Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
No. 12 Tuesday June 6, 1995
alt.stories.erotic alt.sex.stories
D R E A M G I R L S S T O R I E S
Chambers of Love
Part Twelve
by Andrew Roller
Chapter Five
I had been watching the video alone, but now Greg entered the
room. Seeing my ass up there on the screen made him instantly randy.
We'd gotten carried away during the filming and I'd never actually
received the promised impalement of my buns. Greg clasped my frail
shoulders.
"Have you ever been fucked up the butt?" he asked.
"S-Some," I replied, looking anxiously over my hunched shoulders
at him. He laughed.
"For a girl of 15 I don't think 'some' would amount to much." He
pressed me forward, down, until my cheek touched the plush carpet. My
ass rose up. On the T.V. a dildo was introduced to my cunny, even as
Greg now quickly greased himself and jabbed into my anus with his
manhood. I squeaked, gasped, moaned with my T.V. self as we both
suffered penile assaults. The night promised to be even longer than it
had already been.
***
The five of us took a leisurely breakfast just before ten the next
morning. The men begged us to eat topless, so we did, despite the
lingering coldness of the previous night. Our nipples stood out stiffly
in the chilly air. I draped a shawl over my shoulders to keep warm. I
tied a little string across my bust to keep the shawl on, but made sure
it didn't cover the view of my titties. Below I wore a wrap about my
waist to modestly cover my pussy and thighs. It tied at the small of
my back and left my bottom alluringly bare. Marie dressed similarly
while Joanna wore a short transparent skirt from her ballet class. We
all wore pumps, of course, and assiduously repaired our makeup before
sitting down to our brunch.
Eggs Benedict topped the meal, along with a delicious assortment
of fruit and pancakes. Of course the men couldn't finish the meal
without pouring the pancake syrup over our tits. Marie protested that
we'd just taken a bath, but the men assured us they'd clean us up
themselves. We squirmed in our chairs as the men licked our bosoms.
They urged us to masturbate as they "cleaned" us, and we did,
reluctantly. Then, of course, they had to "clean" our natural juices off
our pussies. Such is the way of men. Afterward, of course, we had to
bathe all over again. We took a group shower that quickly degenerated
into a soapy mess. It ended with me bent over the side of the tub as the
men once again reminded me of their prowess, to the delight of the
onlooking women.
I remember well stepping into the tiled sterility of the shower.
The white china bathtub received my feet. Like some animal I stood,
my pussy twitching and wet, my chest still lightly heaving from being
licked. The men's cocks stemmed thickly before me. Pre-cum at the tip
of each slit announced the advanced state of their lust. Lightly with a
fingertip I traced the veins of Greg's organ. He reached out to grasp my
pussy but Joanna shooed his hand away. She presented him with a bar
of soap and a shocking request:
"Please, just for us girls, would you wash Dave's cock?" Greg's
eyes widened in disbelief. Marie licked her lips and nodded.
"No way!" Dave said. But he was the younger of the two. Greg
turned to him and clasped his protruding genitalia as if seizing the
loins of a young masturbating boy.
"You do have a fine penis," Greg said, caressing the boy's organ
with his fingertips even as he grasped it firmly in his palm. Yes, Dave
seemed just a boy now, his cheeks still ruddy with youth, his frame
handsome and unmarked.
The water was not yet on. Standing there, dry as a bone, Dave
watched as Greg rubbed the bar of soap all over his penis. It chafed
against his skin, leaving a white, powdery residue. To enhance the
eroticism, Joanna finally fetched a bottle of wine from the kitchen and
its contents were poured over Dave's cock. He moaned as he watched
the soap residue wetten. Greg rubbed him and a sea of bubbles erupted
upon his manhood. Greg let go of him then and Dave frothily presented
himself to our sight. Joanna laughed and snapped pictures of his
genitalia. Wet and dripping, no doubt in need of a fig leaf, it stood
centered upon a magnificent physique that yet remained dry.
His cock now well sudsed, still coated with little sparkling
bubbles, Dave set about giving a similar bath to Greg. Both men
trembled with a wretched desire to cum as Dave earnestly went about
his lewd task. Hotly I stuffed my thumb in my mouth and sucked it as I
stared. I wanted to rub myself but held back, as I saw the other girls
were doing. It was strange, this abstinence amidst such heady sights
and sounds. Joanna purred and put her arm around Marie's waist. They
exchanged glances, but nothing more. Greg grunted, gritted his teeth,
right at the brink of orgasm--thanks to another man! Dave desisted a
moment to allow his friend a chance to cool down. Then he was back at
the cock, stroking and squeezing it and pumping it. He cupped the balls
too and found them pleasantly heavy.
Joanna directed the men to sit their bare bottoms on the side of
the tub and watch now as we girls afforded them a similar treat. They
complied, and I thought they looked like twin Hercules waiting to begin
their labors. Legs open, cocks rigidly erect, they watched as Joanna
lined up Marie and me and directed us to soap each other.
We kissed first, moulding our dry bodies together, seeking,
perhaps, absolution in each other for what we were about to do. Then
Marie accepted soap from Joanna and went to work on my pussy. I
stood, looking down, a finger in the corner of my mouth. Joanna played
ringmistress, stroking our bottoms and giving us an occasional
admonitory slap. She did not even feign to be disciplining us for some
perceived wrong, merely wished to hear the sound of flesh against
flesh. We wriggled when she smacked one or the other of us, like eels
on a dry dock.
Finally the water got turned on and our shower proceeded
normally, insofar as five people crowded into a bathtub shower could
effectuate normality. We scrubbed ourselves and then each other.
Finally the men got their crack at me, pummeling me with their soapy
cocks. I think I know now what it feels like to be roto-rootered. I hope
in my next life I do not come back as clogged plumbing.
***
Just after noon I was taken back to master's house. Marie and
Joanna kissed me goodbye. We exchanged promises to play together
again someday but instinctively I knew we would never meet again. I
had to go back to America at summer's end and they would drift on to
other new friends. It was not the intent of swingers to entertain with
the same people. They preferred newness and anonymity. Bondage
games were most fun, I learned, with someone you didn't know.
Someone whose pussy or penis was exposed to you but whose face was
hidden. And a "newby" or "cherry" like me was most preferred. All this
I was learning slowly as I passed these lazy summer days in and around
Paris. How many 40-something tourists from America, I wondered,
pass through Paris and never learn these things? We saw some of them
that summer, passing in the street, rushing from the Eiffel Tower to
the Palais du Louvre, valiantly photographing everything, yet learning
nothing of the pulsing heart of the city. They gained only a sense of it
in the nightclubs, if they dared to even enter, then flew home again to
their comfortable suburban Puritanism.
Helga met me inside with an exploring kiss of her tongue and a
pat on my bottom.
"Get out of those clothes," she hissed. "Master will be angry if he
sees you like that." I obeyed, stripping off the jacket, blouse, and
narrow stretch pants Marie had given me. We hung them up in a
bedroom closet and Helga reattached my collar about my neck. I was
ready now to be leashed by my master and taken wherever he wished.
We went out to the pool and awaited him.
Master came home in the early evening and came out to the pool to
greet us. Playfully we knelt at his feet and begged to pleasure him. He
laughed, reluctantly refused, then had the oriental girl who was with
him place a towel under us and we knelt down and placed our cheeks on
the towel. He inspected our bottoms and found them pleasingly white.
My heinie still had one or two fading stripes from yesterday but they
would vanish shortly, he said. He complimented us on keeping our
bosoms and bottoms out of the sun. Our legs were crisply brown,
thoughtfully tanned, as were our bellies, arms, and faces. Our hair was
glossy from the sun. We rose again to our knees and he lovingly cupped
each of our bosoms in turn. He held Helga's last.
"I am releasing you," he said, "and your charges, your lovely doves.
It is premature I know, but a friend is flying in from Russia with girls
who have never seen the West before. I must, ah, accommodate them.
It would be unfair to you for me to keep you any longer."
"I understand," Helga nodded. I felt sadness yet a special thrill.
It was wild to be a captive, but I wanted my freedom too. Where would
we go next, I wondered? Who would we meet? Did I even want any
more of this crazy French lifestyle? I didn't know. My head whirled
with all that had happened to me. All the strange events I'd wandered
into since Julie sat down beside me at the condo pool and uttered that
silly "ooch." I rubbed my bottom thoughtfully. Never had I imagined
what could be done to it in the name of love. Master brought me out of
my thoughts by lifting my chin and bending down and kissing me on the
lips.
"Goodbye," I lisped, and together we tongued the insides of each
other's mouths. Then he bade us to stand, said he had another
engagement, and hurried off with his faithful bikinied oriental. We
mulled about for a minute by the pool, lost, abandoned sheep. Then
Helga suddenly pushed Julie and I into the pool! We spent a final half
hour there, laughing and splashing, still wearing our heels in the water.
Chapter Six
A misty morning in Paris found us sheltered in a modest hotel,
sipping hot coffee.
"Helga's putting us in the army!" Julie hissed to me, just as Helga
strode out of the bathroom, elegant as ever.
"Shush!" Helga said. She sat down with us at a little round
bedroom coffee table. "It is not the army. It is called the French
Cadets. It is where young girls and boys are trained to be women and
men."
"What sort of uniforms will we wear?" I asked suspiciously.
"Why, ones that accentuate your loveliest parts, of course," Helga
answered with a smile.
"I thought so," I said. I liked meeting handsome men and being
treated like a Lady. The thought of being holed up in some school
seemed hopelessly immature to me now.
Helga rose quickly. "Come along, girls. If you don't like the
school perhaps you can get yourselves expelled."
By late afternoon Julie and I found ourselves standing at
attention in an open field. We wore oversized engineer-type hats
emblazoned with police shields, black knee-high jackboots and tight,
undersized jackets. The waist of the jacket was buttoned up to our
bosoms, then pulled back to leave our breasts bare, then secured again
at our collars. We wore little ties that hung down to where our bosoms
popped out, just barely entering the squeezed cleft between our tits.
On our shoulders we wore epaulet boards indicating our rank. Julie and
I and most of the other girls were "Privettes, first class." We were
bare legged, save for our boots, and bare hipped. We wore no skirts, no
pants, no panties.
Interestingly, not all the girls were young females. Some were
women approaching middle age, enrolled by their lusty husbands. In the
shadow of distant trees the husbands and boyfriends watched us. We
would be a spectacle to them the whole time we were here. They had
paid our tuition for us and expected to get their money's worth. The
school had no reservations about allowing its training to be monitored
by those who were paying the bill. Helga stood with the men, the only
woman in the group. I wondered if she had enrolled us just to be the
only woman in a group of sex-fired men.
"The bitch!" I cursed under my breath. Julie and I were no doubt to
be spanked and whipped, just so Helga could be with a group of rich,
randy men. (This place was not cheap, I could tell). She would meet
new contacts to sell us to whilst we writhed and burned under
numerous tortures. (Yes, I knew now what her game was. She
"introduced" us to men like master, and later he sent her a generous
"donation" in the mail. Not all was planned, however. I don't think she'd
expected master to make her a slave too. However I was sure the
"donation" he'd made at the end had been increased accordingly.)
"Did you say something, Privette Predieu?" a woman dressed in a
severe black dress with a riding crop asked me.
"N-No, ma'am," I stammered. My name was not really Predieu, I'd
made it up. They encouraged us not to sign in under our real names.
Upon graduation we'd have to go back into the real world, and some of
the ladies were were well known. Of course, living together in the
barracks we'd get to know each other's faces, so the system was not
foolproof.
"I will not tolerate any disobedience of my orders," the woman
said to me. I looked down. It was no use talking back to her.
"Privettes" did that on purpose to invite punishment. I'd had enough of
punishment and truly did not want to invite any here. The woman in
black strode on but said she'd remember my name and keep a close
watch over me. Words, no doubt, to prepare the way for my correction,
for no girl was to leave here without a sore bottom.
Later we girls sat about within the confines of our barracks,
unpacking and settling in.
"One may as well be insolent to her and get it over with," a girl
said to the others regarding our "Sargente," the woman in black,
otherwise known as Mistress Persephone.
"There's no 'getting it over with,'" an older girl said. It's only a
matter of when it begins."
"Well, I at least plan to be very good," a small girl of 14 piped up.
Despite her youth she had pretty breasts. A girl could be enrolled at
any age provided she had sufficiently mature breasts. Hips were
unimportant. Many men apparently craved the teenage figure of well-
formed breasts and unformed, childishly narrow hips.
"You cannot be good," a girl replied. "You heard what Mistress
Persephone said, 'It is a difficult and rigorous program.' That means
they make you do things that are impossible, like carrying too many
china dishes or something, in 6-inch-heels, ensuring that you drop them
and they break. Then they get to spank you."
"That would be easy," the older girl said. "Trust me, spankings
here aren't the half of it. This place is equipped with every conceivable
implement."
"What do you think they are doing to the boys?" a girl asked
cheerily. The conversation shifted to intense, ardent speculation about
the boy's tortures. What the girls might face was quickly disregarded.
I called Julie aside.
"We've got to get out of here," I hissed.
"Don't you like it here?" Julie asked, doe-eyed. The willing wife
was docilely listening to her fellow females, as if at some
neighborhood coffee klatch.
"Helga is just using us to meet new clients. Didn't you notice that
all the other girls were enrolled by their husbands or boyfriends?"
"I'm sure we'd learn something here," Julie said.
"Yes, with your bottom!"
"So you don't like Helga anymore?" Julie turned and looked
conspiratorily over her shoulder before speaking.
"No. I at least am going to escape and if you're smart you'll come
with me."
"If we're caught we'll have hell to pay. From Helga as well as
Mistress Persephone."
"They won't expect it this soon," I said, reflected a moment and
added, "I hope."
"We have no clothes, just these silly uniforms. No money either.
Just our little pouch purses, with our compacts and some french
lipstick inside."
"I know. It's practically hopeless. But I'm going to try. I
surveyed the place while we were standing and marching around
outside."
"If it fails I guess we'll just get what's coming to us anyway,"
Julie said in a dejected tone.
"Yes," I said. "After lights out, we'll get up to go to the
bathroom." Julie nodded silently.
"Lights out!" Mistress Persephone yelled suddenly, from the
doorway. We'd undressed already, and now scrambled naked into bed,
each of us assigned an Army cot.
Suddenly I felt a rush of fear that gripped me to my very bowels.
The mistress strode up the walkway between the beds, peering
ominously about in the now darkened room. But it wasn't her that gave
me such a terrible scare. Two young men swaggered behind her, armed
with night sticks. I only needed to see their outlines against the lit
hallway beyond to realize they were the very boys who'd accosted us on
the Concorde! Somehow, their pick-up lines had finally clicked, with no
less than Mistress Persephone! Did Helga know of this?
Our female warden glared at each of us in turn. I pretended to be
asleep.
"Ah, Mistress Predieu," she said, stopping at my place and bending
over me. "How quickly you fall asleep," she said menacingly. I
shuddered, my eyes still closed. "If you're so well rested I'm sure you'll
want to demonstrate to the group tomorrow morning how to properly
take a good caning...from Jim and Steve."
D R E A M G I R L S N E W S
POLICE STATE SCARE TACTICS
Detailed by holy joe
Some time in the past, one Stefen.Worobec@lovers.tor250.org
(Stefen Worobec) posted to a.s.s.. He asked if fictional stories here,
(unidentified), which he chose to call Òchild pornography,Ó were Òlegal.Ó
Various well-meaning people (not myself) e-mailed or posted responses to
him. After receiving their responses, Stefen Worobec posted a response of
his own. He cited Section 168 of CanadaÕs 1994 Criminal Code, which
declares illegal matter which is Òobscene, indescent (sic), immoral or
scurrilous.Ó Despite the absence of the words Òchild pornography,Ó
Worobec then urged everyone to ban stories from a.s.s. which, presumably,
would fall under the non-definition not given in an out-of-date edition of
CanadaÕs Criminal Code.
First of all, Mr. Worobec, why did you ask your question about
ÒlegalityÓ if you already knew the answer? Was it merely to target
certain well-meaning individuals as Òpotential pedophiles?Ó Were you
looking, in particular, for replies from Canadians?
We do not need police stings being run on this board. Also, I note
with interest the words ÒindecentÓ and Òscurrilous.Ó My God, man,
ALMOST ANYTHING could be ÒindecentÓ and Òscurrilous.Ó (Not to mention
ÒobsceneÓ or Òimmoral.Ó) If such a Criminal Code is in force in Canada
then you should no longer describe yourself as a ÒcitizenÓ of Canada. You
are a PRISONER of Canada. You live in the PRISON of Canada, not the
ÒcountryÓ of Canada. You need to quit worrying about fictional stories on
the Internet and get yourself some fuel oil and fertilizer! Do it for YOUR
CHILDREN, if nothing else, so that they wonÕt live in a prison like you do.
TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN: Technology marches ever onward. In RollerÕs
current story, Chambers of Love, the main character is a ONE-YEAR-OLD
GIRL. In this fictional story, set in the near future, she was born fully
formed in a vat. (How this happened I do not know, but Roller assures me
that it is true. He says it is based on a movie that he saw in the 70Õs. It
was called ÒEmbryo.Ó) We apologize for any erroneous ages that may have
been accidentally typed in by our typist.
INSTANT DREAMGIRLS! Get Dreamgirls the same minute I post it to
Usenet! I need ONE person to be an Òe-mail remailer.Ó Your name will
be posted here and people will contact you for back issues of
Dreamgirls.
Forget me not: alt.sex.stories.d (Discussion Newsgroup)
FREE minicomics! Send a greeting-card SASE to: Jim Corrigan, P.O. Box
3663, Phenix City, AL 36868. NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS (Library of
Congress ISSN: 1070-1427): sex stories. (Include age statement-18 or
over.) DREAMGIRLS WITH SHAMAN: poetry. COMIC UPDATE (ISSN: 0894-
5195): small press comix. Chat: alt.sex.stories.d END OF 12 EMISSION