Part 3

The men crowded around Alba’s prostrate form, jostling for position. It had been an hour or so since the sun had first risen on this spectacle and there hadn’t been a break yet in the stream of eager participants. I sat to one side, at a rickety table outside a pretty little cafe and nursed a steaming coffee. All around, the town itself seemed to have woken up to a slow, hot summer morning. The streets were not particularly busy… but bustled with the general comings and goings of people going about their normal daily business. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary out there at all, except for the drip feed of men young and old who entered the plaza like they were collecting for some sporting event or yearly festival.

They laughed and joked together as they waited. Some wandering over to judge the crowd, then clearly deciding to try again later. I could see patterns forming in the way they approached. Some stamped up determinedly, clearly wanting to participate but not wanting to waste too much time about it. They’d pick some lesser favoured area of Alba’s body: her limbs or her midriff. While some would wait for half an hour or more, determined to gain the perfect spot above her face, or breasts or pussy. Others still clearly had other targets for their desires: I saw several creeping forward to rub themselves against her feet, in her armpits or to wrap a handful of her jet-black curls around their manhood. Surely this went against the strict ‘no touching’ rule I’d been led to believe was enforced?!

I asked the local priest about it later, but he simply shrugged and said that a little bit of ‘wiping and rubbing’ was accepted. It was only direct penetration that was absolutely prohibited. Apparently the ‘fetichistas’ were policed mainly by the teasing they’d receive from the rest of the community after such a fascination was publicly revealed.

By now Alba herself was striped with patterns of her own. Trails of semen zig-zagging across her bronze-tanned skin and pooling in the hollows of her neck, face and belly-button. The stone she was lying upon was becoming slick with the stuff as it dripped from her arms, legs and flanks. Every inch of her that wasn’t directly coated in creamy deposits seemed to glisten with evidence of their past presence. Her eyes were by now well and truly glued shut, but her smile still remained as she could clearly do nothing else but lie back and experience all the strange sensations splashing down upon her. Her nostrils bubbled with it and she had to open her mouth wide to make sure she got enough air through the crush of surrounding bodies and barrage of descending gunk… only to of course end up gulping down the donations of men who saw that as an overtly enticing target. I wondered how she could keep grinning through such an onslaught, but then remembered how much pride was built up in this moment for her and the women of this community. How glowingly her mother and other older family members had reminisced about their own memories of this experience.

I could not help but imagine myself in such a position: utterly exposed and unable to move. Surrounded by not even strangers but the men and boys I’d grown up around… who I would most likely spend the rest of my life walking past and talking to. Knowing that each and every one had looked down upon my naked body and relieved himself at the sight. Drawn pleasure from the view of me and then spilled it onto my skin in a torrent of warm, sticky rain. I imagined feeling it drip and settle in all the corners of my form. Feeling it soak in and dry up under the hot, summer sun. I wondered if you would ever again feel free of that memory. Of the pungent smell of it and the oily second skin that might flake away but always seem to stay behind.

Alba was coping diligently though, showing fortitude and determination that you couldn’t help but admire, whether you thought she should be having to show it in such a way or not. Without a single sip of water or taste of anything else I worried how salt-parched her throat must be becoming, with no respite from mouthful after mouthful of throat-cloying man-cream. Yet she always opened up those pretty lips to invite more; gulping down what was given to her then gasping for a few precious lungfuls of clear air before the next load descended.