Chapter 5: Deep Throat Training

At the mansion on the other end of town, Bianca was at the table in the sitting room of the quarters she shared with her parents, her math homework before her -- but her mind had slipped it's leash for a moment, and was drifting... Suddenly, the intercom activated: "Bianca, are you done with your homework? The Wench has been waiting for some time, and she has things to do..."

"Uhhh, no sir -- but I'm close!" Who was that? Not Mister Armand or Mister Jason...

"How close?"

Bianca quickly surveyed the five problems she had remaining. "Ummm, ten minutes?"

"All right, child. Meet us in fifteen minutes on the back steps with an empty bucket, and one with soapy water, a sponge, and some towels. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," Bianca replied dutifully.

"I'll have Consuelo gather things in the kitchen." The intercom clicked off.

Bianca went furiously to work, immediately. Even if Consuelo helped, she wouldn't have much time... Six minutes later, she passed her mother on her way out the door. "Got to go help the Wench!" she cried, dashing past a surprised Inez. Inez turned to follow, and ended up supervising the preparations, then followed her daughter outside, wondering what was up; the Wench's job description didn't REALLY include mops and buckets -- after all, she was a puta -- a whore -- not the maid!

Things began to clear on the back steps. In the first place, the owner of the voice on the intercom was revealed; Mister Charles stood there, smiling gently as Bianca sloshed up. The Wench knelt on the board floor, regarding Bianca serenely. "Good evening Bianca. How was school?" Her eyes flicked to Inez and she gave a short nod of greeting that Inez returned. Inez hung back, parking herself against the wall just outside the door.

Also present were the four 'yard boys': Boris, the Gardener (now, since Charles' elevation to Overseer, the Groundskeeper), his two assistants Pete and Phillippe, and Ed the Carpenter. Charles looked up and frowned, "Is Jorge around?"

"No, Sir." Phillippe was the backup chauffer and shotgun for low- security jobs; thus he knew he was on call. "He's out with Velma, doing a grocery run." Velma was the Cook.

"We're not taking deliveries?" Charles asked, surprised.

Phillippe shrugged. "Velma likes to see her ingredients."

Charles nodded; it was a good answer. "All right, then we'll get on with it. The Wench, here, lost control of her throat momentarily yesterday, and vomited up Mr. Wilson's semen. All in all, she did a fine job; she just had this unfortunate mishap, after. I've invited the four of you here to assist with a little remedial training. The Wench will give each of you a blowjob; your job is to shoot down her throat, and hers is to hold it down."

Boris frowned and rubbed his thick lips, nodding toward Bianca and Inez. "What about them?"

"Bianca is here to clean up any accidents the Wench has; it seems her father made himself unavailable, so Mr. Wilson volunteered her to take up the slack." Several of the yard boys exchanged a glance; that Jason wanted Raoul's head was generally known, but if he'd stepped in it with Mr. Wilson, himself... Charles continued, unperturbed, "Inez is here... Why ARE you here, Inez?"

It was tantamount to a dismissal, but Inez held her ground. "I needed to be sure Bianca could fill in properly."

Charles eyed Inez for a moment, then assured her, "Bianca's duties will be purely janitorial." Inez nodded warily, and backed out of the area. Charles turned his attention to the yard boys. "Anyone need to back out? Mr. Wilson uses the Wench regularly, as do I, now. Even Jason finds a periodic use for her. If anyone isn't absolutely certain that he's clean, he should bow out -- If you give Mr. Wilson something, I guarantee you that getting fired will be the least of what happens to you..."

Pete raised his hand. Pete was young -- early twenties -- tall, tanned, dark wavy hair... "I've got a girlfriend..."

Charles raised an eyebrow. "She sleeps around?"

Pete frowned. "She better not..."

Phillippe chuckled. "Can I get her number?"

Charles waved them to silence before Pete could get angry. "If you're not SURE, or if you want to be true to your girl, you're excused. If you want tested, come see me and I'll arrange it, no questions and no stigma attached. Sex happens in this household; you all know that. We want everyone to be safe." Charles eyed Pete. "I can get her tested, too, if you like."

Pete eyed Phillippe. "She's been good since we've been together, but she likes her dick. Of course, you have to HAVE one..."

Against a background of grunted laughter from the others, Charles became businesslike. "Sounds like an invitation to get started. Phillippe?"

Phillippe stepped forward, but hesitated when Boris grumbled, "Young girls..."

"Young girls have to learn about sex, too, Boris," Charles returned, evenly. "Mr. Wilson thinks Bianca is up to watching the Wench at work." He turned to Bianca, "What do YOU think?"

"I'll be okay." Bianca was perversely proud that Mister Armand felt she was old enough to handle this; she wasn't going anywhere. "I'll be just watching, mostly. You'll be having sex with the Wench, not me..."

"Whassamatter? Bianca turn ya off?" Ed teased. "Shit, I'd like to see MORE of her..." He ogled Bianca's sweetly rounded figure.

Charles cut it off. "Well, you won't, unless you can convince her to offer it up freely -- and even then, you'd better wait several years! If Mr. Wilson finds out you've messed with her, he'll have your ass! This is an exceptional situation; Bianca is not an employee here and is therefore sacrosanct..."

"... Like her mama?" Phillippe quipped, eyes dancing. Did Bianca know?

Bianca looked almost amused. "If Mama keeps Mister Jason off YOU, you should be grateful!" Turning to Ed, she announced, mock-politely, "I'll just watch, thank you."

"Let's get on with it," Charles admonished. "Pete, you sitting this one out?"

"I... dunno." Both men were watching Phillippe open his belt and unzip his pants, as did the Wench, with even more interest.

"Wench," Charles directed, "no hands. Keep 'em on your thighs, or put 'em behind you if the temptation gets to be too much. Understand?"

"Yes, Sir." The Wench looked up from where Phillippe was beginning to lower his trousers, then back in time to get her first glimpse of the training instrument.

Phillippe's cock was a fairly average: uncut, a bit over six inches, and moderately thick. He stepped up close, "Let's see what you've got..."

Wench leaned forward, opened her lips and pulled in the tip. Phillippe shuffled forward to get comfortable as more and more of his meat disappeared between her lips.

"All right," Charles directed as the two settled in. "Phillippe, she's a vessel. If what she does on her own isn't good enough, feel free to direct her. The purpose of the exercise is to get her to take it deep and swallow your cum. But I think you'll agree that there's no need to get too rough."

Phillippe's "Guess not," was strained; as far as HE was concerned the Wench was doing a FINE job! This had to be the best he'd ever had, and the Wench was beautiful, to boot! He was gonna want some of this pussy... Maybe some ass! At this point, already, the combination of reality and his imagination had Phillippe at a point where orgasm was imminent; it had been a while since he'd had anything decent, being a bachelor -- not long, a few days, but long enough to be hair-trigger. He glanced up at Charles, "Can I hold her off a bit?"

Charles rubbed his jaw while he thought about it. "Purpose of the exercise is to give her practice swallowing cum. Why don't you just let go and plan on seconds?" Eyebrows went up all around the group, and Phillippe's imagination went wild, putting an end to the issue. Instinctively, he palmed the back of the Wench's head and drove himself deep, releasing a flood of ejaculate right at the opening of her throat.

Up until this moment, the Wench had been more or less in control, despite her subservient position; she'd been doing a good job and Phillippe had allowed her to deal with his erection without direction. The impalement took her more or less by surprise, and she immediately began to gag and choke. Instinctively, her arms came up, but she held off, merely waving them futilely.

Charles glanced up at Bianca, and directed, "Bianca! Bring the empty bucket around, in case she needs it!"

Bianca had been standing off to the side watching the proceedings with eyes that all but bulged. She shook herself and stepped up, placing the empty bucket to the Wench's left, then remained there, close enough that the Wench's left hand closed on a handful of her Catholic School uniform skirt. Phillippe was holding the Wench deep while he stood there head back, hips surging to the pulsations that Bianca could see going through the base of his cock, his testicles drawing up and dropping rhythmically as he came. In a moment, he relaxed visibly and let up on the Wench, who was red-faced, gurgling and working hard to breathe.

It was a near thing. Phillippe pulled back and the Wench coughed and sputtered, but somehow managed to continue to hold Phillippe's glans in her mouth, cradling it while her belly churned, the contractions visible for all to see due to her nudity. In a moment, though, she began to breathe more easily and she let go of Bianca's skirt, smoothing the crumpled area distractedly while she cleaned leftover spit and semen from Phillippe's shaft. The Wench then smiled up at Phillippe, "Thank you!"

This pretty much blew Phillippe's mind; he'd used her and abused her probably worse than he'd ever done to a woman, more or less cruelly surrendering to his pleasure at the cost of her comfort, and the Wench not only delivered in spades, but said 'Thank you!' He shook his head. "You're thanking me? I can't really understand why you put up with that!"

The Wench shrugged, a Mona Lisa smile on her face. "My Master wishes that I be proficient in this. You have helped me. It was important that I be challenged, and you did so."

Pete was all over this. "Wasn't too lengthy a challenge, though, was it?" he teased. "Man, that was -- what -- twenty seconds?"

Phillippe reddened under the harassment, but didn't get excited. "Talk big after you've had it!" he challenged. "The woman's mouth is a furnace!"

The Wench was pleased with the accolade. Phillippe's cock had been okay; it hadn't tasted too sweaty or nasty despite having a foreskin, and although he'd surprised her with it, his cum hadn't tasted any too awful. And she'd gotten a bit of a charge out of it -- she was wet from the experience. In some ways, her new career was a lot more rewarding than her old one...

Bianca hadn't moved from her close-up position. She stood there, mute absorbing the experience, aware that this was NOT normal AT ALL, yet no one was complaining... Her hands itched to touch Phillippe's slowly shrinking appendage; she'd seen Mister Jason's, fleetingly, on a couple of occasions, but it was always under poor conditions -- at a distance, in poor light, bad angle... Here, she was in touching distance of a seriously intimate act, and it was overpowering! She could even smell... What? The more acrid odor with the smooth overtones was probably semen, and the somewhat more fishy one... Bianca's eyes widened. Despite being orally raped, basically, the Wench was aroused!

The Wench wasn't the only one. All of the males were -- even Phillippe, as he slowly staggered back, continued to have a hard-on, although it was subsiding somewhat. And Bianca was flushed, her fat nipples poking visibly through the smooth drape of her white school blouse. Charles, standing there, reflected that Bianca was a cliché -- the 'Horny Catholic Schoolgirl'. The though brought a grin. The little Chicana was obviously fully developed, despite her youth -- Charles wondered just how long it would be now before some male sampled those pleasures...

Ed moved forward, dragging at his belt. "Well, Pete talks shit, but he's got issues. I ain't. You ready to go again, Sweet Thang?" Before the Wench had even finished her smiling nod, Ed unlimbered a stringy-looking member, whipcord lean, but covered by ropy veins. He was circumcised, and the head was smaller than Phillippe's member, but it was a good half-inch longer, too. The issue became rapidly apparent; while Phillippe had knocked on the door to the Wench's throat, Ed's length demanded entry. Bianca watched the Wench work to take it, lowering her head to give Ed a straight shot, veins bulging in her neck.

The Wench tried, hard. She took Ed for five strokes, but he was going for depth. The Wench lost it and her hands came up, scrabbling at his hips. Charles yelled, "Bucket!" and Bianca danced back as the Wench heaved and vomited.

Ed had the good sense to be contrite. "Sorry, Baby!"

The Wench waved it off, still trying to get control. Charles gestured at Bianca, who snatched up the towel and handed it to her. Charles murmured, "This is what she's here for." Everyone paused for a moment, while the Wench got control over her heaving stomach. After a bit, Charles asked, "Ready?" The Wench composed herself and nodded. Charles turned to Bianca. "Hold her arms behind her." Then he nodded at Ed, "Again." The Wench obediently clasped her hands behind her and Bianca stepped up behind and gingerly grasped her arms just below the elbows.

"Awright." Ed's enthusiasm had largely departed; making women puke wasn't high on his list of fun things to do, despite the power inherent in the act. He shuffled up and presented his stringy meat, and the Wench, without any obvious sign of displeasure, proceeded to engulf it. Ed didn't go for depth immediately; instead, he let the Wench get her bearings. It wasn't as if he had to stick his dick in her neck to enjoy it -- she was a damn fine cocksucker without it. She gave him no time to get impatient, either, gamely going for depth after only a few seconds of gentler effort. At first, her shoulders hunched and her stomach muscles stiffened with every stroke, but she kept at it; Ed saw no reason to prompt her. The Wench settled in, building a somewhat complex rhythm that mixed soft, tip-laving action with deep penetrations through the opening of her throat; the sensations were incredible and varied widely, keeping him from becoming numb to a particular pattern. Ed cupped the back of her head in his hand, but further urging wasn't required; she was doing a helluva job and Ed was in Heaven -- mebbe he oughta offer to marry her or something?

In the meantime, the Wench had found control. In a minute or so, she went from gagging at every stroke to every other stroke, to one stroke in three... She privately doubted that things were going to get any better, but they were working, sooo... Ed was a little sweaty, but he was generally clean, if slightly musky. The musk actually helped; the Wench was getting wet again, starting to seriously enjoy teasing Ed's cock.

If Bianca's previous seat had been ringside, this had to be even closer! She had to bend over to hold the Wench's arms, and was getting the show right over her right shoulder. While Ed had been brutal on the first pass, she could tell that he was simply allowing the Wench to do her work this time, and the quiet sounds, the hissing breaths, and the series of withdrawn expressions that flickered across his face as he hovered above her were testimony to the effectiveness of the Wench's efforts. Bianca knew that Ed was going to cum probably before even either Ed or the Wench; his cock stiffened visibly, the ropy veins on its surface pulsing. Ed instinctively took charge as the urge to bury his cock in the Wench's depths to shoot took precedence over his reticence and he grunted, "Jeeez!" as he clutched her head to him.

The Wench held on, working to get air past the obstruction by breathing through her nose. Her throat worked as it tried to deal with the intruder lodged there, which only transmitted more sensation to Ed's pulsing cock. Bianca clamped down, but the Wench seemed intent on merely hunkering down and straightening Ed's shot at her bulging throat.

Sense returned to Ed fairly quickly, and he backed off after the first three pulses, delivering follow-ons into the Wench's mouth while she suckled the head. Once he'd backed out, the Wench resumed full control rapidly, and proceeded to work to ensure that the aftermath was good for Ed. In a moment, Ed staggered back and began to tuck a thoroughly clean if slightly saliva-slick cock into his pants. "That was mighty fine, Baby, mighty fine. Thank ya."

The Wench swallowed to clear sticky stuff from her throat and pushed out, "You're welcome, Sir."

Charles picked up Bianca with his eyes. "Run and get the Wench some ice water." Bianca was gone in a flash -- obviously, the Wench had MORE than earned it. Besides, if she hurried, she could at least take a swipe at the incredible itch between her legs... The first exhibition had been amazing, but she'd participated in a small way to the Wench's captivity during the second and she was on fire! Racing around the kitchen, she got a glass and ice, then took the opportunity that presented itself to grind her burning clit unobtrusively against the handle of the sink cabinet while filling the glass with water. The respite was momentary, but it would have to do -- how on Earth was she going to survive two more of these?

Then, as she was returning, she got close enough to hear conversation while still inside and stopped when she heard her name come up in the male banter on the porch. "Having Little Bianca here is all right, after all, I guess," Boris observed. "Watching her face while she observes the Wench at work -- very entertaining!" He chuckled, and other voices added to it.

"Such big eyes," Pete commented.

"Huge!" Phillippe agreed.

"Yeah, well, wait'll you get a look down the neck of that blouse!" Ed chuckled. "Man, those are some sweet titties! Bianca may be fourteen, but she's all woman, and when she bends over to hold the Wench's arms... Man! She got excited and those things started rising an' falling -- It's a wonder I didn't leave a quart in the Wench!"

"You mean you didn't, Sir?" the Wench quipped, to general laughter.

"Well, remember she's not here to fuck," Charles admonished. "Her Daddy might be a dickhead, but her Mama is a sweet woman. Obviously, Bianca knows that Jason is doing her Mama regularly; you guys ought to know that she's right -- Jason gets his sex wherever he wants it, but when he gets it from her, somebody else misses catching the shit end of the stick, usually. You didn't hear it from me, but I think Jason's sweet on her, if that's possible. Mr. Wilson is undoubtedly furthering Bianca's education deliberately, but she's a sharp girl who knows what sex is, so don't go getting ideas about tricking her into something and tapping her; for one thing, if I hear about it, I'll take your balls off, myself!"

"What if she takes a shine to one of us on her own?" Ed wondered.

"In THAT unlikely event," Charles returned, "I'd recommend that you discuss it with her Mama and maybe her Daddy first! Raoul may be an asshole, but he's pretty good with that toad-sticker of his, and he'd come for you -- that's for sure!"

All this was somewhat of a revelation for Bianca, on several levels! The fact that these older men found her to be interesting, even while getting admittedly incredible blowjobs from the Wench, was pretty amazing to her -- guys her age bothered her all the time, but they were just pests, as a rule; the couple of guys that she knew of who were actually screwing girls in her school were noisy jackals with whom she would not possibly associate, and the rest were still children. Boys in the old country seemed to grow up a lot faster... The fact that Mr. Charles knew of and apparently shared her opinion of the implications of her mother's relationship with Mister Jason said a lot, too -- and the fact that Mister Charles thought that Mister Jason's repeated attacks on her mother constituted a relationship, just as she did, was a pleasant surprise. Bianca schooled her expression and rounded the corner.

Things got quiet while everybody worked to come up with a new subject. The Wench merely knelt, smiling, while the men flicked glances at Bianca and tried to decide what to talk about next. Charles took notice of the Wench's condition while she consumed the water, directing Bianca, "Why don't you see if you can clean up the excess, there?" 'The excess' was the flood of excess spit that had flowed down the Wench's neck and dripped onto her chest during her recent efforts. Her breasts were soaked; Ed's regular opening of her throat and the resulting gagging had turned on the saliva machine, full blast.

Bianca caught up the towel and dabbed at the mess, then used a damp rag to wipe up the sticky stuff and the towel to dry it when a simple wipe didn't seem to be enough. "I'm going for more towels," she announced, and took off again.

Phillippe took this opportunity to ask a question: "Hey, Boss, is this a one-off? Or, uh, is there gonna be, like, another opportunity to, uhhh..." Phillippe didn't quite seem ready to put what he was thinking into words, but everyone got the gist, including the Wench, who regarded him with a slight smile.

"Well, first thing's first," Charles replied. "I'm not your boss any more," he announced, nodding at Boris, "He is. You guys might want to sort out who moves up. But I warn you -- if you don't do things to Mr. Wilson's satisfaction, it'll be short-lived, so pay attention to Boris, whichever of you moves up." That said, he rubbed his chin. "The Wench is the Boss' slave, and as such, she operates technically below any of the hired servants. On the other hand, she's a specialist -- don't expect to see her making like a maid unless there is nothing else to do. The Wench has certain natural gifts, but she needs to be kept in tune; I've been authorized to use you boys to further her education and keep her at her peak. So I figure that yeah, you'll get some more of her -- but there are rules! First, you get my permission; no chasing her down to collect a piece without permission! Likely she'll provide it, but when I find out, there'll be a shit-storm -- and I KNOW you don't want to discuss it with Jason! The Wench's primary purpose is to service Mr. Wilson's guests; secondary to that, she's around to take his edge off when he's not entertaining some other piece. Mr. Wilson wants her to be fine-tuned and capable of doing shit that a regular woman would scream bloody murder and try to get you arrested for -- and that means she needs to do strange shit on a regular basis. So I say when and I say how, just like today. Last but not least, don't get all hung up on her -- she belongs to Mr. Wilson and that's that. You fuck around and get stupid romantic ideas, and trouble will ensue -- bad trouble! Are we clear?"

"One question," Pete replied, but he was looking at the Wench. "What do YOU think of all this?"

The Wench blinked, and scratched her thigh absently for a moment, formulating her answer, then replied, "It's immaterial what I think -- my Master has provided instructions and given Sir, here, the authority to interpret them. I'm a slave -- I volunteered, but when I did, I gave up the right to run my own life. I do what I'm told. But I'm NOT unhappy with my lot, and no one here should feel that they've harmed me. In fact, challenging as this is, I'm having fun!" She smiled engagingly.

It was true, too! The Wench had come in the door of Armand's mansion just like a host of other women, but his usual techniques for breaking his victim's will had been subjected to a type of metaphysical jiu- jitsu where the Wench was concerned. His demands resonated against a hunger that she had buried inside her, an urge to serve and ignore the cost. The more Armand demanded, the more she gave, without let or quibble. Armand considered her a broken thing, and assumed responsibility for her because, in his eyes, he'd done her irreparable damage, but the Wench merely felt free; Armand was her Master, and she would do whatever he wished of her and accept the crumbs of his mild approval. Armand had already determined that pushing the woman to extremity was an exercise in futility; she would accept whatever fate he offered her. Armand had told her that it was her lot to service his guests, and that she should be prepared to service extreme sexual acts; practicing a little fellatio on the porch, no matter how challenging, was a minor thing. In fact, her actual treatment in this house had improved since she'd been named slave, officially; acknowledgment of her status as one whose will was irrelevant basically put a stop to atrocities designed to break it. The Wench had always enjoyed sex; now she could feel free to enjoy any act, even bizarre ones. Sure, she suffered pain on occasion, but Master had shown her that pain was merely another type of sensation, to be used to multiply pleasure...

Boris grunted. "Well, since Pete is sitting on the -- wall? Fence? Yes, fence. Okay. Since Pete is sitting on the fence, it is my turn, no?"

The Wench flick a quick confirmation glance at Charles and agreed, "Yes, Sir."

Boris ambled up and loosened his dungarees. He wore no underwear, having been heard to declaim loudly on occasion that they 'bound him'; the Wench found herself presented with a thick, meaty, uncut joint extending over a set of big, heavy-looking balls. Bianca returned at about this time, and Charles nodded that she was to resume her position behind the Wench, holding her arms. The Wench shoved her dark auburn hair back over her shoulders and assumed the position, holding her arms back for Bianca to take, then bent and took Boris' cock onto her tongue.

Boris wasn't at full extension, but soon got there; nonetheless, his foreskin didn't really clear his glans. Boris had a thick, meaty shaft with a big cap of a glans; he topped out at just under six inches, but his girth had the same effect upon the Wench as Ed's length had -- it would have never passed her throat, and when it reached the back, it triggered her gag reflex. It was also somewhat gamy, to start -- since his foreskin didn't fully retract naturally, Boris collected things there. The Wench set about methodically cleaning him with her tongue, pushing it into this crease and extracting the foul-tasting goop, on the theory that he'd be easier to take deeply if she didn't have to deal with the taste of it; Master had trained her to worse, anyway, she thought to herself. It was true, for what it was worth; besides, Boris was REALLY sensitive in there -- her efforts triggered a little dance from him as she overloaded his nerves.

Boris wasn't used to this, anyway. True, he was his family's success story, the one who left his native Georgia (the one in what used to be in the USSR) to come to America. This, however, did not necessarily translate to success with women... He, like many of his countrymen, had taken to driving a cab in the City, sending money home to his parents and younger brother Leopold -- until the night some desperate junkie had tried to rob him at knifepoint. Years of taking care of himself while dealing with the vicious and the desperate during periods of civil unrest had lent him proficiency with both guns and edged weapons; he'd had no compunction about gutting the junkie with his own knife. It was clearly self-defense, but Americans were curiously soft for being so rapaciously rich; Boris had lost his cab, and nearly lost his green card, over the incident. A conversation started during an evening of angry drinking led to a couple of cautious interviews while various people sounded him out, but Boris believed in reality, not what some fool penned in a law book; you gave your loyalty to a man of power, and if he took care of you, you never looked back; an interview with Mr. Wilson had told Boris all he needed to know. The obvious option was to offer Boris a job as chauffer, but Armand had had one -- besides, Boris let it be known that driving wasn't a favored occupation -- the hours sucked and Boris liked outdoor work. So Armand fired his landscaping contractor and put Boris to work on the grounds, which pleased them both. Boris drove or rode shotgun on the odd occasion when the situation required it, and generally did whatever Armand required of him, including breaking heads where necessary, without much regard for the fine points of the law.

This had all begun eight years before; Boris was forty-four, and he didn't get out much -- there wasn't much point in it. Boris got sex on the odd occasion when Mr. Wilson brought in a local slut to pass around; otherwise, he hung around 'the dacha', as he thought of the Wilson mansion, drank a little vodka, and made do with porn flicks or whatever. Having the Wench wrap her mouth around his cock was virtually unprecedented; he knew right away that his time there would be short. But then the little Mexican girl had locked eyes with him, rose on her haunches to the point that he was staring down the neckline of her white school blouse at a pair of indescribably sweet, round, firm titties, and gently shook her shoulders, causing them to roll and jiggle...

Abruptly, (or so it seemed to the Wench), Boris' eyes bulged, he grunted a curse in Russian, and clamped his hand behind her head as his thick penis stiffened and surged, pouring copious quantities of semen into the Wench's mouth. The quantity was surprising; it was more than Phillippe had generated, and MUCH more than Ed had -- the Wench swallowed frantically, but Boris kept on pulsing, straining and grunting curses in Russian under his breath. The Wench held on, and finally, Boris stopped delivering anything huge, although his cock continued to pulse. The Wench continued to lave and suckle until Boris couldn't take it any more and he staggered back, clearly spent. "Ooosh!" he exclaimed, "That was..." Clearly, he didn't have words; in a moment, he raised a calloused paw and gently caressed the Wench's cheek. Then he turned a stern visage on Bianca. "YOU, Little One!" he accused. "Do THAT in the wrong company, and you will get what you so richly deserve!"