Free Hard Corps by Claire Thompson Page A

slim hips. They both had their hair pulled back, reminding me again of ballet dancers. The second girl curtseyed deeply, as the first had. Sam, in the centre, dropped to his knees and touched his forehead to the ground, as I had seen him do that night by the tower. They all stayed very still until, at some silent signal, both women rose up gracefully and each faced the still-kneeling Sam. Leaning forward, both women took Sam’s arms and then pulled him up. Silently the young women led Sam to the chin-up bar. He took hold of the bar, his body now an X below it.
    Bringing his hands together on the bar, Sam executed several chin-ups in very good form. This was something one saw and did everyday on the campus. But suddenly, one of the women was behind Sam, standing just to the side. I saw that she had something in her hand that she had gotten from the table. It looked like a whip! The whip had long, unbraided tresses, too many to count. As Sam continued to pull himself up, the woman began to whip his ass and back with long, heavy strokes. The room was silent, save for the cracking sound of the whip and Sam’s grunts. It wasn’t clear if he was grunting from effort or pain.
    The second woman approached him now with an identical whip in her hand. They beat him, alternating the lashes as he pulled himself up and let himself down, keeping a steady rhythm.
    I was riveted to the scene. It seemed surreal as the music pulsed around us. I realised I had forgotten the people I was sitting with, and I had forgotten myself as I watched the choreographed little torture scene take place. Just when it seemed Sam would collapse, the two women stopped whipping him. They each presented their whip to the sweating Sam, who kissed each leather offering, his eyes closed as if in worship.
    Then the women kneeled, one on either side of Sam. They were each faced away from him, so that their heads faced offstage, their backsides toward the audience. He left them there, walking back to the table to get his designated instruments of torture. It was their turn to suffer, it seemed.
    Taking a small knife, Sam then drew the blade down the back of the first girl. I leaned forward, actually making a little sound as I strained to see what he was doing. I soon saw that he wasn’t actually touching her skin. Instead, the gauzy, black fabric fell away from her body, leaving her white back, bent like a swan’s. With a prod of his foot, she raised her ass high in the air so we could all see her naked globes. With his other hand, Sam brought down a large, black object that I saw was a phallus.
    We were sitting at a table slightly at an angle from the stage, which afforded us a view of a side of her face. I watched in horrified fascination as he held the dildo in front of the girl’s mouth. Though her eyes remained shut, her little pink tongue darted out to lick and suckle the rubber cock. Once Sam was satisfied that it was slick enough, he pulled it from her eager lips, and walked around to her bottom, which was still appealingly raised up. Slowly Sam inserted the dildo into her little asshole, and the girl moaned and pushed back against the huge phallus now impaling her. In and out Sam drew the cock, while I blushed for the naked girl on the stage.
    I looked down, feeling my own heart pound as if it were me up there. How could that girl possibly allow such a thing to happen to her? And, forget the public humiliation, didn’t it hurt? I was again confused by my own rising desire. My clit was pulsing with need, even as I felt ashamed at what I was witnessing. I had been affected watching Sam that night by the tower, but this was even more intense, perhaps because now there were witnesses to my own voyeurism. I was no longer hiding in a bush, my panties getting damp. I was sitting in a room full of people who were turned on by this show, who had maybe done all the things we had seen and were about to see. I was here with them! I was guilty by association. I looked