There are two -- Embie and Kimberly, best friends, last seen in oversized white tee-shirts, legs bare, looking for a hiding place somewhere in the Community Center building. All the other participants had returned to the sleeping area when the horn sounded to end the game; when a head-count revealed the missing trouble-makers, David drew the short straw.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he calls softly. He opens doors and peers under furniture, looking for two supple, curved forms crammed in a tight spot. Busting these two will be fun – they’ve been mildly tormenting the male counselors during the entire retreat, coming on seductively, begging for a response from the older males. At just twenty, David’s only a little bit more than three years older than these two hard-bodied hotties; the provocation becomes personal at some point.
Light spilling from down low draws his attention. There’s a cupboard underneath a low countertop, with two doors. One door is slightly ajar, and the light is coming through the crack. David kneels down and opens the door. Inside is a low space, no more than twenty-four inches high. It’s about five feet wide, and four feet deep. Deep in the back, and fitfully illuminated by the light of a flashlight, Embie and Kimberly are hiding. They’re splashes of white, swoops and whorls really, their large tee-shirts draped over their reclining, and very female, forms. Light and shadow defining breasts and thighs, two pair of bright feral eyes shining back at him.
“What have we here,” he begins, inserting his head and shoulders, and reaching for what looks to be an ankle – he’s going to pull them both out flailing, dump them at his feet, then march them off smartly. Suddenly the two forms lunge toward him, four hands grab his shirt, and he’s the one sliding, into a tangle of limbs, knees and elbows, enveloping white cotton and smooth curvy girl-bits in the recesses of the hiding-hole.
“You’re going to get us caught, moron,” a voice says. Another voice giggles.
David is momentarily disoriented, and immobilized. “I’m supposed to bring you idiots back to the rest of the group,” he grumbles, trying to turn to a sitting position. He’s on his stomach, his head wedged against the floor of the cubby, one arm bent back at an awkward angle and the other pinned beneath something soft and warm. Taking stock for a moment, he realizes the two girls, while pulling him completely into their hiding place, didn’t know their own strength; he rocketed right to the back with them, and they’re all a-jumble. His head is jammed beneath someone’s knee, his right arm levered up over the same someone’s shoulder. The other someone is lying on his other arm, which is already going numb; he’s on top of her leg, and her other leg is draped over his back.
“This is highly inappropriate,” he thinks, remembering his position of authority. He tries to get up again, and cannot – he’s pinned and pinched, and can’t gain leverage. Trying to free his head from under someone’s knee – looking up sidewise, he can see Embie looking down at him from inches away – he slides it along the floor, ending up face to crotch with her panties, the edge of her tee-shirt draped over his head. There’s a moment of awkwardness when he realizes just how aroused he suddenly is, then he jerks his head upward, banging it against the low ceiling. Embie brings her thigh up hard, kneeing him in the side of the head. He falls to his side, his shoulder aching from the angle of his arm and unable to support him. He lands with his head on Embie’s stomach, the soft undercurve of her breasts a solid wall in his face.
“Welcome to Sardines,” Embie says, and curls her body around him, bringing her knees up toward her face. Her thighs press against the back of his head, the soft fragrant cotton of her tee-shirt in his face, and underneath that, the firm curve of her breasts. They’re magnificent, full, and self-supporting – and he realizes he can’t breath past them. Her breast are, pressing the tee-shirt over his entire face and blocking his air. He pulls back – but can’t, with her thighs trapping his head against her. He tries to get his knees under him and pull out, but Kimberly’s thighs, until now draped over him, suddenly fasten around him, holding him in place with surprising, painful pressure. She braces her feet against the side of the cubby, locking his body in place between her thighs. Her muscles are rock-hard, her ankles locked together. Even her calves are clenched and hard.
“I’ve always wondered how hard I could squeeze someone,” she murmurs to Embie, almost apologetically.
“That’s funny – I’ve always wondered if I could boob-smother someone,” Embie says. She hooks her arms behind her knees, pulling David’s head firmly into the curvature of her stomach, between her breasts and her knees.
David’s struggles become more frantic, his muffled cries desperate as he turns his head looking for air, but finding only enveloping curves. Embie uncurls a little, just enough for him to catch a breath. His head lies full-weight on her stomach as he gasps for air, trying to draw a lung-full past the pressure from Kimberly’s still-constricting thighs. “I thought you liked boobs,” Embie says. “Lord knows you stare at them enough.” Then she tightens herself around him again, forcing his face under the full curve of her breasts. Kimberly giggles as he thrashes about ineffectually in their embrace.
Again they wait for his movement to become desperate before releasing their holds just a little. Again, he lies there panting, drool leaking out of his mouth onto Embie’s tee-shirt. As if on a signal, they tighten up once again, beginning another round of helpless struggling for air on their prisoner’s part. “I never though Sardines could be this much fun,” Kimberly whispers.
They release again. Embie ever the limber dancer, brings her left leg up, sliding her foot over his neck and capturing his neck in the soft bend of her knee. She hooks her left foot under her right knee, locking him in. David greedily sucks in great draughts of air; “that’s enough,” Embie says; “give ‘im another squeeze”. Kimberly takes a breath, locks her ankles and levers her powerful thighs together, twisting her hips to the left – just as far as the cubby will allow – for good measure. David gasps as the sudden torque increases the crushing pressure around his body, and finds he is unable to inhale past Kimberly’s lethally constricting legs.
His mouth works like a fish out of water, and he sags. Kimberly releases him, just a little; he takes a breath, and she bears down again, grinding his body between thighs gone rock-solid, every muscle hard.
Embie chooses this moment tighten her calf against her thigh, trapping his head in a velvety vice; she rolls her hips to the left, twisting their victim at the waist like a towel being rung out. He moans, one hand pushing futilely at Kimberly’s sculpted thigh, the other pulling ineffectually at Embie’s clenched calf. “I wonder if we could twist him apart like taffy?” Embie says, and the two girls redouble their turning, vying to see where their plaything will come apart.
Suddenly his hand finds Kimberly’s throat in the darkness, and closes around it. She gasps, reflexively jerking away as she grabs at this wrist. Beneath her thigh, she feels something give inside him. “Kim? What’s wrong?” Embie says, directing the flashlight at her just as David’s grip loosens and he arches his back in an effort to escape the vise of Kimberly’s thighs around him; his head slips from the crook of Embie’s knee, sliding along her leg to be trapped against the soft mound between her thighs. Only the thin fabric of her panties separates his face from her most intimate softness. Embie gasps at the contact, snapping her legs tightly around his head, inadvertently trapping him against her yielding womanhood. Smothering again, he panics anew, jerking and thrashing as both girls bear down on him. A profound, shuddering moan escapes from Embie, surprising her with its intensity as much as it does Kimberly. David’s stiffens for a long moment, and then he falls limp. Kimberly releases her legs from around him, still maintaining her hold on his wrist.
“What just happened?” Kimberly says.
“I’ve discovered a new game we can play with him,” Embie whispers. “And you’re going to really like it.”
David regains consciousness to find his head lying on a smooth, velvety thigh. Another thigh lies heavily across his head. He’s twisted and bent double, barely able to move, and a second pair of strong legs circle his body, pinning his arms. “Are you awake?” It’s Embie’s voice, muffled by Kimberly’s powerful thighs holding his head firmly in place. “I can’t squeeze you like Kim can, but there’s something else I can do.” He gasps as he feels a hand slip inside his pants; he cringes when the hand closes gently around his testicles, cupping them; and as the hand closes slowly and agonizingly around them, sending pulsing waves of pain through his torso, his frantic efforts to escape drive him hard against Kimberly’s silk-covered sexual mound. Kimberly gasps at the contact, her quick intake of breath turning into a drawn-out sigh as she closes her thighs around his head and turns her hips toward the floor, trapping his face against her as she grinds herself down onto him, finding just the right angle at which to smother him, the right spot against which to push. . . his hands come up against Embie’s flanks, his feet drumming against the plywood walls of their hideaway, as Embie chews away at him with her legs while she almost tenderly rolls his balls in the palm of her hand, and Kimberly rhythmically grinds her newly alive womanhood against him.
Finally he goes limp, again. Kimberly continues to press herself urgently against his face, finally tensing her entire body as a wave of sensation washes over her. She rolls herself off his face, smiling in the darkness. They’re rewarded with a shuddering sigh from the still form of their captive as he breaths again.
“My turn,” Embie says, reaching for his hair. “Send him over to me.”
“This is a great game,” Kimberly says as she pushes his flaccid form into Embie’s arms. “But I don’t think he’s enjoying it as much as we are.” Her words are corroborated as he comes back to consciousness, his scream cut short only as Embie pulls his face into her eagerly awaiting, enveloping softness. Kimberly, draped over his back, holding his arms behind him and driving herself down on his pinioned wrists, is as surprised by her own orgasm as Embie is. David continues to struggle – they’ve been at this game for a long time, they’re tired, and he keeps slipping back from Embie’s womanhood, gaining just enough respite to draw breath. His fingers, writhing between Kimberly’s thighs, start her back on the road to climax. “Not fair,” Kimberly thinks regretfully, and lifts his arms as far as the low ceiling will allow, driving him down into her friend; in the dim light from the flash, he seems to disappear into her, half his face buried in the dimpled fabric of her panties; it’s as if he’s being swallowed alive. Embie draws her knees up and turns on her side, then extends her legs behind his head, locks her ankles and squeezes for all she is worth. Kimberly slides off his body as he rolls, leans back and traps his arms between her thighs, levering him harder into Embie’s body. There is a moment of supreme tension, all three bodies straining, and then Embie shudders again, a long keening cry escaping her; Kimberly is surprised as she climaxes yet again just as David’s arms break loose from his shoulders with a sickening wet sound; and David falls limp.
“Don’t let go,” Kimberly hisses. “I broke him – he’s not much good to us any more.” Embie nods in the darkness, holding his face against her, absently grinding her hips and hoping for one last go; but after several minutes there’s no response from either her loins or their late plaything.
Embie and Kimberly finally emerge from their hiding place, not surprised to see sunlight peeking in under the window blinds. “What a night,” Kimberly says. She straightens her back, carefully stretching limbs that have been curled and straining for a long time.
“I’ll say,” Embie responds, standing shakily. “Sardines is quite a game. Although . . . ” she looks back in the direction of the cubbyhole . . . “it is a little hard on whoever is ‘it’.”
Cross-posted a bit.