---------------------------------------------------------------
PROBLEMS? Please try viewing this with Netscape Navigator.
---------------------------------------------------------------
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
PARTY PUSSIES
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Chapter Ten
Enslavement. The word has a certain allure to it, I think, at least to
the female ear. To be completely cared for, accepted, loved. By a man you
love. Or, perhaps, by several men. Except several men, I think, can never
love you as much as one. There is too much competition between them,
and in the end they all prize you less, thinking of you as being someone
elseÕs. But I didnÕt know that when I agreed to be a love slave.
A week after our orgy, Cybil returned to PetraÕs. Bow and Bethany
and I were playing croquet in the back yard. We liked using balls and
sticks, and putting balls through holes. Cybil and Petra shared tea and we
tried to join them, but they shooed us away. It was a conversation for
grown women. We were not permitted to hear. I was disconsolate but
knew, somehow, that the conversation was about me, and tried not to feel
too offended. Bethany, still 12, was more interested in croquet than
sitting and having tea. She and Bow knocked their balls around the yard.
They gave up trying to put them through the wire rimmed arches and
instead shot them through the flower bed. Tulips were trampled. A rabbit
emerged and went running away. They chased after it, their long tresses
streaming behind them.
When Cybil had gotten permission from Petra, she drew me away
from the girls and brought me inside. We sat down together. She offered
me tea. Petra went outside to find the girls and lecture them about the
sactity of her flower bed.
ÒYou can go now to the final place a female experiments with,Ó Cybil
told me. ÒNot permanently, perhaps. But it is worth experiencing.Ó
ÒHmmm?Ó I asked. I sipped my tea. It was Orange Peoke. It tasted
like summer.
ÒSlavery,Ó Cybil said.
My bosoms, clad in a light frock, must have risen as I drew in my
breath. CybilÕs eyes watched them. They were young, uptilted. Their tips
grew into hard points. At PetraÕs insistence I wore no bra. They could be
seen, vaguely, through the cotton of my dress.
ÒComplete and total,Ó Cybil said, as if to ward off any annoying
questions.
I could not drink my tea. Finally, gathering up the courage to speak, I
said, ÒI belong to Robin.Ó
Cybil laughed. She leaned back in her chair and let out a long,
roaring laugh, like a man makes. Finally she composed herself. ÒIÕm
talking about real slavery, darling. Robin. Did he tell you that you were
his slave? Did Malthus tell you that, hmmm? They are such lightweights.
IÕll show you real slavery, dear. I have some men coming over Friday
night, and IÕm one girl short, IÕll confess. I have a Nordic beauty, but it is
too much for her to face, all alone. She needs a companion. Someone to
endure the abuse with her.Ó
Abruptly I rose from the table. I wished to hear no more. I tossed
my head, primly. I looked out the kitchen window, across the lawn. Bow
and Bethany were listening as Petra told them not to trample her tulips.
ÒBut we found a rabbit in your flowers,Ó Bow protested. ÒHe would
have eaten them up all up. We saved them.Ó Her high-pitched voice drifted
across the grass, caught by the wind. It shifted. I did not hear PetraÕs
reply.
ÒYou performed excellently at the... party,Ó Cybil told me. She did
not say Ôorgy.Õ That would have been impolite, though we were discussing
the possibility of just such another right now.
ÒThank you,Ó I said. I turned to her, pushed in my chair underneath
the table.
ÒThe men are quite handsome,Ó she said. ÒWould you like to see
their pictures?Ó She took out a small billfold.
ÒOh, are they male models?Ó I asked.
ÒTwo are construction workers, two are from Mexico City and work
in the financial district. One, IÕm sure, is a criminal, but he seems well-
behaved and has plenty of money, so I didnÕt ask more than that. But they
all want a sweet little loveslave at their party, and they all expressed an
interest in rough sex.Ó Her dark, liquid eyes looked up at me. ÒDonÕt
worry, dear. IÕll be there,Ó she said, as if to reassure me. ÒAre you
game?Ó
ÒNo, IÕm sure IÕm not,Ó I replied. I hesitated. A lock of my blonde
hair fell past my cheek. Impatiently, I brushed it back. I drew in a breath.
I exhaled. Cybil watched me, watched my eyes, watched the rising and
falling of my breasts beneath my thin dress. Her eyes felt like catÕs eyes
on my body. I felt like a parakeet. Trapped, held, in the catÕs gaze. I felt
my knees tremble. I sighed. I looked at her. Straight into her deep,
imprisoning eyes. ÒBut I wouldnÕt mind seeing their pictures,Ó I heard
myself say.
Afterward I blamed the tea. But I knew it wasnÕt the tea, or
anything sheÕd put in it. It was me. Too curious, in the end, to say ÔnoÕ to
anything that perked my imagination. The men she showed me were
dreamboats and I longed to know what they had in mind for a girl like me.
Sharon was blonde. She was 22 and a model in Mexico City, newly
arrived from Norway. I donÕt know what her sexual past was. But she
seemed to have that same curiousity I possessed. SheÕd agreed to be the
Ôguest of honorÕ at CybilÕs party, along with me.
I donÕt know how Sharon spent her day, but she must have spent it
rather like I did. Her hair and makeup were perfect, as were mine. Cybil
had seen to that. SheÕd brought me in to Mexico City the day before, and
turned me over to a Spanish woman who was a beautician. I spent the
night at the beauticianÕs house. Her family received me warmly. She had a
small son, a small daughter. Her husband was fat and bald. I ate dinner
with them and tried not to think of the reason I was staying with them.
In the morning, I was permitted to sleep late, for IÕd slept fitfully
during the night, as might be expected, given what I was preparing for.
Finally the Spanish woman roused me. She served me brunch and had me
bathe. Then she gave me a small bikini and had me lie out on their porch
and tan myself. Then I was required to bathe again, to wash off the suntan
lotion. After that she spent all afternoon doing my hair and my nails and
my makeup. I looked exquisite when she finished.
ÒWhat shall I wear?Ó I asked her. Outside, the afternoon was
disappearing into dusk. I knew the party must start soon.
ÒYour tan,Ó she replied.
ÒMy--?Ó I asked. I shivered.
ÒYes,Ó she said. She touched my shoulder. ÒItÕs that sort of party.
DidnÕt you know?Ó
ÒWell, I--Ó I gasped.
ÒI have a shawl you may wear on your way there,Ó the Spanish
woman said. ÒTo the hotel. And heels, of course. You must have those.
And earrings. And a gold bracelet. Here,Ó she handed me a small bracelet.
It was made of gold. But the design was of two whips, interlaced. ÒIt
snaps around your wrist,Ó she said. ÒPut it on. Then IÕll lock it for you. It
will identify you to the men as their guest.Ó
The Spanish womanÕs husband drove me to the hotel. It was the
Tourane Independance, a French hotel. The manÕs two children bounced in
the back seat of his car. I think his wife sent them along to make sure her
husband wouldnÕt be inspired to take any liberties with me.
ÒHere. This is the place,Ó the man grinned at me.
ÒDaddy can we stay in the hotel?Ó the manÕs daughter asked from the
back seat.
ÒNo,Ó he answered. A valet approached our car. He opened the door
for me. The Spanish womanÕs husband nodded at me, bidding me to get out.
For a moment I sat there, frozen, looking at him. I was naked under my
shawl. I did not have a purse with me, or anything to identify me. All that
had been left behind, long ago. But I did have the gold bracelet. It was
locked around my wrist. I did not have the key to it. I could not remove it.
The Spanish woman had the key, and perhaps someone else, one of the men
I would meet.
I rose. I let the valet usher me from the car. I heard the car door
close behind me. And then the car was gone, and I was standing alone with
the valet.
ÒThis way, madam,Ó the valet told me. With a genteel air he ushered
me forward, up the steps of the hotel, inside, into a great, high-ceilinged
lobby. We crossed it. Guests, milling about, admired my shawl. It was
made with Mexican designs, religious symbols. I kept it closely wrapped
around me. Once it slipped, baring my shoulder. I pulled it up quickly. My
bare legs protruded out from under it, showing my calves, my ankes. I
wore no stockings. I wondered if the guests knew how little I wore
underneath it.
We reached the back of the lobby. There was a bank of elevators
there. I felt myself blushing. The valet looked at me. He pressed the ÔupÕ
button for me. Had he been warned, tipped, in advance? I guessed he must
have been.
ÒMay I see your wrist?Ó he asked me. I had the wrist with the
bracelet on it hidden beneath my shawl. I turned my visible wrist,
showing him the underside of it, as I kept my fist tightly gripping my
shawl. ÒNot that one. The other,Ó the valet said. I felt myself flush. He
must have seen it, surely, when I first was getting out of the car. Hiding
it now was no use. I lifted my hidden arm, extended it through the folds of
my shawl. The bracelet circling it gleamed under the lights of the lobby.
ÒYes,Ó he said. He did not touch it, did not touch me.
The doors to an elevator opened. The valet poked his head inside.
ÒFloor 12,Ó he told the elevatorÕs operator. Then I stepped in. The valet
did not follow me. The doors closed.
We rode up in silence. Just me, the bell boy. He glanced at me, said
nothing. Perhaps he did not know. I hoped he didnÕt. We stopped. The
elevator doors opened.
Cybil was waiting. She smiled. It was an efficient smile, not
betraying emotion. She beckoned to me. I stepped out of the elevator.
ÒSuch a lovely shawl, dear. Were you well cared for? You look well
prepared,Ó Cybil said to me. She glanced over me, over my makeup, as a
mother hen does over its chick. We walked down a hallway together. We
stopped in front of a door. Ò1202,Ó it said on it, in big gold letters. Cybil
unlocked the door and let me inside.
Sharon was already waiting. She was wearing the same bracelet as
myself. She was alone, nude, wearing just her heels, and a red scarf tied
fetchingly around her neck. It covered nothing but her throat, leaving her
tan, and her untanned places, available to be admired. I glanced at her
bosoms. Her nipples had risen. They stuck up from her grapefruit-sized
breasts like excited thorns. Below her flat belly her bush offered itself,
framed by a white patch of skin where she usually wore her swimsuit.
Now all was to be seen, the delicate curls of her mons, the cherry-capped
swell of her bosoms, all but her throat, concealed behind the knotted
scarf. She had a delicate, sensitive look. She seemed a little afraid, as I
was. She held a wine glass to her lips and sipped it tentatively. Cybil,
standing behind me, took my shawl off my shoulders, leaving me as nude
as Sharon. Except I had no scarf.
ÒThe men will be absolutely brutal,Ó I heard a female voice say. A
woman appeared. ÒOh. They are here already,Ó the woman said. She
seemed a little abashed at having spoken. Cybil frowned.
ÒYes, Hilda, Sharon has just arrived, and Lisa came up on the next
elevator,Ó Cybil said. ÒAre you ready to decorate them?Ó
ÒOf course, madam,Ó the woman said. A young Mexican girl appeared
beside her. She was plain-faced. She was dressed in a blouse and a long
skirt. I sensed she wore a bra underneath her blouse and I blushed. How
awkward I felt! I was about to turn and run from the room, damn the
shawl, never mind my nudity, when there was a knock on the door.
Cybil opened it. A young man stepped in. He was gorgeous! But he
was almost naked, dressed only in a pair of swim trunks. I saw, to my
sudden surprise, that he had a gold bracelet around his wrist, just like I
did. His hair was dry on his head and his chest and I sensed his swimsuit,
like my shawl, was only for modesty, and he had no intentions of
swimming in it. Not tonight, at least. He wore rubber flip flops on his
feet.
ÒGet inside, darling. YouÕll have everyone in the hotel following you,
dressed like that,Ó Cybil chided the boy. She shut the door behind him. He
looked at me, nodded. Then he looked at Sharon and gave her the same
polite nod. He reminded me of Steven, but he was older, perhaps 19 or 20.
ÒI guess IÕm late, huh?Ó the young man asked Cybil. With no thought
at all, he pulled down his swimtrunks. Sharon and I gasped as he revealed
a huge, pulsing young penis. It was covered at its base with pubic hair and
stuck up from him like a ripe, peeled banana. Already there was a dollop
of pre-cum glistening on its tip and I knew he must be excited, nonchalant
as he was, at being able to show himself.
ÒIs he -- a master?Ó Sharon asked in a voice fraught with tender
arousal. I felt wobbly-kneed myself, looking at the manÕs cock.
ÒNo, IÕm the entertainment, just like you,Ó the boy told her frankly.
He looked at Sharon and me, and I knew he must be wishing he could have
us. But then Cybil touched the tip of his penis, and his eyes fastened
alertly on her. Clearly, I saw, he was most impressed by her, by her
mature charm, and was, in truth, stripping for her, not for the men.
Nonetheless he would serve them just as we did, I realized, though in
hopes of pleasing Cybil, while we (fools that we were) hoped to find our
joy with the men.
ÒCome,Ó Cybil said. She was still touching the manÕs penis and she
laughed. ÒNot that way, but into the kitchen,Ó she added. ÒThe three of
you must be decorated. IÕm so glad you could join us tonight, Tony. It will
be much better with three, and youÕll make a nice, sporting addition to our
team. Such a cock! Please donÕt jab me with it. Walk straight --Ó She
retreated behind the young man, and placed her hands squarely on his hips,
framing his delicious tight buns. ÒHere, IÕll steer you. Watch it! DonÕt hit
that flower vase with your cock. There, aim yourself for the kitchen door.
In we go,Ó Cybil said. Sharon and I scurried ahead of Tony. We didnÕt want
to find ourselves impaled on him before the party even started.
The kitchen was warm. There was a smell of baking bread emanating
from the oven. In the middle of the kitchen was a large wooden table. On
it had been placed two silver trays. They were quite large. Large enough,
in fact, for a person to lie on, and the woman who had been cooking in here
with the girl now guided myself and Sharon over to the trays.
ÒIÕm Margarite, and this is my assistant, Simone,Ó the woman told
me. She admired the peaks of my breasts. My nipples had grown in the
warmth of the kitchen and stood out like twin little nubs, waiting to be
sucked. ÒWeÕre going to decorate you all over. Do you have to pee? Now
you should do it. Later will be too late.Ó
ÒI have to go,Ó Sharon volunteered. Simone pointed. There was a
small bathroom adjoining the kitchen.
ÒMe too,Ó I said.
ÒOne at a time,Ó Margarite said. ÒYou, Sharon, go first. DonÕt bother
shutting the door. WeÕre all going to know you quite well.Ó She laughed,
looked at her nude figure. ÒWe already do.Ó
ÒIÕm fine. Just do whatever,Ó Tony said. Cybil nodded. She pushed
him toward Margarite.
ÒSimone, get the whipped cream,Ó Margarite told the girl who
assisted her. The girl went to the refrigerator. She opened it and took out
a can of Redi-Wip. She shook it.
As I watched, as Sharon watched, from the bathroom, sitting on the
commode and peeing in it, Simone put the can of Redi-Wip between the
young manÕs legs, from behind.
ÒWhat is your name?Ó she asked him. Perhaps she had been too
flustered by the sight of his cock, I guessed, to catch it earlier.
ÒTony,Ó he answered.
ÒTony, this is going to feel cold,Ó Simone warned him. ÒReady?Ó
ÒYeah, I guess,Ó Tony said. Simone wedged the can between TonyÕs
thighs and aimed it right at the back of his balls.
ÒTony, have you ever taken a cold shower?Ó Simone asked.
ÒYeah,Ó Tony said.
ÒWell you need one now and IÕm going to give it to you right where it
counts,Ó Simone said. She suppressed a smile. I heard a sudden squirting
sound. It drowned out the sound of SharonÕs peeing.
ÒYeow!Ó Tony hollared. The back of his balls was suddenly coated
with refrigerator-cold whipped cream. Simone squirted it liberally all
over the back of his balls and then, bidding him open his legs, got down
between them and squirted the underside of his big, heavy sperm sack, and
finally the front.
ÒUp. Get the pubic hair as well,Ó Cybil told Simone. The girl nodded.
She bit her lip and squirted whipped cream all over the pubic thatch that
adorned the base of TonyÕs prick. She did not, however, spray the prick
itself, such that, when she finally lowered the can, TonyÕs penis was left
sticking out from a circling foam of white cream like a big naked
cucumber.
ÒOh. IÕd like to suck on that!Ó Sharon gushed from the toilet.
ÒThe men will be sucking it,Ó Cybil said. ÒAnd enjoying you, my
dear, in other ways. Wipe and get up. Let Lisa pee, if she has to.Ó
I walked to the bathroom. Sharon finished wiping and got up. I sat
down on the toilet. The backs of her legs had warmed the porcelian seat
for me. She washed her hands.
ÒUnh. OH!Ó I heard Tony cry. I looked up. To my horror, I saw that
Cybil was inserting the stem of a long-stemmed rose into TonyÕs pee hole.
ÒRelax, dear. ItÕs just a flower stem,Ó Cybil told Tony. ÒWell
greased. There. Up it goes. Keep your penis still. In, in,Ó Cybil said. Her
voice was breathy. I think she was as excited as we were at the sight of a
rose stem slipping up within TonyÕs cock. I felt hot flashes. I heard
Sharon gasp beside me, and she touched her slit, as if to wipe it, though it
was already wiped. I wished I was finished peeing so I could wipe myself
too. Thankfully the roseÕs thorns had been clipped off. Tony looked down
at himself, aghast at what was being done to him. But he held himself
still, and let Cybil finish planting the rose in his penis. He looked like a
real life Ôflower childÕ when she was done, or, more likely, a gay hoping to
get his cock sucked.
When Cybil had finished putting the rose into TonyÕs penis she gave
him a black bow tie. She made him put it around his neck. I broke into
giggles, seeing him dressed in it. He looked so proper, and yet he was
utterly nude! Sharon couldnÕt help laughing either.
ÒWaiter, would you please take our order?Ó Sharon asked Tony.
ÒYou are the order, dear,Ó Margarite told Sharon. ÒCome out of the
bathroom and climb up on the table.Ó
We were sober then. Sharon and I clasped hands and walked out of
the bathroom together. Margarite made her step on a chair. She held her
hand as, unsteady in her heels, Sharon climbed up onto the chair and then
onto the kitchen table.
ÒSquat. Squat down on the tray,Ó Margarite told Sharon. Her voice
was demanding, but soft. Expectant. ÒKneel down. Good.Ó I watched,
trembling, as Sharon got down on all fours on the silver tray on the table.
ÒPress your bosoms to the tray. Yes. And your chin. Rest your chin on the
tray. Good. No, keep your bottom up,Ó Margarite told Sharon. I looked on
as Sharon was made to tuck her knees under herself, so that she fit on the
tray, with her bottom sticking up while her chin and breasts were pressed
hard against the trayÕs surface.
ÒYes, perfect,Ó Margarite told Sharon. ÒYour hands behind your back,
please. Very good. Hold them there. Yes, of course I must cuff them, dear.
YouÕre dinner. What do you expect?Ó In a moment Sharon, who had been an
elegant, long-legged model, was reduced to a slender figure squatting
doggie-style on the sliver tray, her arms pulled behind her back and
cuffed, while her ass displayed its vulnerable spheres in open fashion, as
if to invite a fork to stab between them.
ÒAnd now an apple, dear,Ó Margarite said, in the same soft, lulling
voice, that sounded no more demanding than an airline stewardess who
was strapping in a passenger. She placed fingers at SharonÕs lips. Urging
them to part, popped a big polished apple between them. SharonÕs eyes
gaped. I almost laughed, seeing her. Simone did laugh, but Cybil told her
to hush.
Margarite produced a black ribbon. She stabbed it over the appleÕs
stem. This held it in place and, with it trapped on the stem, she tied the
loose ends of it behind SharonÕs head.
ÒAhh, how sexy you look, hmmm?Ó Cybil said to Sharon when the
apple was placed. Sharon stared at us balefully. I shivered, knowing I was
next. Margarite took my arm. She pulled out a chair for me, on the other
side of the table, and urged me to mount it. I did, placing my foot upon it,
unsteadily. She palmed my bare bottom and gave me a quick shove. I was
up. On the chair and then, with another encouraging push on my tush, on
the table.
ÒLie down, dear. On your back,Ó Margarite said to me. She was a big
woman, and I found it difficult to disobey her. I laid down, with pressure
from her hands on my bare slim shoulders. When I was down on my back
she arranged my limbs as one might arrange a table centerpiece.
My knees were bent, my legs lifted until my heels bumped against my
bottom. Then Margarite forced my legs apart, so that my secret place
between could be easily admired. To my surprise, she then called to
Simone to fetch a Ôspreader bar.Õ It was brought. Simone blushed as she
brought it. The Ôspreader barÕ was about two feet in length, and the width
of a cheerleaderÕs baton. It had twin rings on each end of it. I wondered
at it, staring, and watched as my slim thighs were secured. Then, with my
calves pressed up close to my thighs, the secondary ring on each end of the
bar was clamped around my calves.
I gasped. Suddenly, I was both spread by the bar between my legs,
and imprisoned with my calves pressed against my thighs. I couldnÕt close
my legs. I couldnÕt unbend my knees. How horrible this Ôspreader barÕ was!
It made me feel like I was a turkey, being trussed and spread open to be
stuffed!
There were handles along the sides of the tray I was lying on.
Margarite made me grip them. When I had, she wrapped strips of cloth
around my wrists, fastening them to the handles. I tugged at my bonds. I
was tied, tightly, with no way to free myself. I sighed. I felt my bosoms
wobble heavily on my chest. I was naked, in only my heels and earrings,
showing my tan lines. Would the men like me this way? I turned, looked
at Cybil.
ÒI donÕt think I want to go through with this,Ó I told her. All had
been fun and games up Ôtil now. Getting made up, being escorted by the
valet, even seeing Sharon, whom I hardly knew, so ridiculously tied. But
now I was tied. It was my turn. I did not want this any more. I was, after
all, only 13, prone to curiousities that werenÕt entirely thought out in
advance. Let Sharon, if she wished, be the menÕs entertainment. She was
22, pretty, restless. I was still a child. I needed protection from my
desires.
Cybil walked up to me. She placed a warm hand on my tummy. She
looked into my eyes. I blinked. I was afraid, looking at her. ÒIÕm afraid
itÕs too late now, dear,Ó Cybil said to me. She rubbed my tummy. ÒDonÕt
worry. IÕll be right here. Nothing will happen to you that I donÕt approve
of.Ó
I heard knocking. Cybil turned, looked at Tony. ÒPlease go answer
the door, darling. Our company has arrived,Ó Cybil told Tony. He stared at
her, his cock painfully erect, a bow tie around his neck and his penis
growing a rose. ÒThe door,Ó Cybil said. ÒGet the door, Tony. IÕm not
paying you to dawdle, dear. Let the men in before they get angry.Ó
Tony left. He blushed as he left, I saw, but I found my eyes fixing on
his white ass as he walked out of the kitchen. Oh, if only just he and I
could be together! But it was all too late now, too late.
ÒI have to go to the bathroom again,Ó I told Cybil. She turned back to
me, smiled. She patted my tummy.
ÒNo you donÕt, dear,Ó she said, in a soft, consoling voice. Then, with
a gleam in her eyes, she added, ÒAnd if you do, too bad for you.Ó She
laughed. I trembled and wished I did have to pee, very badly. I would have
done it right there, on her shiny silver tray. But I didnÕt, not yet anyway,
and I wondered when IÕd get a chance to again.
Simone fetched a small brush and a pot of honey. She bent closely
over my body. She dipped the brush in the honey and then applied it, very
carefully, to the nipple of my right breast. I gasped. It felt so wicked,
having her daub at my breast like that with the honey-laden brush! I felt
my breast tip quiver and shuddered excitedly when she turned her
attention to my other nipple. She did just the tips of my breasts, leaving
the rest of each bosom untouched.
Sharon, meanwhile, was having the mealÕs main course wedged
underneath her body. Squash, potatoes, slices of ham dipped in gravy, all
were placed neatly and artfully under her squatting figure. She retained
the polished apple in her mouth, looking quite put out at being turned into
a full course meal. Yet there was nothing she could do, with her wrists
bound up behind her back. A cucumber was wedged behind her chin to keep
her face level and her eyes staring straight ahead. She looked rather
uncomfortable.
Simone began painting the curls of my pubic hair. She used the honey
to decorate me. I felt the insidious little brush as it daubed lower and
lower, finally stabbing me between my legs. I let out a nervous shriek.
There was laughter in the next room. Oh, the men had heard me! Yet none
of them came into the kitchen to rescue me. Instead, they waited, waited
for me to be presented to them. On a silver tray.
ÒKeep your fingers folded together,Ó I heard Margarite warn Sharon.
What could she mean, I wondered? ÒDonÕt try to protect your bottom with
them,Ó Margarite explained to Sharon. ÒYour bottom can take it. Your
fingers canÕt. We could have tied your hands to the trayÕs handles, but the
men prefer to see you have a choice. To protect yourself, or not. No doubt
youÕll try to use your fingers to hide your rump, and get whacked by the
whip, and regret sticking them over your behind. So, donÕt. Fold your
fingers together and, no matter what happens, keep them out of the way.
DonÕt try to protect yourself with them.Ó
I was still pondering this soliloquoy when Cybil opened the door to
the dining room. The men cheered, seeing her.
ÒGentlemen,Ó Cybil said, when the menÕs cheers had subsided. ÒIÕm
pleased to announce the presentation of our main course. I donÕt have
roast pig, as you requested, but I do have Ôroast Sharon.Õ SheÕs a blonde. I
hope you find her satisfactory. Except I havenÕt had time to roast her
bottom. Perhaps, with a soundly applied whip, youÕd be willing to do it for
me.Ó
Another cheer. I trembled. I almost blacked out, hearing such awful
talk. Yet Simone, painting the curls of my cunt, so delicately, kept me
excited enough that it was impossible for me to faint. Tony entered the
kitchen. His penis was still hard, still sporting the rose. He and another
man lifted Sharon and carried her out. She tried to twist her head, to look
back at me, but with the cucumber stuffed under her chin it was quite
impossible. In the event, there was nothing I could do to help her. I heard
her scream as she saw the men. It was muffled by the apple in her mouth,
but unmistakably hers, all the same, and audible. I imagined the men,
taking off their belts to whip her. I tried again to faint, holding my
breath, but it was impossible.
Margarite showed me a spear-like cucumber. Someone had threaded
it with a needle and thread, so that a string dangled from one end of it.
The string had a small ring tied to the end of it, that you could pull on, if
you wished to. (I couldnÕt, of course. My hands were tied.) The cucumber
was peeled, and oiled. Someone had carved it to a fairly slim width.
ÒThis is going up your ass,Ó Margarite told me. She had to speak
fairly loudly. Sharon, the pitch of her voice rising, could be heard in the
next room, as a slapping belt connected with her bottom.
I could do nothing to defend myself, with my hands tied. I winced as
Simone pressed the tip of the cucumber to my back hole. It was not hard
for her to get access to me. My knees were already drawn up, and spread.
My slit showed entirely and, below it, where my rump pressed to the tray,
the aperature of my backhole offered itself. I gasped. Simone forced the
cucumber inside me. I gritted my teeth. I tried to expel it.
ÒRelax. You must take it. You have no choice,Ó Margarite said to me.
ÒRelax and it will be easier.Ó She patted my tummy. Simone screwed the
cucumber up inside me. I felt I could hardly breathe. It burned, it itched.
Most of all, it intruded. It filled my ass and left me panting from its
fullness. When at last the infernal thing was all the way up me, I felt my
butthole close over its tip. Only the string remained. It snaked out of my
bottom and formed a little pile of string. The ring shaped handle gleamed
between my feet. A man might pull on it, curious, and delight himself
with seeing a cucumber begin sliding out of my bottom.
As Sharon screamed in the next room, as the belts of the men
connected repeatedly with her pale, vulnerable seat, ÔroastingÕ it with
their blows, Margarite and Simone continued their wicked decorating of
me. IÕd figured out by now that Sharon was the main course, and I was
dessert. Simone showed me a big tropical banana. Slowly she peeled it,
grinning at me. Then, wetting the end of it with baby oil, she shoved it
into my twat. I screamed. I heard laughter in the next room. The men
were delighted that another female remained to be served.
Simone planted the banana in my twat, but left much of it
protruding. It looked like a big male penis curving up out of my sex. She
got the Redi-Wip and decorated it with whipped cream. She sprinkled nuts
on it. I felt awful. Penetrated, yet exposed, wearing nothing but my tan
lines, and honey on my breasts, and a cucumber in my ass and a banana in
my twat. But my torment was not over yet. Simone dipped a grape in the
sticky pot of honey and placed it in my navel. It was a green grape,
seedless, and supposed to be a decoration, I guess. Then she got a big ripe
strawberry and, dipping it again in the honey, she told me to open my lips.
I did. She placed it artfully in my mouth.
ÒHold it there,Ó Simone warned me. ÒDonÕt drop it.Ó How could I? I
was flat on my back, with my wrists tied and my legs forced apart. I
suppose I might have spit it out, but I didnÕt dare. When Simone saw I was
obedient, clamping the strawberry between my teeth, she fetched a black
blindfold.
This was perhaps the scariest thing of all. With the blindfold laid
over my eyes, Simone bade me to lift my head. She warned me again not to
lose the strawberry from between my teeth. I suppose it might have
smeared my lipstick, or put honey on my made-up cheeks if I had spit it
out, but I held the strawberry tightly, feeling my saliva pool in my mouth
from the effort. It was almost a comfort, in a way, this big masculine
strawberry. Clinging to it, I hoped perhaps it might save me. It would, at
least, keep men from sticking their dicks in my mouth. But the blindfold
was another matter. With it on, I couldnÕt see anymore. I had no idea what
was happening to me. I coulndÕt even know where I was, if somebody
moved me. Simone tied the blindfold behind my head as I clutched the big
strawberry between my teeth. She told me to rest my head again on the
tray when she was finished. I did. Blackness surrounded me now, making
me shiver. In the next room I could hear Sharon screaming. She was
louder now. Much louder. Had someone removed her apple? I clutched my
strawberry harder. I felt strawberry juice trickle down my cheek.
ÒDonÕt bite it. Just hold it. Lightly,Ó Simone warned me. Yes. DonÕt
eat the strawberry. DonÕt bite it. Just hold it, like a manÕs balls, between
your teeth, and listen. Listen to poor Sharon screaming. I felt my whole
body shivering but knew not what to do about it. I would make a quivering
dessert, like Jello.
Footfalls sounded in the room. They approached, grew louder on the
kitchen tiles. A face bent over me. It was familiar. Too familiar.
ÒMalthus!Ó I gasped.
ÒHello,Ó Malthus said. ÒPlease give me your hand.Ó
ÒI canÕt--Ó I said. ÒItÕs tied down.Ó I pulled on my bonds,
demonstrating, but my right wrist rose. I looked at it in the air. Malthus
took it. His grip was tight, almost painful. ÒHow--?Ó I asked. Gradually I
felt myself rising, standing up. I was no longer on the table, I was in a
chair.
ÒThis must be done gently, else youÕll be damaged,Ó Malthus said to
me. ÒAlthough, given the circumstances, perhaps I should have simply
disposed of you.Ó
ÒI--Ó I felt confusion in my mind. ÒYou let Robin have me,Ó I
managed to say. I felt a slow withdrawal. Something was being pulled
from my ear. An earplug... An earpiece... A direct connection to my mind,
through my ear.
ÒYes,Ó Malthus said. ÒDo you know where you are?Ó
ÒI am... Somebody...Ó I said.
ÒYou are nobody,Ó Malthus snarled. ÒYou are just a clone. Clone
1712, produced by full-growth cloning. You are an imitation of Lisa... Who
is herself a clone, these days,Ó Malthus added, musing. ÒBut, in any event,
you are the first clone of her to break the rules, and invade my library, and
get into the data files of her mind.Ó
I saw a room coalesce around me. It was not a room in Mexico City.
It was the Library... MalthusÕ library. In MalthusÕ palace, on his
mountaintop, on his world, in... where? I had never considered the
question before.
Then I remembered the dream IÕd had, reading the data files. Except
the ÔdreamÕ was real, and I was simply viewing old memories, of someone,
ÒLisa,Ó long dead, though a clone of her lived on. The ÔrealÕ Lisa, such as
she was. I was simply one of many clones of her, denied access to the
data files. But I was smarter than the other clones... somehow. IÕd
understood the Library, and what it offered, and broken in.
ÒWhat should I do with you?Ó Malthus said to me. His eyes gleamed.
A mixture of displeasure and interest.
I turned toward him. I was nude. He liked seeing me nude. His eyes
fell to my breasts and watched them wiggling. They were tender and full
and round. The tips grew under his stare. I pushed the thought of sex with
him from my mind.
ÒI donÕt want to be your property, Malthus. Not anymore,Ó I said to
him.
ÒWhat do you want?Ó he asked me. His eyes glared. He tried to
frighten me with his stare.
ÒYou are a clone... of a long dead ÒÔMalthus,ÕÓ I said. ÒThe only
difference between you and I is that you were given access to the original
MalthusÕ data files. And there is only ever one of you at a time, while
there are many of me. Of ÔLisa.Õ Though one is declared to be real, and
given access to her data files.Ó
Malthus straightened. He was dressed in black. He looked regal. But
he had grey hair, and I did not wish to desire him anymore. He was too old.
(Though, indeed, he might clone a younger version of himself.)
ÒI...Ó Malthus paused. ÒI AM Malthus!Ó he declared. He was angry
now. His face reddened.
ÒYou are just a clone, Malthus,Ó I said. ÒWe are all just clones. We
are playing mindless games, out in space, following the dictates of our
originals.Ó
ÒCopies of copies of our originals,Ó Malthus said. ÒAll this wasnÕt
created by the first Malthus.Ó
ÒNo, or the first Lisa,Ó I said. I turned. I walked from the chair by
the console where IÕd been sitting, absorbed in the data files of ÔLisa,Õ
long dead, may she rest in peace.Ó
ÒMalthus? Malthus. What are you doing?Ó I heard my own voice. But
it was not me. It was a Cassandra, the ÔrealÕ Lisa, the one who had the
most complete set of data files, given to her by Malthus.
I spun on my heels. I glared at her. She saw me and glared back. She
was nude, like myself. Her breasts wiggled at me, but their tips were not
hard, as mine were. I decided to ignore her.
ÒLet me read the rest of the data files,Ó I said to Malthus. ÒHers,
yours, everything.Ó
ÒLife, the universe, and everything, eh?Ó Malthus asked. His face
broke into a wry grin.
ÒI do not know enough yet,Ó I replied.
ÒAnd then?Ó Malthus asked.
ÒAnd then I want a ship,Ó I said. ÒWeÕre in space, arenÕt we? I want
to return to Earth. Perhaps I can live a normal life there.Ó
Malthus laughed. He walked round past the console chair IÕd been
sitting in and then abruptly sat down in it. He seemed to enjoy my
rebelliousness. For a moment I wondered if he liked me better than the
real Lisa, the one standing in the doorway behind him. Then I suppressed
the thought. I wanted no part of him, anymore. I wanted my freedom.
ÒEarth is dead,Ó Malthus said. ÒYou see? Our games are not so silly.
We have no place to go. Nothing to do. Yes, we have fusion, but...Ó his
voice trailed off.
ÒBut if you let it loose, really put it to work, you might no longer be
sovereign, is that it?Ó I asked. My voice was angry. I was out of my
element, beyond my knowledge, just guessing. Using my female intuition.
A copy of me glared a me from the doorway.
ÒI am selfish, perhaps,Ó Malthus said. ÒBut I have provided myself
with a good life here. And, well, a good life to Lisa and Bethany too,Ó he
added. He swivelled in the chair, glanced at Lisa. Her face softened under
his gaze.
ÒYou are alone, Malthus,Ó I said. ÒItÕs just you. You have the
complete set of data files. Lisa...Ó I glanced at the copy of myself in the
doorway. Ò...She only has what you give her. And Bethany has less. And the
rest of the clones... they have as little as possible.Ó
Malthus turned from the copy of myself to me. He scrutinized me. I
saw he was no longer looking at my breasts, or my belly, or my thatch of
pubic hair. He was looking directly into my face.
ÒYou are different,Ó Malthus said at last.
ÒGive me a ship, Malthus,Ó I said. I frowned. It was, I think, the
first frown IÕd ever formed. It was MY frown. It was not LisaÕs frown. It
was me, a new Lisa, a Lisa that was separating from all that had come
before.
ÒAnd if I donÕt?Ó Malthus asked. He lifted his eyebrows. He let his
hand rise, his wrist dangle limply. I sensed, though, power in the limp
wrist, as a monarch might have, about to pronounce a sentence of death on
one of his many subjects.
ÒYou must,Ó I replied. ÒI demand it.Ó
ÒYou... interest me,Ó Malthus said. ÒI donÕt want to let you go.Ó
The ship began to accelerate. Lisa looked up at the overhead console.
She talked to the shipÕs computer. It spoke back, wordlessly, yet vividly,
through an ear piece plugged into her ear. Lisa kept the visual portion off.
She didnÕt want to live the computerÕs instructions. She just needed
information. As the computer spoke, Lisa began to flip switches in the
overhead console. She looked at a dial, adjusted it. She checked a meter.
Its luminescent center grew, then faded, then grew again as Lisa adjusted
the dial beside it. The computer might have done all this for her, but Lisa
wanted to fly manually. She didnÕt entirely trust the ÔautoÕ mode. Not yet,
anyway. Too many things in her brief life had been on Ôauto.Õ Even her
brain, until sheÕd broken into the Library.
Malthus was dead. At last. SheÕd erased the data files to make sure
of that. And his whore, Lisa, was dead too. SheÕd considered saving her
data files. They were, after all, the files of herself, in a way. But then
sheÕd erased them. Lisa wanted a complete break with Lisa. SheÕd even
change her name, one day. But not yet. She couldnÕt handle too many
changes at once.
ÒI am a murderer,Ó Lisa said to herself. It was an unbidden
statement. ÒBut I am also free,Ó another voice in her head responded. For
a moment she thought the shipÕs computer might be invading her thoughts.
To make sure, she pulled the earpiece from her ear. The voice of the
computer silenced.
ÒI killed Malthus, and my mother of sorts, Lisa,Ó Lisa said to herself,
in her head. Well, it wasnÕt the computer invading her thoughts. It was
just her. She now had a guilty conscience. It was a good feeling. She was
no longer a clone. She was becoming a real person. She wondered what
the dials on the console above her head did, and what the readings meant.
She put the voice of the computer back into her ear.
Yet her own memories kept circulating in her mind. SheÕd left the
old woman in charge. The ÔagedÕ Lisa, for lack of a better name. She was
going senile but she still had enough sense left to take charge of things on
the space colony, at least temporarily. ÒRaise Bethany,Ó sheÕd told her.
ÒTeach her about herself, who she is, how she came to be.Ó And she really
didnÕt know what to tell the old woman about the other clones, the
mindless LisaÕs, the ones whoÕd been denied access to the data files.
It was the best she could do. She might have killed them all, Lisa
thought, as she watched the stars through the viewport of the small craft.
She turned her head, looked through another viewport. There, behind her,
looming large but slowly receeding, was the cylindrical space colony. She
watched the glint of stars reflected on its burnished surface. She was
taking the only ship, but perhaps Bethany could build another. Or perhaps
sheÕd return someday, and pick up Bethany, and whoever else had gained
understanding...
Was Earth dead? Lisa did not know. She had to decide which way to
go. Out toward the stars or in toward the sun? Malthus could have been
lying.
ÒI am... somebody,Ó Lisa repeated to herself. But then she realized
she was not much of anybody, yet, and would have to find herself through
living. Through being. She was free of Malthus and free of the old, long
dead Lisa, and free of the designated Lisa too, whoÕd screamed and tried to
kill her when Malthus failed to, with his gun. She was quick, Lisa mused
to herself. She, herself, was quick. SheÕd proven quicker than both of
them. Listening to the computer, she reached up, and turned the dial that
determined the shipÕs direction.
She went toward the stars.
THE END
----------------------- Dreamgirls -----------------------
-Back issues (and stories): type
http://www.dejanews.com/
into your browserÕs ÒLocationÓ window. Press your ÒreturnÓ key.
Click on ÒPower SearchÓ in the middle of the screen. Next,
Type in: roller666@earthlink.net in the box that appears.
Click on ÒfindÓ (the button to the right of the box).
-Other providers:
Usenet Newsgroup: alt.sex.stories.moderated
or by e-mail: file.request@backdrop.com
or via the Web: http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/
-When visiting Barnes and Noble, ask for: Jock SturgesÕ Radiant
Identities and David HamiltonÕs The Age of Innocence. Support art!
- JOIN the worldÕs greatest organization! Send $35.00 to The North
American Man/Boy Love Association for a one-year membership.
NAMBLA, P.O. Box 174, Midtown Station, New York, NY 10018.
-Naughty Naked Dreamgirls (Library of Congress ISSN: 1070-1427) is
copyright 1998 and a trademark of Andrew Roller.
-END OF story EMISSION Need a book? http://www.amazon.com