Walk on the Wild Side - By Karl Edward Wagner Page 0,82

and found herself hanging on to a professional gentleman, who listened to her every word. Samantha was quickly counting fifty pound notes and shoving them into her handbag. She nodded to Leslie and patted her bag, then headed for the loo.

Someone gave Leslie another cup of punch. The walls were decorated with primitive masks and paintings that reminded Leslie of ancient cave drawings. There was a ballet barre standing in the center of the room, sturdily fastened to the floor. A spanking stand, Leslie guessed. The whips and leather gear were likely in another room.

“Just over here,” said the professional gentleman, leading her to the ballet barre. “Have you quite finished with your punch?”

“I think I’ve had a glass too many.” Leslie sensed more at work than the alcohol and Valium, and she began to feel panic.

“Just lean against this barre,” advised the kindly gentleman.

Leslie placed her hands upon the barre, trying to keep on her feet. Two women were tying her ankles to the uprights of the barre, while the skinhead bound her wrists together to the horizontal bar. One of the women fitted her with a collar and chain, pulling her head down so that she was bent over the barre, legs widespread, ass exposed, and totally helpless. The other woman expertly strapped a rubber ball-gag tightly into her mouth, then thoughtfully rearranged Leslie’s hair and earrings over the strap.

She sensed this had been done here before. Often.

Here’s where I earn my hundred quid, thought Leslie, wondering why the Brits had this thing about spanking. The school system probably. She looked about for Samantha. People were removing their clothes now. Well, she couldn’t give head with this gag in place. Samantha would look after her if things got rough.

“Shall I strip her now?” asked the skinhead.

“Leave that for Him to enjoy,” said the professor.

Leslie blinked, trying to stay alert. She tottered in her stiletto heels and would have fallen, but her bonds held her in a fixed position, and she could only slump forward. She felt someone pull up her miniskirt, then hands groped her ass. Someone poured some sort of warm liquid over her tights. Was that blood? It smelled like a goat pen. Sick.

She hoped they wouldn’t use canes; that one session had been enough. She chewed on her rubber gag, looking about for Samantha. Everyone was quite naked now, except for Leslie. They were circling about her now. She turned her head. She couldn’t see Samantha anywhere. This wasn’t Colorado.

Leslie managed to count. There were thirteen of them in the room.

Naked men and women. Someone was drawing a star in a circle about her as she clung to the barre. She supposed the words at the points of the star were Latin, just as she supposed their chanting was Latin—or something else unintelligible. Leslie hadn’t a word of Latin, and she knew absolutely nothing about either witchcraft or Satanism; but she had seen horror films, and she couldn’t see Samantha. Maybe she was off getting into some dominatrix gear.

They were copulating now as they circled her—women bent over and men riding their backsides like herd animals mating, shuffling all around her, chanting.

It wasn’t just a weird orgy with a lot of kinky perverts after all. Through the veil of drugs, Leslie knew real fear.

A moment later, the horned man appeared with the pentacle behind her, and then Leslie knew real fear.

She strained helplessly at her bonds, trying to tell herself it was the drugs, that it was only a man with very much body hair and some fake antlers tied to his head. This was like watching Rosemary’s Baby. Surely the enormous erect phallus was fake—at least a foot in length and dart-headed like an animal’s. Leslie caught a glimpse of his eyes and knew none of it was fake. She lowered her face and moaned into her gag. Maybe this was the bad dream.

He snuffled the animal menstrual blood and urine that had been poured over her buttocks. Flat-taloned hands then ripped apart her black tights, shredded her silk knickers, exposing her ass to the chanting coven and its master. Her gaff still concealed her shrinking cock and balls from their sight, and Leslie felt a strange sense of relief that they still hadn’t guessed.

The enormous head of the penis rubbed impatiently against her, seeking an opening, skidding across the crack of her ass. Leslie had only been sodomized on occasion—usually by Samantha’s double-ended dildo—and she hadn’t liked it at all. But needs must