“You taking notes, reporter?” The director asked as Kitten licked his boots clean with her tongue.
Shayla stood tall. “The only thing I’m missing is your name,” she told him, pushing the pencil point deliberately onto the paper.
The director looked at her for a moment and then laughed. “Get up,” he growled to the groveling pinup girl. “You’re on first.”
Kitten was all eyes and ears as she trotted to the little area they’d set aside. There were several still cameras in addition to the large video unit that seemed to have been repaired. The crew was on three sides of the girl and they began to shout out orders, rapid fire, indicating poses she was to strike.
“Head back,” ordered one of the men, a pony tailed blonde. “Tits out. Eyes closed.”
“Hands in your hair,” said another. “Left hip out. Purse your lips.”
“Now give me a good pout,” demanded the director as the cameras continued to roll and snap. “No, that’s not it. Try harder. On your hands and knees.”
Kitten fell to all fours, panting. Her eyes were going wide. She was getting that lost deer look in front of headlights.
“Cut!” shouted the director. “Damn it, where are you, girl?”
Kitten looked up at him, terrified. “Please, master, I’m here. Give me another chance.”
“She just doesn’t have it anymore,” he said to the man on his left, the one with the backwards ball cap. “You can see that. She’s good for brothels now, and that’s about it.”
The man nodded. “Either that or the Camp.”
Kitten trembled, though she dared not break the last position they’d put her in. “Give Kitten another chance,” she pleaded. “Kitten will do better. Kitten promises.”
Shay felt a tremor down her spine as she remembered Rainier’s warning about the meaning of promises in his world.
“Give me five minutes with her,” said the blonde ponytail. “I think I can pull it off yet.”
The director threw his hands in the air. “I must be crazy,” he said. “All right, all right. Five minutes.”
“Here, girl,” the man commanded Kitten.
Kitten scooted across the sand on all fours. When she got to the fellow, who was sitting down in a canvas-backed chair, she crawled up onto his lap. Shayla’s mouth went dry as she saw what Kitten was doing. Head and feet to the sand, buttocks in the air, she was positioning herself like a small child, one about to receive a spanking.
The man, whose biceps were firm and large, peeled down the little scrap of cloth. Kitten’s ass was creamy and taut. Placing his palm down over the twin globes he told her she was to keep count.
“Yes, master,” Kitten said, her lips pressing into the sand.
Kitten winced at the first blow. It was neither light nor easy.
“One,” she called, her voice straining already.
There was a red streak on the girl’s soft behind, its shape that of the man’s hand. As it crashed down a second time, Kitten emitted a small whimper like a punished dog.
“Two,” she cried.
The third blow was harder.
“Oww!” Kitten wailed.
A finger dug into her anus, making her go ramrod straight. “Count,” the man reminded her.
Shayla felt her own breathing increase. Seeing the hapless Kitten like this, her sexy little body sprawled across the man’s legs, her bikini bottoms dangling from her upturned left ankle even as the toes of her right dug into the sand impotently. Meanwhile her half exposed breasts were flopping in the air while her palms were pressed to the sand, powerless to protect even an inch of her punished flesh.
Again the pert little buttocks quivered as yet another layer of red was added.
On and on it went, to ten, fifteen and eventually twenty.
“Enough,” called the director.
Kitten was allowed to get down and pull up her bottoms. There were tears in her eyes, but Shayla could see her chest was heaving and her pupils were dilated. The girl was clearly aroused now.
Shayla felt a wave of weakness, sweet and warm, as she watched them wipe off Kitten’s face and take her down to the surf. They made her lay on her belly, half in the sand, and half in the water. They shot both still and video footage, the girl rolling and squirming, wet and hot in the water, obeying their every command with delicious precision as if she was in a trance. And with her every motion, pure female energy poured out, from the way she flexed her calves and kept her lips and eyes half open with desire to the way she unconsciously offered herself to the camera, clumps of sand collected between her breasts and round her belly button, her hair wet and salty, so grab able and possessable.
Shayla felt her own breasts swell and her belly surge with warmth as the men continued their assault, giving Kitten suggestions, invisible cues to ratchet up the tension and passion to fever pitch. Almost unconsciously, Shay ran her hands over her hips, sliding down her soggy, ruined stockings. She needed her legs bare; her body, too, if she could get away with it.
“That’s it,” coached the director. “Crawl, Kitten. Pretend there’s a man’s shaft an inch from your face. Can you see it? You want it, but it moves when you do. You must kiss it, Kitten, you must serve it. You’re a bad girl if you don’t. You’ll be beaten for disobeying, but the shaft keeps moving away. You want to scream, you want to cry. You can’t help yourself. Beg for it, Kitten. Beg with your eyes. Show with your lips what you’d do if you could get it in your mouth.”