---------------------------------------------------------------
Visit me at: http://home.earthlink.net/~roller666/index.html
---------------------------------------------------------------
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
BOTTOMS IN BONDAGE
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Chapter Two
With risen nipples we listened as Pamela outlined how we must
behave. We should do as we were told, she said, at all times. Though if
we misbehaved that was not entirely unwelcome, for it would merit
punishment. ÒBut you will be handled like sex slaves in any event, so do
not incur anything extra that you can avoid,Ó mistress advised. ÒPay
attention to your masterÕs requests, and remember that every man is your
master; though you belong, in the end, of course, to he who brought you.
ÒIn a minute I shall have us dress,Ó mistress concluded. ÒIn special
costumes. We must be very dainty and elegant for the men.Ó
ÒBut my husband said we would be treated roughly,Ó the girl with
tight-pulled panties piped up. ÒI think we should all wear boots, and thick
pants, like Levis or something --Ó
Mistress laughed. ÒFor a tea party? How long have you been
married, dear?Ó
ÒJust two days ago,Ó she said.
ÒAh! Then this is your honeymoon?Ó Mistress asked.
ÒYes, my husband took my virginity the night we married, breaking
my hymen, but he did nothing else. He insisted he must not cum until the
party. Yesterday he let me rest all day, MADE me rest. He treated me with
breakfast in bed, and lunch and dinner too, spoon feeding it to me. But he
didnÕt touch me, and insisted I must not touch myself either.Ó She
squirmed in her chair as she spoke this, her hands, under the table, no
doubt flirting with the thought of diving into her panties.
ÒThen you are ready to be spermed?Ó Mistress asked.
ÒI guess so,Ó the new wife replied, her voice trailing off. ÒI mean,
itÕs part of marriage and everything --Ó She seemed to want to say more,
but mistress cut her off.
ÒNow girls, for everyoneÕs protection we are going to make up names
for ourselves. After all, youÕll all be dignified ladies of society, given the
wealth your husbands have. So think up a name, then tell us where youÕre
from, and your new, pretend name.Ó
Flustered, we looked at each other. One girl whispered to another. I
myself couldnÕt think what to call myself except ÒLisa.Ó IÕd always been
Lisa. Any other name would be somehow out of place.
ÒWell, IÕm Kitty, and IÕm from California,Ó a girl with voluptuous
bosoms announced boldly. She had beautiful big breasts, the kind you see
in sex magazines devoted just to that subject. She seemed ready to go
with whatever tonightÕs game would require. As she spoke her tongue
darted across the upper lip of her mouth.
ÒVery good, since youÕll be wearing a pet collar soon,Ó mistress
complimented Kitty. ÒAnd you?Ó
ÒIÕm Linda,Ó The newlywed wife with the pulled-up panties, safe but
yearning inside them, replied.
ÒRose,Ó my innocent companion replied. ÒBecause IÕm an anal virgin
and my master promised me heÕd have all the men take turns popping my
cherry. I donÕt really want it popped, but I did like the idea of having a
party...Ó
ÒAnd where are you from?Ó mistress interrupted.
ÒIdaho,Ó Rose replied. Somehow weÕd forgotten LindaÕs to obtain
LindaÕs origins, I realized. But it didnÕt seem to really matter. Mistress
turned brightly to me.
ÒAnd you, Lisa?Ó She flinched. ÒOh, my! IÕve given your name away!Ó
I sensed I was somehow special to her, perhaps because I was the
youngest. She was already planning to take special pains with me. So she
had been thinking of me, and my name just popped out.
ÒItÕs okay,Ó I replied. ÒIÕm Lisa, but donÕt tell anyone. ÔCause IÕve
run away from home.Ó
ÒWell, IÕm Sandra,Ó mistress said. ÒYou must call me ÔmistressÕ
though, when we are playing. ItÕs all a game, you know, and IÕm in charge
of making sure that pretenses are properly kept up.Ó
ÒWill the, uh, fucking and stuff be just pretend, too?Ó Linda asked
hopefully.
ÒNo, dear,Ó mistress assured her. She seemed to savor LindaÕs
reluctance. Her eyes lingered on the anxious girl, sizing her up. She had a
body made for sex; perfect bosoms, a small bottom (she was so thin I
knew it must be so, though IÕd seen it not). And I guessed her pussy must
be tight as a vise. Untried, save once on her bridal night for the sake of
formality. And there were at least two others of us who were equally
tight; myself and Rose. I trembled. Just opening us would be rough sex
enough; I prayed Master would spare me any further events. Let Miss
Bosoms enjoy them. She seemed tailor made for naughty sex. There was a
wild, wanton look in her eyes. As if she would not hesitate to devour us
all if ordered to.
ÒLetÕs get dressed next,Ó mistress said, rising from her chair. Our
bosoms bounced as we stood with her. Already we were obedient. We
were too willing, I thought. We should resist more. Yet I did not want to
defy my newfound master. So I trailed along with the other girls as
mistress led us into a bedroom.
Ah! My heart missed a beat as I saw a bridal bed mistress had
prepared in her husbandÕs room. In his masterÕs chamber. Where he slept
with his young wife, and fucked her as he pleased, she willingly receiving
him, even encouraging him.
The bed was white, with a canopy. But the bed-drapes had been
pulled back, showing fluffy pillows and smooth, crisp sheets. The end of a
rope trailed from beneath one of the pillows. I guessed more was coiled
underneath, waiting for a sadist. Above the bed a whip hung, a Òtraining
whip,Ó mistress called it. It was small yet seemed quite menacing
hanging there, its tail curled up neatly, looped over a peg by some well-
whipped wife.
Beside the bed mistress had prepared a flower vase. It held an array
of colored condoms. It was not, I noted to myself, something one could get
by calling 1-800-FLOWERS. Mistress had done it herself, making the
condoms resemble daisies and roses, arranging them carefully. The men, I
imagined, would just grab the nearest one and yank it on, oblivious to all
but the pussy before him. Yet we girls glided over to it and inspected it,
complimented mistress on her handiwork.
On the same convenient bedside nightstand, arranged around the
vase, were vials of lubricant. Different flavors, and some with unusual
properties. Some to make the genitals burn with warmth, others to cool
and soothe them. And there were dildos too, looking like big rockets on
the nightstand, for when the men at last flagged in their strength, yet
wanted to continue fucking.
Like the room weÕd just left, I noticed (for the first time, really, in
regards to both rooms) that all was reflected by mirrors. There were
mirrors on the walls, and above the bed, on the ceiling. Everything that
transpired would be easily seen by all who cared to watch, no matter the
angle of view. I looked at myself and admired my reflection. My eyes
inspected the other girls, they me. Somehow it was easier to stare at one
another through the reflection on a mirror, rather than looking directly.
We gazed a long time at each other, then mugged for each other, making
faces, and mooned each other with our bottoms. Even Linda felt inspired
to yank down her undies and show us her pumpkin. It was as little as I
thought it would be, yet well shaped, with high, thrusting cheeks, still
girlish in their demeanor, teasing. KittyÕs by contrast, was full and
womanly, the cheeks well-fatted, ready for child bearing. MistressÕ
seemed in-between, a trace of slim girlishness still shaping her hinds,
though another year or two might give her fuller hips.
Rose and myself presented ours together, our hips bumping
awkwardly. We giggled, our asses twin monuments to girl puppyflesh. We
had the sort of bottoms you see at WaterWorld, sliding gaily down the
SluiceSlide. Nicely developed hips with childish bottoms, luringly jiggly,
sweet and firm and round. First bikini bottoms, the kind that make young
girls put away their one-piece forever and don two instead.
ÒEnough, girls!Ó Mistress interrupted. I think we would have happily
mooned each other all day. Carefree, naked, girls at a slumber party.
Mistress stopped us when we began cutting pretend farts at each other.
ÒWe must dress,Ó Mistress said. By now we were without even our
panties, having flung them at each other as we grew wilder in our play.
Nude, shivering a little with apprehension, we watched as mistress got
our clothes from an armoire and laid them out on the bed.
Like Linda, I thought we would put on clothes that covered our
privates, to be undressed later by our masters. Alas, it was not to be.
Mistress gave us each special things, and as I got into mine I realized IÕd
be without panties.
Linda must have been struck by the same thought just then, for she
announced, ÒMaÕam! I must have panties!Ó She was wearing a camisole,
lacing it tightly over her bosoms, her belly button twinkling just below it.
A garter belt enclosed her waist, where they merged into her flared hips.
Her new stockings, white and tightly drawn, were secured by the slimmest
of garter straps. Booties encased her feet, shiny and white and made of
patent leather.
ÒDarling, darling, your husband has already seen your bosoms,Ó
mistress purred disapprovingly. She got her fingers in amongst LindaÕs
own and promptly untied what Linda had just concealed.
ÒBut the other men havenÕt seen my boobs,Ó Linda whined as her
charms spilled forth, white-fleshed and ruby-nippled.
ÒWell they are going to, dear. What sort of party do you think this
is? Do you think we shall all sit around and play Monopoly?Ó
ÒWell, I know my husband must sperm me, but --Ó Linda began, with
a sideways glance at mistressÕ lovely matrimonial bed. I realized then
that even here privacy would not be assured. We might be fucked by our
husbands in plain view of everyone, perhaps myself with Rose beside me,
our lovers taking turns between us. I felt butterflies in my stomach then.
This party was going to be about Sex, raw sex, and we would be sex
objects, nothing else. We would be in the altogether mostly, I suspected,
despite the pretty costumes we were putting on now. They were just that,
a put-on, without cumbersome bras or annoyingly concealing panties. They
were clothes that men liked. ÒEasy accessÓ clothes, though they might
find myself and Rose a bit less easy when it came to getting themselves
up us. And Linda too, poor Linda, so very church-going and proper in her
attitude, even now as she stood before us with opened camisole, the laces
undone, showing her titties. She was half-undone, actually, which was
worse, for the partly untied cami squeezed her breasts from below,
forcing the bared nipples to protrude most lewdly, like fat cowÕs udders.
Mistress slapped a broad-brimmed hat on the girl, made of straw, tightly
woven, with a pretty ribbon round it where it curved over the top of her
head. And, just for good measure, to make Linda quite formal indeed, she
had her don white gloves. They were made of woven lace, and you could
see her skin beneath, yet they looked quite right on her, as if she were off
to the Kentucky Derby. Each glove was bound at the wrist by a tight,
decorative band of white thread, cinching it there, then flared out another
half inch, ending in a frilly raggedness, as if hastily cut from longer
fabric.
Lastly mistress gave Linda a parasol, to shade her frail frame from
the sun, or perhaps to ward off a little rain. It was made of the same
white silk as her camisole, more decorative than serviceable. No
Englishwoman would have even considered taking it outdoors, so flimsy
was the parasolÕs covering. But Linda seemed quite impressed with it, and
twirled it around, over her head. She practised standing under it and then
cocking it back over her shoulder.
ÒI shall have to walk with this down in front of me,Ó Linda
announced, lowering the parasol to shield her pussy from our gaze.
ÒAnd what about your nude bottom, hmmm?Ó Mistress asked. Linda
considered this a moment, reached back behind her heinie with her free
hand. We burst out laughing. She looked like a boy with a smarting
bottom, holding his hinds as he rushed from some punishment, the parasol
in front looking for all the world like some ersatz penis. Linda blushed,
put the parasol back over her head, and let go of her behind. Nervously she
arranged the ends of her blonde mane, found it too short to cover her
titties.
ÒOh, my,Ó Linda lamented. Even her breasts would have to show,
absent a tied-up camisole. ÒNow I know why my husband made me cut my
hair!Ó Mistress laughed. We giggled, our own apprehension showing in our
amusement at LindaÕs predicament. Yes, it would be with bared bottoms
and pussies that we would meet our masters, I realized. This was not a
tiddly-winks sort of sex party, like IÕd read about in Seventeen, where
girls arrive clothed and eventually get undressed by their boyfriends. We
would be unclothed despite our elaborate costumes. Naked where we
should be covered, would be covered, even by something as simple as a
bikini; and covered where we hadnÕt even thought it necessary, as with
gloves and the shielding of pointless parasols.
Mistress herself was allowed more leeway in her attire. She put on
a lovely pastel pink cocktail dress that covered her from her shoulders to
her thighs. It had an abundance of pink ruffles around her upper arms, huge
billowing close-piled ruffles. Below them her arms were bare. But the
dress came with mittenless gloves that mistress slid up her arms,
covering them. The glove-sleeves merged into the ruffles, leaving, at
last, only her hands bare. The pink of mistressÕ fingernails matched the
color of her dress exactly.
Mistress asked me to button her dress up in back, and I did so. The
pink dress had a white sash around its middle, prettily embroidered, above
that were many buttons, too many, each made of pearl. The pearls were
cultured ones, and still round. A little pink loop of thread had to be put
over each pearl. I worked with a delicate touch, not wanting to miss any
of the pearls, yet at the same time grumbling to myself that the dress
was so unbelievably dainty. Finally I got all 9,000 buttons (or so it
seemed!) closed. Then mistress surprised me.
ÒTuck up my dress in back, dear,Ó she told me. Shove it up under my
sash until my bottom shows. You can let it hang down over either cheek,
but make sure the crack shows completely, o.k.? The full length of it,
hiding nothing. I did as she commanded, with a sinking feeling, knowing
we were all going to look like very high-priced whores. And men just love
to fuck whores. They are made for fucking, and nothing else. Not
conversation (though there may be a little of that, as a preliminary), and
not kissing either (though it may happen). They are made for a man to rut
in, despite their glamourous clothes, their killer hair, their nails and
stockings. To rut in again and again until he has spent himself completely.
Emptied himself. Then they are dismissed as so much out-of-date chattel,
and must find another man for themselves if they wish to have one.
Desperately I hoped my master wouldnÕt treat me that way. To fuck me,
and dump me? Surely not. But the other men, they would fuck me, and I
would not see them again, I guessed. They would use me like a pretty doll,
then discard me.
I stepped round in front of mistress, having bared her bottom in
back. Her bosoms shifted beneath the opaque fabric of her dress. Like the
rest of us, she wore no bra and no panties, usually the most essential
elements for any girl getting dressed. I could just make out the red hue of
her nipples beneath the dress. Where the stems rose they made inviting
little tents in the fabric. I almost thought they might rip it, so delicate
was the material. The dress itself seemed to have been specially cut for a
party such as ours, for it swooped down low, baring the upper curves of
mistressÕ bosoms. Perhaps, I guessed, it was made to have a bra or other
garment underneath (though the bra cups would have risen well above the
dressÕ scalloped neckline.) Mistress seemed pleased, though, primping in
the mirror. She had long sheer stockings on, made of beige nylon. Bands in
the stockings, sheer as the stockings they were a part of, held them aloft
round the tops of her thighs. Mistress pulled one down a little, showing a
little more thigh, left the other tightly drawn, concealing all but the last
sweet inch of her leg, where it merged with her pussy. The lowered
stocking gave her a slightly disheveled look, as if sheÕd been caught not
quite dressed. (Which the men would certainly see, the moment she turned
round and showed them her bottom.) But her hair was impeccable, every
strand combed neatly now as she stood before the mirror, admiring
herself, being admired by all of us. She wore pumps with little loops
round the ankles, loops that sheÕd carefully tied, ribbon-loops whose ends
dangled down in long strands toward the floor. The slightest walk down
the street and they would surely be soiled. Yet they were perfect now, and
I doubted they would ever touch a public sidewalk. They might be seen Òin
public,Ó surely, as her bottom no doubt would be, but it would be a
selected public, strangers sheÕd agreed to meet sight-unseen and show
herself off to, whoÕd made prior arrangements.
I myself was half-dressed. I was assigned leather chaps, which IÕd
put my legs into, just fitting the leg-sleeves. Each was draped in front
with a second layer of leather, fringed, so that if I put my feet together it
looked like I might be wearing a dress, one so long it covered me right
down to my toes. Of course, a quick glance at my crotch showed I had,
indeed, chaps, which offered my pussy no covering whatsoever. My fleecy
pubic mound stared back at me from a mirror, my most private part
utterly revealed. Yet the chaps had not only fringe but indian feathers,
hanging down the outside of my trousered legs, with white cotton-
puffballs, and large steel sequins, in the shape of oval sheriffÕs badges.
Elaborate decoration, painstakingly done, yet my pubic mound remained
bare. In back, of course, my bottom showed, bulging out without any
covering at all. Above it my back arched high, finally meeting the soft
curls of my blonde mane where it tumbled down over my shoulders.
I wore boots also, white patent leather ones, with much elegant
tooling worked into the leather. Useless decoration again, for most of
each boot was covered by my chaps! A cowboy hat complemented my
attire, a broad-brimmed sombrero-like hat, with an elegant leather band
round its crown. Yet, there was a final item waiting for me on the bed --
a bra! I had to be buckled into it, and mistress helped me. The cups proved
too small, despite my youth, leaving my areolas peeking temptingly out
over its top, my nipples threatening to pop from the cups any moment. The
bra itself was sewn shut in back. I had to put it on as one does a vest. In
front, the twin straps that mounted my shoulders ended without reaching
the cups. But buckles, saving me, rose up from the cups, waiting to
receive the strap-tongues hanging down. Mistress buckled each belt-like
strap into its buckle, and at last I was done. I turned, regarded myself in
the mirror. The tops of my twin areolas still showed. My bosoms, too big
for the cups, bulged within them. I looked like I might burst forth any
time, which no doubt would greatly amuse the men. I vowed to move
gracefully and avoid breathing deeply. I was the only girl with a bra, and I
wanted to keep mine on as long as I could.
Rose got to keep her pretty bolero. Mistress pressed it for her on an
ironing board that stood helpfully in the corner. No doubt someone would
put it away once the party began. Clothes were intended to be wrinkled
then, not preserved. But for now it must be very crisp and neat, and
mistress made sure it was. Rose put it back on. It fit her like a vest, yet
had a high collar that enclosed her neck. Sleeves ran down to just below
her elbows, leaving her forearms bare, as well as her hands. The bolero
had buttons, but mistress scissored these off before giving the garment
back to Rose. Now it was for decoration only, and hung prettily alongside
her breasts, wanting to hug them but unable to.
Rose looked down at herself. Her cleavage jutted out youthfully, her
firm, high breasts each topped by an obviously excited nipple. Rose was
ready for fucking, in her nipplesÕ estimation, whether she wanted it or not.
Boots were given to her, knee-high boots of blue leather, to match the blue
colors in her bolero. And she was given fingerless white mitten-gloves,
to match the white colors in her bolero. She went hatless, though, unlike
myself and Linda.
ÒMistress, may I please have a hat?Ó Rose asked Sandy. I smiled to
myself. She was so innocent! Even more than me. Bereft of panties,
without any bra, she asked for a hat. As if she did not know yet the effect
her lovely, naked figure would have on the rough men that would greet us.
Like some little nymph, captured, she yearned yet for the flowers sheÕd
picked, or her little pet squirrels, even as a God stole her away from her
forest playground for remorseless fucking. With big doe eyes she pleaded
for a hat until mistress, finally relenting, pleased her with an
unauthorized one taken from her closet. It was big and round, and shaded
her face, and made of black straw.
ÒYour master will punish you for wearing something he didnÕt
prescribe,Ó Mistress said. Even as she issued her warning she adorned the
girlÕs new hat with fresh-cut flowers. SheÕd taken them from a vase on
the dresser, depriving the vase but making Rose all the more adorable. She
poked them into the girlÕs hat band. They were roses, with thorns still on
the stems.
ÒI want a hat. I like my hat,Ó was RoseÕs only reply. She pirouetted
in the mirror, admiring the roses, the blackness of the silk, worrying
aloud a little about the thorns.
ÒA few thorns wonÕt hurt you,Ó Mistress replied. ÒSo long as you
donÕt sit on your hat. You werenÕt planning to do that, were you?Ó
ÒOh, no!Ó Rose replied. ÒItÕs very pretty. IÕd hate to see it ruined.Ó
Kitty was last to dress. She seemed not to want clothes. Mistress
had to order her into them. In the event, they amounted to very little.
There was a vest, made of leather, raw leather like a car shammy. It hung
from her shoulders by spaghetti-thin cords of leather. She pushed the
straps as far as she could to the end of her shoulders, not wanting them.
Beaded straps, intended to hold up her vest along with the leather ones,
fell away on either side, looping nothing more than her upper arms. In
front, ties made of leather were intended to be used to close the vest over
her bosoms. But the vest proved to hang so low that it would have not
covered her nipples, only the lower curves of her jutting breasts. Kitty,
disdainfully, knotted the ties in such a loose manner that they didnÕt even
draw the halves of the vest nearer each other. And she only did the lower
two ties, leaving the upper two completely undone. The poor vest, half-
abandoned, fell away on either side of her boobs, actually folding down
over itself, where the untied ties dangled uselessly down to her hips. Her
gently-swelling belly, framed by the abandoned ties, looked all the more
inviting, begging to be impregnated. Her mound was bare, her thighs all
bare, but round her calves mistress now carefully wrapped homemade-
boots. They were unique; moccasins with elevated heels that had to be
wrapped round the legs in order to fit securely. Kitty fretted, not wanting
them, watched as mistress put her into them all the same. When mistress
was finally done Kitty looked rather like a twin-legged mummy below the
knees. She strode back and forth in front of the bed, trying out her new
boots. Her master knew her well. She was encased in them, would not be
able to remove them even if she wanted to. For, behind each bare knee,
where the boot ended, mistress had fastened the wrapped leggings with a
tiny lock. Only KittyÕs master would be able to remove the boots.
ÒOh, please! CanÕt you unlock these silly things?Ó Kitty complained.
She stomped in her boots, impatient with them, as if they blocked her
pussy or her pee-hole.
ÒMy dear, this is not an ordinary party, as I keep reminding you
girls,Ó Mistress tutted at Kitty. ÒI do not have the key. Only your master
has the key. I could not unlace you from your boots even if I wanted to.Ó
ÒOh, my!Ó Kitty exclaimed. ÒI cannot even take a bath, being stuck in
these things! They would shrink horribly, and bind my legs like the Devil
himself.Ó
ÒIÕm sure thatÕs why your master chose them,Ó mistress replied. A
shiver ran through us all then, for the boots were the first real evidence
that we were prisoners here; of our own device, surely, but prisoners all
the same. And more imprisoned every minute, it seemed.
30
----------------------- Dreamgirls! -----------------------
-----Back issues (and stories): http://www.dejanews.com/
Click on ÒPower SearchÓ in the middle of the screen.
Change ÒstandardÓ archive to ÒcompleteÓ archive.
Type: roller666@earthlink.net into the ÒPower SearchÓ box.
Click on ÒFindÓ (the button to the right of the box).
-----Other providers:
Usenet Newsgroup: alt.sex.stories.moderated
Or via the Web:
http://www.eroticstories.com
http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/
-----Great books by David Hamilton: The Age of Innocence, A Place
in the Sun, Twenty Five Years of an Artist. By Jock Sturges:
Radiant Identities Need a book? http://www.amazon.com
-----Great sites:
http://www.nambla.org
http://www.AlessandraSmile.com
-Naughty Naked Dreamgirls (Library of Congress ISSN: 1070-1427) is
copyright 1998 and a trademark of Andrew Roller. Work by others
copyright 1998 by the respective copyright holder.
-END OF story EMISSION