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Subject: Re: {ASSM} (RP) THE SNAKE PIT" (M+/F+: Reluctant: Historical) By David Shaw
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<shaw.alphamale@gmail.com> wrote in message
news:56799asstr$1193184602@assm.asstr.org...
>
> "THE SNAKE PIT" (M+/F+: Reluctant: Historical)
>
> By
>
> David Shaw
> shaw.alphamale@gmail.com
>
> www.alphamalestories.com
>
>
> THIS STORY IS INTENDED FOR ADULT READING ONLY
>
> -----------------------------------------------------------------------
>
> A group of garrison wives are escaping from the heat of an Indian
> summer in the only cool place in Gazepore. Their menfolk are away
> fighting the wily Pathans on the Afganistan border and they're bored.
> But what the ladies don't know is that the even more wily Prince Ravi
> has decided that this is a good time to break in some new remounts for
> his cavalry officers . . .
>
> -----------------------------------------------------------------------
>
> "This weather is getting unbearable. Are we never to go up to the
> hills?" Carol Carnac-Smythe drawled.
>
> The other five women lying in the shallow pool of water were all of
> the same opinion. The searing Punjabi sun beating down on the wooden
> roof above their heads was far too hot for comfort, especially when
> the baking summer winds blew in from the arid plains which surrounded
> Gazepore. There were many delightful places in colonial India in which
> wives of British officers might live their privileged lives. Gazepore
> was not one of them. A small and isolated garrison town, its only
> amenities for Europeans were a social club and a cinema with walls and
> roof of corrugated iron. And, perhaps best of all, the railhead
> station, which at least promised some chance of eventually leaving the
> dismal place. It had been an unlucky day for the 17th Sikh Rifles when
> they were assigned the barracks in the unlovely and unhealthy township
> of Gazepore as their regimental home.
>
> In fact the officers' wives should have left the town already for
> their yearly migration at the start of the hot weather, a longed for
> trip up to the hill stations on the lower ranges of the Himalayas,
> where it was always cool and green on the fringes of the eternal snow
> line. Unfortunately the arrangements for their departure had been
> disrupted when the regiment had been ordered post haste to the North
> West Frontier, where the Pathans had begun raiding out of the hills
> again.
>
> The Pathans and their Afghan cousins lived for fighting and
> plundering, being experts at both. They traversed rough terrain like
> mountain goats, they shot as accurately as trained snipers, they
> waited in ambush positions for days without a cough or a whisper, then
> struck with total ferocity in a whirl of knife blades. They also dyed
> their hair with henna, frequently made love to young boys and used
> handfuls of sharp stones in lieu of toilet paper. The British Army had
> fought everywhere and everybody in its time and, man for man, the
> Pathans were the toughest opponents it had ever encountered. So it was
> never any great surprise for any of the border regiments when they
> were called out to repel yet another round of raids from the tribal
> areas.
>
> In truth the Sikh enlisted men and their white officers rather enjoyed
> the challenge of pitting their professional skills against the
> Pathans. The wives of the Sikh soldiers were at least left living in
> their own country and their own territory. It was the British wives
> abandoned to the heat and dust of Gazepore who found time hanging
> heavily on their hands. Especially  with the advancing summer weather
> bearing down on them ever more oppressively. In faraway cities like
> Calcutta and Bombay there was electricity, and fans and refrigerators
> -- but no such modern comforts were available in Gazepore. The old
> ways were still the only ways, and an old remedy against the heat was
> still the only remedy.
>
> Many years before a Colonel's wife had discovered a small spring on
> the outskirts of the Regiment's cantonment, a spring which provided a
> trickle of wonderfully cool water from some subterranean source, even
> when the rocks around it were too hot to touch with a bare hand. Being
> a lady of enterprise and determination, the Mem-sahib had arranged for
> a wooden hut to be erected at the spring and a bathing pool to be made
> inside it. A small pool to retain the freshness of the spring water,
> round, twelve feet across, with a two foot high retaining wall. The
> spring rose in the centre and an overflow pipe took away the excess
> water, the pool thus staying cool enough to provide a wonderful refuge
> from the otherwise inescapable heat.
>
> The Colonel's lady had provided pots of ferns, tables for magazines
> and newspapers, even a spring driven gramophone, and then laid
> unmistakable claim to the hut by calling it the Moorghi-Khana, the
> Hen's Room. And so it had remained, a place used only by the British
> wives and their attendant ayahs, their maids. The ayahs were presently
> sitting cross legged on mats against the wall of the hut, watching the
> white women relaxing in the pool and ready to attend when called. One
> of the odd things about the Moorghi-Khana was that both types of women
> were wearing Indian saris wrapped about them. Normal dress for the
> Indian women, naturally, but only worn by the European wives when
> bathing in the pool. It would, of course, be unthinkable for native
> girls to be allowed to see white women naked -- just as offensive as
> it would be for the British wives to see each other unclothed. Queen
> Victoria had been dead for a long time but her spirit still lived on
> in Gazepore.
>
> Jean Ellington shook her head in disbelief at the picture in a copy of
> the "Tatler" she was carefully holding above the water. The magazine
> was the most recent copy available, having arrived on the dawn mail
> train only two months after being published in London.
>
> "Have you seen these pictures from Germany? Von Hindenburg with that
> upstart Adolph Hitler. A Field Marshal shaking hands with a scruffy ex-
> corporal! It's beyond belief. Surely the Germans are never going to
> give any real power to a raving lunatic with a silly little mustache?"
>
> "Don't be so naive, Jean," Camilla Hartley-Dexter said. "Hindenburg is
> just using Hitler's gang to get rid of the communists. As soon as that
> dirty job is done the Germany Army will toss Herr Hitler back into
> jail and throw away the key."
>
> "Maybe," Mrs Ellington said, rather doubtfully. "But one can never
> tell with the Germans, can one? And the little corporal seems awfully
> bellicose. There couldn't be another war, could there?"
>
> All the other women shook their heads, some a little wistfully. A war
> with Germany would mean a huge expansion of the Army, rapid promotion
> for their husbands and all the advantages which went with it -- such
> as saying goodbye to Gazepore. But there was never going to be another
> big war, and certainly not one in Europe.
>
> "Never mind, darlings," Amanda Priller said lightly. "If the worst
> comes to the worst, we've always got the Maharajah's Own to protect
> us." There was an outburst of giggles around the pool.
>
> The Maharajah that Amanda was talking about was the Maharajah of
> Kultoon. Kultoon was one of the small semi-independent states which
> were dotted about India, most of them ruled as an absolute monarchy by
> a hereditary maharajah. None of these petty kingdoms were important
> enough to be a threat to British rule over the sub-continent, so the
> rulers were allowed to do pretty well what they liked inside their own
> territory. The Marajah of Kultoon's principal occupation, despite his
> age, was fornication. Both in legal wedlock and out of it no ruler had
> more right to be called the father of his nation.
>
> His Highness was also a strict observer of his faith. He absolutely
> refused to consider having a railway built across his state less some
> infidel should consume pork in the dining car of a train whilst
> traveling through Kultooni territory. The Maharajah always had
> excellent reasons for resisting anything which might change his
> country in any way. A position strongly buttressed by the fact that
> the royal family of Kultoon happened to be incredibly wealthy because
> of several very productive diamond mines inside their small country.
>
> Not that these matters would normally have been a matter of any
> interest in distant Gazepore, far from Kultoon's borders. It was one
> of the Maharajah's increasingly erratic whims of his old age which had
> made the difference. For the Maharajah of Kultoon had his own army --
> or, to be precise, a regiment of cavalry. Outfitted in expensive
> uniforms, riding the best horseflesh money could buy, and well drilled
> in all kinds of parade ground maneuvers. The regiment was also a
> standing joke throughout all of India because of its title: "The
> Maharajah of Kultoon's Own Irregular Lancers".
>
> To begin to understand the joke it was only necessary to take a look
> at its officers. Every single one of them had been fathered by the
> Maharajah -- and they were just the legitimate tip of the iceberg. A
> further glance along the enlisted ranks of the Maharajah's Own
> Irregulars showed a further number of facial similarities clearly
> conceived by the Maharajah's own irregular liaisons: an astonishing
> number of them. The Kultooni cavalry was indeed a band of brothers --
> or half brothers, at any rate. And most of them had inherited in full
> the Maharajah's handsome good looks and strapping vitality. Which he
> in turn was reputed to have acquired from his own mother's
> indiscretion with a unscrupulous English  cavalry officer called
> Flashman.
>
> So perhaps it was an inherited love of fine horses which had inspired
> the creation of the Irregular Lancers. Nobody had cared one way or
> another, until the Maharajah had summoned the Vice Regal Diplomatic
> Representative accredited to his court and announced his desire to
> send his regiment to the North West Frontier to assist his good
> friends, the British, in defending the imperial borders of India.
> Well, for a few months anyway, as the Kultooni military would
> obviously have to abandon any thoughts of warfare once the polo season
> started.
>
> The British representative was startled, appreciative and deeply
> unhappy at the idea. He knew very well that the Maharajah's Irregulars
> fired their carbines about once a year and had never shown the
> slightest interest in any kind of soldiering which didn't involve
> shiny buttons and admiring watchers -- especially female ones. Putting
> the Kultooni cavalry up against the Pathans would be like sending the
> Boston Missionary Society to drive the Apache tribes out of Arizona.
> The holy warriors from Afghanistan would chew the Irregulars up like
> betel nuts and spit them out in bright red splashes across the
> mountain rocks.
>
> On the other hand, the British hadn't ruled India for a hundred and
> fifty years by needlessly insulting rich and useful Indian rulers,
> especially ones who were genuinely friendly towards the Empire. So the
> Irregulars would at least have to be sent to some garrison post up in
> the border areas and the Maharajah assured that they were performing
> honorable service. Thus would the ruler's good will be kept -- a good
> will which would quickly evaporate if some of his favorite sons'
> testicles ended up as kebabs on Pathan daggers.
>
> On the third hand -- not left, nor right, but underhand -- was the
> British diplomat's concern for one royal son in particular, the
> commanding officer of the Kultooni Regiment, His Royal Highness the
> Colonel Prince Ravi of Kultoon. The Vice Regal Diplomat knew all about
> young Prince Ravi, late of Eton College and Oxford University and heir
> to the throne of Kultoon. He knew that Ravi was probably the most
> dashing and good looking of all the Maharajah's sons. The diplomat
> also knew that the Prince was clever, cowardly, unscrupulous and
> totally determined to maintain his life of privilege and wealthy
> indolence at all costs.
>
> In other words he was just the sort of reliable chap the British
> wanted to replace the Maharajah when the old ruler finally made one
> trip too many to his harem and went to Allah with a smile on his face.
> But there was a very good chance that Prince Ravi would not be
> available to be weighed in diamonds at his coronation if Colonel Ravi
> was allowed anywhere near the frontier passes, where every open space
> was swept by eagle sharp eyes behind carefully adjusted rifle sights.
> The Pathans might not be great scholars or mathematicians but they
> could all read ground like Napoleon and judge the range to a target
> with incredible accuracy. Neither did they care in the slightest
> whether their targets had white, brown, black or yellow skin. The
> Pathans were a totally impartial people; they didn't care who they
> shot, raped, looted or tortured.
>
> Urgent messages were exchanged between Kultoon and New Delhi. The
> decision was unanimous: hills where Gurkha, Sikh and British infantry
> battalions needed all their professional skills to stay alive was no
> place for the Kultooni irregulars and their polo sticks. But since the
> 17th Rifles were being called out of barracks to defend Warzistan then
> Prince Ravi and his men could be sent to Gazepore to defend the
> garrison town against any threat which might emerge in the 17th's
> absence. Of course there was no real threat to Gazepore, only a few
> dacoits, loose-wallahs and barely active bandits easily controlled by
> the local police. But the Maharajah didn't know that and his cavalry
> could mount impressive patrols around the town with spurs jingling and
> lance-pennants fluttering, all of which could be represented to the
> Maharajah as valuable frontier duty. And when the old boy finally got
> tired of having his regiment away from home it could be returned to
> him as shiny and complete as a box of lead soldiers newly purchased
> from Harrods.
>
> It was a neat solution, except that the Commander-in-Chief, Army of
> India, was concerned that Colonel Ravi would complain to his father
> that the Kultooni cavalry wasn't being allowed to gallop into a place
> of honor on the firing line. Fortunately, the Vice Regal
> Representative in Kultoon was able to assure the C-in-C that it was
> extremely unlikely that Prince Ravi or any of his fellow officers
> would choose to complain to anybody about not being shot at. And so
> the arrangements were made and the Maharajah's Own Irregular Cavalry
> came to Gazepore by troop train, as opposed to any tedious riding.
>
> The effect was rather like a Hollywood film company complete with
> stars arriving in a remote Newfoundland fishing village. Mutual
> incomprehension and dislike on all sides. The Kultooni cavalry loathed
> Gazepore from the beginning -- horses, men and officers. The horses
> fought for scraps of shade under the few shriveled trees: the men
> sought consolation for their exile in the Sikh soldiers' married
> quarters. But Gazepore had many turban wearing veterans who resented
> the would be wooers. And in India resentment is never an intangible
> emotion. Several Kultooni soldiers opted to spend their nights out of
> barracks -- but two of them failed to return before dawn reveille.
> Their remains on both occasions were soon located by watchers
> observing where the vultures were gathering to break their fasts. And
> it was also noted that whatever the carrion eaters had done to the
> bodies, it was impossible to blame them for the fact that the Kultooni
> enlisted men were found with their severed genitals sewn into their
> mouths. From then on most of the lancers decided to opt for prudent
> celibacy until they could return to the safety of Kultoon. And, for
> once, the soldiers' frustrations were shared by their commissioned
> betters. Shared and even more bitterly felt.
>
> The handsome, high born and hot blooded young officers of the
> Maharajah's Own Irregulars were in a situation which was completely
> beyond their collective experience: a total lack of pleasing and
> pleasurable pliant partners With no local woman worth their caste the
> only recreational pursuits left open to them were hunting the local
> pigs and the British wives. And though the local pig sticking wasn't
> too bad it soon transpired that there were far more black boars
> available in Gazepore than white whores. In fact all the British women
> treated the Kultooni officers' advances with amused contempt.
>
> The majority of the officers had never been outside Kultoon before and
> had little to do with white women -- they took their rebuffs with an
> angry lack of grace. Prince Ravi and others like him who had been
> educated in England were even more taken aback, for they had never had
> the slightest difficulty in seducing any number of British women in
> Oxford or London, whether married or not. The color of their Kultooni
> skins had been no drawback at all, not when weighed against their
> royal titles and the weight of their purses.
>
> But this wasn't London, it was Gazepore, and the garrison wives
> belonged to a colonial society where a Mem-sahib would be far more
> likely to commit suicide than adultery with an Indian man. A grass
> widow having a casual affair in a hill station with a young British
> officer was certainly not unknown, nor likely to be denounced, not if
> done with discretion. But for a British army wife to get into bed with
> a Indian of any kind was as completely unthinkable as for her to make
> love with a goat or a British enlisted soldier. Not only was it not
> done, it couldn't even be imagined being done. Which was why Amanda's
> little joke about the Maharajah's irregulars was guaranteed to raise
> some laughs.
>
> What none of the women in the pool had the slightest inkling of was
> that Prince Ravi had laid careful plans to give each and every one of
> them a lesson in Kultooni cavalry rough riding techniques: plans which
> were only seconds away from being implemented.
>
> Jean rustled the magazine as a signal to her ayah to come and replace
> it on the table.
>
> "Koi-hai, Lalun."
>
> The young ayah leapt up far more quickly than usual, padding silently
> forward on her bare feet, eyes rolling white under masses of black and
> oily Madrassi hair. As she took the periodical she looked up twice at
> the white muslin sheets which served as a ceiling, as if expecting the
> wooden roof beams out of sight above them to come crashing down.
>
> "What on earth is the matter with your girl, Jean?" Deborah Boxwood
> asked. "She seems as nervous as a cat on hot bricks."
>
> "I daresay she's noticed the punkah-wallah as gone to sleep again and
> she's afraid she'll get the blame for it."
>
> Jean was right. The long panel of bamboo framed fabric which hung just
> below the ceiling sheets wasn't moving, as it should have been to keep
> the air circulating in the room. Which meant in turn that the old man
> sitting cross legged on the verandah had fallen asleep in the
> afternoon heat instead of attending to his duty of continually pulling
> on the rope which kept the punkah swinging.
>
> "I'll send Manga to deal with him," Carol said and clicked her
> fingers. The ayah who rose from her mat was by far the oldest of the
> servants, almost forty and only kept on because of her savage bad
> temper when dealing with other native servants failing in their
> duties. "Punka, juldi, Manga."
>
> Manga bobbed her head and turned towards the door.
>
> "There's no cord on it," Camilla observed.
>
> "I beg your pardon?"
>
> "There's no cord attached to the punkah -- no wonder it's not moving."
>
> All of the women looked up at the punkah. Camilla was right. There
> should have been a cord attached to one end of the punkah flap, a cord
> ascending up past the muslin sheets to the roof space, and to pulleys
> which led it sideways, through a gap in the upper wall and then down
> to the verandah.
>
> Carol shook her head in disbelief at Indian inefficiency: "How
> tiresome. Now we'll . . . "
>
> Her mouth stopped moving, lips agape in her tilted back head as the
> sound of tearing cloth came from above the pool. A knife blade had
> appeared in the muslin ceiling sheet directly overhead, slashing a gap
> a yard long in the fabric. The cut spread, both longways and across,
> as if the sheet was being pulled on at the edges, opening up like a
> split sail in a gale. Each of the watchers was astonished to see,
> revealed in the gap, a young Indian boy lying on one of the roof
> beams, his legs wrapped around it with all the unthinking agility of a
> monkey, the shiny new knife in his hand matching the vivid white teeth
> displayed in a wide grin.
>
> None of the woman had the faintest notion of what could be going on;
> puzzlement compounded by the sight of the punkah cord being held
> steady in the boy's hand, with a large round glass-like object hanging
> from the end of it.
>
> The boy shouted, the cord began to run through his fingers, the object
> dropped, within eight feet of the surface of the pool before stopping
> again -- and Camilla Hartley-Dexter screamed in fear.
>
> What was hanging from four securing loops at the bottom of the cord
> was a large transparent glass bowl, open topped and with steeply
> curved sides, like the ones used to keep goldfish in. But there was no
> water inside this bowl and the mass of wriggling bodies trying to
> climb the smooth sides were not gold in color but green. Small green
> snakes, each about six inches long and instantly recognizable as green
> kraits -- the deadliest snakes on the entire subcontinent. All that
> was needed was for the bowl to continue its fall into the water and
> the whole mass of deadly reptiles would be tipped out of their small
> prison into the larger confines of the pool. A fall and a release
> which could only mean a quick and agonizing death for every woman
> lying in the water.
>
> Jean Ellington was the first to recover at least part of her wits. She
> wriggled like one of the snakes herself as she tried to slide on her
> back over the pool's retaining wall while still keeping her eyes on
> the bowl hanging over them all like the sword of Damocles.
>
> "Stop it, you fool -- stop it!" Camilla screeched. "Look at him!"
>
> Jean looked up, straight into the glistening eyes of the boy and those
> shiny white teeth -- and the glittering steel of the knife blade
> pressed against the cord hanging from the pulley below the beam he was
> lying on. The gesture, the meaning and the threat were all as clear
> and unmistakable as an aimed gun and far more terrifying. Amanda
> instantly stopped trying to get over the wall: furthermore, as the boy
> pointed a finger at her and then at the pool, she slipped back into
> the water without hesitation.
>
> Normally, she might have been astonished and disgusted in obeying a
> native urchin. But nothing was normal with that tangle of writhing
> bodies and evil little heads pressing against the glass directly above
> her. Many terrible and fearsome things she could have borne calmly and
> courageously but an intertwined mass of venomous snakes were not among
> them. She was petrified with fear.
>
> "Hello, ladies. Another warm afternoon, isn't it?"
>
> The wives gaped at the hut door and at Manga holding it open with a
> deep bow for His Royal Highness the Colonel Prince Ravi of Kultoon. He
> passed her a small leather purse which sent the ayah down on her knees
> in obeisance. But even that action was nowhere as astonishing as the
> fact that Prince Ravi was wearing nothing but a pyjamy tunic of pure
> silk around his muscular body, a tunic secured only by a loosely
> knotted sash at the waist. He strolled into the hut with all the
> casual assurance of a born aristocrat -- and behind him came a crowd
> of men, the other officers of the Kultooni Irregulars, all dressed in
> the same half naked style as their Colonel. And all of them grinning
> in the same way at a shared joke. Some of them also had purses in
> their hands, purses thrown down in front of the eye rolling ayahs.
>
> The clinking and chinking noises as the purses hit the floor sent the
> Indian women into scrabbling seizures which were rapidly followed by
> worshipping gratitude, the servants all on their knees like Manga,
> arms outstretched and foreheads dipping down and down again in
> thanksgiving. The cavalrymen scarcely noticed the servants' reactions
> as they gathered in a line behind their Colonel, like spectators on
> the touch line of a polo field. And even the bowl of angry snakes
> could not keep the women's eyes away from the riding crops several of
> the brown skinned men were either holding or dangled from straps
> around their wrists.
>
> "What the hell do you think you're doing, Your Royal Highness?" Carol
> Carnac-Smythe yelped.
>
> The Prince reached out his hand and one of the younger officers put
> into it the heavy and ungainly shape of a Webley .45 pistol. Ravi
> pulled back the hammer with his thumb, lifted the barrel up and
> pointed it directly at the glass bowl. Then he moved it slightly to
> one side: there was a huge bang, the pistol recoiled in a chorus of
> screams and the smell of cordite spread around the room. Camilla
> Hartley-Dexter for one felt a sudden warmth in the water between her
> legs in reaction to the shot as she pissed herself in fear. The bullet
> must have passed within an few inches of the bowl and if it had hit
> it . . .
>
> "Well, ladies," the Prince said calmly, "To answer the question, I
> thought we might have a really jolly jig-jig party. That is to say,
> you're the ones who get jig-jigged by all these fine fellows here --
> otherwise I might try a little more target practice. Think about it
> before you come to any hurried decisions."
>
> He handed the smoking pistol back to the junior officer then clicked
> his fingers. Things happened: unexpected things. A shower of silver
> coins fluttered down from above to land and float on top of the pool.
> No, not silver coins: the same size, round as coins, silver in color
> but far too light to be metallic.
>
> Jean Ellington picked one up and stared at the familiar words on it --
> the very same words she had first seen at school when one of the girls
> had shown the exact same kind of silverfoil packet to her friends in
> fits of giggles. What were being scattered into the pool were rubber
> contraceptive sheaths in their sealed packets, each one guaranteed
> free of defects by the manufacturers, The Imperial and Britannic
> Rubber Company, Adam and Eve Street, Market Harborough, Great Britain.
> Jean looked up again, past the coiling snakes and saw the boy on the
> rafter reach into a haversack at his waist and pull out another
> handful of condoms to scatter like confetti over the women. Confetti
> might be a suitable metaphor Jean realized with total disbelief:
> unless this was all a incredible joke there was nothing at all to stop
> the Prince from treating all the white women as if they were his
> wives, taking them as he wished for his pleasure -- and giving them to
> his friends as well for their gratification.
>
> Zan-zar-zamin, land, gold and women, the traditional objects of crime
> on the frontier. The Prince already had land and gold in plenty: now
> he seemed set on completing the trilogy. But no Indian had dared to
> molest a European woman since the great mutiny of eighty years before.
> The British suppression of the mutiny had been so ruthless that since
> then a unprotected English virgin with a sack of gold on her back
> could have walked across India from the mountains to the sea without
> fear of being molested.
>
> "You wouldn't dare," Jean said, her voice croaking like a frog's.
>
> Prince Ravi smiled. "You know, Mrs Ellington, I had a feeling one of
> you might say that. So let me introduce you to Mr Manji and his
> assistant."
>
> Mr Manji was a fat little babu in a cheap copy of a European suit, his
> assistant a thin little babu in an even cheaper copy of a European
> suit. But there was nothing very cheap about the tripod they carried
> in or the big American made Speedmaster camera on top of it. It was
> the sort of camera that only a professional photographer would use and
> the Prince waved his hand towards it as though introducing it as well.
>
> "Ladies, whether you want to take advantage of the contraceptives I
> have supplied is up to you. But you are going to have no choice at all
> about being photographed in every detail as you behave like a chorus
> line of French whores. Afterwards you may certainly tell your husbands
> all about it if you wish, but I doubt that New Delhi and London will
> begin a war of suppression against Kultoon on your behalf. Dear me,
> no, not with Mr Gandi already making so many political problems. But
> if that should happen, and trouble is caused, you can be certain that
> I will make sure that every peddler of filthy pictures from Suez to
> Shanghai will soon be supplied with ample stocks of highly detailed
> photographs of each one of you being broken in as remounts for the
> Kultooni cavalry. And dear me, won't they sell like hot cakes in the
> local bazaars? Not above half, I shouldn't wonder. So my advice is not
> to tell any tales out of school unless you want to become very famous
> -- like Mae West, isn't it?"
>
> The Prince clapped his hands lightly together with glee at his own
> joke.
>
> "But don't think I'm not prepared to deal fairly with you. If any one
> of you wishes it so, I will have the snake bowl lowered a little so
> that you may put your hand inside it and thus die without being
> dishonored. I'm quite certain that none of you will be so foolish, but
> the offer is always there, should any of you wish to emulate the fate
> of the good Queen Cleopatra. And as for those of you who may be
> suffering overmuch from maidenly shyness, we've brought the riding
> crops. Red cheeks at both ends is too much of a good thing, hey?"
>
> 'He's mad, stark staring mad,' Deborah Boxwood thought.
>
> It was Carol Carnac-Smythe who spoke up though, remarkably calmly and
> logically in this unbelievable situation: "And what happens if you
> make a stupid mistake with those snakes which results in us all
> getting killed? Do you think the Viceroy will overlook that?"
>
> The Prince shrugged and spread his hands like a bazaar carpet seller
> showing his astonishment at an unreasonable offer: "If such a sad
> thing should happen one could only presume the snakes were dropped
> into your bathing pool by those snakes in the grass in the Congress
> Party. No doubt some of the troublemakers that Mr Gandi is always
> organizing to shout in the streets for the British to quit India. Your
> deaths might give New Delhi the courage to deal with those scum in the
> way they should be dealt with."
>
> Carol's mind raced and the conclusions she reached were not
> comforting: the truth was that there were very good reasons why Prince
> Ravi would probably be quite willing to kill British women as long as
> the Indian nationalists took the blame. Kultoon and the other
> independent states like it were happy to be part of a British run
> India, for they knew that if India ever did become independent their
> lands would quickly be seized by the new Indian government and
> subsumed into the newly born nation. Prompted by such fears for their
> future the native princes were fretting because they thought the
> British should have hung Gandi and his fellow nationalist leaders long
> ago. And they knew that when the future of British India had trembled
> in the balance once before it had been the massacres of British women
> and children which had sent the tiny British army of India into a
> berserker rage. A rage which had burnt and blasted all hopes of Indian
> independence for generations. A rage which had lasted so long that
> many British soldiers in India still had 'CAWNPORE WELL' tattooed on
> their bodies as part of the rites of passage from raw recruit to
> seasoned veteran. Prince Ravi and his father might well want to see
> some new tattoos on brawny British arms as a reminder of new
> atrocities: 'GAZEPORE SNAKE PIT' would probably serve their turn quite
> well. And when Carol looked around at the other faces around the pool
> she felt that most of the women understood Indian politics well enough
> to take Ravi's threat very seriously.
>
> Yes, and already Ravi come within a hand's span of shattering the bowl
> and dropping the kraits in amongst the women. That was how little he
> cared about their lives; Hamlet wasn't in it compared to this mad
> prince. Carol could imagine the tangle of writhing green bodies
> falling into the water, bursting apart and spreading out in a maddened
> fury, and then the screams of the women trying to get out of the pool
> with snakes hanging from arms and legs, already fated to die in
> choking agony like pi-dogs with rabies, swollen tongues protruding
> from foam dewed lips. And because every detail of her fate was already
> clear in her mind she dared say nothing in rebuttal to Ravi.
>
> The Prince looked at all the women, all apparently as speechless as
> Carol herself was. He grinned, lifted a languid hand and clicked his
> fingers: "Bring along the party requisites, please, gentlemen."
>
> There was a bustle of activity as two officers came into the Moorghi-
> Khana carrying a wickerwork picnic basket between them. They lifted it
> up and set it down carefully on top of the table. Damp patches began
> to form on the magazines underneath the basket. One of the men undid
> the lid of the basket and lifted it up. But none of the British women
> even noticed that action: what they were gaping at was what four more
> officers were bringing into the room. It was a sight beyond belief.
>
> The four men made their way through the onlookers, to the edge of the
> pool. Then they set down their burden in front of the Prince. It was a
> rocking horse. Made of wood, skillfully painted a realistic shade of
> dappled gray, a tail made of what looked like real horse hairs, and
> with bright blue dolls' eyes painted on the head. It was far larger
> than any normal toy and in fact looked as if it might have come from a
> fairground ride. But the strangest thing of all about it was the
> saddle on top of the wooden horse, a fat well padded red silk pillow
> of a saddle which ran all the way from mane to tail. In addition there
> were reins on the well shaped head, fine leather reins, and thick
> leather stirrups on each side of the horse with wide wooden foot
> rests.
>
> Ravi patted the horse on the head: "Patience, ladies, all will soon be
> clear. But first a peace offering."
>
> The officer who had lifted the lid of the basket held up chunks of
> white between his fingers and called out: "Come on, Kirpa, old boy,
> hurry up."
>
> Another officer passed him an ice bucket. In the summer heat it seemed
> almost as an incongruous sight as the rocking horse, but the clatter
> of the white shards as the officer dropped them into the container and
> the way he rubbed his numbed fingers afterwards confirmed that the
> bucket was being used for its intended purpose. Confirmation made
> doubly sure as a champagne bottle was lifted carefully out of the ice
> filled wicker basket. The audience in the pool gaped again as the
> officer holding the bottle opened it with a few twists of his finger
> and sent the cork flying high in the air. It was obvious that he'd
> been trying to land it inside the bowl of snakes and missed by only a
> few feet. Another of the Kultooni cavalrymen had a tray ready and took
> out glasses from the basket, champagne glasses cold enough to be
> instantly covered in condensation as they were set out on the tray and
> each one instantly filled with foaming liquid.
>
> "Bollinger, the 1913 vintage," Prince Ravi boasted. "I hope you ladies
> appreciate it. You certainly should since I had to have a private box
> car entirely filled with ice at a freezing works in Calcutta in order
> to have some small portion of it still intact by the time it got here.
> I wish I could share some of the champagne with you but unfortunately
> my religion forbids it."
>
> He smiled again and pointed at the rocking horse: "Champagne and a
> jolly fine wooden horse, hey? No doubt you are wondering what old Ravi
> is playing at. I already have you at my mercy, isn't it, so why the
> French champagne and the toy? Well, ladies, these props are for a
> little game we are going to be playing. The Kultooni Irregulars are
> inviting you all to take part in a Saumur steeplechase. Perhaps many
> of you know that Saumur is the town in France where French cavalry
> officers are trained, and I'm sure that some of you know the
> traditional test undertaken by a Saumur graduate to prove he is a
> worthy successor to Marshal Ney."
>
> The Prince smiled, held up one of the glasses above his eyes and
> watched the tiny streams of bubbles in it rising to the top of the
> champagne: "This is part of the test, proving that the aspiring
> candidate can hold his drink. Champagne of course, since it is in
> France. Each officer is given three hours to complete the test. During
> that time he must drink three bottles of champagne, ride thirty miles
> across open country and seduce three women. The order in which he
> carries out these tasks is left to his own judgement."
>
> Ravi carefully put down the glass and folded his arms: "Ladies, today
> we are privileged to offer you the chance to show your mettle in a
> Saumur steeplechase. Five of you and fifteen bottles of champagne to
> be consumed in the next three hours. Unfortunately we can't let you go
> riding out into the country so we've bought you a horse in here. It
> may only be a rocking horse but whilst each one of you is on it I
> think I can guarantee there'll be some very fast galloping, my word,
> yes. But to make up for the lack of outdoor exercise we've increased
> your indoor exercise -- three bottles each and four men each in three
> hours. Not very difficult, hey!"
>
> He slapped his palms together and one of the ayahs came scuttling
> forward, to pick up the tray. "Please accept a glass each as the tray
> is taken around. The first lady to refuse will immediately be placed
> on the horse's back in exactly the same condition as Lady Godiva was
> when she made her famous ride through Coventry."
>
> The woman in the pool gaped at him, except for Amanda, her eyes being
> fastened on the tray as the ayah knelt down to present it to her. She
> was totally confused as to what to do, until the Prince took a step
> towards her. Without any more delay she immediately decided that he
> was perfectly capable of making good his threat and picked up one of
> the cold glasses and sipped from it -- the iced Bollinger as delicious
> a drink as anything she could ever remember tasting in her entire
> life.
>
> "No heel taps, young Amanda," the Prince said genially. "All down the
> hatch, chin, chin. There's a lot to drink yet."
>
> She obeyed, swallowed the rest of the glass in one gulp and went to
> put it back on the tray, only to find it already carried away.
>
> "Keep the glass, Amanda, a refill is already coming."
>
> Three of the native officers, slim and smiling, came towards her. One
> of them was carrying an ice bucket with the long neck of a champagne
> bottle protruding from the top. More officers were breaking up into
> small groups, each group with a bucket and a bottle, and each group
> walking around the circular pool before stopping behind one of the
> women. It was as if each of the wives had been assigned her own
> escorts. Amanda realized with a shock that was probably the truth, the
> selection already made of which man -- which men -- would have each
> woman. She looked around and saw the same knowledge dawning on her
> friends' faces. Amanda also noticed that none of the women were
> refusing to drink. Jean Ellington had been the most obviously
> reluctant to pick up a glass but Carol Carnac-Smythe had snapped
> something to her which had made Jean comply. And that was no surprise,
> what with those damned snakes hanging overhead.
>
> "Now, who's the senior lady present today?" The Prince demanded.
>
> He was smiling, rubbing his palms against the silk sleeves of his
> jacket as he grinned at his prisoners. It was a joke, a sly joke about
> the Indian caste system as adapted and practiced by the British. Every
> civil servant's desk had a warrant of precedence on it, a book which
> showed the relative status of every member of the King-Emperor's
> governing classes, from the lowest to the highest. Without the warrant
> nobody would have known how to arrange the seating at a dinner party,
> and whether an Inspector of Smoke Nuisances and his wife should be
> further up the table than a Junior Settlement Officer and his spouse.
> But in the Army the whole system was much simpler. The Colonel of the
> 17th was a bachelor, so the senior major's wife was the senior lady.
> Which meant, amongst other things, that she was the one who gave the
> signal for the women to withdraw after a meal and leave the men to
> drink their port in peace. But not today: no segregation of the sexes
> was planned for today. Quite the opposite.
>
> "I'm the senior lady," Carol Carnac-Smythe admitted.
>
> The Prince nodded: "Oh yes, so you are, Carol. Now, will you come out
> here or shall I try my marksmanship again? And I should warn you that
> I'm a very poor shot. The bullet may go anywhere."
>
> Carol didn't exactly stand up, for she didn't get the chance, not with
> eager brown hands at each elbow to help her up, then to take her
> wrists and arms. The Kultooni men standing behind her almost lifted
> her out of the pool and then provided a close quarter escort as she
> was walked around the pool towards the Prince. All the eyes in the
> room were fastened on the sight of Carol's lean and shapely figure
> clearly displayed under the thin wet sari. Especially where the fabric
> clung to the slowly swinging shapes of her breasts. One of the
> officers spun the rocking horse around on its rockers so that the big
> simpering blue eyes were looking directly towards the pool. Carol was
> made to stand behind the wooden model, each of her arms still being
> lightly held.
>
> "Well, Carol, you seem to have plenty of prisoner's friends all eager
> to help you along," Ravi chuckled. "Let's get her ready for mounting."
>
> There were answering laughter from the men around Carol as two of them
> kept their hands on her wrists while Ravi stood closer behind her. He
> reached around her body with one hand and used it to gently cup her
> left breast, then to tweak the fold in her cleavage which kept the
> sides of the sari together. The women in the pool and the men standing
> around it all saw the spasm of anger which showed in Carol's face,
> though she made no effort to break away from the men holding her,
> clearly realizing the futility of any such attempt.
>
> "Come on, more champagne all round before we unveil the senior lady in
> all her beauty," Ravi sneered. "Drink up, ladies, for the clock is
> already running. Failure to comply would be jolly bad news for all of
> you."
>
> Each of the four women left in the pool found themselves being touched
> on the head and shoulders by different hands as they were given
> refilled glasses. Amanda Priller accepted hers as numbly as if she was
> at some party instead of involved in this madness. Even when the hands
> which had touched her began to gently rub the lobes of her ears she
> still sipped from the glass as if her entire universe hadn't suddenly
> turned inside out. She ignored the fingers gently rolling her flesh
> between them, but gaped at the sight of both of Ravi's brown hands
> stroking Carol's breasts again, the woman's blonde hair hanging down
> as she lowered her head from the watchers. Or perhaps it was in
> anticipation of the popping flashbulb which suddenly went off above Mr
> Manji's camera. Yet even Carol's humiliation at the Prince's hands
> wasn't enough to stop all the women's eyes turning towards a large
> blackboard being set up on an easel beside the table.
>
> Finely lettered words had been meticulously painted in white on the
> board. The top line read: "RUNNERS AND RIDERS FOR THE GAZEPORE
> FILLIES' FORNICATION STAKES". Underneath those words was a grid of
> painted white lines. On top of the left column was the single word,
> "MOUNTS": underneath it one of the officers had already begun chalking
> in Carol's name in full: "Mrs Carol Carnac-Smythe". To the right of
> that column were more columns, four of them, each column with the word
> "RIDERS" above it. Columns still blank but waiting to be filled in. It
> was past comprehension that these Indians thought they could do such a
> thing to British women. Yet they seemed quite without qualms as they
> continued their preparations. Ravi was laughing, now cupping Carol's
> breasts in the palms of his hands and whispering something in her ear
> which made her lift her flushed face up for all the audience to see.
>
> "Every glass empty now?" The prince asked. "OK, gentleman, please do
> the honors."
>
> The men on either side of Carol reached out and tugged at the top of
> her sari, loosening the knot between the pale skinned white mounds
> that Ravi was fondling so avidly. The material wrapped around her body
> came loose and slipped down as another flashbulb popped. Amanda
> Priller heard the men stroking her arms and shoulders gasp with
> excitement: the fingers rubbing her ears squeezed harder. Up above
> there was a jabber of excitement like a monkey taunting an enemy from
> the treetops as the boy on the rafter saw Carol's naked figure -- a
> figure well worthy of the attention it was getting.
>
> Like her friends, Carol rode miles every day, swam most days and
> played tennis or hockey at least three times a week. It was an article
> of faith in Anglo-Indian society that the surest way to stay healthy
> in the tropics was through sport, and in a society where all menial
> work was done by servants the opportunities for sport were many. So,
> though in her early thirties and a mother, she still had an excellent
> figure. Rather taller than the average, wide hipped, and well
> breasted, but with only a few extra pounds to show for her age, and
> those distributed to good advantage.
>
> She was by any standards a good looking if not a beautiful woman, with
> a body which any man would want to possess, and all the lustful male
> eyes in the Moorghi-Khana were taking in her large red nipples and the
> wet curls of the patch of straw colored hair visible between her legs.
>
> "By Jove, that Carnac-Smythe woman is looking like a jolly good jig-
> jig, Musad, old boy," Amanda Priller heard one of the Kultooni
> officers standing behind her say with glee in his voice. Then a hand
> patted her on the head as if she was a dog and another officer
> answered.
>
> "Not to worry, Yasir, I think our mare here will give us all even
> better rides once we get the whip out to her on the gallop."
>
> Everything that was happening was clearly impossible in the real
> world. Amanda decided this had to be a drug induced dream and very
> soon reality must break through. She saw Carol putting a foot in one
> of the stirrups and swinging a long leg over the rocking horse. But
> instead of sitting on top of the plump red pillow, Carol had to bend
> forward over the horse as though she were a jockey, her lower belly on
> the pillow, her hands clutching on the reins and her bottom directly
> above the toy's tail.
>
> An officer stood on either side of the model animal and pushed down on
> the rockers with their feet, tipping the horse forward and lifting
> Carol's bare backside higher up for Ravi's inspection. He clapped his
> hands, took the riding crop from another Kultooni and called behind
> him. The ayahs giggled into the hands they were covering their faces
> with but quickly formed a line behind the horse. Whether by accident
> or not Manga was at the head of the queue and eagerly accepted the
> riding crop the Prince offered her.
>
> "More drinks, girls, more drinks," he called out genially. "You must
> enjoy yourselves for we've gone to no end of trouble to arrange this
> entertainment for you."
>
> The Prince sounded incongruously to Amanda like the Garrison Padre
> introducing a magic lantern show about English cathedrals.
>
> The glasses were refilled, the woman accepted them with shaking hands
> and sipped from the dew beaded glasses. As Camilla reached up for hers
> one of the Kultooni officers put his fingers around her hand and
> rubbed the back of it against the hard projection under his pyjamy
> jacket. She'd never felt a man's stiffened cock through silk before
> and she thought it a very erotic feeling. Then again, everything was
> becoming erotic, with the continual stroking and now a tongue
> flickering into one of her ears as she sipped from her glass. She'd
> now firmly decided that ice cold '13 vintage Bollinger was the finest
> thing ever invented for a parched throat. Whatever else might be mind
> shrivelling lunacy, the champagne had to be real because no dream had
> ever tasted so delicious.
>
> "What's your name?" she asked, sotto voce. So quietly that only the
> Indian nuzzling her could hear.
>
> "I am called Osama, Pearl of the East, and you are to be the flower of
> my life," her lover whispered mockingly. "Incidentally, I was watching
> you play hockey the other morning, and I must say you have very
> attractive legs, old girl. Well worth the trouble of getting up early
> to come and admire."
>
> Camilla almost giggled herself at the incongruity of the words, but
> now she remembered seeing Osama at the hockey pitch. He'd been the
> only Kultooni there because the match at been held at dawn, in the
> coolest hour of the day, when most of the Irregular's Officers were
> still abed. A tall, slim man -- no, boy -- with a broad smile who'd
> clapped loudly at every goal by both teams.
>
> "Thank you," she said, and then felt totally stupid as Carol called
> out in pain.
>
> Both the officers beside her had each taken a handful of womanly flesh
> and removed their feet from the horse's rockers. Now it was only their
> hold on Carol's breasts which was stopping the horse from tipping back
> again. And as Carol whimpered one of the Kultooni men was winding up
> the gramophone on the table. As soon as the spring was tight he put a
> record on and lifted up the stylus to place it in the groove. Prince
> Ravi stood aside and nodded to Manga. She drew back the riding crop
> and lashed it down with the full strength of her arm on the creamy
> white buttocks offered up to her. Carol twitched and yelped in painful
> response. The hiss of the stylus became a jaunty tune.
>
> "A more humane Mikado
> Never did in Japan exist,
> To nobody second,
> I'm certainly reckoned
> A true philanthropist."
>
> The men around the pool laughed and joined in the song in high good
> humor as the old Ayah continued to spread a criss cross of red weals
> onto her target. Years of servitude repaid with interest. Certainly
> with plenty of interest from the spectators. Then the Prince held
> Manga's arm as she reached back for another swing. She was pushed
> aside and he stood close to the rocking horse's tail with his hand
> underneath Carol's quivering buttocks. She squealed again, as she had
> done for each stroke of the crop. But this time, instead of having her
> eyes tightly closed, they were wider than the painted eyes on the
> wooden horse.
>
> "It is my very humane endeavor
> To make, to some extent,
> Each evil liver a running river
> Of harmless merriment."
>
> The cavalry officers roared out the words with glee as their Prince
> dipped his fingers into Carol's fully displayed and proffered sex.
> Carol was sobbing loudly and trying to ease the pain on her breasts by
> clutching at the sleeves of the two officers kneading her nipples.
> Laughing himself, the Prince offered the officer beside him a turn at
> feeling the white woman's most intimate parts. And as Carol cried out
> again in disbelief he took the crop from Manga and gave it to the next
> ayah in the queue.
>
> "My object all sublime I shall achieve in time--
> To let the punishment fit the crime--
> The punishment fit the crime."
>
> The ayah also laid on with all her strength, strength enough to have
> Carol's cries audible over the sound of the gramophone and the
> swelling chorus. Camilla Hartley-Dexter found herself being hauled up
> to her feet, almost uncaring of the brown hands holding her captive as
> the Mikado's song continued. She was staring at Prince Ravi with awe.
> It took some special gift for devilry to mass rape a group of British
> women with a musical selection from Gilbert and Sullivan as an
> accompaniment, as though they were at a garden party instead of an
> enforced orgy. And an orgy was certainly what it was developing into.
> Camilla had a chance to see Jean Ellington already on her feet and
> having her tits squeezed by her escorts from behind before the same
> fate befell her own breasts. And as several different hands fondled
> her she could look around the pool and see all her other friends being
> compelled to their feet, then having their arms and elbows lifted high
> for easier encirclement from behind.
>
> "And make each prisoner pent
> Unwillingly represent
> A source of innocent merriment!
> Of innocent merriment!"
>
> The prince pushed the ayah aside, opened the front of his silk tunic
> and stood close to Carol. The ayah put one hand down in front of him,
> giggled and positioned himself for his onslaught. He spoke one word,
> the arms that Carol was clinging to like a shipwrecked survivor lifted
> slightly to tilt her bottom down to the required position, and then
> Prince Ravi caught hold of Carol's hips and plunged his manhood deep
> into her body.
>
> She yelped and arched her back as he began his task of thoroughly
> ravishing her. Some of the other Kultooni men came closer to the
> horse, slapping her buttocks and tickling at the soles of her bare
> feet as she was bounced about like a rider in the Grand National.
> Carol's face was protruding from the knot of bodies around her, eyes
> rolling back like a terrified mare's and sounds coming out of her
> throat which might have escaped from a steam boiler's whistle. A
> popping flashlight went off inside the shadowed hut like summer
> lightning. Carol was now officially a hunt trophy, with a picture
> taken to prove it.
>
> "My object all sublime I shall achieve in time--
> To let the punishment fit the crime--
> The punishment fit the crime."
>
> Camilla was gasping as if she was under the sea in a diving suit with
> a blocked air tube. A tongue in each ear, a hand on each breast, a
> hand on each buttock and every other woman in the room being treated
> just as lewdly, Carol excepted, who was being treated about as lewdly
> as woman could be and looking to get her comeuppance at any second
> from the royal penis. Then Carol yelped out like a vixen caught by a
> pack of hounds and the Prince shouted out in triumph. The music from
> the gramophone ceased as the stylus was lifted from the disk. Already
> one of the men was filling in the Prince's name in one of the boxes
> alongside Carol Carnac-Smythe's name on the blackboard.
>
> Ravi threw aside his pyjamy jacket and called out orders in his own
> language. The officers grinned, though they were taking their hands
> away from the women, even Carol. She was panting as heavily as a
> hunted deer and clutching the neck of the wooden horse as if it was
> stopping her from drowning. An officer was, for some reason, pouring a
> whole bottle of champagne straight into an ice bucket. One of the
> ayahs, the youngest and prettiest one, knelt down in front of the
> Prince, struggling desperately to control her giggles as she slipped
> off the contraceptive sheath he'd been wearing. She stood up again,
> holding it by the open end as if it might fly away like a tiny balloon
> it was. When she received another order from Ravi her giggles almost
> overcame her even as she hurried to obey him. Looking at all the white
> woman in the pool with delight, she dropped the used condom into the
> ice bucket.
>
> "A toast, ladies, a toast. To be drunk in turn."
>
> The Prince took the bucket by the handles and walked around the pool.
> Towards Camilla first, and her escorts turned around to face him.
> "Here you are, my dear," he chuckled. "Take it and drink deep."
>
> The condom was floating on top of the Bollinger like a dead fish.
> Camilla considered very briefly about whether to try to avoid the
> humiliation, even though the choice didn't exist. Not for her, at
> least. Joan Of Arc would no doubt have spat in Ravi's face. Camilla
> Hartley-Dexter didn't: she put her own fingers on top of Ravi's hand
> as he kept hold of the handles and she prepared to drink from the
> bucket. On one side she could see the horse being swivelled around to
> face the camera. Carol was sitting up with a disrobed Kultooni officer
> close on each side. She was smiling in a slack jawed sort of way and
> holding a brown skinned erection in each hand. Another flashbulb
> popped to record the scene. Then Camilla lifted up the bucket and
> swallowed a mouthful of the champagne, the used contraceptive floating
> in it brushing against her lips.
>
> "Well done, Camilla," the Prince said. "Looking forward to your own
> fucking?"
>
> His eyes seemed to be holding hers like a snake charmer's: "Yes, your
> Royal Highness." There was no choice but to answer meekly.
>
> "Then we won't disappoint you. Put her across the horse."
>
> Whether or not the champagne was responsible, Camilla was sure she
> would have fallen in stepping over the pool wall if so many hands
> hadn't been holding her up. As she was taken towards the rocking horse
> she heard applause from around it. A Kultooni officer was on the back
> of the model, facing the tail, his feet pressed up against the
> rockers. Astride him, her feet in the stirrups, was Carol. Her hands
> were holding tightly onto the man's bared shoulders and she was
> jerking herself up and down on his cock like a performing animal. The
> hands holding her nipples had drawn her breasts out from her body as
> an obvious threat of what would happen if her performance wasn't good
> enough. Further encouragement was coming from two other men swatting
> at her already chastised buttocks with riding crops. A counterpoint to
> the clapping sounds of wet flesh slapping together between the two
> bodies
>
> One of the men holding Camilla spoke to the man impaling Carol:
> "Having a good fuck, Suhail?"
>
> "An excellent one, thank you. I'm not having to move a muscle now
> we've got Mrs Carnac-Smythe so well trained."
>
> It was true, Suhail was being used by the wild eyed, snorting English
> woman as a medium to act out her own humiliation on. Carol was staring
> down at the man's face as though it belonged to some God whom she was
> gladly worshipping with her cunt as she frantically galloped herself
> on his manhood.
>
> A voice spoke to Camilla. It was Osama's: "Oh, Pearl of the East, take
> this and use it well."
>
> Into her hand he put a riding crop. The men who had been whipping
> Carol stood back to make room for Camilla. But then their crops
> slashed down against the sides of Camilla's legs, so powerfully that
> one of the blows cut right through her thin sari. No word was spoken,
> none was needed. Camilla began to beat Carol's bottom as though it was
> a piece of dusty carpet hanging up for cleaning. Carol screeched and
> the quivering buttocks Camilla was lashing jerked up and down Suhail's
> glistening shaft like a shuttle on a loom. The top of Camilla's sari
> came undone as she swung the crop, then fell free, and her breasts
> hung naked and swinging in front of Suhail's admiring eyes
>
> Suhail laughed, grabbed Carol's hips and held her down tightly against
> him as he finally jerked upwards against her, his passion exploding in
> the ultimate satisfaction. After he'd finished with her Carol was
> lifted off the horse and set down on her hands and knees on top of a
> coffee table by the two officers who'd been spanking her. One tapped
> the end of his crop against her bottom as if reminding her of his
> presence. The other one took hold of her hair and lifted up her head
> to show her his upcurved cock nudging against her lips.
>
> Camilla gaped at the sight of the Gazepore garrison's senior lady
> opening her mouth for an Indian's prick. Yet, though it was a sight
> she was sure she'd never see, it now seemed to becoming normal because
> Jean Ellington and Deborah Boxwood were both on their knees in the
> pool, both kneeling down in front of the Prince and licking on his
> reviving cock as though they were attending some religious service.
> Beside them Amanda Priller was standing upright, kissing and being
> kissed with open mouthed passion by three cavalrymen. And her hands
> were darting around, along and over their hardened flesh as if she was
> at a market stall trying to choose which one to buy.
>
> "Time for your first gallop, old girl," Osama said loudly. "I think
> we'll have you on your back to start with."
>
> Without any further ado Camilla was prepared for the men's pleasure.
> The crop was taken from her hand, her sari thrown aside, half a dozen
> brown hands pushing her down until her spine was along the silk pillow
> and the rocking horse's tail between her legs. But that was only for a
> second, until more hands took hold of her strongly muscled calves and
> lifted them backwards over her body. Somewhere nearby she could hear
> feminine laughter from one of the ayahs. The officers holding her onto
> the horse were looking down at their captive and smiling as if this
> was only some kind of horseplay, some kind of a party trick. And then
> Camilla screeched out with pain as riding crops slashed across the
> soles of her feet.
>
> Lifting her head up, she saw that the blows had been delivered by two
> of the ayahs. It was no surprise that one of the women standing near
> her was Manga. What did astonish Camilla was that the girl brandishing
> the other riding crop was her own ayah, Jumila. The girl's teeth were
> clenched in a savage grimace as she punished her mistress, showing no
> signs of hesitation at all. In fact both of the women seemed to be
> acting under restraint from the men not to hit Camilla too hard. Even
> so, the pain was incredible and the pinioned woman begged at the top
> of her voice for mercy, every trace of pride already beaten out of
> her. A sight and sound which distracted Mr Manji away from the photos
> he was taking of two officers standing on either side of the coffee
> table and both enjoying Carol's hospitality, front and back.
> Reluctantly, the cameraman moved the tripod away from the brown bodies
> straining against the submissive white one and let off a flashbulb to
> record Camilla's torture. Then there was a babble of voices and people
> moved into fresh positions, as if staging a rehearsed play.
>
> Jumila and Manga stepped away, both as unwilling to be pulled away
> from their prey as blooded hounds. Camilla looked up through crying
> eyes to see Osama laughing at her with a bottle in his hand. He
> dribbled some of the chilled champagne over her breasts and
> immediately two mouths settled down on them as lightly as falling
> leaves and began gently biting her nipples. More cold liquid dripping
> onto her belly button, and another tongue lapping at it. On her feet,
> and the blessed coolness splashing onto her raw soles before her toes
> began to be nibbled.
>
> Another flashbulb popped and Camilla's lungs expelled air as though
> she was trying to blow out an enormous mass of birthday candles in one
> breath. Then the draining of more liquid down and around her patch of
> pubic hair, until the champagne was running down the cleft of her cunt
> like a trickling mountain stream. To be immediately swallowed up by
> yet another mouth, another tongue, with fingers moving up between her
> widely stretched legs to hold her wide open. Camilla arched her back,
> shaking like a fever victim underneath all the hands holding her,
> smelling the spicy native smell of the brown flesh surrounding her.
> Overhead the boy was now sitting on the rafter, masturbating his
> exposed organ in delight as he stared down at Camilla's treatment. She
> screamed again, so loudly that it must surely have been heard all over
> the cantonment, but caring for nothing except the physical
> satisfaction being given her, a totality of bodily pleasure enhanced
> behind belief by the pain she had just endured.
>
> An officer's face appeared above her, laughing as he poured the dregs
> of the bottle onto Camilla's lips. She licked them with her tongue,
> then held her mouth open in invitation. He bent over her as if he was
> about to kiss a sleeping beauty awake, though Camilla had never been
> less asleep in her life. She was aroused beyond belief, tits and toes
> and cunt mastered by tongue and teeth, gentle fingers stroking her
> inflamed soles, and now a finger playing with her clitoris. She
> wondered whether it was Osama, and screeched out his name. The man
> bending over her put his lips against hers, their tongues slapped
> together like mating snakes and entwined in uncontrolled passion. And,
> second later, Camilla's cunt was opened by a cock that seemed
> supernaturally thick and of an unbelievable length.
>
> It was what she was lusting for now, body and soul, to be fucked as no
> respectable woman could ever dream of being fucked, without any
> restraint or decencies at all. And, incredibly, as she was used by a
> gang of natives in front of her friends, she heard the gramophone
> start playing again. Only music this time, with the Maharajah's Own
> Irregulars singing their own words to another G and S favorite, words
> laced with obvious sarcasm.
>
> She is an Englishwoman!
> She is an Englishwoman!
> For she herself has said it,
> And it's greatly to her credit,
> That she is an Englishwoman!
> That she is an Englishwoman!
>
> Camilla climaxed before the man, and again, and then a third time,
> snorting out against the mocking words. Her hands were directed to
> stiffened ramrods of flesh that she jerked on frantically as the man
> beasting her withdrew. But it was only a mere changing of the guard,
> for another lusty soldier quickly came to attention in her steaming
> sentry box. The tongue in her mouth was withdrawn and Camilla blinked
> up at the Indian faces looking down on her. The thing she noticed most
> was the flashes of white teeth as the Kultooni officers bellowed out
> their teasing words. An act of humiliation they reinforced by turning
> Camilla's head to one side towards yet another brown cock quivering
> with eagerness. She took as much as she could of it within her mouth
> and sucked on it as though drawing water out of a desert well.
>
> 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 Englishwoman!
>
> 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
> bent along the horse's back as Carol had been before 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 vestige 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 breath 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.
> 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 released to fall down on her knees, face tilted back and
> dribbles of spunk 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 wives' degradation. 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 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 army wives succeeded 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 degradation she had
> found a depth of pleasure beyond belief. Perhaps she'd been driven as
> mad as Deborah sounded to think such evil,  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 to massed 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
> 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, don't you know?  And it is so
> much fun diddling a girl with such nice legs as yours. I thought so
> since I saw you playing hockey. But I've already told you that,
> haven't I? 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, whenever they chose to. 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
> Errol 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 stood 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 as though the doorway to hell had suddenly
> swung open again for a second.
>
> 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 the cooking fat. Then the eager
> natives queued 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 Kultooni pricks rammed up their bottoms. 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.
>
> Then he obtained some even more interesting pictures as he walked down
> the table, Manga beside him holding an opened jar of curry for the
> Prince to dip his finger into before he applied it to each of the
> British women, in the same orifices so recently and so sorely
> contested by his officers. The frantic dash for the pool afterwards
> when the wives were finally released had the onlookers in tears of
> laughter. Then the serious business of the day began . . . more iced
> champagne, applied liberally at both ends of the ladies before they
> were invited to begin selecting page numbers at random from a very
> liberally illustrated copy of the Karma Sutra. By the time they left
> Gazepore the Maharajah of Kultoon's cavalry officers were going to
> have the best trained mounts in India.
>
> THE END
>
> -- 
> Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
> reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
>
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