Black Bartok takes advantage of his captives

One hundred or so astonishingly beautiful women, most of them clad in modest Victorian travelling dresses, although some had dared to wear Turkish trousers and the schoolgirls of course had their uniforms, stood in a field on a Balkan hillside, surrounded by swarthy bandits with bandanas and gold earrings and puffy-sleeved pirate blouses and other such banditty accoutrements.

Black Bartok, the handsomest of the bandits (who as it happened were a ruggedly handsome lot, with layers of well-defined muscle beneath all the scars and stubble and roguish leers) put his hands on his hips and surveyed his captives. He was six foot tall, with a piratical gleam in his dark eyes, strong aquiline features, a luxuriant black beard and a cruel smile on his lips as his eyes roved over the trembling young ladies, enjoying the spectacle of their anger and helplessness.

“Ha ha ha ha ha!” he gloated. “What pretty prizes have I captured!”

“Excuse me,” snapped Fiona, who was full of proper British pluck and vigour, and who was therefore best placed of all the lady passengers from the Orient Express to confront their captor. “We are not prizes to be won. In fact, we are human beings. I demand you let us go at once, with a formal letter of apology, and immediately turn yourself in to the closest British embassy for arrest and prosecution.”

“Be this not a prize?” said Black Bartok, chortling as he seized her arm and fondled the sleeve of her travelling gown between his strong fingers. “For do I, Black Bartok, not keep up with all the latest ladies-wear catalogues from Paris, so as to better assess the value of my plunder on the Balkan black market? Do I not have backroom deals with every retailer of second-hand clothing between Athens and Munich?”

“I don’t know. Do you?”

“Yes. Wench, what be thy name?”

“Fiona. Why do you talk like a pirate?”

“Pirates and bandits be very similar things. Now, wench, you are in possession of a certain object. And this object, I avow, is no longer thine object to possess. I have made my claim to it by right of ****, and lest ye be in possession of similar such ****, ye must deliver it unto my custody. Be we clear?”

“Um…”

“Take off your dress.”

Fiona slapped him across the face. Black Bartok grabbed her, sat down on a nearby stone, bent her over his knee, flipped up her travelling gown and tugged her lacy white bloomers down around her thighs, exposing her peachy-pink plump bottom to all the chortling bandits. The lady passengers watched, aghast, as his strong, firm hand came down against her upturned backside again and again, reddening her jiggling buttocks and making her howl with considerable emotion.

The words “I’m sorry, Mr. Bartok! I shan’t do it again!” were eventually wrung from Fiona’s red lips. She was permitted to rise from across Bartok’s knee, tear-streaked and dishevelled, on the condition that she hand over his property right away with no more complaints.

And so, as the bandits sniggered, Fiona had to slowly unbutton her travelling gown. Bartok’s eyes roved over her nubile form, not missing an inch, as she shimmied out of her dress and unfastened her corset and let her bloomers slide down her legs.

“A fine figure of a wench ye are,” he said, widely grinning, as the shamefaced Englishwoman folded her arms meekly across her breasts and sex. She cast her eyes downwards, at the grass, as if hoping the earth would open up and swallow her whole. “Nay, we’ll have none of that. Hands down, wench, and meet my gaze. I’ll have ye exposed to the lads in the state that God made ye.”

Fiona took a deep breath, steeling herself for the bitter punishment she must now endure. Summoning all her courage, she raised her head and looked directly into Bartok’s dark eyes, burning with all the passion of a thousand Balkan summers and the cruelty of a thousand Balkan winters. The wicked bandit laughed as he stepped forward and boldly seized hold of Fiona’s now-unprotected breasts, cupping them in his strong hands, bouncing and jiggling them thoughtfully as if weighing her up to be sold in the marketplace.

“The finest pair o’ tits I’ve seen in all my days,” he announced, to the mirth of the bandits, and Fiona’s rosy-cheeked and wide-blue-eyed horror. “But what are we waiting for, lads? Let’s get the rest of them!”

There were only twenty or so bandits, and perhaps the ladies of the train, acting in concert, could have overpowered them. But Miss Strappe, Manon, Megan and all the rest of them were so intimidated by the situation, and by the thought of the punishment which no doubt awaited them should they fail, that they didn’t even try.

At a series of barked commands, every last one of the hundred or so girls was obliged to strip out of her travelling gown, Turkish trousers, school uniform, sari, dirndl, kimono or whatever else she happened to be wearing, and add it to the substantial pile of ladies’ garments that was rapidly growing in one corner of the field. Shoes, undergarments and even hair pins followed.

The bandits moved among them like sheepdogs through a flock, grinning hugely as they seized and groped and fondled at their leisure. Exposed girl-flesh was everywhere, breasts and bottoms and pussies in all shapes and sizes and colours, inviting strong dexterous hands sculpted by years of hard labour into perfect girl-grabbing machines. The naked ladies gasped and whimpered in a most undignified way, helplessly exposed to both the bandits’ wandering fingers and their wholly predictable but still insulting jibes.

“Do ye not feel yerself a prize, wench?” mocked Bartok, clasping Fiona in a passionate embrace with his hands squeezing her bottom and his hot breath tickling her ear. He took a moment to remove his shirt, revealing rippling bands of muscle that gleamed as if it were freshly oiled. “Ye and yer comrades be mine until break of dawn tomorrow. ‘Tis the Balkan bandit way.”

“Oh, no! Whatever will you do with us?”

“Ravish ye, of course.” Miss Strappe was already bent over a fence with a strapping young blond farm lad fucking her from behind, while Charlotte and Florence played with her tits. Her cries of “No, don’t, oh, you brute,” were as convincing as she could make them. The scene was rapidly proceeding to its logical conclusion, as each of the bandits selected a lovely captive to be the subject of his most lascivious attentions.

“Ravishment! By bandits! It’s too, too dreadful! Oh, but I will simply die of shame and humiliation! Oh, no, sir, I beg you, have I not already suffered enough at your hands? It would simply be too cruel for you to OHHH!” cried Fiona, as Bartok **** her down onto the soft ground. His pants had come off at some point, and his fingers parted her wet nether lips in a way that afforded no possibility for resistance as his seven-inch cock slipped between her legs. She banged helplessly against his muscular chest, totally unable to prevent him from thrusting the full length of his cock inside her in a single overpowering blow.

“You’re mine, wench,” he said, leering down at her. Fiona, pinned below him, grass tickling her back, hard criminal cock ruthlessly plundering her inmost female secrets, able to give voice to her emotions only as inarticulate cries of helpless pleasure, nubile figure writhing in paroxysms of **** bliss, felt obliged to agree.