SEX SLAVES OF EAST LONGSHOTT DOWN - PART XIII
by Infidel Dog


Authors' note: This story is a fantasy, involving the kidnapping of
young teenagers for the pleasure of a Middle Eastern Pasha. The Pasha
is not a cruel man, but his sexual appetite is not easily satisfied,
and, when it comes to girls. he has a number of preferences as to
their physical characteristics. He is rich enough to carry out a
program of enhancement to the girls in his harem to make them meet his
requirements.

To Western minds, the Pasha and his tastes would be seen as perverted,
kinky and sick. We prefer not to judge the man by Western standards,
but offer this account as a semi-fictional documentary record of the
doings of such a man. Please remind yourself constantly, in his land,
his behaviour is considered normal and reasonable.

If you object to scenes showing young girls being exposed to
situations which Westerners would find intolerably humiliating, read
no further. If you are below the age of consent in your community,
delete this material at once.

As this story is a semi-documentary, and much of the material comes
from a Middle Eastern employee of a harem, there is a great amount of
information about weights and measurements. This is unavoidable, but
can easily be ignored by the reader who is more interested in the
narrative. Weights and measurements in this story are presented in
metric units (metres, millimetres, kilograms and litres etc) as they
were presented to us by our correspondent in the Middle East. If
readers wish to convert these to US or Imperial units, we advise them
to have a means of conversion or a pocket calculator handy. We have
not included the equivalents in inches, pounds and fluid ounces, to
avoid unduly cluttering the text.

1 centimetre (cm) = 0.3937 inches
1 kilogram (kg) = 2.205 pounds
1 metre (m) = the length equal to 1,650,763.3 wavelengths in vacuum of
the radiation corresponding to the transition between the levels 2p to
base 10 and 5p to base 5 of the krypton 86 atom (as every French
schoolboy knows)
Also, as every British schoolgirl knows, one stone = 14 pounds





SEX SLAVES OF EAST LONGSHOTT DOWN - PART XIII
by Infidel Dog





Chapter 44:- Mansoor Can Help

"We can't get into the country, that's the first thing we've found
out. After the last business, at Al Shafiz airport, they've clamped
down on foreigners coming in." Tristram, the BBC man, shook his head.
"There's no way of getting ourselves, reporters, camera crews,
anywhere near this harem."

"So what's the plan?" Dawn leaned forward, intrigued. Tristram cast a
panic-stricken eye at her cleavage and looked away, anywhere else. His
eye fell on Cinders's wobbling masses, out of sight but not out of
mind in a white T-shirt. It quickly moved on, but encountered Erica,
slightly smaller but deeply disturbing in a blue denim shirt.
Helplessly, it panned left again, but came to rest on Toots, who was
playing a private game of her own; which unfortunately involved
lifting each breast in turn with both hands, trying to get them to
bounce in time with each other. She was totally absorbed.

"Sorry?" said Tristram.

Dawn grinned. "Excuse the girls", she said. She had been watching
Toots's little game herself, and wondering what the rules were.
"What's the plan?"

Tristram studied his fingers. "We're going to have to base ourselves
on the coast, just over the border. We'll have the use of helicopters
and stuff, so as soon as there's any news, we'll be within an hour of
the action."

A fat lot of use, Dawn thought, if they're in the next country.

"The Sunday papers have got this crack-brained scheme for a bunch of
reporters and hired heavies to infiltrate the country as oil-workers
on contract. Then they hope to stroll up to the harem door, ring the
bell and announce themselves as the representatives of the free press,
and the bloody Pasha will let all the girls out. Oh, sorry, language
.."

Toots and Cinders had clapped shocked hands across their mouths, and
Dawn was failing to hide her giggles. Caro, who had been quiet,
suddenly nudged her sister and jerked her thumb in the direction of
the door.

"Excuse me, Mr ..."

"Fawley-Ball."

"Excuse me, Mr Volleyball, I need to discuss something with my sister.
It's been lovely to meet you." She glanced at her mother and left the
room, followed by the rest of the young ones, leaving only Dawn and
Mrs Carlsson to distract Tristram.

As soon as they were outside, they huddled in a circle. "Volleyball's
a stupid name", said Toots.

"I may have got it wrong", Caro said, uncertainly. "Look, Cinders, we
need to get another message to Mansoor. Can you get into school."

"School?" Cinders was scandalised. "We're having a day off!"

"It's the only way we can get an e-mail message to Mansoor. He needs
to be told these people are going to rescue Candi. Then he can help
them!"

Piers put up his hand.

"What is it? You're not in school now", said Caro. "If you want a
piss, just go."

"No, it's not that. It's e-mail. I know where we can send a message
from, I think."

"Where?"

"Ben's Dad."

"Benny Watkins?"

"Yeah!"

"I *shagged* Benny Watkins", boasted Toots. She counted quickly on her
fingers. "Seven times!"

"Benny's Dad can send e-mail, from home?" persisted Caro, doggedly.

"He works at home, doesn't he?" said Piers, simply. "He's got a
computer and stuff. I saw it."

"No harm in asking", said Cinders, who didn't *really* want to go in
to school, Fizzy Andrews or no Fizzy Andrews. "Why not get Mum to give
him a ring?"

"Let's just go round there!" said Caro. "It'll only take a minute."

So they all went. The two sisters, Piers, Toots and the two bemused
Swedish girls. Mr Watkins himself answered the door. He recognised
Caro and Piers, he remembered seeing Cinders's breasts around the
town, and he knew of Toots by reputation. Erica and Frida were
unfamiliar, but he found their chests attractive.

"I know it's an awful cheek, Mr Watkins, but it's an emergency. To do
with Candice Freshwater. We needed to send an urgent message to the
police where she is, and Lucinda doesn't want to go to school and
Piers said you had a computer that could send messages." She paused,
conscious that she wasn't getting her point of view across very well.

"You want to send a message to the *police*? By *e-mail*?" Mr Watkins,
for a business executive, caught on fast. "Why not dial 999?"

"Not the English police. These are the abroad police", Cinders said,
earnestly.

"We know you can do it, Miz Watkin", Toots chirped, brightly. "Benny
show me your computer when you was out playin' golf. He showed me the
pretty ladies with the 'normous titties! Nearly as big as mine", she
added proudly. The others looked at him with horrified interest.

Blackmail! Mr Watkins stood back from the door. "You'd better come
in", he muttered. They filed in and stood in an uncertain group.
"There's not much room, but come into the office." There wasn't much
room. Mr Watkins guessed there were seventeen feet of tit in the
confined space, not counting Caro and Frida.

"Can we write the message first, then send it?" Caro asked. Mr Watkins
nodded and the girl sat down at the keyboard.

"The ladies with the 'normous titties are in a folder called 'Accounts
- 95 - Projections' ", said Toots, helpfully.

"I don't think we'll need those, just now, Toots, it's just a quick
note, and Mansoor's got all the titties he needs out there." She began
to type, painfully.

At last, she sat back. "Right, that ought to do it. Anything else we
need to say?"

Cinders peered over her shoulder. "Looks okay. Press ... TV ... rescue
operation ... that's a good bit, Sis, three days time, so in time for
Sunday papers ... Yeah, right. Let's send it!"

"Can we, Mr Watkins?"

"Feel free!" He showed Caro how to send the message. The phone played
a brief piccolo cadenza, images flashed on the screen, and they all
relaxed. "Are you expecting a reply?"

"Not really, but if anything comes - it'll be from someone called
Mansoor - perhaps you could could give us a ring?" They all made for
the front door. Toots was disappointed.

"Ain't we gonna see the ladies with the titties, then? There was one,
a blonde one, in the bath, and they was as big as ..."

"Not now, I'm very very busy this morning", Mr Watkins shepherded them
in the direction of the front door. "Glad I could be of service;
ladies, Piers. I'll call you if I hear anything."

The door closed and he leaned against it, sweating freely. Then he
made his way to the computer and opened a folder called 'Accounts - 95
- Projections'. He created a new folder, and found himself labelling
it 'Caribbean Holdings - Gross Assets'.


**********

This was becoming a habit, thought the policeman opposite as Mansoor
leapt up from his desk with a startled cry and rushed out of the
office. Still, he thought, he's probably got to get in all the fucking
he could, before his little Ingleesi bint got too big for the
missionary position. Filthy, dirty, lucky bastard!

Mansoor slid to a halt in the courtyard. Emily greeted him with a kiss
and a hug. "You know I warned you not to come home unexpectedly,
darling, I might have been entertaining ..." She broke off as she saw
Mansoor's expression. "What's going off?"

"A message from Caro. The blooming crazy British newspapers are
launching a rescue operation to get into the harem. She doesn't know
how they're going to try and do it, but they're going to do it by
Friday. That's three blinking days!"

Emily had second thoughts about cautioning Mansoor for foul and
abusive language. "But that's far too soon, they'll fuck up all your
carefully-laid plans."

"That's right", he said grimly. "It means some quick thinking, and
some fast action. I suppose there's no other way. If they come along
getting heavy and fuck everything up, we'll never get Candi out of
there. Not ever!"

"What can we do?"

"*We* can't do anything. *I* am going to lean on Abdijian. I had hoped
it wouldn't be necessary, but it will have to be. We're going to have
to rely on his organisational abilities. Meanwhile, I need to speak to
Hendrickje and whats-her-name."

"Jane."

"Jane. Can Hendrickje drive?"

"Dunno. She's old enough. But you can't speak to them, they're both
serving Zed at the moment."

"It's eleven in the morning!"

"He had an early night!"


**********

"Phone, it's for you, Mr Abdijian, inner office."

"Thanks, Mrs Ackroyd. Probably Hassan again. The Pasha wanting
something a bit special. I think he'll be disappointed, stocks are
right down at the mo... hello?" He listened for a few moments.
"Mansoor! What a pleasant surprise." Again he listened, his expression
becoming more agitated. "Sure you can. Come right over. Tell you what,
why don't I send the chopper for you? Have a bite of lunch?"

He put the phone down and wiped the sweat from his face with a blue
silk handkerchief. "Mrs Ackroyd!" Stiffly he rose from his chair, went
into the outer office and handed the attractive forty-year-old
secretary an over-stuffed cardboard folder from his desk. "Lose these.
Call de Villiers, I need the chopper over at Police headquarters
within half an hour. We have a guest for lunch. Get Fazal and the boys
to clear out all the files, everything marked 'sex-slaves'." He
returned to his desk and slumped in the chair, his head in his hands.

Mrs Ackroyd permitted herself a briefly raised eyebrow, then swung
into action. Three minutes later, she placed a cup of tea on his desk,
then opened the top drawer and took out a photograph of a happy family
group which she carefully positioned where a guest could see it. "All
in hand, Mr Abdijian", she reported capably.

Now all he had to do was wait.


**********

"The whole British press. Probably the Swedish press as well."

"How will they get into the country? Can't your people stop them at
the airport?"

"Most of them will be regular visitors, oil people. Hired for the
occasion. It would be impossible to stop *everybody* coming in for the
next week."

Blue Suit stubbed out his cigarette. Seconds later he fumbled for
another. "So what are you proposing?"

"These heavies are going to make their attempt in three days time,
Saturday morning. Not a bad time, fairly quiet around the harem. They
might even get in. But it's going to throw a spaniel in the works for
all my plans, which I have been perfecting for months. As you should
be well aware, I am investigating the slave business ..."

Blue Suit assumed an innocent expression, about ten seconds too late.

"To cut a long story short, I have an interest in removing certain
figures from the harem. Their importance over-rides that of my
slavery-busting mission."

"As important as that!"

"I regret so. I will need these figures transported from the harem -
on Friday evening - to a rendezvous which I will announce later."

"May I ask how many ... figures you are expecting?"

"Around eight, all women. There may be one or two ... prisoners as
well, if it can be arranged. But the primary objective is the women,
who must be evacuated!"

"And if I arrange this transport ...?"

"My investigations into the slave trade will, of course, continue. You
will not be included in my investigations."

Blue Suit nodded slowly.

"Naturally, it might be better", Mansoor continued, "if you were no
longer here to cause possible embarrassment."

Blue Suit stood and looked out of the window. The shade of the lofty
trees spread across the cool courtyard. Beyond the outbuildings, the
servants' quarters, the helicopter waited, its rotors bouncing gently
in the warm breeze. All this? He turned and spoke to Mansoor.

"What if I prefer not to co-operate?"

"You think you have a choice?"

"I suppose you're right. Okay. I'll lay on your transport. If I may
ask, how are you going to get into the harem?"

"That's still to be arranged. We'll use force if necessary."

Blue Suit dragged deeply on his cigarette. "Shouldn't be necessary. I
can get in any time. A precaution I took some time ago, just in case."
He opened a desk drawer and took out a bundle of keys. Holding the key
ring, he counted the keys off on his fingers. "Main gate. Side gate.
Laundry entrance ..."

Mansoor remembered the last time. "If you have the time", he said, "we
should perhaps make some plans now."





Chapter 45:- Carnival Atmosphere

I was even getting excited myself! There were so many arrangements to
be made. Everyone in the entire harem was busy. The engineer himself
was supervising the installation of electrical power, water supplies
and drainage so that Ziggi's box could be repositioned at the
centrepiece of the celebrations. With only a day to go, a huge party
of eunuchs heaved the box, with its control cabinet, on to a
four-wheeled trolley, which was then trundled along the corridors to
the main concourse, Ziggi squeaking with excitement and shouting
directions in shrill German to the sweating work party.

They set her up, surrounded by ferns and creeping tropical plants,
overlooking the fountains and pool. There was a brief panic when it
was discovered that the drainage from the box was somehow leaking into
the pool, and several goldfish were found floating lifeless on the
surface. It was four hours before the drainage pipes were reconnected,
seven eunuchs were flogged without mercy, the water in the pool was
completely changed and Ziggi was formally permitted to shit again. She
did so with extreme gratitude and a blissfully relieved expression.

A raised stage had been erected at one side of the pool for the
orchestra, another slightly higher one on the other side with a modest
golden throne for the Pasha. In the clear area in the centre, under an
array of spotlights, there was plenty of room for dancers, tumblers,
sword-swallowers, mime artists, fire-eaters and snake-charmers, while
the inmates would recline on satin cushions on the remaining two
sides.

I saw Ziggi looking on in torment as a table, forty feet long, was set
up below her perch, draped with damask cloths and spread with enticing
food and bowls of fruit for the workers, so they could work without
interruption. In twos and threes, they mounted the five marble steps
and fed her with tasty morsels. With a satisfied belch, Ziggi told me
she could think of nowhere in the world she would rather be.

The harem baths were doing a roaring trade. The German woman, Eva,
seemed to be surrounded by young girls wanting their hair done, their
eyebrows plucked, their faces re-shaped to be more attractive to the
Pasha and to each other. Beneath the water, girls were being
intimately fondled, wherever one looked. Young women with breasts like
flotation bags and glazed expressions moaned in ecstasy as matrons
with knowing hands brought them repeatedly to shudderingly
thunderously bubbling underwater climaxes. Everywhere one looked,
there must have been at least a dozen simultaneous and noisy orgasms
taking place. There was a carnival atmosphere about the whole scene.

The orchestra had arrived, and were setting up some of their heavier
equipment. Exploratory notes rent the air. The harem kitchens were
under extreme pressure already, and extra supplies had been delivered,
the gates patrolled by thirty eunuchs until every van was safely off
the premises. That was the result of my enhanced security measures
introduced after the escape seven months ago. My blood still ran cold
at the memory.

At least, such a thing could never happen again.


**********

Satisfied with the progress in the main arena, I decided to take a
stroll down to the medical centre. The girl Candi was emerging as I
entered. She averted her eyes respectfully as I passed. I would hardly
have recognised her. In no more than a week, she had lost so much
weight; yet it had all been surplus weight. She was now no more than a
large young woman, gloriously pregnant, extremely well-endowed, and
wondrously fit-looking. If I had been suitably equipped, I would
gladly have shot a quart of jism into her. But one can't have
everything.

The physician had a twinkle in his eye as I came in. "She looks well
on it, doesn't she!" he remarked. "Amazing what a week of enemas and
strict diet can do for a healthy young female. And she *is* a healthy
young female! But what can I do for you, Hassan?"

"Oh, nothing special, just browsing; getting away from the
building-site up the corridor."

"Everything ready for tomorrow night?"

"It will be. It could be a big night. We've got more girls than ever
before, you realise. It was only when the kitchens brought it to my
attention that I realised we're catering for a hundred and thirty
seven girls as well as all the staff and hangers-on."

The physician looked serious. "Yes, I'm afraid we're going to be
losing some, quite soon! The Pasha is having a weeding-out session. He
told me yesterday. We're losing the German twins for a start."

"Losing them? But weren't they on treatment for enlarging their
girlie-bits?"

"They are, but they're hardly responding at all. I've got them up to
five or ten centimetres in the lab maj area, but their clits are no
bigger than when we started. It's a bloody dead loss. The Pasha saw
the figures and said they're a waste of space. They're out on
Tuesday." He indicated their likely fate with a finger across the
throat. Poor Willi, poor Steffi, I thought.

But c'est la vie, as they say in Germany.


**********

"I wonder if Mansoor got the message", Caro said.

"I don't know how these messages work", said Dawn "but surely, if
they're not delivered, don't they tell you, somehow?"

"I suppose so. But it would be such a pity if the papers went and
rescued Candi, and Mansoor never even knew about it. He knows his way
around the harem after the last time; he'd be a great help to have
around." She stirred her coffee for a while. "Mum. What are *we* going
to do to help?"

"How can *we* help, darling? We can't go diving in there to grab
Candi, can we?"

"There must be something we can do. I feel so useless."

"You've done your bit already, love. Just sit back and wait for it to
happen."


**********

"I'm not sitting here waiting for something to happen", Emily snorted.
"If Mansoor is taking you along as a driver, why can't I come as
well?"

"It's too dangerous, Em!" Hendrickje looked at her with concern.
"You've got two of you to look after, now. And Mansoor loves you. He
won't let you take a risk."

"Shit. We're rescuing a pregnant woman anyway. Erica's mother is seven
months gone. If she can do it, why can't I?"

"Mansoor only needs one driver. He's going to be inside the harem,
getting the women out. He's not going to want to have to start driving
when he gets out himself. He'll be in too much of a hurry."

"It's not fair! He goes and grabs all the dangerous jobs for himself,
then he gets all possessive when I want to do something as well. He
won't even tell me what the plan is. Me! An' I'm his woman!"

Hendrickje laughed. She was overjoyed at getting the chance to help.
Anything was better than staying here, sucking Zed off, night after
night. Mansoor had hinted that there might be a chance of her jumping
on board the ship, at the end of this adventure, and escaping back to
Holland. Jane was coming along, too, but where she wanted to escape to
was anyone's guess. She had attached herself to Hendrickje like a
bodyguard, always good-natured and eager to please, but she had not
said a word in any language since the day they had all met up at the
auction sale.

The plan was far-fetched, but as far as Hendrickje could tell, it was
a thorough one. It relied a little heavily on the slave dealer,
Abdijian, for her liking, but Mansoor had hinted that he was
trustworthy. It called for her to drive the battered grey H-Van to the
gates of the harem and drop Mansoor off. The time would be eleven at
night. He had a copy of every one of the bunch of keys that Abdijian
had had specially cut.

Two of Abdijian's men would meet Mansoor, then they would enter the
harem and carry out their part of the plan on the inside. Hendrickje,
meanwhile, had been told to drive round the block to an open space on
the far side of the harem. There she would park with the van facing to
the North, ready to drive straight out on to the main road. In the
back of the van, Jane would be waiting to supervise the loading of the
refugees.

"Hendrickje, you stay in the cab of the van, and don't get out under
any circumstances!" Mansoor had told her. She would know when she was
required to act.

"What do you mean, I will know?" she had asked, and been told not to
ask questions. She would know. They had practiced quick take-offs with
the van, with Jane slamming the back doors and leaping into the
passenger seat, clapping her hands in encouragement. Hendrickje now
felt confident she could start the van from the fourth row of a Grand
Prix grid and be in the lead by the first corner.

They were told not to wait for Mansoor, but to drive straight to the
port of Nahwaz, a journey of an hour and a half. She had instructions
to drive down to the quayside, between one o'clock and fifteen minutes
past. There she would find a ship, the Enterprise IX, of Limassol. She
would be tied up next to the quay, apparently with nobody watching the
gangway. The ship had been provided by Abdijian; she regularly ran
slaves here and there across the Mediterranean. The refugees were to
go on board immediately, led by Jane, and would disappear below decks.
Hendrickje was to hide the van and join them if time permitted.

The Enterprise would be out of the harbour and beyond the reach of
pursuers within five minutes of leaving the quay. There was plenty of
scope for things to go wrong, but whatever else happened, the job had
to be complete at the harem end of things by midnight. At any time
after that, the newspaper heavies would hit town, and they would not
be hanging around looking at the scenery.

"I reckon you're *enjoying* the chance to go on this little job, Hen!
Gallivanting around the countryside in the middle of the night. Well,
I've driven that van, and it's not going to be a tea-party. You *need*
an assistant! Anything could go wrong. You could get a puncture, start
your period, break a fingernail; anything!"

"Mansoor had four new tyres fitted yesterday. My period ended last
week. I'll trim my nails tonight. Any other objections?"

"I'll think of something!" stormed Emily, and slammed the door after
her.


**********

"We're flying you out to Cyprus in the morning", said the man from the
newspaper, "but we could only get seats for three. Mrs Freshwater will
be one. 'Mother in Mercy Mission'. And Erica, of course. What do you
think, Mrs Lashmore?"

"I think Caro ought to go. She's Candi's best friend. None of the rest
of us is all that important. I'm sure Mrs Carlsson agrees." Mrs
Carlsson nodded agreement.

"That's what we thought", said the woman reporter. "High School
Reunion, and all that. Can you be ready, Carolyn? Erica?"

"We'll pack our bags. How long will we be out there?"

"A couple of days ought to do it", the newspaperman said. "Our lads
are going in tomorrow night. They'll hit the harem at midnight.
'Midnight Rescue Bid'. They should be at the airport in time for the
morning flight. 'Larnaca Link-up'. 'Emotional Meeting'. We'll be home
by Saturday afternoon. 'Tea-time Tears of Joy'."

"Come on, Ric, let's do some packing!" said Caro, dragging her friend
away by the hand. "I wonder if Candi will have enough clothes.
Remember when we came home, those Arab dresses? Candi will only have
her pants and top. It'll be like a fancy dress party!"

"I've got some spare stuff", Erica held up a loose-fitting smock. "I
had this to hide my boobies. Do you think she'll be able to get into
it?"

"She might", Caro said uncertainly. "She was terribly big, though.
It'll be a tight fit."

"I'll take it. You never know. She might even be pregnant!"

Carolyn gasped in horror. "Gosh! Her mum will go ballistic if she is!"


**********

"Drive safely, Hen. Take care. You too Jane! See you when you get
back, okay?" Emily squeezed the Dutch girl's hand and walked around
the snub corrugated front of the van. "Good luck, darling!" Mansoor
kissed her. "Take care, now, you hear? I'll see you soon, okay?" The
passenger door slammed shut, and Mansoor leaned out of the window.

"Don't you worry. We'll get Candi out, and the others as well. Don't
worry. Oh, could you just check that the back doors are shut
properly...?"

Emily squeezed his hand and nodded, biting her lip. The engine started
as she reached the back doors, and reached up for the handle.





Chapter 46:- Getting A Result

"We've got to get in there early, or we won't get a good seat", Candi
urged.

"You mean, we've got to get in there early or the others will eat all
the food", Gretchen corrected her, cruelly. "You're supposed to be on
a diet, remember."

"Hey", Fanni said, digging Candi more or less in the ribs. "How about
if we get Sabah and Nejla to give you an enema in the middle of the
room. That should liven things up a bit."

"It'll make you Public Enema Number One", laughed Gretchen. "Anyway,
are *you* ready, Can? We've been ready twenty minutes, it's you that's
holding us up, brushing your hair a hundred times. Is there someone
you want to make an impression on out there? The Pasha, perhaps?"

Candi was still capable of blushing. "I just like to look my best",
she said.

"Pasha's no good these days, anyway", said Fanni, "he falls asleep on
the job too easily."

"At least it gives us a chance to watch TV!" Gretchen slapped Candi's
solid rump. "Come on then, we'll let you watch us eat..."

The three pregnant women were a splendid sight, if you like that sort
of thing, as they made their majestic way to a pile of cushions on a
slightly raised level, close to the food and as far as possible from
the orchestra. Gretchen had to remove a group of ripe-fleshed young
girls who were lying in a tangled heap, surreptitiously fondling one
another.

"Come on, you horny sluts, make room for some real women!" The girls
didn't understand German, but the meaning was clear enough, and they
slunk away, their breasts rebounding ponderously, their plump buttocks
wobbling like freshly-steamed suet puddings. The three women sank down
on the fragrant cushions.

"It's a bit sexy round here!" Candi grinned, sniffing the air.

"I suppose the smell will wear off after a while", said Fanni,
sniffing one of the cushions and turning it over. "That cushion was
sopping wet!"

"Shall we find Fatima and report them for wanking?" Gretchen smiled
wickedly. "She could do a public circumcision job on them."

"It's the only fun they get", said Candi. "Although even *I* don't
wank *all* the time!"

"No, you usually stop when you're eating", Gretchen said. "But of
course, you don't eat very often these days, do you!"

The orchestra, even the full width of the room away, was still loud
enough to make conversation difficult. They started up now, with an
interminable wailing theme which some of the younger girls clearly
found exciting. All around the perimeter of the room, girls were
practising little bumps and grinds, admiring each other and giggling
at their efforts. Hips were swung, bellies were thrust and wobbled,
plump breasts bounced, occasionally taking control of their owners.

The Pasha took his throne, almost without ceremony, but everyone knew
he was there. The movements of the girls became more overtly lewd.
Legs were spread wider, plump-lipped slits were thrust more
thrustingly. No longer were they performing for each other, seeking to
impress their friends. This was serious business, and these were
serious girls. There was just one man in this place capable of fucking
them into cross-eyed oblivion, and each of these oversexed little
minxes was trying with everything she knew to get a slice of him.

For his part, the Pasha pretended to take notice of them, his eyes
roaming slowly across the writhing young bodies, pausing here and
there to take in a particularly rounded buttock, a puffier areola, or
a fuller than average breast. But deep down, the girls knew they stood
no chance, especially as a figure whirled gracefully through their
midst and gyrated on to the clear area in the middle of the floor.

She was known only as Shaveema, the belly dancer, and on occasions
such as this she was chosen to dance for the Pasha. Rumour had it that
after a particularly arousing performance, the Pasha had been known to
take her to bed and give her a hearty shafting. She would then spend
the rest of the time before the next festive occasion recovering from
his attentions. Or so the girls said. But they would say that,
wouldn't they!

Shaveema wore a pair of shimmering transparent pantaloons which did
little to conceal the rippling muscles of her calves and thighs. Her
buttocks were embraced by a pair of tight cutaway panties, like the
lower half of a bikini, brilliant red, gleaming hypnotically through
the sheer folds of filmy material. About her waist was a belt jingling
with coins. More coins glinted on her snugly fitting bra, which
covered the nipples of her more than generous breasts. Even though the
bra's cups were as large as a man's hand, Shaveema's expansive areolae
still peeped seductively over the top of them, like full moons rising
over the sand dunes.

In accordance with the Pasha's particular tastes, Shaveema was built
more generously than most dancers, especially from her taut-muscled
belly upwards. Every part of her was in motion - mostly in different
directions - as the orchestra played with a more insistent rhythm, and
the shimmering of the glinting coins tinkled a trilling descant to the
never-ending wail of the woodwind, the musician's eyes never leaving
Shaveema's navel as together they wove their spell over the audience.

Despite themselves, Candi and the two mothers gazed fascinated at
Shaveema. Only when the music had climaxed in a clash of orgasmic
cymbals and the girl had glided back to the shadows did any one of
them speak.

Candi whispered, "I bet *I* could do that!"

Gretchen and Fanni looked at one another. No doubt Candi *could* do
that. It would be unlike any other belly dancing performance seen
before, but it would certainly be memorable. A team of jugglers took
the floor, balancing whirling plates on long poles, spinning bottles
into the air and never quite dropping them. "Time for food", said
Gretchen, licking her lips. "No, don't try and get up, Candi, we will
bring you a grape!"


**********

Al Shafiz International Airport was its usual sweaty self as the
latest Jumbo vomited hundreds of stiff-legged travellers into the
arrivals lounge, which was also the departures lounge. They didn't
look like a team, the five men. One wore a lounge suit and carried a
briefcase. Two were in shirtsleeves, the other two wore gaudy
polyester shell-suits, like British dads going on their holidays. They
had only their hand-baggage. Separately, yet together, they made their
way to the main exit, passing through into the warm dusk which stank
evocatively of rotting vegetation.

Without a word to each other they got into two identical taxis.
Without a word from the drivers, both cars started up and swirled out
on to the road, heading South. They were well ahead of any other
traffic on the road, and the police helicopter tracked them easily,
half a mile behind, and slightly off to the right.


**********

I was on the platform next to the Pasha's throne. He was in a rare
good mood tonight. We could see everything from up here. I saw the
three pregnant women come in, wiggling their hips as if they owned the
place. They had thrown a bunch of kids out of their chosen spot, then
made themselves comfortable, larking and joking around. It is good to
see the inmates happy and enjoying themselves.

Fatima was watching them, too. I thought she had been watching the
young girls - I could swear they were all masturbating each other -
but after they had gone, she continued to watch the three
mothers-to-be. Or maybe she was just watching Candi. There was a funny
expression on the chief matron's face. Strange things happen to women
at her age, so I'd heard.

Then Shaveema came on and did her first dance. The Pasha enjoyed that.
His previous belly dancer always used to be very good, but she didn't
have Shaveema's huge knockers, so we'd had to get rid of her.
Shaveema, though, was on form tonight. That first dance had been a
belter. If she carried on like that next time, she'd probably get a
result with the Pasha tonight. Strange how I seem to be picking up the
Pasha's little expressions. 'Getting a result' sounded like one of
those things soccer managers were always saying. But then, the Pasha
watches an awful lot of football matches on the box.

Then the jugglers came on. I wanted them to drop something. Please
drop one of those bottles, I thought. But they never do! It's a pity,
because the Pasha could then clap his hands and have them all taken
out into the desert to be eaten alive by scorpions. Life's a bitch, as
the master always says. I tell him he could always have them taken out
into the desert to be eaten alive by scorpions even if they didn't
drop anything, but he says it wouldn't be the same, somehow.

The entertainment went on. A mime artist came on and did something or
other. The jugglers came out again and still didn't drop anything, and
a magician made a woman disappear. Ah, would that it was always as
easy. Still, it kept the master amused, and it was all just a build-up
to the real business of the evening, the release of Ziggi.

Ziggi, as far as I could tell, was the biggest threat to Shaveema's
getting a result tonight. The Pasha was almost certain to take the
German kid off to bed with him, although I might have suggested
leaving her for a week or so until she had become a little more
house-trained. She would no doubt be willing to show her gratitude at
being let out of her box, but she was probably also extremely likely
to shit the bed in her excitement.

Down by the box, Ziggi's sisters were looking after her, keeping her
supplied with tasty morsels from the table. Funny how the girls didn't
sit with their mother, but perhaps they were scared she might
embarrass them. Pity about the twins, I thought, we'd be losing them
next week, and just because their girlie-bits wouldn't grow. A bit
harsh, I thought. Nice girls, Steffi and Willi. Or was it Willi and
Steffi. They weren't easy to tell apart in this light.

Helga was easy enough to spot. The physician hadn't had any trouble
making *her* grow! She was lounging beside the box, watching the
magician, and I could have sworn I could see her breasts actually
getting bigger as I looked at them. In fact, it was just that one
breast was gradually sliding over the edge of the marble step, and
before she could catch it, down it went, floppp! The twins helped her
pick it up and one of them sat on the edge of the step so it wouldn't
fall down again.

Where was their grandmother? The kids seemed closer to the grandmother
than they were to their mother. Ah, there she was, over by the
fountain, doing something with a girl's hair. Half a dozen other
bright-eyed young girls were gathered round her, swaying their lush
little golden bodies to the music and obviously waiting for their
turn. I vaguely wondered whether I ought to tell Fatima that Eva was
pleasuring pubescent girls, but I thought we could let them get away
with it for one night.

Then the orchestra changed its tune. Even I could recognise that fact.
Shaveema was coming back! Her gold coins glimmered in the lights as
she moved into the centre of the room, and all eyes were on her. The
Pasha leaned towards me, not taking his eyes off the dancer. "See the
physician", he whispered. "I want Shaveema's breasts enlarged again.
See to it, will you!" Sometimes, I think, you can have too much of a
good thing, but there's no reasoning with the master where breasts are
concerned.

Shaveema performed her most erotic gyrations right in front of the
Pasha. Her bright red panties were so tight, they fitted every little
crevice in her body. She presented her back view to the master, her
twitching, thrusting little bottom never still for a second. She spun
round to face him again, hips pushing forwards, thighs parting
momentarily, and even through the filmy gauze, her panties clearly
showed the outline of her plump girlie-bits.

The Pasha leaned towards me again. "Those bright red panties", he
whispered. "They show every spot of moisture!" They did. Shaveema's
performance was quite clearly getting to her as well as her audience.
Down below us, reclining girls nudged each other and pointed as they
peered up at the dancer's legs, bottom, belly and breasts, touching
themselves intimately, licking their lips, imagining themselves
licking those other fragrant lips, so close, yet so far away.

Then the girl undulated away from us, moving sinuously with a tinkle
of coins, in and out of the spellbound spectators. She disappeared
behind plants and fountains, reappearing to shake her thunderous
breasts in the master's direction each time.

Then she disappeared again, for longer, this time.

Where had she gone? The orchestra still played, although a slightly
strained tone had crept into the woodwind's playing. Shaveema had gone
out of sight behind the potted palm, right next to where the three
mothers-to-be were sitting. *Were* sitting. They had disappeared, too!
What was going on?

The Pasha was beginning to look a little concerned. This was not part
of the dancer's usual act. I was feeling concerned, as well. Would the
master still want Shaveema's breasts enhanced, at some considerable
cost, if he was going to have her taken out into the desert to be
eaten alive by scorpions? Upon such decisions, heads can roll.

Ah! Mercy be, she had reappeared. Not before time.

But wait a minute!

THAT'S not Shaveema!


**********

While Fanni sat on Shaveema's face, effectively silencing her squeals,
Gretchen unhooked the coin belt and bra. Even Shaveema's big bra was
far less than half the size of Candi's bust measurement, so Gretchen
quickly hooked it together and hung it round Candi's neck. The belt
she held in one hand, twirling it round so the gold coins caught the
spotlights.

"Off you go, then!" hissed Gretchen, and Candi swayed out from behind
the potted palm into the open. A gasp greeted her as the audience did
an amazed double-take. What Candi lacked in elegance of form she more
than made up for in sheer bulk. Where she fell short in training, she
scored heavily in enthusiasm. Twirling the belt, she gained confidence
from the open-mouthed faces all around her. Her bare feet moving
smoothly across the marble floor, she thought 'This would wow them at
the school disco!'

She became more adventurous. She gave a little twirl, and her breasts,
under the influence of centrifugal force, raised themselves
ponderously from her stomach. "Ouch!" she grunted, as her momentum
spent itself and they splodged back down again, their huge bulk
sending her teetering off in the direction of a spreading palm tree.
As the audience held its breath, Candi recovered her balance, although
she ended in an unladylike squatting position with her arms wrapped
around the shuddering tree's trunk.

Making a mental note to be more careful in future, she straightened
herself up, grabbing her breasts to hold them still, then turned and
started to slink sinuously towards the Pasha's platform. Gretchen
covered her eyes. "Candi, no!" she groaned to herself. Realising that
sinuousness wasn't her style, Candi had assumed a Groucho-like
movement which at least kept her breasts more or less under control.
Her face registered pure lust. If she wasn't cut out to be a belly
dancer, at least, pure lust was very much Candi's forte. She licked
her lips and tried a cautious shimmy. She seemed to get away with it.
In fact, it felt nice.

Everything was feeling nice. Her tits were tingling and almost buzzing
with the excitement. Her face was burning hot. Her pussy felt
EXTREMELY nice. Her tummy felt as if it was full of hot creamy
custard. For some reason, she had an image of Piers, that she was
being filled by gallons of his creaming juices. The thought made her
hotter than ever and she shuddered, just a tiny movement, but as it
reverberated to the very peaks of her dangling breasts it was enough
to bring a sigh of delight from the enthralled onlookers.

Still twirling the belt in one hand, she slid the other hand
downwards, pushing aside one huge breast, revealing her pregnant belly
with the ruby gleaming in her navel. Her fingers slipped inside the
elastic top of her loose pants, and sought her moist pussy, toying
briefly with the large gold leading-ring before her eyes went misty
and a faraway expression came over her face. Moist, in fact, was an
understatement. Candi was in full flood.

Thinking back afterwards, Candi would have been the first to admit
that the second shimmy was a mistake. With only one hand free to
retain her balance, she lurched sideways, no longer under command of
herself. As frightened screams rang out from the girls scattering from
her path, she staggered off on a curving course, her dainty feet
pattering across the marble floor.

The entire audience could see where she was going. There was a total
inevitability about it. Almost regaining her balance, Candi came to a
wobbling halt on the very brink of the goldfish pool, somehow turning
round so that - as a final mark of her esteem - she was facing the
Pasha again.

Then with arms flailing - yet with a strangely resigned expression on
her face - she went into the pool, butt first. Her breasts followed at
a respectful distance. Observers heard three distinct splashes.

It drenched at least half the audience. The orchestra stopped playing
in mid-chord, leaving the woodwind player to carry on for a forlorn
second or so before wheezing into silence like a punctured bagpiper.
The only sound came from Shaveema, the ex-belly dancer, as she ran
sobbing and naked from the room. No result for her tonight. Not even a
goal-less draw after extra time.

Goldfish lay twitching on the marble, to be fought over and picked up
by squealing, busty little girls to be thrown back into the half-empty
pool. Candi, like an overweight Aphrodite, blew a stream of water from
her mouth, heaved herself on to terra firma and shook her long dark
hair off her face so it flopped wetly down her broad back.. Her
friends hurried her back to the shelter of their potted palm.

"Shit, girl, I told you to take it easy", said Gretchen. "What did you
try that last wiggle for?"

"You made me piss myself!" gasped Fanni.

Candi discovered an extra large goldfish lodged beneath her left
breast. She handed it thoughtfully to one of the prepubescent girls,
who cradled it in both hands and carried it away. "Where's Shaveema?"
she asked. "I wanted to say sorry, I busted her bra when I fell in the
pond."

"She ran off", said Fanni. "Poor kid. I was still sitting on her face
when I pissed myself!"

"I pissed *myself*, too", confided Candi, "I hope the fish will be all
right!"





Chapter 47:- Welcome Release

I knew it was going to be trouble as soon as Shaveema had disappeared
behind that plant. If you ask me it was a mistake bringing all those
potted plants in here. They could cause nothing but problems. Then the
girl Candi came wobbling out from behind there, and I thought, shit,
that has torn it. Heads are going to roll. Fortunately, I have nothing
else that's capable of rolling.

She nearly fell over that tree. It was so undignified. Halfway through
the performance, the master leaned confidentially towards me and said,
"Don't bother with the physician on Monday. We'll leave Shaveema the
way she is."

He was staring at Candi, not taking his eyes off her. She got up, and
came across the floor towards us, walking like she was drunk. She had
this look on her face like she was going to screw the Pasha right here
and now. I hoped she didn't. Then she started dancing again. And those
whopping great tits of hers took over, and she fell in the pool.

I knew it was a mistake, having that bloody pool in here. It was only
a matter of time before somebody fell in it, and when they did, there
was going to be trouble. I stood up to see over the heads of the girls
who were milling around, screaming. Fatima stood up, too, horror on
her face. Shaveema went running off, crying her eyes out, and
disappeared. There were young girls dashing around all over the place
down there, yelling with excitement, pushing each other out of the
way, their fucking great tits flopping out of their tops as they
picked up stranded goldfish and threw them back in the water. I sat
down again. My knees wouldn't support me any more.

That's when I felt a punch on my upper arm. Was that it? Had I been
arrested? Was I going to be dragged away by the eunuchs?

It was the Pasha. He had a huge silk handkerchief to his eyes. I've
never seen him helpless with laughter before. It was a curiously
disturbing sight.

"I don't know how you arranged that without my finding out, but it's
the best cabaret I ever saw! My compliments to Candi, and she shall
come to my chamber tonight. She may or may not be alone, I haven't yet
decided."

What? He liked it? There's really no accounting for taste.

"Excellent entertainment, my boy. As I say, Candi may or may not be
alone! Let's have a look at young Ziggi first! LET HER OUT, HASSAN!"


**********

Somebody had a word with the orchestra. They started playing again, in
a subdued manner. Fanni had found a towel for Candi. Somebody else
brought two more. Even the new, slimmer Candi needed far more than one
bath towel. Her teeth chattered as she sat on the chill marble.

"You could be in serious trouble, my girl", scolded Gretchen,
towelling as much of Candi's right breast as she could hold in both
hands, and the girl rolled her eyes desperately in the direction of
the Pasha's throne. Strangely, the master appeared to be crying. Not a
good sign.

The black guy, Hassan, had come down off the stage, and he was coming
in their direction. He stopped, looking down at them. Oh, shit! We're
going to be taken out into the desert and eaten alive by scorpions.

"The master sends his compliments on your performance, Miss Candi. He
will expect you in his bed-chambers tonight. Dress will be optional."
Then he had turned on his heel and strode away in the direction of
Ziggi's box.

A gong sounded discordantly. Recognising superior opposition, the
orchestra came to a ragged halt. Hassan clapped his hands three times,
and three large shaven-headed eunuchs stepped forward, accompanied by
the engineer. They approached Ziggis' box. In the sudden silence,
Ziggi's excited squealing rang out across the room.

"It is time for the highlight of the evening's entertainment!"

People nudged each other. "I thought we'd just seen that!" was the
consensus of popular opinion.

"Ziggi has been in her box for nearly six weeks", Hassan continued.
"Tonight, by order of the Pasha, the box will be opened. Ziggi will be
released. As many of you will know, Ziggi has received injections to
accelerate the growth of her breasts. She has also been receiving a
special diet designed to increase her weight in selected areas. It was
perhaps cruel to restrict her food intake in this way, but entirely
necessary."

A murmur ran round the crowd.

"The physician has recently told me that if Ziggi received any food at
all in addition to her special diet, the effects could be uncontrolled
growth of those parts of her which are not constrained by the box. In
other words, everything but her waist, which has been gradually
reduced in size throughout the period of her containment."

The murmur had increased.

"I thank you, and so does the physician, for the restraint you have
all shown in NOT feeding Ziggi over the past weeks! Thank you again!
Now, Mr Engineer, if you will, the keys!"

The orchestra struck up again, in what might well have been a sort of
fanfare. The engineer stepped forward, while several of his assistants
busied themselves with disconnecting the electrical, water and waste
disposal connections from the box.

The fanfare having come to an end, the orchestra played it again. This
time, the engineer manually rotated the box into its horizontal
sleeping position, and Ziggi's eyes closed automatically, like a
sleeping doll when it is laid on its back.

There was a great unlocking of locks, and a removal of stout metal
straps. With due ceremony, the box was rotated once more to the
vertical. Ziggi woke up and squeaked in anticipation. The orchestra
started the fanfare for the third time. Grunting with the effort, the
engineer heaved and strained to hinge the side of the box open, but it
was tightly stuck. A conference broke out, and Ziggi looked
apprehensive. Finally, a eunuch brought a crowbar, with which the
engineer forced the two halves of the box apart. There was a moment of
resistance, then the side of the box started to swing free.

"Hold it there!" called the engineer. "Matrons, please!"

Fatima stepped forward importantly, followed by Eva, Ziggi's
grandmother. Together, they reached into the interior of the box,
busying themselves with something inside.

"I can't see", whispered Candi to Gretchen. "What are they up to?"

Gretchen was on tiptoe, holding on to the palm tree. "They're trying
to get her out. It looks as though her tits have grown a bit more than
they expected, and they've got themselves stuck. Ah, here she comes!"

Eva had stepped back, and Fatima nodded to the engineer, who slowly
hinged back the half of the box. This left one half of Ziggi still
inside, but one of her breasts was free. Those who could see goggled
at the sight in disbelief. Fatima took Ziggi's hand and helped her
keep her balance as Eva prised the other half of the girl, and most of
all, her other breast, free of the foam interior. A great sigh of
sheer disbelief went up from the audience.

Fatima still held Ziggi's hand tightly, and as the orchestra doggedly
started its fanfare for the umpteenth time, together they took a few
cautious steps away from the box and up on to a raised dais, where
Ziggi slowly turned round, ending up facing the Pasha, her eyes shyly
downcast.

The Pasha was clearly aroused by the sight. He wasn't the only one,
but with him, it tended to show more.

Even from the rear, Ziggi was a truly incredible sight.

Her legs had been lightly constrained by soft foam. She had been able
to move her legs and feet to a certain extent, which had helped to
keep the muscles in some sort of condition. Her legs, therefore, had
increased slightly in girth, but had remained shapely. But there had
been hardly any restriction on the growth of her buttocks and thighs.
On the special diet prescribed by the physician, supplemented by a
regime of almost continuous casual grazing, her backside had become
enormous.

The weights and measures clerk himself now stepped forward, holding a
laptop computer equipped with a radio link to the main harem network.
As Hassan clapped three times for attention, two matrons moved in with
a tape measure. Hassan called out in ringing tones, "We will now
measure Ziggi, to record this auspicious moment in the history of
enhanced development techniques." He coughed and continued. "Because
of the accident in the pool, we will regrettably be unable to measure
the weight of Ziggi's breasts: this will be carried out tomorrow in
the medical centre. Carry on, matrons!"

With all due ceremony, the matrons kneeled before Ziggi, passing the
tape from one to another between her mighty thighs. Finally, a matron
called the number out to the weights and measures clerk, who repeated
it as he had been taught to do, before tapping it into the computer.

"Thighs; eighty centimetres!" A satisfied noise went up from the
audience.

The matrons moved up to the hips measurement. It seemed to take some
time. After an interminable pause - during which the Pasha had to call
for oral relief from a nearby girl, a dark-skinned fifteen-year-old
who added some refinements of her own involving her extremely
long-hanging breasts - the senior matron sang out, "Hips; one-hundred
and twenty centimetres!" The announcement was greeted by a howl of
delight.

Ziggi's waist had been tightly corseted. Even from the first day, when
the engineer had pulled her in to 44cm, her normally slim middle had
been becoming steadily smaller. The engineer had his eye on the World
Record, said to be held by an English woman in the 1950's, with 33cm.
The record had clearly been smashed. Even now, after her release, with
Ziggi's waist noticeably regaining just a hint of puppy fat, the
senior matron was able to announce a measurement of thirty
centimetres. The crowd went wild.

Even those members of the audience who were still seated on the floor
could see Ziggi's breasts, by far her most remarkable feature. In the
box, they had been obliged to grow *upwards* from her chest. If they
had reached the limit imposed by the box, the nipples would have been
at Ziggi's eye-level and beyond her arms' reach in front of her face!
Clearly, the growth formula, the diet and the forced feeding had
succeeded far beyond the physician's calculations.

Nobody seriously expected the girl's breasts to be able to stay
pointing upwards like that, their huge weight would surely drag them
down. As indeed it would, but for now, the vast torpedo-shaped tits
thrust out absolutely horizontally in front of her. As she moved on
the dais, as the matrons fussed about her with their tape measure, the
giant gazongas gently bounced as if floating on a cushion of air.
Maybe in a few days they would hang down to her thighs, but meanwhile,
there they were, miraculously suspended.

It took an extra two matrons to hold the tape across the
extraordinarily long nipples, surmounting the puffy, conical tips. At
last, the senior matron was ready to announce the result. She took a
deep breath. "Bust", she said proudly, "Two hundred and nineteen
centimetres!" The frenzied screams of the audience drowned out the
grunts of the Pasha and the gurgling of the dark-skinned girl as she
struggled to swallow a mouthful of her master's sperm.

Ziggi stood on the little platform, swelling with pride, as if that
were either possible or necessary. The matrons moved away, letting the
spotlights bathe the girl's creamy flesh in golden light. Her silken
straw-coloured hair swung around her shoulders and beyond, the ends
flicking across the upper slopes of her breasts where they burst
exuberantly from her chest. Those close enough to see could tell that
Ziggi had also grown hair elsewhere on her body. Before entering the
box, her pubic hair had been non-existent. Now, a splendid growth of
downy fur had spread across her lower stomach. Only its fair colour
made it less obvious to the observers. Combined with the rest of
Ziggi's bizarre appearance, the appearance of body hair, unknown in
the harem, was almost a physical shock to those who stood and stared
at her.

Suddenly, a change came over Ziggi's face. She had been basking in the
crowd's imagination, drinking in the cheers, the gasps and the sighs.
Now, a worried look came on to her face, and she began to look about
her in increasing apprehension. Quickly it was turning to panic.

With a little cry, she turned round, searching in all directions. Once
she spotted what she was looking for, she was off. Bounding down from
the platform, her breasts bouncing one at a time down to rebound off
her thighs as her feet hit the floor, she pushed her way through the
crowd. The matrons went flying, cannoning into the weights and
measures clerk who measured his length on the marble floor, his
computer beeping indignantly. She elbowed past the wondering harem
girls and hit the engineer in the eye with her left nipple as she
reached her box and struggled to get into it.

Impossible. It would have taken three of them twenty minutes to get
her back in there. Too late, anyway. Ziggi gave a despairing cry and
squatted down, and instantly dumped a steaming pile of shit on the
marble floor which would have done credit to a cart-horse.

Then in a remarkable reaction which would probably have been of great
interest to Pavlov, she enjoyed an extremely vocal and spontaneous
orgasm.

Finally, she caught sight of her mother, and ran to her arms for a
comforting hug.




<End of Part XIII>


Previous parts were released at weekly intervals, with the exception
of Parts VII and VIII, which were posted together, all on
alt.sex.stories.
All parts can be found on ftp.netcom.com /pub/ac/acotto/stories in the
appropriate subdirectory.
Alternatively, contact gspot@nildram.co.uk