Please note – the following is for 18+ only.
From White Flesh Black Market: Book One, Chapter one.
Golitsyn continued. “You may do whatever you want. There are no rules here. These women are whores, hand-picked for us, and they are used to the roughest treatment. No questions asked of us tonight. We are in the company of our reward and they belong to us in every way.”
This last statement brought the greatest roar from the men. They beat their fists on the table, Northers and Mils with them. The women removed their flags. Northers turned to Mils.
“Where did they get this lot?”
“No idea. I’ve never seen women like this. These women are groomed, and the best of their gene pool. No brothel in the world would give a bunch of spies women of this quality. Someone sent them. Soviets – or someone else.”
Mils continued, but with music added to the hysteria, his words dissolved into distant murmurs. Northers noticed they were playing a seductive compilation of national anthems as the women stripped. It was a blasphemous mockery.
“What did you say?” Northers placed his ear next to Mils mouth. The Brazilian woman unhooked her enormous bra, spread her legs and bent at the waist in front of him.
“No Russians!” Mils shouted above the deafening roar of the drunken hoard. “There are no Russian women here.”
Northers forgot to respond because the Indian woman was peeling panties off the damp entrance of the Brazilian woman. Common sense abandoned him. He glanced at Golitsyn, who dipped his moon face in the American woman’s nether lips. His bulging tongue was an oily animal as it darted in and out between her thighs which spread wide as her back arched into his face. She bounced her behind as if it rested on a large rubber ball, with Golitsyn clutching at the soft fleshy mounds as he fed.
The men tore at their clothes. Half had their fat sausages poking out of their flies, as they tugged on their stiff rods, dragging foreskin back then rolling it forward in well-practised moves. They sucked an offered nipple or sank their tongues into wet, willing female sheaths. Red cheeks glistened with mingled love juice and saliva as men came up for air then took deep dives back into hot pink treasure.
The room smelled of aroused women, the sounds of slurps, female moans and masculine grunts ricocheting off the walls. Miss Ireland lay on her back in the middle of the table while Miss Japan performed cunnilingus on her. Their engagement heightened by their wish to give pleasure with uninhibited licentiousness. Miss Japan’s own sweet pulpy portal glistened despite getting no attention. A single drop of clear thick juice fell from the hair of her loins to the table beneath her. Northers sat back to savour the display before it got too much. When Miss Ireland placed her hand on the back of the girl’s head and screamed and ground her pelvis into her face, Northers grabbed Miss India. She continued to tongue the lubricant out of Miss Brazil as he impaled her on his hot hard tiller. She ground against his loins, taking his manhood to the root.
The relief against pent up lust was palpable. Northers had another chance to pause and admire the action. Miss Brazil, as she ground her loins into Miss India’s face, sucked on Mils’ rod like it was a cocktail straw. Northers looked away, too aroused by the sight of Mils’ giant meat thermometer entering that cavernous mouth with those fat lips tight around the sheath. But his eyes landed on the long snaking tongue of Miss India wriggling around Miss Brazil’s fleshy bud that was blooming now with a growing urgency. It set Northers over the edge. He grabbed Miss India’s hips and thrusted, launching floods of passion deep into her abdomen His semen painted her inner walls for another of the longest, most energetic climaxes he’d ever known.
A euphoric wave crashed over him, dulling his senses and drugging his veins with adrenalin overdose. Pulling out of the juicy tunnel, he noticed everyone shifting into a more relaxed state. Poles around the room dwindled at half mast, and even Golitsyn had settled back to watch the American woman lick someone’s climax out of the great beautiful Samoan. She paused, looked up to show thick white globs settled around her lips, then pressed her face back to finish her meal as Miss Samoa whimpered with sultry gratitude.
Mils flopped in a chair next to Northers. He stared at the scene before him with wide eyes.
From White Flesh Black Market Book One, Chapter three
At this point he noticed a beautiful Chinese woman bent at the fireplace, the faint hint of her bearded clam showing through the sheer mesh of her bikini. Sha Gmi was Gavin’s right-hand woman, privy to many of his secrets; dependable, reliable and by his side for many years. She looked delicious by the smouldering mid day fire almost naked on his deep pile rug. Their working relationship included a regular cork popping. Sha understood Gavin’s needs, and he understood hers. She made sure the small household staff remained foxy, solid, and ready with a juicy joy-box for Gavin’s constant flow of soul sauce. Gavin was not the type to settle with one woman, but then a lone lover could never satisfy Sha’s appetites, and he respected this. This made their working life more than perfect.
And now, true to form, he wanted her.
He moved up behind her and placed his hands on her butt, feeling through the thin material for her twitchet.
Sha giggled and pressed back into his clutch. He slid his hands over her firm round ass mounds, allowing one hand to slide back further, between her legs.
“Mmm… very nice Mr Musta.” she said in her Chinese accented English.
Without a word, Gavin slid to his knees and peeled the white bikini bottom down over the curve of her full behind. Her hairy sausage grinder looked swollen and luscious. He remembered how much he appreciated her fat nether lips, so rare in an Asian girl. He pressed his face in, enjoying the smell of fresh wet bird. Inspired by his extending length, he pushed his long tongue deep and wriggled it between her beef curtains.
“Oh, Mr Musta!” she cried out in her cute voice. She spread one leg to further accommodate him, but remained in position, her head bent toward the fire, her mop pressing hard against his face.
Soon Gavin’s prong was hard to exploding. He wanted to rip his shorts off, but didn’t want to withdraw his face from the seeping, weeping fuzzburger in front of him.
He needed help.
His outdoor girl, Fonda Dix was still around he was sure. Withdrawing his face from Sha’s pussy, Gavin reached for a telephone intercom the wall. He pressed “3” and soon the fab Miss Dix answered, her sexy British accent turning him on as usual.
“Yes, Mr Mustang?”
“Fonda baby, I need your help. I’ve got a whopper and Sha’s all mushy. Could you grab Ilova and come in here?”
“Yes, Mr Mustang. We’ll be right there.” She breathed into the phone.
Gavin stood and removed his shorts to reveal his huge man meat bouncing its way back against his pelvis. A moment later Fonda in her red bikini and Ilova Gudfach, his Russian assistant in her gold bikini, joined them. The women removed their scant clothes, both taking their place at the floor either side of Gavin’s dangler. They clasped their lipsticked mouths around his yang each sucking a side as Gavin continued to lap up the now flowing clam juice from his Chinese assistant.
From White Flesh Black Market Book One, Chapter 5
The cocktails continued to flow. Porsche had downed four of her favourite Martinis, but remained sober. She acted drunk, determined to make the most of the gossip that would be circulating. As soon as she kissed the man, she turned to a woman and embraced her in a full open-mouthed kiss. The pair of them were young, they must have been around the nineteen years mark, and exquisite. Porsche knew how to play the seductress, and soon she had them both naked on her bed, the woman between her legs lapping at her sugar scoop and the man alternating between kissing her and sucking on her nipples. The girl’s tongue felt hot and slippery down there. As she lay still enjoying the sensations the two were bringing out in her body, she realised it had been over a day since she put the anchors on.
She rolled her head to the side to see all the others in the room in various stages of undress. The Rolling Stones boys seemed to be at home, each with two women to play with. The Beach Boys were all hard at it and a large bunch of others she didn’t recognise were all naked and fucking. Lines of coke lay out on the glass table in the room’s middle and Porsche could smell the sweet delicious smoke of a joint. Everything was in its place; everyone was enthusiastic and eager to be part of the inevitable, forthcoming rumours; everything going according to plan.
“Suck my lullo-bump lover.” Porsche moaned, as the obliging girl moved her mouth to Porsche’s erect man- in-the-boat and sucked. At the same time she slid a finger into Porsche’s body, making Porsche buck against it as the double banger rose and took her over. As soon as she came down, she rolled on top of the young man, sitting hard on his patootie, absorbing it as deep into her as possible. Beckoning for the girl to stand over them, Porsche tongued her joy button and snake gulley while the man tongued her ass, as the girl bent her knees to improve access to both. She rode face well, encouraging Porsche to work the man meat inside her hard. Soon she bled them both to a searing cream, ever eager to be the good example.
She wriggled off the young man’s semi, and placed the girl on top of him. The room was alive with moans, sighs and the cries of ecstasy. Porsche sighed. Perfect. She placed her feet on the floor, stepping over a sixty-nining pair of women and walked into the main room. Three men sat on the couch each with women sitting astride them and the scene made her think they were racing each other. It gave her the giggles as she worked her way to her bag. She opened it, found a small wire with a box attached, and closed the bag again. She scanned the room searching for faces and saw the two she was counting on. Florence Ramada, the famous hotelier’s daughter, known for being an infamous party girl, and Henri, who was sitting in the far corner reading a book. These were the two she wanted most in the room; Henri for his tact and subtlety, and Florence for her lack thereof. Florence had her legs wrapped around one of the Rolling Stones.
