Belle Submission Page 5

  ‘You couldn’t possibly bother me, deputy inspector,’ she said, his grin reappearing at the titular usage. ‘What island is that one?’

  ‘That’s New Albion, mamselle,’ he said.

  ‘Do you go there, too?’

  ‘Never!’ Elvis cried; then, checking himself, ‘They are served out of the Gulfport post office, mamselle.’

  ‘Do people live there?’

  ‘Some, I guess. I only know New Arras, mamselle.’

  ‘Then tell me about New Arras,’ she invited, slipping out of her jacket and kicking off her shoes.

  ‘I collect the mail, mamselle,’ he said. ‘I have quarters there and I empty the mailboxes, then sort, pack and ship out. In Biloxi, I pick up the outgoing. Day and a night in each port. Ladies pretty much run St Arras theirselves, with a US marshal, though it’s part of St Bernard parish in the Orleans territory.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Uh, the state of Louisiana, mamselle.’

  ‘So, there are only, ah, mamselles living there? That must make you pretty glad.’

  ‘Mamselle!’ said Elvis. ‘I’m a public servant and, I trust, a Misissippi gentleman.’

  ‘Oh. Of course. I wonder why their mail comes out of Mississippi?’

  ‘I guess, historical reasons, mamselle. Most things round here are historical.’

  ‘Take some iced tea,’ Trina said. ‘You’re sweating.’

  Elvis frowned.

  ‘I have to keep the mail within eyeball reach,’ he said.

  ‘Why, Mr Lesieur, I am the mail.’

  After fetching another pitcher of tea and a glass for himself, he sat on the deck and drank thirstily.

  ‘I have a confession,’ she said. ‘I’m from California and we have a thing about sun — I mean, when we see some, we just have to tan. Does it bother you if I —?’

  ‘Like I said, mamselle, please make yourself comfortable. Long as I’m satisfied the mail is safe, I’m doing my job.’

  ‘I hope I satisfy a Mississippi gentleman,’ murmured Trina, her voice knifing the still air.

  She unzipped her skirt and slowly wriggled out of it, then folded it and placed it beside her on the lounger. Her breasts heaving, she unbuttoned her shirt and removed it; then unfastened her garter things and rolled down her stockings. She sprawled on her lounger, soaking sun, in bra and panties, a flesh-coloured set of sheer translucent voile. Elvis drank tea, staring fixedly towards New Albion. After a long silence, Trina jumped up.

  ‘This tea!’ she cried, her teats wobbling in agitation and almost spilling out of the scalloped surround. ‘It goes right through me and I need the bathroom.’

  ‘Head’s on the lower deck, mamselle,’ said Elvis, springing to his feet. ‘I’ll unlock it for you.’

  ‘Oh! I’m desperate!’ she said. ‘Mr Lesieur, look away, and I can go over the side.’

  ‘Well, OK,’ he replied. ‘I guess we’re far enough from any New Albion spyglass.’

  The deck had two parallel surround rails, about a foot apart, and the top one at waist level. Trina lowered her panties and squeezed her buttocks between the rails, so that her cunt-basin overhung the sea. With Elvis looking away, she sighed as a heavy jet of piss spurted from her vulva, which she held open with two fingers. A sudden gust sprayed the fluid back on deck, soaking her thighs and stretched panties, but she did not interrupt her pee.

  ‘Oh! Mr Lesieur! Help me, I’m stuck!’

  Elvis grasped her upper arms and pulled. Trina’s ass-melons were so big that she was stuck and had to wriggle to get her hips free of the rails. When she did, she sprang forwards; Elvis slipped in her pee and both bodies slammed to the deck, with Trina straddling Elvis and her crotch against the bulge in his jeans.

  ‘I’m sorry!’ she cried, making no effort to move. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘My job is seeing you’re OK, mamselle,’ he replied. ‘I should have swabbed the deck.’

  ‘That was my fault,’ she said, giggling and writhing her bare pubis just a little over his. ‘I always pee too heavily.’

  There was no mistake. The bulge was swelling. Trina unhooked her bra and dangled it away from her body, squashing her massive teat-flans in Elvis’s face. The nipples were stiff and she poked the left titty between his teeth, while grabbing his cock and rubbing it through the jeans cloth. It rapidly stiffened to full erection and Trina gasped.

  ‘With a big, bad thing like that, it’s time you got more comfortable,’ she murmured. ‘We have time to kill.’

  ‘Oh, mamselle, I don’t know…’

  His lips fluttered on her erect nipple. Trina smiled, licking her teeth.

  ‘Get those jeans off, sir.’

  ‘Please, mamselle!’ he moaned. ‘I can’t disrespect a lady.’

  She grasped his hand and clamped it between her thighs, soaking his fingers in her piss-wet pussy, now oozing oily come.

  ‘See how wet I am,’ she said. ‘You going to disrespect me by leaving me gasping for that cock of yours? Pants down and cock up, if you please, sir.’

  ‘Please, mamselle, that’s trull language,’ Elvis protested, but already Trina had unzipped him and had the stiff, monstrous cockmeat glinting bare in the sunlight.

  Her fingers scooped at his balls until the whole tool was naked, a monster, at least eleven inches.

  ‘I want respect!’ she cried in a strangled gasp, before her head swooped to get her lips around his bulging glans.

  He moaned as her tongue lapped his pee-hole.

  ‘No… please…’

  His stiff cock belied him. Politeness abandoned, Trina fellated Elvis, with his cock throbbing inside her throat and her mouth clamped round his corona, licking and teasing, until he sobbed to be brought off.

  A southern hunk sobbing! Power…

  Elvis was putty.

  ‘Promise you won’t tell any of the mamselles or the US marshal,’ he begged as Trina removed her mouth from his and straddled him, pinching the neck of his glans to get the monster within her gaping wet cunt-lips.

  ‘No promises, sir,’ she sneered, then sighed, ‘Ahh…’ as the massive cock penetrated her cunt, right to the wombneck.

  She rode him, squeezing his cock with her muscled cunt-walls, until he gasped, writhed and sobbed, gulping air as his loins surged to meet her thrust.

  ‘Uh…’ he moaned. ‘It’s so good…’

  His hands clutched her buttocks, his fingers stroking her welts.

  ‘What are these, honey?’ he said, his tone harsher. ‘You been stropped? You been a bad little mamselle?’

  ‘Fuck me,’ Trina moaned, her cunt spraying oil over his bucking ball-sac. ‘Fuck me, sir.’

  ‘That I will,’ he said, grabbing Trina by the titties and upending her. ‘Those fustigation marks are crude. Maybe that’s how they do it in California, but you’ll learn proper ladies’ ways here.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ she moaned, ‘you’re not a spanker.’

  ‘Why, mamselle,’ he said, ‘no Mississippi gentleman would spank a lady undeserving, without due process.’

  Elvis was on top, forcing his way into her cunt, his cock slamming her slimy wombneck, and his balls clapping on her thighbacks as he fucked her.

  ‘You been stropped; you ain’t nothing but a trull,’ he panted, fucking her. ‘I ain’t losing much virtue on you.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, fuck me,’ Trina heard herself cry, her head swimming; it wasn’t supposed to be like this; she wasn’t supposed to lose control.

  It was the biggest cock, the most glorious fuck: yet the redneck stud despised her. Her buttocks pumped to slam her belly against him as her ass slithered in her piss.

  ‘Fuck me harder,’ she spat, and Elvis slapped her face.

  ‘That’s dirty talk.’

  ‘Oh! Fuck me, sir, fuck me.’

  Love to talk dirty to men.

  Slap! Slap! Slap!

  Her face stung.

  He’s not frightened of hurting me.

  ‘Fuck me, fuck me. I’m wet, sir. Oh, please
…’

  Slap! Slap! Her breast-melons shook under spanks.

  ‘Oh…’

  My tits are going to bruise…

  Elvis spanked her bare breasts, which quivered, pinking under his flurry of slaps, delivered with palm and backhanded with the knuckles. Slap! Slap!

  ‘Oh! You’re hurting me.’

  ‘You don’t like it, trull?’

  Slap! Slap! Her bruised, wildly flapping teats were reddening with vicious red fingermarks across the erect nipples. Trina groaned, gasping as her belly fluttered and her spine and stiff clitty tingled. Slap! Slap! Her breasts bounced and wobbled under the tit-spanking as she felt the first drop of sperm at her wombneck. His cock bucked, throbbing, and he fucked faster, and he grunted as his spurt of cream came thick and hot inside Trina’s gushing cunt, while his hands spanked her naked titties raw. Slap! Slap!

  ‘Oh, yes, oh, I’m coming. Oh… oh… ohh!’

  Elvis withdrew and rose, leaving Trina to slump to the deck, masturbating her flowing cunt in the afterglow of her orgasm. Elvis made her roll over. He inspected the welts on her flogged ass.

  ‘Yeah, a trull,’ he said. ‘But the mamselles of Arras might turn you into a lady, yet. Slit-poking ain’t of much account, down here.’

  ‘What… what the hell is a trull?’ she sobbed, clutching her groin.

  ‘What the anglos in New Albion call a trollop. On New Arras, they thrash bad girls for unreasonable behaviour, see? They have all kinds of punishments for unreason, and punishment tools like you’d faint if I described them, for trulls, truants and sluts, until their bare asses are just squirming with reason.’

  ‘Elvis, didn’t anyone tell you who I am?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m just the mailman, mamselle.’

  ‘I’m going to be in charge of New Arras.’

  Elvis shrugged.

  ‘I don’t see how that makes any difference,’ he said.

  Trina was still sobbing, her face red in shame, as she disembarked.

  That’s never going to happen again! Insulted, disgraced — pleasured! — by a fucking redneck!

  Once he had used her, Elvis had taken no notice of her, and her clothing was once more immaculate. She made her own way down the gangplank after he had carted off the mailsack, with a curious glance at her, his lip curled, half inviting, half sneering. Now she stood by the little harbour, surrounded by palms, magnolias, creepers and mosses, with the buzzing of bees and the gaudy scents of flowers, and sweat was pouring from her again under the afternoon sun. She carried a small bag, her instructions having assured her all personal items would be provided on New Arras. There was a long, flat-roofed wooden hut by the start of a track, leading into the jungle, but there was no one around. The sun was high and it was obviously lunchtime. She assumed Elvis had gone inside the hut, over which a flag drooped at full mast — a single star, with a wreath of laurels below — but no Stars and Stripes. Seeing important-looking buildings shimmering in the far distance, past the forest, she made for the track, stooping to pass under a vehicle barrier of a single wooden pole, which refused to swing up at her touch.

  ‘Halt!’

  ‘Oh!’

  Trina was stooping under the barrier, with her bottom stuck in the air and her skirt ridden up, so did not see her assailant, but she squealed as she felt something sharp jab her ass-cleft, the prong touching her panties, right at her anus bud. She jerked at the insulting poke, banged her shoulders on the barrier and came out the other side, livid, to face her attacker.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ she blurted to a girl no more than nineteen, wearing a white, short-sleeved military shirt tucked into a white cotton skirtlet that came down only to her mid-thigh.

  ‘Corporal Cindi Kock, of the public watch,’ snapped the girl, clicking her heels.

  Both her garments were way too tight: the shirt, certainly, for the heavy breasts, with the side-buttoned skirtlet hugging fleshy, muscled thighs, and a waist not more than Trina’s own twenty-two inches. At her waist looped a casual belt, which was a whip. Her uniform gleamed, crisply pressed, although dark sweat-stains already marred the girl’s armpits and her shirt clung damply to her breasts, revealing her white, apparently scanty, bra, for the tips of wide areolae were wet and visible around her conic nipple buds. From her breast pocket peeped a hairbrush.

  Cindi Kock’s long black hair was ironed straight, her coltish legs a golden tan, and her shirt, beneath which her heavy breasts bulged, was open to the third button, revealing pressed flans of swelling brown teat-flesh. One shirtsleeve sported two red horizontal stripes. She wore brown leather kneeboots, but no tights, and her bare legs were shaven smooth. The cotton of the skirtlet was more starch than fabric and was already wilted with sweat, so that her panties, like her bra, showed through the cloth: she had a high-cut bikini bottom that barely covered her mound, and her pubic hair stretched on either side of the gusset, like dark sea-fronds. She held up the intrument of Trina’s arrest: a cane, three feet long, with a handle of coiled wire.

  Cindi joined Trina simply by stepping behind the barrier’s hinge and passing unstooped. She grasped Trina’s arm.

  ‘You are under arrest,’ she said, her teeth sparkling white between full ruby lips.

  The accent was fluting, gentle and deep southern, yet not a drawl like Elvis Lesieur’s; each word emerged with dainty precision from her lips. Her tongue licked her upper front teeth, after she pronounced ‘arrest’ as ‘array-est’.

  ‘What?’

  The girl pointed.

  ‘You crossed the barrier without completing immigration formalities. You are on New Arras territory. If you had waited on the wharf, which is US federal territory —’ she shugged ‘— I have no option but to demand your ID, and detain you for questioning, mamselle.’

  ‘What is this?’ Trina blurted, but not resisting as Cindi led her into the hut, where she found herself in a long room with a counter, like a post office.

  Behind the counter were several girls, similarly unformed and busy with stacks of papers, upon which they wrote with careful goosequill pens. Behind the counter, and in the room itself, girls bustled, distributing and collecting papers from the various stacks. Those girls were not in military uniform but wore white blouses with flounced collars, black shoes with white stockings, and flowing dark blue skirts, descending to mid-calf. Their skirts were open six inches at the rear, fastened by a bow, tight enough to show only a hint of white panties beneath, while the stockinged thighs and the tips of white garter straps were fully visible.

  The wall was bare, but for a portrait of a young lady in eighteenth-century dress and her hair in ringlets. The lady smiled benignly at her portraitist and brandished a cane just like the one prodding Trina, as if to discourage unflattering portrayal. On the desk sat an old-fashioned tear-off calendar, written in ink, with the legend: ‘Ishtarday, 10th Messidor, Year 214’. Above, a ceiling fan whirred lazily, doing nothing to freshen the stifling air. There were tables and chairs around the room, and Trina saw Elvis at the far end, sitting with a blonde girl in a white blouse and long blue skirt, but with the back of her skirt unfastened, so that the garment swirled open, showing her visible panties. Her panties clung to her sweating buttocks, which appeared red under the wet panty fabric. Elvis nodded politely as she spoke.

  ‘Look, I came with El — with Mr Lesieur,’ Trina said.

  ‘He’ll explain. You see, I’m Trina Guelph, of Goody Baggs, in Santa Monica, California?’

  Everyone except Elvis stared at her; Elvis looked away. All were girls, none seeming older than twenty. A second uniformed girl emerged from the shadows and crowded Trina. She was blonde, perky and bright eyed, her coiffe a smooth, lustrous shell that swayed below her ears; she licked her lips as she eyed Trina’s sweating body. Her boldly jutting breasts quivered under her moist shirt. Her uniform, too, was too small, trimly hugging the full peach of her ass and the ripely thrusting breasts, while her skirt, sheathing coltish legs, was tighter and shorter than the arr
esting officer’s. ‘A spy, for sure,’ she said. ‘Good work, Cindi.’

  ‘No more than a detainee, until the committee of public safety has established her status,’ said the dark girl, ‘and it’s Corporal Kock, Harriet — I mean, Constable Stooplaugh.’

  ‘Oh, Cindi,’ said the blonde girl, making a moue.

  ‘Constable Stooplaugh. Garde-à-vous,’ Cindi rapped, and the blonde girl sprang to attention, her hand flying to her brow in salute.

  ‘Demi-tour.’

  The girl’s rigid body whirled round, flinging her heavy breasts from side to side.

  ‘Eyes right. Eyes front. Repos!’

  After each command, Harriet saluted, until she finally stood at ease, her tightly sheathed buttocks quivering and breasts heaving, with the soft outlines of her big plum nipples visibly swollen. Cindi nodded approval, her fingers gliding on her waist-whip, and her tongue flicking gently over her teeth. Throughout the display, her arm remained locked on Trina’s.

  ‘Better, constable,’ she said. ‘My belt can stay tied awhile. Now then, mamselle, please present some ID.’

  Trembling, Trina fumbled for her purse, and got her driver’s licence and some credit cards. She began to blurt an explanation of the facts and managed to complete it, to polite attention, while the desk officer, whose badge announced her as Sergeant Merlene Makings, held up her pieces of ID and examined them with placid disapproval.

  ‘You have no laissez-passer?’ she said.

  ‘What’s that? No, I don’t. I’m an American!’

  ‘Why, I believe we are all Americans,’ Merlene replied, to simpers from the girls and a grin from Elvis. ‘You say your company has bought New Arras?’

  Her lilting voice pronounced it ‘New Airs’.

  ‘Yes! If you’ll just take me to whoever’s in charge — I mean, whoever was in charge?’

  ‘With the treasure of New Arras, it is us that buy other people,’ said Merlene. ‘Purchasing New Arras —’ she chuckled ‘— such a revendication would be a matter for the directorate of the council of reason, who would instruct the committee of public safety to issue the correct orders, but I have had no instructions on such a matter.’