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AuthorÕs Note
The Terminator came to James Cameron in a dream. He saw the
broken robot pulling itself along a conveyor belt and two blockbuster
films were the result. This story has a similar genesis. Will we soon be
watching the subjects of my dream at the local theatre?
Andrew Roller Presents
CHERRY VALLEY
IÕm exhausted. I came to save the Amazon and itÕs killing me. Our
whole team has been wiped out. I never thought Jane Wilson-Davidson
would succumb, but she died yesterday. Sweat is pouring off me, as if IÕm
melting in the heat. I can feel my chest heaving, as if itÕs going to explode
or cave in any moment. My heart is pounding with my effort to survive.
I can barely walk. I stumble. At night the fog moves in and the heat
becomes a cold, still shroud, damp and clinging, like wet earth closing in
on me.
Flies buzz about my head. I bat them away but they come back,
always, little vultures trying to prey on me before IÕm even dead.
Oh God, why did I leave my wife and kids and comfortable suburban
life to come on this mission? Misguided generosity, thatÕs what it was.
It wasnÕt enough for me to just give to some charity, I had to come and see
for myself.
IÕm a writer. I know what youÕre thinking, ÒOh god, not another
fucking book by some writer.Ó I jot down these notes as they come to me,
as a warning. Am I even writing? The paper in my notebook is wet from
my sweat. The letters rub off on the side of my hand as I write them,
smearing the ink. A curse of being left-handed.
Why bother to write? IÕll just talk out loud to myself, no one will
ever read what I write anyway.
ÒDonÕt be a moron. DonÕt come to these damn cursed places that you
read about in magazines, thinking that you can help. You canÕt. YouÕre not
built for them.Ó
What I would do right now for a cheeseburger. For a drink of water.
I ran out of water three hours ago. My thirst is killing me. I let the sweat
drip into my mouth but itÕs salty and that makes me thirstier.
IÕll never see my wife again. My kids will grow up fatherless. I
should never have had an affair with Jane. Is that why my kids will be
orphans, because I couldnÕt keep my dick in my pants? I guess I had a
thing for strong, assertive women. Jane always knew what to do, or
seemed to. She told me everything would be alright. She said we wouldnÕt
get lost. When we did, she said weÕd find our way again. When we didnÕt,
she said she knew a way out. All the while the jungle kept eating us. Now
there is only me.
IÕve fallen and I canÕt get up. Ha ha an old commercial. ItÕs true.
The plants seem bigger now. IÕve never seen vines this thick, leaves this
broad. The flowers are spectacular. They would put our mall garden shops
to shame.
Somehow I survived the night. My matches are too wet and soggy
from my sweat to start a fire. IÕm waiting for the sun to warm the
undergrowth. IÕm shivering... soon IÕll be melting again. The plants are
unbelievable. ThereÕs a vine thicker than any rope. ItÕs as wide as I am.
God, the flowers. IÕm enveloped in their scent. TheyÕre huge. Fags
would love this place, if they didnÕt die getting here. I canÕt go on, or I
wouldnÕt be able to, except for the beauty of the flowers. Where did all
these fucking flowers come from, anyway? The verdant desolation of the
jungle has given way to a veritable garden show.
It is a day later. IÕm still walking, impressed by the Victory Garden
that surrounds me. Yes, IÕm still capable of enjoying beauty, even as it
kills me. I hear a stream gurgling. Water! I rush toward it. I fall
headlong into it. I drink. I consume. The prey becomes, for just a
moment, the predator, of water anyway.
Refreshed, I stand up. The flies are gone. I havenÕt been bothered by
them in several days now. The flowers are gorgeous and overwhelming.
IÕm going to follow this stream. Who am I talking to, anyway? I feel like
some denizen of Star Trek reporting to his ship. Following the stream,
captain. Sure to find a beautiful woman before the commercial break,
based on a scientific analysis of past episodes.
I see a girl. Amazing. I think of women, and a female appears. She
reminds me of my daughter. About nine, long hair. Am I dreaming this?
She looks odd. SheÕs dressed so fetchingly. A tiny bikini and long boots,
tied with ribbons just below her knees. She has such lovely long legs.
God, IÕm admiring the legs of a girl in elementary school! I must be going
mad. I need treatment. SheÕs got on the most elegant opera-length gloves,
tied, like her boots, just below the place where her limbs bend, in this
case her elbows.
Such delicious breasts. Just starting to grow, pushing outward on
her flimsy little breasts, like sweet pomegranates sprouting on a tree.
She brushes back her hair. She sees me. SheÕs gone.
I cry out. Such beauty, vanished!
ÒCome back, little girl!Ó I cry. But of course she could never have
existed. ItÕs my delirious mind. Her bikini was white, on sun-kissed
flesh. She was thin as a rail, almost malnourished looking, but her
breasts belied her thinness, for they were fat with the promise of a good
diet. Her hips had a gentle flair to them, developing almost a little early,
again a sign of a proper number of meals per day. And her bottom, as she
turned and slipped away into the jungle, was high and firm, tight and
beckoning, a ripe pair of apples or perhaps a small pumpkin, waiting to be
split.
I am insane. There is no question of it. IÕm sick, dreaming of little
girls decked out like sluts in Diamonds are Forever.
Oh no. I see her again. SheÕs peeking out at me. No, this oneÕs a
brunette. Her hairÕs in pigtails. My dream is getting more demented. She
disappears. Thank God. Perhaps as I breathe my last IÕm returning to
normal.
I must think of my wife. That will make my visions go away.
Oh, shit! Now I see a girl who canÕt be more than six. SheÕs dressed
in a Bond-babe bikini just like the other girls. She steps out at me from
behind a flower. She smiles. She walks toward me with a big acorn
poised in her hands like some primitive bucket, as if to draw water from
the river.
ÒHi!Ó she says. She speaks. I dare not answer. I wish I could blend
into the jungle like her sisters did. ÒWhatÕs your name?Ó she asks. I say
nothing. I stare at her, sweat streaming off me, and itÕs not terribly hot
yet, at least not from the sun. My embarrassment at my craziness is
making me sweat. Why couldnÕt I at least dream of June in my final
moments? Maybe she was a liar, but at least she didnÕt make me feel like
a pervert. Besides, I like strong women. This little waif looks like sheÕd
let me lead her anywhere I chose to. Such sweetness! And such a sexy
bikini!
ÒI donÕt have a name,Ó I tell her. ÒGo away.Ó I think it will make her
disappear but instead she draws closer to me, splashing into the river, and
says,
ÒWhy donÕt you have a name?Ó The bikini-clad apparition is
questioning with me! She frowns.
ÒI donÕt have a name because youÕre not here,Ó I tell her. She frowns
more deeply. She reaches out at me! I feel her touch. Light, soft, like a
leaf falling delicately to the jungle floor. I leap back. She leaps back too,
startled at my reaction.
ÒMy nameÕs Katy!Ó she tells me proudly.
ÒI--Ó words fail me. I collapse into the river. IÕve had enough. I
wait for her to vanish but she doesnÕt.
ÒWhatÕs your name?Ó she asks me, her voice sweetly insistent. I
surrender to my insanity.
ÒDick,Ó I tell her. She giggles. A guilty look comes to her face.
ÒLIke in the story!Ó she cries. She turns and calls out. ÒDickÕs here!Ó she
says. I canÕt believe what IÕm seeing. Two little girls pop out of the
underbrush, from behind some flowers. They are the two girls I saw
before, one blonde, with long hair, the other a brunette with pigtails. Both
are still wearing their white bikinis on their slender elfin bodies, their
succulent little titties jutting in their tops, their eyes wide and glowing
with delight.
ÒHi Dick,Ó the oldest one, the blonde, says to me. She must be about
ten. She reaches out and grasps my hand, gently, lovingly. Her hand looks
small in my big sweaty palm. I sit there for several minutes just staring
at her, she gazing back at me, the little six-year-old dancing about in the
water now, splashing me playfully. IÕm too tired to resist this fantasy
any more. I let the water hit me, telling myself none of this is happening.
The brunette comes close and puts her face against mine, after staring at
me for awhile. I feel her twin pigtails against my face and neck and then
her lips. Involuntarily a hard-on pops in my pants as her little lips peck
my sweaty right cheek. No! This is some wild pedophile fantasy, and IÕm
somehow in the middle of it! I want my wife to appear, or June, or my
kids, but instead the little six-year-old, dancing close, stumbles into my
lap. Her small hands land right on my boner, and she giggles again, and she
says something about Òthe storyÓ, and how itÕs true and how the older
girls should never have doubted it. ÒCome, Dick,Ó the blonde says. She
somehow convinces me, with her childÕs grip, to stand up. I notice my
boner in my pants and the girls see it too, and they laugh, lovingly. They
lead me out of the stream and into a maze of flowers. More jungle, but I
find it not so fearsome with the three girls leading me so confidently.
They seem to know the way. Of course, how could illusions not know the
way through this madness?
I feel crunching under my feet and look down. WeÕre walking on a
path made out of pebbles. But theyÕre not ordinary stones. They look like
emeralds. Flowers grow all around us, lilies and violets and daffodils.
The air is heavy with their scent, a tangle of tropical smells, like being
immersed in a kind of flowery fruit punch.
Suddenly the jungle breaks and I find myself gazing into a clearing.
Roses are everywhere, white and pink and red. Huge cherry trees grow
among the rose bushes, and as I walk into the clearing IÕm nearly hit by a
giant ripe cherry falling to the ground. The girls laugh and tell me not to
worry.
ÒOur magic protects us,Ó the brunette says. ÒBut not the flies.Ó I
donÕt understand what she means until a moment later, when I look up and
see a cherry falling straight toward me. I have no time to jump out of the
way. IÕm sure it will hit me when suddenly a sparkly sensation appears
above my head and the cherry hits it, and then bounces out beyond where
the three of us are walking. Harmlessly, it falls to the earth. It rolls and
stops.
ÒWelcome to cherry valley,Ó the six-year-old laughs.
ÒItÕs good youÕre with us or you might have gotten a head bonk,Ó the
blonde tells me. ÒKeep holding my hand,Ó she adds, and grips my big palm
a little tighter.
Of course this is silly. A dream canÕt kill me. IÕm probably already
dead. As I look around, I see more bikini-clad girls stepping out from
amidst the flowery foliage. They seem to have grown the roses in such a
way as to make little homes for themselves. The petals of the roses are
laden with moisture on top, as if from a recent rain shower. I do not
remember it raining. Perhaps it rained here but not where I was, wherever
that was, out in the jungle in the mist, waiting for the night to pass.
IÕm sure I must be dead. Or I ought to be. All around me are luscious
girls, not a one of them over ten. What has brought on this madness? The
heat of the jungle, obviously, but I donÕt feel oppressed now, or cold
either, from the night just passed. The air is cool without being cold. ItÕs
refreshing, not hot at all, despite the glow of the sun shafting down
through the jungle canopy.
IÕm led through the rose-petal houses to another stream. The girls
gather around me. They strip off my sweat-stained clothes. I do not
resist them. I always liked women who could take control, who werenÕt
afraid to tell me what to do. In my final fantasy the women have,
perversely, become beautiful little children, all females. Well, at least
IÕm not gay. My penis flashes in the sunlight, hard as wood. I try hiding it
with my hands but itÕs too big and long. I always was well endowed. Now,
in front of these girls who remind me of my daughter, my dick
embarrasses me. The girls nod approvingly and whisper again about Òthe
story.Ó They tell me to get in the river. I obey. The water is delicious. It
tastes of candy, sold in faraway stores in America. Yet it is not
obnoxiously sweet, like real candy can be. I drink my fill of the water,
barely able to resist it. The girls laugh and admire my nude body. My
penis shows stiff under the clear, smooth-flowing water, shimmering like
some weird pervertÕs promise. I try to hide myself again with my hands
but the girls frown.
ÒWhat does it matter?Ó I tell myself. ÒIÕm obviously dead. Imagine,
dying in a dream of bikini-clad nursery school girls!Ó ThatÕs what they
call primary school in England. I did an internship there. Nursery school.
Such a sweet name.
ÒWhen youÕre finished, come inside and lie down,Ó a voice tells me. I
turn my head. I see a girl like the others, but perhaps slightly taller, all
of eleven years of age, if my judgement serves me correctly. SheÕs
wearing a crown. ItÕs obviously gold, and decorated with red stones.
Rubies. Of course, a bikini-clad nursery school girl in a ruby crown.
ÒYouÕre so handsome!Ó she tells me. ÒYouÕll be my prince!Ó
ÒSure,Ó I answer. I donÕt mind talking to these apparitions any more.
I rub myself to get the sweat off me and then I get out of the water. My
penis is as hard as ever but I donÕt care anymore. I let the girl with the
crown take my hand. She leads me, I notice weÕre walking on an emerald
path. There are emerald paths winding everywhere, to all the little petal-
houses, and between them. There is no grass, but rather, incredibly, where
there is no path there is a smooth floor of four leaf clovers. Luck is
everywhere, it seems, and the girl with the crown leads me into a petal-
house and bades me lie down on a bed of daisies.
IÕm surprised by the daisies. TheyÕre normal-sized. The girl with
the crown tells me theyÕre miniature daisies. I donÕt understand, but who
needs to? I lie down and she kneels beside me. The floor of her home is
made of the same four leaf clovers that spread across the ground outside.
I realize IÕm lying in what must be her bed and I make to rise but she tells
me to remain lying down. I relax. This part of the fantasy must be based
on my trip to Japan, when I slept on a futon on the floor.
The girl takes off her crown. She lays it on the clover floor. There
is a pot of cream and she opens it. I gape at the cream. It is the first sign
of civilization IÕve seen in days. It is made of glass, with a screw-on top.
ÒWe traded for it,Ó she tells me. She opens the top. I look more
closely at the jar. It is not ordinary glass after all, but crystal. Lead
crystal, I think. The lid seems to be made of pure silver but I donÕt have
time to examine it further because she tells me to relax, and I do. To my
consternation I feel her small childÕs hands begin to rub cream on my
belly, dangerously close to my upstanding cock. But I donÕt have the
strength to bat her hands away. She rubs lower. I want to stop her but a
great weariness overcomes me. IÕve been walking for days. I feel sleep
overtaking me, even as the girlÕs hands clasp round my erect cock. She
begins moving her hands up and down my shaft. I try to rise, I try to stop
her, but I am falling asleep.
ÒPlease do not resist. We can trade your milk,Ó the girl tells me. My
heavy-lidded eyes are not completely closed and I see a second girl enter.
She has something that looks like a gourd in her hands. The neck bends
awkwardly down, like a drooping flower. She tilts it and I realize
someone has cut the end off the gourd. It is fitted over the end of my
cock. The girl who had been wearing the crown keeps moving her hands up
and down my member. I cannot stop her. As I drift off to sleep I feel a
sudden urgency. I begin spurting. The open neck of the gourd is pressed
more tightly to my cock head. ÒYes. Yes,Ó is murmured by the girl who is
rubbing me. Against my will I feel myself spurting. It is a wonderful
relief, even as I feel aghast at allowing myself to enjoy the pleasure of a
penis-massage by a nursery school girl.
I finish ejaculating. The girl rubbing me feels my cock begin to
lessen in strength. She sighs. She asks the girl with the gourd if she
caught everything I had to offer.
ÒYes, maÕam,Ó the girl with the gourd answers. The vegetable is
pulled off my cock head. I hear a gentle sloshing sound. I realize the thing
must be hollow. In my fantasy I have spurted into a gourd, at the
beckoning of an eleven-year-old queen.
ÒYou have done well,Ó the queen compliments me. She keeps rubbing
my dick until it relaxes completely. And then I vanish into sleep.
30
---------------- Naughty Naked Dreamgirls! -----------------
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