I went up to the attic floor of the villa soon after ten o’clock. On the way, I stopped in the hallway at the foot of the stairs. From the stand where coats were hung and walking-sticks lodged, I drew a slim leather switch, about two feet long and with a rounded ivory handle. A good many visitors to the Villa Rosa went riding in the park or on the beach. I did not intend to use the switch on the Spanish girl, merely to carry it as symbol of authority over her.
Quietly, I went up the stairs to the top floor. The chink in the wall between Margarita’s room and the bathroom, which I occupied as my observation post, was ideally placed. One had a view of the bed and, indeed, across the room to the dressing-table and its mirror. There was a swish of material. Margarita was just closing her bedroom curtains for the night.
So I watched while she went through her preliminaries and then stretched out on the bed, lying on her side with her back to the observation hole as before. Her sleek and soapy-wet backside again gave a smooth and flawless gloss to the paler olive-skinned pride of Margarita’s rare contours, making her show the heavy swell of her arse most suggestively. She began to writhe gently on the fingers between her legs, the Hispanic tan of her bottom-cheeks glossy with moisture surged fuller and fatter, then contracted inwards in the slow voluptuous rhythm of her self-arousal.
Though her warm Spanish temper and her feminine pride would have been insulted by the comparison, Margarita’s bare arse and hips were performing horizontally in a manner that a harem belly-dancer or a striptease girl would have envied. The swelling out and clenching in of Margarita’s bottom-cheeks, the tensing and slackening of her thighs on the saddle of her own fingers, offered the viewer tantalising half-glimpses. As the thighs relaxed, one just saw the dark-haired sex before her legs tightened upon it shiveringly. As the full Latin tan of her rear cheeks swelled out, there was an exciting but shadowy hint of the forbidden valley between them and a dim but definite image of the tight little vortex of Margarita’s arsehole.
I allowed her to work herself up to the point where desire was stronger than shame. Then I opened the little door behind her without a sound and moved softly across the room. Even so, it was surprising she did not turn. When I reached her, I understood why. Margarita was already breathing hard with her exertions. This, plus the creaking of the bed, concealed my approach. With a mingled feeling of excitement, triumph, and tenderness, I slid my hand down and covered her own, whose fingers were plunged between her legs.
There was a gasp and a stifled cry of panic from Margarita. She went tense and frightened, clutching both her hands to her loins now as if this would conceal and protect her more effectively. She was so shocked that she could not even bring herself to turn her face to me! Instead she dropped her chin to her chest and refused to look up. I laid the riding-switch down quietly on the table by the bed.
“Have you been playing with yourself long, Margarita?”
“No!” Still it came as a gasp of fright. “I was not. It was not that!”
I stooped over her, stroked back the lank black hair from her face and kissed her gently. But in her dismay the Spanish girl flinched even from such gentleness.
“You must not lie to me, Margarita. That will only make matters worse for you. You make love to yourself every night before you go to sleep. Don’t you, Margarita? I’ve been watching you for the last ten minutes, seeing the things you like to do to yourself. On the first night of our journey I watched you through the window of the hotel bedroom, from start to finish. I think you had your climax that night, didn’t you? But now I must teach you a lesson. You’re too old, Margarita, to be like a little girl playing alone with her toys. Aren’t you?”
“No,” she gasped helplessly. “It was not that!”
“Must I send for Mano or one of the others, Margarita?”
The dismay of it appeared like a slow dawn in Margarita’s face. I stroked back her dark hair for her.
“Must I, Margarita? No? You would rather I rewarded you myself, here and now?”
Margarita’s own feminine instincts served her well. If only she could exhaust my own passion first, surely I would not then hand her over to the others.
I suppose it was a confusion of thoughts that made Margarita reach out and take my hand to hold me back from fetching Mano. But I also suspected that it was a long time since this firm-featured Amazon had known anything but her own caresses between her legs. Perhaps it was the need for a man that made her protest as she did. I moved closer to the bed and sat down.
“Please!” Margarita’s voice was quiet but intense in her prettily-accented English. “Please do not tell the others what you saw!”
In the lamplight I looked down at Margarita’s firmly rounded chin and well-cut features, the tall brow and the dark hair swept back. She had turned on her side towards me so that I could see her tautly-muscled belly with its triangle of dark hair inadequately covered by one hand, the opening of her legs and the smoothly moulded strength of her thighs.
So that she would not misunderstand, I took her hand and led it to the front of my pants, where she must have felt the erection hard and taut with excitement. To my surprise and delight, Margarita unbuttoned and released the stiffness. She began to circle it with her hand and excite it.
“Must I deal with you myself, then, Margarita?”
“Yes!” Her assent was quick and fierce, as if she was committing herself before she could think what it meant or change her mind.
I was naturally intrigued by the thought of Margarita sacrificing herself to save her reputation. The offer was quite irresistible. I drew back from her and went across to the door of the room. I turned the key in the lock to prevent interruptions. Then I switched on the main light in its ceiling bowl of frosted glass and flooded the room with a soft radiance. The bedrooms of the Villa Rif had been decorated in the modern manner. The curtains and the silk covers were gathered in palest pink, the panels of the walls picked out in dove gray. Even the pale satin-wood of the dressing-table and the wardrobe echoed the plain uncluttered design.
I lay down with Margarita and began to put her to the test. There was a directness about her passion that corresponded to the bold look of her dark eyes and firm features, the tall brow with the black hair swept back from it. Margarita’s lips and tongue responded to the first kisses. I heard her breath coming in sighs of pretended longing, her thighs and hips squirming as she smoothed herself against me. Margarita put on this performance willingly to save herself. Presently I drew away from her and slipped off my pants. I showed her the hard-headed state of the tool that was waiting for her and caught her fierce dark eyes with a smile.
“Are you ready to pay such a price? Are you, Margarita? I think you may regret your rashness in a while.”
“Yes!” It was a gasp that conveyed defiance rather than submission. I took it as that.
“Then I must really put you to the test, Margarita. Turn over on your belly for me.”
She hesitated only a moment. Then she slid over the pale pink silk of the bed-cover and lay on her belly. I pushed the two pillows under her to raise and broaden the proud rear-cheek swell her firm olive-tan presented.
I looked at the rear view of her in the light from the bedroom lamps. Now I drew my finger down between the cheeks of her bottom, feeling the humid warmth of her there. I murmured in her ear, assuring her for the first time what I was going to do to her. Her buttocks tightened together in alarm but she uttered no protest.
“You understand, Margarita? You must pay a forfeit beyond what your boy-friend might expect or even your bridegroom on your honeymoon night.”
So Margarita lay on her belly over the pillows, her sweep of dark hair brushed aside.
“Keep your face that way, Margarita. Watch yourself in the dressing-table mirror. I know you like to do that when you make love to yourself. Do it now as well.”
There was no reply to this. She was naked below the singlet-hem at her waist. I stood up by the bed and then stooped over her, so that the hard cherry touched her lips while I bowed my head over Margarita’s bare Spanish bottom and the rear of her thighs.
“Play with it on your tongue, Margarita. Open your mouth a little more.”
The hardness touched her lips. When Margarita hesitated to obey, I needed only to remind her that Mano, or Anton would put her to hard use and then whip her bare bottom-cheeks afterwards. So the pleasure which she had consistently refused to her boy-friends was now performed without further demur for a man she scarcely knew. I fondled the smooth olive-tan cheeks of the Spanish girl’s firmly voluptuous young bottom. I parted them and admired the tight inward dimple of Margarita’s behind. Where the proud sallow cheeks curved in together, the intimate pallor of the skin assumed a tint of yellowed ivory.
“Use the tip of your tongue on the rim, Margarita. Tickle the vent with it as well.”
While she obeyed me, my own lips touched the cool sallow smoothness of her bare thighs, at the rear and close to the top. While she drew on me inexpertly but instinctively, my tongue tasted her feminine moisture. I kissed the slight heaviness of Margarita’s olive-skinned bum-cheeks.
“Turn over on your back now, Margarita,” I said presently. “Lie like that and open your thighs a little.”
She wriggled round and lay as I suggested. But there was doubt in her steady brown eyes. I had no intention of rewarding Mano by making his female pupil pregnant. I lowered myself on to her, slipped my hot stiffness between the tops of Margarita’s thighs and felt the cushiony flesh close lightly on either side. I rode like this for a while without penetrating her. The result was that Margarita’s most sensitive folds of flesh—already humid from her own fondling—were tantalisingly roused. I rode her like this enjoying the sight as well as the feel of her strong young thighs. At last she gave a strange falling cry, like a climber slipping back into an Alpine gulf from a toe and finger hold. More hard exclamatory cries, sharper and quicker, from the depths of her throat. And at last a delicious quivering of the thighs that held my stiffened manhood and the firmly-muscled belly on which I rested.
“Now turn over again, Margarita,” I said softly.
She did so slowly and dreamily. Did she half-guess what I intended? Margarita had come off and she must have known that I would find a way to do the same. She twisted her face, brushing her black hair clear, and looked at me over her shoulder as she lay there.
I sat on the edge of the bed and took the slim leather riding-switch from the table. Its smooth ivory handle was about the size and thickness of my thumb, round in its length and rounded at its tip. I reached for the wet soap that Margarita had used when lathering herself and spread the handle of the switch with it. She began to squirm a little but I held her firmly round the waist with one arm, looking down at the sallow cheeks of Margarita’s bottom until she lay still again.
“Must I send for the others, Margarita? I shall have to unless you show me what a good girl you can be.”
I parted the rear cheek-swell and pressed the rounded end of the ivory handle firmly until Margarita yielded under the increasing pressure with a muted cry of alarm. Then I exercised her bottom in this simple manner for five or ten minutes. At the same time I kissed her lips and eyelids, her ears and neck, my other hand manipulating her between her legs until she grew restive with a new arousal.
After ten or fifteen minutes of watching Margarita’s rear approach stretched round the smooth insertion of thumb-sized ivory, I arranged her a little more carefully on her belly over the pillows. I continued to exercise her a little longer, hearing the slippery soapiness of the movement and the faint suction of the makeshift ivory phallus moving in her. There was an extra suggestiveness in Margarita submitting to the handle of the whip, the symbol of punishment and authority as well as passion. Now my other hand stroked the voluptuous Latin tan of Margarita’s proud buttocks as if to calm her while I drew the ivory handle clear. She turned to me over her shoulder. With the collar-length of her black hair swept clear, there was now a fierce directness in her dark eyes, as well as the firm set of her chin, her wide-boned cheeks and clear brow. Margarita never once pleaded to be spared her ordeal. Nor did she even plead that I must be gentle with her. At the time, I assumed Margarita was a realist who knew that promises to be gentle are always broken in the tyranny of release. Later I understood that she perhaps hoped I would not use her gently.
However, I employed the ivory whip-butt again and saw it enter with soapy ease. I continued it slowly until I saw the first sign of Margarita’s backside moving in a furtive rhythm by contraction and slackening of her buttocks. At last she was responding to the excitement of her nerves in this dark and forbidden area of feminine sensitivity. The first morbid arousal had begun to plague her. It was the antidote that female anatomy provided against the ordeal of being ravished in such a place. She would have denied her state of excitement if I had teased her about it. But I could see the quicker pulse in her throat and I knew that Margarita’s heart must be pounding with anticipation at what was about to happen to her. I cannot tell you whether that anticipation was frightened or eager, or perhaps a little of both. In her present confusion of thought and feeling, I doubt if Margarita herself was quite sure!
I knelt astride her and touched the cherry-head between the sleek tawny swell of Margarita’s rear cheeks.
There was a moment of narrowness and difficulty, the erection being more bulky than its ivory imitation. I murmured softly in Margarita’s ear, assuring her that she could take it if she tried. I smeared a little more pulp of wet soap where there was such tightness. Presently, under the pressure of the smooth head, there was a single muted cry. I felt Margarita yield and was gripped by an elastic tension, in which I sheathed myself slowly, but firmly and deeply. I allowed a minute or two for the Spanish girl to get used to the feeling of so large an intruder in such a place.
“There—is that better now, Margarita? Are you used to feeling how big it is, in such a tight place? Does it really make you feel any more uneasy than having a normal weight to carry there until you can release it? But this time you will not be the one who can decide to relieve yourself of it.”
There followed a whisper of soapiness in a firm but gentle rhythm. I paused from time to time while still in place, so that I might prolong the enjoyment. At last it was Margarita who stirred again first, now the initiator of her own continued submission to this freak of a man’s passion for her.
In the mirror, I was able to admire the reflected face of the sallow-skinned Amazon who lay bottom-upwards over the pillow and endured that form of ravishing which symbolised her bondage in the Villa Rosa. It was provoking to look in the glass and see the image of the Latin beauty of Margarita’s sturdy womanhood being used this way. The firm resolute lines of her face were clearly shown, the intense dark eyes still held their steady gaze. But I had only to move a little harder and deeper to make Margarita bury her face on her folded arms, hiding the gnawing anxiety. At each sinking to the hilt, I could feel the tension of alarm in the line of her naked hips and thighs. But as I rode closer to the finish, it was necessary to move faster and deep all the same.
Margarita’s bottom pressed bravely upwards. I slipped my hands under her, holding her breasts and turning them as I rode her. In my passion I kissed her shoulders and neck with sharp love-bites. Mad with desire for her, I felt myself bursting with the quantity of passion.
I warned Margarita of what was to come and saw her wad her mouth with the corner of the pillow and bite hard upon the padded cotton to stifle her cries. Then I released a first pulse of passion. I smacked the olive tan of her robust firm thighs and raked the flanks of her hips with my fingers. The vent let out its warm passion into the depths of Margarita’s bottom. It was an ecstatic release, in the knowledge that she could not refuse as much as I chose to give her.
My commands to her ended in a gasping and shuddering. Yet as Margarita stirred and began the cautious movements to expel the limp intruder, her lightly squeezing contractions caused it to harden again. Margarita gave a cry of dismay as she felt its stiffness restored and her tightness still fully stretched by it. I smiled at her in the mirror. The movements began again, slowly and almost teasingly.
My second tribute was paid after a longer and more leisurely session. I was with Margarita from an hour before midnight until an hour after. When at last I drew out and the tight little bulls-eye went urgently small and tight, the effect of the soaped intruder made it necessary for the Spanish girl to go hastily to the next room and bolt the door. When she returned I was sitting in the chair. I commanded her to turn her back and bend over so that I might see she was in a decent state. I need not have worried. As she bent with the full cheeked swell of her bottom’s Spanish tan, I could see and smell—from the Palmolive perfume—that Margarita had washed herself like a well brought up daughter of the bourgeoisie.
