But she did. She had no other choice. Dawson's left hand began to play around the moist lips of her vagina, triggering her wanton loins into action, and she thrust her buttocks up in response to the printer's lewd fingering. The hard, smooth penis was cradled between her asscheeks. Someone grabbed her ankles and began to lock the soles of her feet and her ankles, sending agonizingly delicious shocks of feeling through her legs and into her pussy. La Goulue was still kissing her passionately, and grabbed Jill's hand and placed it around her melon-sized breast. A silken, throbbing penis was placed in Jill's other hand. She opened her eyes. It was the painter, Rafael De Vargas, the man with whom she was supposed to study portraiture. He grinned at her lewdly, his face the face of a lusting satyr in the weird light. Moment's later, it changed to the creviced mounds of a woman's ass, as Maya stood above the kneeling painter and straddled his face, pulling his gray head into her pussy.
She saw the Odalisque kneeling between Dawson's legs, her mouth fastened over the printer's cock and her raven hair skipping over his hairy thighs. Drunken, drugged faces blurred and elongated in hallucinatory transfigurations. Dawson was fingering her pussy madly, and she squirmed against it. As she sought to satisfy the craving of her pussy, she automatically massaged the painter's wet cock up and down and grasped it harder in her hot hand. She was perspiring under the psychedelic glow of the lamps and from the sex heat generated by her own excitation and by the heated sea of bodies around her. Where was Don Ernesto? She wanted him to fuck her. Why wasn't he fucking her? Why wasn't somebody fucking her? Please fuck me, somebody!
The cock that had been cradled between her asscheeks was suddenly thrust into her anus and she cried out in pain, tightening her grip on De Vargas' cock and squeezing La Goulue's breast painfully. She half turned her head to see whose cock had plumbed her virginal asshole. It was Don Ernesto's! She couldn't understand how it had passed the tightly resisting sphincter muscle, but it had. The sodomizing shaft was in her hot rectal channel, searing its way deeper and deeper into her unviolated passage. She felt that it would punch through her belly and into her throat.
At that moment, De Vargas shot his hot sperm obscenely into her face and trickled onto her fingers. La Goulue, who was being fucked by El Capitan, stuck out her tongue to lick the painter's hot cum from Jill's eyelids and cheeks and chin. The gallery owner's cock inside her rectum pressed deeper and deeper into her defiled rectum, which miraculously began to accommodate the invading weapon.
There was a momentary pause, as Garcia's cock came to the end of the channel. Then he drew back, pulling most of the reaming prod out. Jill relaxed her rectal muscles as the slippery prick withdrew. Without warning, Garcia slammed his hips forward, sending his throbbing cock all the way, until his balls smacked hard against his lower asscheeks, sending her sliding forward over Dawson's sweaty midsection until her ripe breasts smothered La Goulue's face, and the sex-hungry girl took them greedily into her mouth and sucked gluttonously. Oh God! Jill was about to cum again! She lifted up her head, gasping loudly, her whole body quivering. The last thing she saw before she closed her eyes in orgasmic ecstasy was the officer's cock as it slid out of La Goulue's cunt. As Jill spasmed with another quaking orgasm, she felt a hard cock, musky with the scent of a woman's pussy, being shoved into her open mouth. Strong hands pulled her head into the man's loins so that there was no escape for the cumming artist, who was being cock-fucked from both ends.
Dawson shot off into the Oriental girl's mouth, bucking Jill up and down as Garcia fucked hard into her asshole and El Capitan fucked hard into her mouth. This was the final act of her servile subjugation, and there were cheers of encouragement from the drug-crazed participants in the debauching orgy. "Viva la Arte. Viva La Artista Americana!" someone shouted. She was famous!
The drug-deluded young girl sucked hungrily on the officer's cock, wanting to taste the ammonia-flavored sperm, wanting to feel it running down her throat and out the corners of her mouth. And she soon got her wish, her wanton sucking bringing the Mexican officer to a sperm-spewing climax. She swallowed in rapid gulps to prevent the ejaculating fluid from choking her as she ground her asscheeks hard into Garcia's loins, skewering herself on his impaling cock. The Colombian stiffened, every muscle in his body taut and gleaming with sweat, and cried out, "Arribo!" as the sperm from his balls scalded Jill's rectum…
Outside, a battery of armed soldiers and policemen was waiting for the signal to storm the palatial residence. Members of Julio's organization had confiscated the lithographs from the gallery. Key dealers had been apprehended. Garcia's guard squad had been infiltrated by members of FICC, who were easily able to overpower the gallery owner's well-paid flunkies – those mercenaries, members of El Capitan's corrupt force, had already been hauled off to a retaining cell in a dismal, Mexico City jail.
Julio had packed all of Jill's things and transferred them to a private car where Roy Harris, the undercover CIA agent who worked at the U.S. Embassy, was waiting with an armed driver.
The piercing sound of a whistle came. The militia rushed forward, bursting into the house and through the doors of the mirrored orgy room. There were cries and shouts and a mad scramble for clothes. The awful thud of a fist against a human face jolted Jill's awareness as El Capitan's body fell backwards, pulling his spent cock out of her mouth with a smacking "shluuckpphh". Something hard and metallic scraped her skin. Don Ernesto was being handcuffed and pulled off her body, his cock dripping semen. What was happening?
The music was still blaring; drums, wooden flutes, bells. The lights casts lurid shadows on the bodies, both naked and clothed, that rolled and skirmished on the platform. She was being lifted up, off of Dawson's body, into the air, jostled and buffeted. A heavy heel came down on her bare toes and she cried out in pain. Then someone was throwing a robe around her, wrapping her in cloth, covering her sweat-soaked, cum covered body. Nooooo!
It was Julio! He pressed through the crowd, past the bodies, taking her away from the platform, through the room and out the door.
He took a small, glass-encased syringe from his pocket, bit the end of it off and jabbed it in her arm. "You're going to be all right now, Jill. You're going to be fine now," he said to her, taking a handkerchief to wipe the cum from her face. In her ravished state, she was unearthly beautiful. She seemed to have matured into a young woman instead of an appealing young girl.
She looked up at him dazedly. "What's happening? I don't know why… I'm… it's so confusing?"
"Shhhhh. Don't try to think now. I will explain everything later." He was taking her out of the house, past the police cars and the vans, down the drive and into the waiting car.
The cool night air felt bracing against her fevered cheeks. She looked up into the star-dotted sky. The antidote was beginning to take effect.
She was introduced to Roy Harris as the car zoomed into the night. "Miss Conklin, you have done us a tremendous service. We have been after Ernesto Garcia for a long time. The CIA, the FICC, and the governments of the United States and Mexico are in your debt. I'm certain you shall receive a special commendation for this, as well as a substantial monetary reward. I'm only sorry that it was necessary to use you the way we did…"
Use you… the way we did. The words struck her with the force of a fist in the midsection. It hadn't occurred to the naive American artist that she was being used by them!