Black Bartok's blue movies

The girls spent the evening of that day in one of the little villages along the stream in the valley below the train line, where they learned about another one of Black Bartok’s money-making schemes.

Blue movies!

Yes, Bartok explained, he and his gang ran a highly efficient operation. First, you stopped the trains and stole all ladies’ clothing on board. Then, you brought your kidnapped and now nude, and therefore probably very angry, female passengers, back to a safe location where the filming equipment had already been set up. Camera technology was still in its early stages, black and white with no sound, but plenty good enough for Bartok’s purposes.

And then you made movies of the girls, which you sold by mail to dingy theatres, gentleman’s clubs, dirty bookstores, brothels, sailor’s bars and members of the British royal family all around the world. There was an enormous amount of money in it. The only losers were the girls, who naturally resented being made into the unwilling nude starlets of globally circulated films, especially since they didn’t see any of the money.

“Around the world?” squeaked Fiona.

“That’s where the market is,” said Bartok, and went on to explain that the angier and more embarrassed the girls were, the better the movies sold. For a man like him, who in the course of his business of stealing women’s clothing was routinely encumbered with large quantities of naked women, it was the perfect crime. And, of course, he and his cronies had devised all manner of ingenious, unchivalrous ways to inflict the maximum amount of embarrassment and anger on the fairer sex.

He bent Fiona over a brandy barrel, inside the cottage where one of his many portable film studios had been set up, and spanked her bare-naked bottom until she begged for mercy, while the cameras rolled. Then he fucked her to no less than three wild, panting, sweaty orgasms, capturing her open-mouthed sex face and jiggling tits for rapid delivery to every purveyor of naughty literature between London and Hong Kong.

Miss Strappe was suspended from the ceiling by her wrists, toes touching the floor, exposed to the camera’s eye. Charlotte and Florence, the two naughtiest students in Class 1-B, were handed paddles and feather dusters and told to do as they pleased for the next half hour. Then, to their immense surprise, once their headmistress had been reduced on camera to a squirming, blushing mess, the position of students and teacher were reversed, and Miss Strappe was permitted to get her ****.

Megan and Manon had wooden clothing pins fixed all over their tits and pussies, and had to perform jumping jacks until they all fell off. Lakshmi and Dorothy had to take a bath together. Maria was tied to a pole and covered with honey, and three pretty nuns from Rome were compelled to lick her clean.

There were outside shoots, as well. A greased pole climb. A small mud-wrestling tournament. A simulated witch-ducking in the river. An obstacle course, with ropes to climb and hurdles to jump over and mud pits to fall into, and a prize of not being spanked for the winner.

But his favourite film of the day, Black Bartok would muse later, and potentially the most lucrative, was a twenty-minute reel of around a hundred blushing girls dancing the mazurka naked in the town square, before an audience of loquacious bandits and jolly local peasants in headscarves and fur hats. He already had a buyer in Venice lined up.

The long, productive day concluded with a grand feast as the sun set. A hundred pretty red-faced serving girls scurried to deliver vast platters of steaming roast pork, tankards of beer and goblets of cherry brandy, trying and mostly failing to dodge the groping hands and pinching fingers of bandits and peasants as they trotted over the town square’s flagstones. Black Bartok, sitting at the head of the long table with Fiona on his lap, raised his sloshing goblet into the air for a toast, squeezing Fiona’s boobs with his other hand to make sure she was paying attention.

“Here’s to naked women,” he announced, to general cheers. “May they find no clothes, and may they blush, and may they delight us forever! And here’s to me, Black Bartok!”

“To Black Bartok!” the crowd roared, quaffing the contents of their goblets down.

“Oh, no,” cried Fiona, wriggling in his lap. “Oh, the shame! The humiliation! Why, you’ve all night long to ravish me most dreadfully, and there’s nothing I can do! Oh, I can already tell you’re going to drag me back to your den, and throw me on top of a big pile of bearskin blankets, and pin me down, and probably spank me some more, before fucking me and conquering me and having your wicked way with my tender virtue. Oh, woe is me!”

“Aye,” said Black Bartok, pouring his goblet of cherry brandy over her head, then tossing it aside and reaching down to grasp her firmly between the legs, making her gasp as one strong finger slipped between the wet, intimate velvet folds of her sex. “Woe is you. But you’ve got one thing wrong, wench.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m going to ravish you right here in front of everybody! Ha ha ha!”