst was providing his clients, to gain a favorable deal as a broker of the arms-for-drugs trade, and I wondered if the arms dealers would be included in this sweetening.

I found out Saturday evening.

At Horst's command I danced a pole in his dining room for dinner entertainment while the four man sat around me in a semicircle on pillows and ate their dinner off tray tables. Obviously the Arab was the one Horst was trying to impress the most, as signaled by the Middle Eastern manner in which they were eating.

I had been supplied with a gold lamé G string and had been told that the Arab was the one I was to play up to. The music was Middle Eastern, and I played the dance up in what I considered would be Middle Eastern moves, taking my cue from visions of belly dancers. I had danced a pole before, briefly and recently, after I found when I came of legal age that my manager had walked off with all of my stage and movie money that I hadn't already frittered away myself. I knew how to dance a pole and make the most of it.

The business negotiations between the men continued in a low burble under the music I was dancing to, and it seemed that we weren't far from the after-deal celebrations. I knew exactly what I was there for.

Horst beckoned me to dance closer to the Arab, so I did. Horst signaled to me to crouch over the Arab's thighs and give him a private lap dance, so I did. The Arab himself decided to bunch his dishdasha up around his waist, rip off my G strip, and put me on his cock. I let my torso arch back toward the dining room carpet, my arms dangling across the carpet, while the Arab pulled me on and off the cock. As he fucked me, the two East Europeans gathered closer, smacked their lips, pulled out their own cocks, and masturbated to the dance the Arab now was doing inside me.

He no sooner was finished inside me when, at a signal from Horst, the manservant appeared, tossed me over his shoulder, and I discovered, with the rest of the men following us, that there was a dungeon in the basement of the chalet.

The two East Europeans were beside themselves with lustful need, so I was given to them first, each in succession, as I lay in a sling suspended from the ceiling. Neither of them was anything special, but fulfilling my role and purpose, I made noises and met their thrusts with counterthrusts to convince them that they were.

The Arab, who had already fucked me twice, wanted something a bit more special—and more taxing. I had to admit that I had been told by my handlers that it might get a little rough. I was suspended from the ceiling on a chain with a restraint holding both wrists together, and the Arab got his jollies by flogging my back and thighs—raising red welts but not as far as bloody cuts—before he saddle up to me from behind, lifted and spread my thighs, and fucked up into my channel until he had filled the head of a condom inside me for the third time that day.

I wound up bent over on my belly on a pommel horse-type contraption, with my wrists and ankles bound to the legs of the apparatus, none of my appendages quite reaching the floor, and any of the four men taking as many pokes at me as they wanted. I knew Horst participated in this part, because he was the only one not crowned with a condom and giving me his cum.

They trooped upstairs when they were satiated, leaving me there, my service to Horst's business needs finished, but not before I had figured out why I had been here and what these men were up to.

After about half an hour, the manservant appeared, unbound me, threw me over his shoulder, and took me up to one of the bedrooms of the chalet. He put me under the shower head in the adjacent bathroom and turned the water on—not too hot and not too strong. It stung like hell on my back and thighs, but I was glad to be getting clean.

He dried me off with a big, fluffy towel; told me to bend over the foot of the bed, stiff arming my weight on the heels of my hand; and applied some sort of soothing salve to my back and thighs. I was wondering how often he had to do this—whether Horst provided incentive candy such as me with all of the business deals that were beyond the normal scope of his overt industrial operations.

When I was getting all soothed and comfortable, the big bruiser took hold of the back of my neck, shoved my face into the surface of the bed, mounted my ass from behind, and fucked the stuffing out of me in hard, rapid, brutal strokes. All fight had been fucked out of me earlier, so I just lay there, moaned, and took it from him—nearly every hour for the rest of the night.

I figured that Horst truly didn't need me for his business scheming anymore if he was handing me out to the servants. I just took it. My contract hadn't specified by name who had privileges. The services were just listed "as desired."