The Englisher Seduction
by Lili Koi
Copyright © 2010 Lili Koi
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The Englisher Seduction is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and incidents appearing in this work are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction, and the author does not endorse or condone any behavior done to another human being without their consent.
This ebook contains explicit material suited only for adults and is intended for those over 18 years of age
Contact: lilikoi2@yahoo.com
In the darkness, I felt their weight pressing me against the buggy. Large calloused hands held me from all different places. Some cupped my breasts while others lifted me from my middle, poking their fingers through pant cloth, continuing their search for the heat. I knew some of them were angry, and I looked back into the darkness for Aaron.
I am a stranger, an Englisher for them, but the Mennonite marketers grew used to my presence. I was the girl with the hidden camera. I was tolerated because they didn’t see me use it. I spent money willingly; I smiled, and as an Englisher revealing more skin and curves then my Mennonite lady counterparts in the August heat, I was very nice to look at.
I attended only two farm produce auctions prior to the consigned municipal sale. Both auctions were opportunities for me to secretly press the camera shutter. The photos taken with the digital pen were good. The men and boys -some barefoot, but all wearing smart short rimmed, black straw hats, suspenders, work shirts and tailored jeans- were my main subjects, for I was able to stand with them while the bidding took place.
The Mennonite women, dressed in their modest, flower print homespun dresses, lace bonnets and black sneakers, did not bid. They either ran the office, or hung back behind us, as if they held a station above or beneath their men. The children, mostly grimy faced and wide-eyed dressed in miniature mocks of their parents, mixed freely with both groups and stared at me, the Englisher.
The night of the municipal auction was really no different then the daytime produce sales. Most attendees were Mennonites and few were English, either local time-passers or dealers. I did not plan bidding, but drawn to the event for my art’s sake, I arrived maybe fifteen minutes before the auctioneer started his song.
I joined the circle of hatted men under the covered cement pavilion and they, conceding, allowed me to stand close. Aaron, the thirty-something shiny faced auctioneer seemed to grin, just slightly, when I emerged in the front row before him. Aaron's auction partner, the old man with the hook for a hand, sang “humana hum a na” the auctioneer song, into the sound system . The auction's box lots, full of automotive manuals from a vocational school, were not bringing a bid. The Mennonite men around me exclaimed in their tones of thick German accents, “Ya, just a dollar”. It seemed incredible to them these things were not bringing a bid.
The night seemed to follow a similar route of low or non bids. Items went for low prices because they were not useful to these Mennonite men. The horse and bicycle served their transportation, and many men, using rubber-less metal wheeled tractors, and not agreeing with combustion engines, electronics, nor appliances, could only sadly watch the non-sale of things they would like to have.
All the while, the men traded opinions, and I weaved in and out of their circle, pressing the top of my camera pen at waist level, catching their expressions, their postures and dress. Some men were dark and filthy, their clothes and faces stained as black as the bottoms of their bare, calloused feet. Others, like the auctioneer Aaron, were shiny pink and clean. The group Aaron stood with were the owners of the auction service. Prosperous yet compliant with their ways of Mennonite life, these sharp men, stood clean with even sharper creases in their blue pants and hats. Theses men were the Old Order of Mennonites; their bearded and mustache-less faces, separated them from Englishers who made war with long mustaches and glory in God's name..
I wished I brought a tape recorder because all of the Menonnite men’s voices and language were lyrical, unique and completely unintelligible to me and surely other Englishers. I thought I understood one conversation where the topic was another man’s wife but I didn’t strain too much for fear of being noticed.
Instead I admired the little Mennonite boy staring up at me. He was intrigued by my foreignness, or so I thought until I realized he was examining my bare tan neck and collar bone. It’s not as if I was bold in my dress. I was wearing an athletic black halter and over it a tan silk shirt, and baggy cargo pants-covering most of my skin in gear, sporty, but less flattering to my figure. I smiled and stepped back, pulling my shirt close around my neck, yet the boy, with his thumb firmly hooked in his father’s belt loop, daringly stared and allowed his eyes to roam my body, up and down and back again. Yet again I smiled with courtesy, not wanting to upset him by reacting to his shameless curiosity.
Soon the bidding was directed at a set of school pianos. Again the bidding was low, and this time, I raised my hand slightly and nodded a bid. $55.00 for an upright piano was obscene, and I knew I would kick myself if I didn’t bid and win. The same low-bidding occurred for the baby grand piano, however this time my opponents raised the line to $100.00. I hesitated when $180 and then $200 were reached.
“Come on now! I’ll buy you a hamburger if you keep on bidding,” said Aaron the auctioneer to me.
The crowd gasped at Aaron's forward remark but I didn’t hesitate, I kept bidding and won.
The auction ended near midnight. The Mennonite women and children counted the money and logged the bidders at the auction office window. The Englishers paid their bills and left the auction house loaded with their buys. The Mennonite elders gathered at the food concession to exchange last words.
I stood at the payment window with my paper bid number crumpled from nervous handling. Number 86. Aaron stood at the food line.
I paid my bill and went to Aaron. I and surly everyone else was tired.
“You don’t need to buy me the burger, just please let me know I can pickup the pianos this weekend instead of tonight,” I said.
“No Miss, I said I would get ya a hamburger and I will,” said Aaron. He was quick to move so as not be near me. Striding in black, oiled work boots, he dug into his pant pocket, pulling a shiny wallet out to pay.
Like a school girl on a first date, I stood to the side of the food booth, waited for him to buy the burger and arrange the ketchup and relish dressing.
“Ja, gettin' friendly with her are ja?” teased the line of Mennonite men at the food concession.
I was uncomfortable with the open taunts. “No really I don't need you to do that,”said I.
“Ja and I’ll get you a soda too!”said Aaron.
So the politeness was passed back and forth for a second or more.
“You are not from around here are you?” Aaron asked.
“Ja, getting friendly aren’t you Aaron?” someone else teased from the auction floor.
The auction floor was filled with noises and confusing movements. The loading carts and a Bob Cat raced across the concrete floor; all the items needed to be moved before anyone could go home.
I left the men to tease the red faced auctioneer Aaron. I would come back when they finished their work and would load the smaller items I won by myself.
“We can help you move these pianos,” said the man with the hooked hand, “we’ll just come back later and help.”
It seemed a burden, I protested to at least five or six men, smiling and shaking my head,”No”.
“I have to rent a truck,” I said again. “There's no need for help tonight.”
“Oh right then Miss, come back later,” grunted a filthy fat Mennonite man with curled, yellow toenails peaking out from under his pant cuffs.
Come back later?
I stood outside the auction house in the dark. I heard horses pawing at the gravel drive; they were anxious to go home. Many of the horse buggies were equipped with gas head lamps to light their way home, but the few horses and carts still parked at the auction house were not lit. The faint glow of the auction house lights were not enough for me to see how many people were still working the auction floor.
Knowing they were allowed to drive in cars, not own or drive them, I asked aloud to the dark if anyone needed a ride since the threat of an August lightening shower was real. It was at that moment my illicit photography was discovered.
The camera pen fell from my bag and hit the ground sending a sharp flash, taking a damning photo. The camera's light so obvious in the dark brought the fat Mennonite and few others I did not see before to my side. They stood around me and shook their heads, some disbelieving they were caught on in a digital image.
“What is this?” said the fat Mennonite.
I didn't know what to say. These men were not the same industrious unfeeling men I watched earlier. They were not caricatures of the religion I thought they should be. I was wrong to invade their world with my art and camera. I backed away from the men and felt myself pulled into the arms of the fat strong man who trapped my arms behind my back.
“Why do you come here girl?”A damp scarf, a handkerchief was wrapped tightly around my head and over my eyes.
“So you want photos do you?” In the darkness, a booming voice was joined by the others agreeing in grunts.
My shirt and halter pulled away from my body.
“Come on Aaron you started this.”
“You shouldn't have come here girl.”
I still couldn’t see any faces, but felt more hands rubbing my breasts, and another set of hands entering my pants. Calloused fingers pushed and scrapped against me. Then a fat, rough finger with sharp nails entered me. It wiggled and then scratched inside, then pushed painfully deep into my center. I cried out.
“Ah you want to cry? Ja? Oooh she’s sweet and wet.”
“Turn her around so we can have her.”
“Ja, mate her, not talk to her.”
“C'mon Aaron you first”
I felt two sets of arms lift me and carry me. I landed on what felt like grain sacks
“Give me her mouth.”
“Ja, that’s good I want her round from behind. I want it wet. You can hold her head and do as you like.”
“Aaron get over here, where are you?”
More hands fumbled with my pants, and I was naked, on my stomach, hugging the sacks of grain with my legs spread wide. My ankles were held. My wrists pulled above me. My head was carefully propped and held by more hands.
“I said get over here.”
Firm uncut skin, hair, and a sickly sour juice poked my lips.
“Open it!”
I obeyed, allowing the rough smelliness fill my mouth. The sour odor of the man's groin and hair made me choke. He punched his way into my throat, forcing his taste deeper into me. At the same time, I felt a hand and then a wrist enter me and lift me up off the grain bags.
The brutal punch of a man's hand was nothing compared to the distance the hand traveled up me; all of this happened because of the slippery wetness my betraying body created in its excitement. I cried and protested and the man in my mouth jumped and twisted, then started his rhythmic slide. In and out. I tasted the salt and dirt of the man’s hugeness. His veins were so hard, so full, as if he hadn’t released himself for years.
“Don’t use it up so soon, take your time!”
The hand inside me twisted and flexed, stirring warm cream in me. The hand and part of the arm disappeared in me and the other hand now parting my cheeks, pushed a finger coated with my own juice into my rear.
“Ah what a sweet plum! Look, look see how pink it is!” His finger deep inside from behind, pulled first to the left and then the right, and I imagined him showing the others how much I could stretch.
“She is a strong girl, she can take it.”
“You go first.”
The fingers in me quickly slipped out and I felt the head of a monstrous man push its way in. The man in my mouth slowed himself, holding his throbs moments from explosion. His hands gripped my head. My mouth was wrapped so tight around him, I squirmed to breathe. My rear cheeks spread wider to allow the other man's hugeness breathe inside me. This man grunted and humped himself around my back gripping my skin with chafed fingers. His enormous length made me arch in pain. He spat in my ears, shouting “Come, come. Reinstecken sie.”
“You be still, you are no better then a cow, be still.”
I heard the others say “Ja” in agreement and wonder. I heard the many sounds of cloth being rhythmically brushed, the sounds of the unzipping of pants and grunts of excitement.
“Everybody’s going to get a turn, right girl?”
“Where's Aaron??” I wondered.
Aaron couldn't be there because I didn't take his photo.
The pushing and groaning, the stretching and pain of men in and out of me blended into a roar of smell, sound and wetness inside and out. I couldn't hold myself to fight or resist, nor could I count how many times my body gave way to the rough passions of the men taking turns to enter me. I received their fluid, their sweat, their frustration and relief until they tired.
I couldn't tire, for each man touching me brought a new reason for my body to right the wrong of the photographs I took earlier that day.
lilikoi2@yahoo.com