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From: Andrew Roller <roller39@IDT.NET>
Subject: Chambers of Love part 4 of 18 (NND)
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_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
CHAMBERS OF LOVE
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Chapter Four
Helga handed Julie and I our visas and passports. A
well-placed friend at the French embassy had gotten them expedited to
us. We boarded a 747 at John Wayne Airport. The flight was pleasant
enough, but the Concorde less so. Two loutish tourists, young pimply
athletes named Jim and Steve, drooled over us the entire trip. Whenever
one of us got up they used it as an excuse to follow us and try out some
of their juvenile pick-up lines. I was glad to get off that flight, to
be sure. Thank God it hadn't been subsonic.
Paris! We took a whirlwind tour of the place; seeing the
Eiffel Tower, buying all the trinkets, eating in the famous restaurants
and visiting the shows. After about a week, dragging a bit, we asked
Helga about the friends she'd mentioned having in the area.
"Couldn't we visit them, please?" Julie asked.
"This tourist crap is starting to get me down," I said,
flopping on my hotel bed. "I think I've taken a picture of everything
but a French toilet."
"Well, let me see what I can arrange," Helga replied. "They're
somewhat private in their entertainments. You'll have to promise to be
on your best behavior." She shot a glance at me, as I lay trying to
pull the tassels out of the end of my bedcover. "And you may be asked
to dress up, to fit in, you know."
"Oh, I can buy an evening gown!" Julie said.
"Not only that, but what goes underneath as well," Helga said.
"The parties here are less restrained than in America." Julie gulped,
said she looked forward to attending some parties. I said that I wanted
to attend some too.
Helga rented a beach house the following Sunday. Julie and I
took full advantage of being her guests, running topless on the beach
and splashing in the waves and flirting with all the assiduously polite
foreign men. But, depressingly, Helga wouldn't let us keep our tops off
for more than a few minutes. She said French men preferred white
breasts and we mustn't brown them in the sun. After dark, though, we
got to be more liberated.
On Saturday night we were invited by some friends of Helga's on
a gondola ride, sans tops. We danced, wearing just our little panties,
with men who were fully clothed in shorts and polo shirts, khaki and
knee-length designer swim trunks. Most of the girls were bare-breasted
(save for a few older women), so we didn't feel the least bit put out.
We drank too much and "partied our pussies off," as Helga put it, though
except for a few kisses and furtive touchings we didn't make out with
anyone. But our presence was roundly appreciated and we were promised
future invitations.
"Well," I said happily to Julie afterward. "I think we're
moving up in French society."
"I'd like to meet someone really wealthy," she said dreamily.
"A man...in a castle!"
"Now you're just fantasizing," I said. "There aren't any
princes in castles anymore, not even in France."
"I'd settle for a king, then."
"How about Count Dracula?" I asked.
***
Helga came back to the beach house late one afternoon and
ordered us matter-of-factly to undress. "We've been invited to sample
the hospitality of the French with a certain gentleman," she explained.
"I have not met him before but I am told he throws terrific parties.
The only catch is that we must not be inhibited about what we wear."
Helga explained that, just as Julie had heard from her friend,
we were not to wear our undies or anything else below the waist.
"What?! I would never go to such a party," Julie protested. I
agreed that there was no chance I would accept such an immodest
invitation. Helga scolded us and told us to remove our clothes
immediately.
"You had no trouble spending whole days at the beach in nothing
but your skimpy panties, did you? Every time I went out looking for you
your tops were lying discarded on your blankets and I had to force you
to put them back on." Glumly we nodded that this had been the case.
"Or partying in the evening, on that gondola, in nothing but your little
bikinis, still topless? You were the sexiest girls there, and not
simply by accident."
"But-but this is different, Helga," Julie whined. "This time
they want us to show our pussies." I looked at her and she at me and we
burst into peals of laughter. At Helga's insistence, still giggling, we
disrobed completely. I did not know what the night held for us but it
sounded very exotic, very European. We both knew we'd lie awake nights
wondering what we'd missed if we didn't go.
"We're on vacation, after all," I reminded Julie.
"I suppose we can make an exception for that," she said
quietly.
***
It was a warm Paris night when the horse-drawn coach arrived at
our beach house.
"Oooh! How romantic!" Julie exclaimed. Our anonymous host had
sent ahead fur coats for us to put over what little we wore beneath.
Bundled in our coats, which just covered our bottoms, we were helped up
into the coach by a smartly dressed footman. "Maybe he is a prince,"
Julie said, gazing up at the beautifully carved interior of the coach.
Helga, dressed identically to Julie and I, commented that there were
many wealthy men in Paris who longed to cater to females such as
ourselves, sparing no expense.
We were whisked off by the coach, to the mysterious party on
the edge of town. Helga reminded us that since Julie and I were new, we
might feel a bit awkward at first, but that any seeming "hazing" was
just in good fun and by way of introduction.
I watched through the carriage window beside me as the stately
old buildings of Paris trundled by. Their plastered white walls gleamed
in the evening's glimmering lamplight; above, the overhangs of their
slate roofs shone darkly. I thought, as we passed a more ornate
building, that I saw a stone gargoyle staring down at me, mutely. As a
little girl I'd seen an episode of Johnny Quest where the gargoyle in
the story had once been a person. Was the one I'd seen, I fancied, a
former tourist? It had seemed somehow female in its bearing. A former
female tourist, a young American girl, perhaps, who went to one party
too many? The horses' hooves kept up a steady clatter, almost as if
measuring time, like a metronome. "Like sands in an hourglass,"
slipping away as I rolled toward my fate.
"Kimmy, you seem gloomy," Helga offered.
"Just wondering..." I said. "I mean, we don't know anybody..."
"You didn't know your own mother when you were born," Helga
laughed. "Did you know that? It's true for all babies. So everyone
you meet in this world first steps into your life as a stranger."
"Beware of strangers," I repeated from the first grade.
"Then you would have to beware of everyone, and live like a
hermit in a cave from day one."
"Venturing out only after dark," Julie said with an
intentionally creepy grin, mimicking the pose of a stalking vampire. We
laughed at that. My melancholia eased.
The buildings of the city gave way to a forested park. Dimly I
saw romantic couples strolling through the moonlit shadows of the
trees. A small group of picnickers that had remained past sundown
lingered by a shimmering lake. Gaily they toasted someone, did they
look in our direction? Trees rushed in to block my view.
Verdant rolling hills unfolded beyond the park. Farming
country, rich with the smell of evening dew. I spotted daffodils
sprouting in the gravel by the side of the road. In the distance a
shepherd was herding his flock of sheep homeward. The moon wheeled into
view as the carriage turned. Big, bloated, how many other girls going
to parties tonight, or sharing moments with a lover, were looking up at
it now just as I was? It smiled back at me reassuringly. The moon was
always reassuring on the subject of romance. The night was its domain.
It smiled with approval on all the activities of the night, I thought.
We pulled up before a large brick-faced chateau. It was set
well back from the road, as if wanting privacy, insisting that it not be
disturbed. A ponderous, ancient stone wall rimmed its border, setting
off its neatly clipped lawn from the roadside heather. Rose bushes in
full bloom clustered near the front of the house. We rode through an
iron gate, which a uniformed servant opened for us and then closed again
as we passed within. The carriage wheeled up a cobblestone driveway and
stopped before the mansion. A flight of broad agate steps led up to its
front door. Disembarking from our elegant conveyance, we paused to
admire the roses, then mounted the unusually expensive steps. I noted
that they were centuries old, not an investment anyone of recent memory
had made. Milky and clouded now, much worn from the comings and goings
of many people (other girls, perhaps?), I imagined how they must have
once been. Radiantly striped with forest green and burnt umber, the
yellow of the rising sun and a touch of orange, to compliment the
sunset. I stepped lightly, not wanting to wear down the poor steps any
further. The front door opened for us as we approached the top step.
We slipped within.
A woman greeted us. Her name was Yvonne. We stood upon a
polished marble floor, in a cavernous entryway. A statue-lined hall
stretched out before us. Briefly I studied the architecture of this
inner portico. Its walls were of old stone, yet with assiduously
polished wood paneling covering them almost entirely. Above, wooden
beams supported a roof that seemed newly refurbished. I wondered if we
weren't in some restored ruin, a monastery, perhaps, that had fallen on
hard times under the onslaught of science and materialism. Strange that
it should live again now, as a house of Bacchus. For, given our
clothes, it could serve as little else.
Yvonne took our coats. She showed no hint of embarrassment at
seeing us to be wearing only lingerie underneath. At our host's
instruction we wore tight, frilly white sleeveless blouses. A narrow
front stretched across our ample bosoms, barely wide enough to contain
them. The sides of the garment had big, gaping holes for the arms. The
effect was that one's nipples threatened to pop out at any moment. Yet
the garment had a certain graceful elegance. Tight little collars
contained our necks. The blouses were tied snugly at our waists, by a
bow that was knotted at our backs. Our host had sent us these little
shirts, with a note that he always provided everything a girl needed to
party with him. We were to bring nothing but ourselves, no purses, no
accessories, no money or I.D.s. Nothing save what he provided.
Beneath our tightly-cinched waistlines our host demonstrated a
certain appealing forgetfulness. We had been supplied with neither
skirts nor panties. Bare hipped, bottoms and pussies utterly exposed,
we nonetheless endeavored to appear as ladylike as possible. Our female
greeter beckoned us down the statue-lined hall. Clad in black booties,
our legs otherwise bare, we trod along behind her, our heels clicking
loudly on the marble floor.
We were ushered into a room where, to our surprise, a half
dozen fully clothed men and women awaited us. In their hands they each
held a springy little birch rod, each one tied at the handle with a
decorative pink ribbon. Our host laughingly stepped forward and
introduced himself. He was a handsome man in his early 40's.
"I see I overlooked several items in your attire," he chuckled,
admiring each of us in turn. "No matter, you would have had to take
them off sooner or later anyway." We stood blushing but otherwise
silent. "You must be the one with whom I corresponded," our host said
to Helga. "Had I known you had such a magnificent bosom I would have
forgotten to send you blouses also."
"We thank you for your invitation to display ourselves to such
a handsome host," Helga said demurely.
"This is your first visit, and as such you must pledge to do as
you're told," our host said. "Is this acceptable to you?"
"It's your party, sir," Helga answered. Julie and I nodded
quietly.
"The girls, you mentioned that they sought to be opened more
fully?" he asked, winking at me as he spoke, as if to palm off the
question as a joke.
"Yes. They've been dutifully fucked in America but are still
quite tight," Helga said naughtily. "I'd hoped the men of Paris might
be more, ah, generously equipped."
"Of course, of course. Come and meet several manfully endowed
friends of mine, and their female companions, who can attest to their
prowess," our host said with a churlish grin. We were invited to mingle
with the other guests. Drinks were placed in our hands by our newfound
friends and they gathered round us. They gazed approvingly at our firm
bottoms and snug little cunts. We were told to stand with our thighs
well spread and hips thrust forward. I felt tremendously indecent doing
this, but we'd promised our host to obey him in all things, and this was
how he wished for our posture to be. My high breasts, barely contained
by my little shirt, thrust upward at whomever was speaking to me, their
stiff rosy peaks indenting the nearly sheer fabric. Thus displayed, I
answered my admirers' many probing questions about my sexual
experiences. Helga and Julie suffered through similar interrogations.
Not a stone was left unturned as we were made to describe our every
amorous episode in life. Whenever our friends thought we were being
untruthful or concealing something, a light cut with a birch rod was
applied to our bottoms. Each guest found at least one excuse to smarten
us up. Otherwise we were not touched, despite our provocative poses.
Our host complimented our obedience. But more was to come.
We were returned to the coach, but without being allowed to
fetch our coats. Our host accompanied us. We were made to sit with
legs spread blushingly wide in the coach. He sat across from us and
admired our cunts. Our breasts shook as we trundled down a maze of
backcountry roads, some unpaved, some even of cobblestone or old
flagstones. Now and then one or another nipple would break loose and
have to be restored behind the taut but flimsy blouses. Our host seemed
to enjoy our chagrin at having to constantly worry about our nipples.
Helga wanted to just leave hers sticking out but our host insisted she
re-cover them. It was rather like having a bra whose straps are
constantly falling off your shoulders. The poor condition of the roads
we traveled didn't help matters any. They seemed to have been specially
selected to jostle our titties.
We arrived before a rustic looking restaurant. Cows malingered
along one side of it, nonchalantly dropping their dung within feet of
what looked to be the kitchen. Chickens scattered before our carriage.
This was far off the beaten path of the guidebooks, I mused. A young
girl in a smock stood out on the wooden front porch of the place,
sweeping. She wore a peasant's bonnet.
"You know of Jean Castel? Owner of Castel-Princesse?" our host
asked Helga. He was referring to Paris' very private night club, run by
Mr. Castel mainly for his friends. Helga nodded. She had told Julie
and I of it. "He owns this also," Our host said, gesturing to the
tumbledown restaurant.
"I'm glad you chose the better of the two," Helga replied.
"No, no, this is yet more discreet," he said. "I could never
take lovely young ladies like you, dressed as you are, to the
Princesse. However, here there will be no problem. We shall enjoy a
nice, quiet dinner together. However, to keep the peace, Castel does
allow in some of the local population. Some will be bumpkins. Ignore
their comments, please." He took Helga's arm. Our driver appeared
beside the coach and opened the door. One by one we stepped down into
the cool evening air, feeling it rustle through the tight little curls
of our pussies. The sweeping girl looked up once, returned to her task,
oblivious.
Our host led us into the small restaurant. The interior was
much more elegant than one would have thought. The tables were cloaked
with linen tablecloths and set with golden silverware. I wondered what
the matchbooks were made of.
We were greeted by a maitre d' but made to wait in line for a
table, like everyone else. If he noticed our nudity he did not show
it. As we stood there, patiently, the other patrons in the lobby began
making rude comments about our bodies. Julie and Helga and I were the
only ones wearing so little, showing so much. Our host gave us a glance
as if to say, "Do not mind them...simple country folk, you know," but we
turned visibly red. Our lightly patterned asses seemed to especially
intrigue the strangers. Guessing that we were Americans or (worse)
British, they purposely spoke in English, albeit with heavy French
accents.
"What an arse she has! She'll behave at dinner from the looks
of it, I'm sure," one onlooker said.
"What boobs that woman has. She could nurse an entire army
with those," another heckler commented.
"She probably has! Look how sultry her face is," a third said.
Finally a table became available. We followed the maitre d' as
we twisted round nearly every other table in the place, and I wondered
if our host hadn't purposely arranged this in advance, just to humiliate
us. Every diner got a waist-eye view of our pussies as we passed. Men,
women, even the occasional child. At last we reached our place, near
the rear, yet in the center of the other tables there. Clearly this
would not be the night I would want to eat with my fingers.
We seated ourselves with only the mildest of gasps. Our
lightly tanned bottoms hurt as much from bouncing remorselessly in the
carriage as from being cropped. We'd bounced to our host's house, been
playfully stung there, then bounced to the restaurant. I wondered if I
might be developing saddle sores.
The waitress who came for our orders made a point of addressing
we females as "cunts." This seemed especially to bother Helga, but I
rightly suspected that our host had arranged this, so Helga could do
nothing. We ate quietly as we were gawked at by the other patrons.
Despite our nudity, we exhibited the very best in table manners. Our
host urged us to drink freely. By dinner's end we all had to use the
bathroom but, surprisingly, were not permitted to do so. We left the
restaurant wriggling our asses with our need to pee, to the bawdy
delight of the diners. Endeavoring to step gracefully we mounted the
steps of the coach. Our jiggly bottomcheeks wobbled exceedingly,
flashing their whiteness. We had to bend to enter the carriage, and so
inadvertently mooned the world with our waggling butts.
Once more we set off across the country roads. The rattling
carriage repeatedly loosed our tits and we carefully tucked them back in
with our delicate hands. Our long nails caught the light from the full
moon and glinted like little miniature knives.
It was much more difficult to sit with our legs spread on the
trip back. Our host did not allow us to squeeze our pussies with our
hands, either, to assuage our desire to pee. We squirmed miserably,
burning with our need. Our host merely smiled benignly, drinking in our
torment with obvious male pleasure.
It was with trepidation that I alighted from the coach once
more and climbed the steps to our host's house. He had proven himself
uniquely accomplished so far this evening in reducing young ladies to
quivering, helpless mounds of flesh, and he hadn't even touched us yet.
Yvonne clicked her tongue disapprovingly as we re-entered the house.
"Tch! Tch! I think some little girls drank too much at dinner," she
said. We danced our way down the hall, hoping against hope to be led to
a bathroom.
Our host introduced us to no less than the mayor of Paris this
time, in a little room with yet another group of strangers in it.
We were required to answer the mayor's questions with our
pussies outthrust, our hips gyrating shamelessly with our urge to make
water. I cringed and bit my lip as he made his inquiries with
increasing slowness.
Finally I blurted, "Sir, I must pee very badly!"
"What? You come to our fine city and cannot hold your water
until you go home?" he asked merrily.
"No, sir," I answered imploringly.
Helga, the very picture of ladyhood with her refined face and
glorious bosom, twisted her hands pleadingly together in dumb appeal,
all the while keeping her honeypot arched forward as required by our
host. Julie, the sweet young bride, thrust her cunt at the mayor as
brazenly as any cheap trollop, anxiously begging for release.
The mayor's wife appeared then, and instantly I knew we were in
trouble. She was much younger than the mayor, and very beautiful, with
a wanton, devil may care look animating her features. Most strikingly,
she wore a skin-tight dress that made no attempt to cover her
cantaloupe-sized mammaries. A little black collar bound her neck and
attached itself by eight pencil-thin strands to her dress, which was of
the same color. The dress topped-out along the undersides of her boobs,
leaving the jellied white cones utterly exposed.
"Marguerite and I plan to have a baby," the mayor explained.
"This dress will allow my wife to easily breast feed. Do you like it?"
We had no choice. We nodded mutely. I gazed at Marguerite's belly to
see if she was pregnant. She seemed as slim as a model, but her breasts
seemed already bloated with milk. They wobbled deliciously, their big
nipples promising to nurture any number of hungry infants.
"May I practise on them?" Marguerite asked her husband of us,
to our shocked surprise.
"Of course, my dear. And not only may you breastfeed them, but
as you can see they are about to wet themselves!"
"I should wish to have them tied," Marguerite observed. The
mayor clapped his hands and three burly men entered and twisted our arms
up behind us. They shoved us forward toward a door.
Captive now, our chests were thrust up and out, offering up our
bosoms with their excited nipples protruding into our sleek shirts. One
of Helga's beautiful tits fell out of her shirt as she walked. There
would be no replacing it now. It wobbled freely. The nipple was a
delicately offered bud of pencil-thin flesh, pink and aroused.
Near the door we were introduced to a Dr. Johnson, who said he
performed preventive mastectomies. Would we care for his services
today? He asked. No, we gulped fearfully, momentarily forgetting even
our need to pee. He gazed at our bosoms but did not touch them,
thankfully.
"I could remove just the nipples, if you like," he offered.
"Sometimes that is all that is required." Marguerite caught up with us,
scolded him, told the burly men to get a move on.
"Even good little girls such as these cannot hold themselves
forever. Hurry them to the conservatory. They have a performance to
give!" We were rushed from the room and down a hall. The men walked
beside us now, that our jiggling rumps might be admired, still holding
us firmly. Indeed, it was Marguerite herself who was first to take
advantage of the sight of our retreating rumps. She strode along behind
us, smiling and praising them. I felt like some captive Jane, taken
prisoner by jungle natives. Someone had given Marguerite a cat-o-nine
tails and she idly cracked the air with it. Tremors ran down my spine.
Spraddle-legged, our cunts displayed obscenely, we were
manhandled by our twisted-back arms into a large, ornate room.
Murmuring guests in formal wear acknowledged our entry with hushed
compliments. Through my bleared vision, straining to hold in my pee, I
saw that the women were mostly young and very attractive. The men were
somewhat older, as if out on the town for the night with women not their
wives.
We were taken directly through the crowd, which parted ever so
slightly for our passing. Bare waisted, my bubbies loomed within my
shirt, twin peaks softly indenting its smoothness. My every step
jostled my bosoms, threatening to release them. My offered cunt was wet
now with my juices. I felt a deep sense of yearning as I passed through
a sea of gazing eyes and parted lips, delicately inquiring fingers
brushing my flanks and sides ever so demurely.
We stopped before a raised dias. Three tall, stout posts stood
side by side upon it. At the foot of each was an ivory chamberpot. The
men let go of us. I shook my hair and stood erect, no longer proffering
my pussy. Helga and Julie did likewise. We were overcome by our
surroundings, frightened and utterly unsure of what to do. Even Helga,
apparently, was in over her head now. Raw bottomed and bare legged we
stood, our makeup still exquisite, our long lovely locks piled up in
shining curls. With a shudder Julie let a fart. There were giggles,
laughter. Julie blushed and put a hand to her bottom.
"Mount the steps," Marguerite intoned in a severe voice. She
cracked her whip. With mincing steps, bare fannies shivering, we
gracefully ascended a mini-staircase which led up to the platform.
Whistles sounded at the sight of our juddering white ass cheeks.
Despite our best efforts we walked with a certain awkwardness from our
desperation to relieve ourselves. This seemed to please our hosts.
Three men dressed as executioners mounted the platform from the
other side. With hearts pounding we stood quietly (we knew not what
else to do) as they blindfolded us with soft black cloths. Then we were
turned and our backs set against the posts with determined efficiency.
At once I noticed a hump on my post, pressing against my
bottom. It had the effect of thrusting out my hips, displaying my
pussy. Taking me by the shoulders my captor pushed me down, forcing me
into a mild squat. My legs splayed wide, the hump becoming more
obtrusive as I slid slightly down the pole. My feet were kicked apart
so that I stood with them planted in a bold, inverted "V." Knees bent,
my back straight, I was bound to the post with a chain around my tummy
and neck. The metal felt cold against my skin. My wrists were seized
and lofted high above my head. My captor lashed them tightly together
with chains. Finally my feet were strapped to the floor, leaving me
fearfully exposed, my pussy jutting outward. Julie and Helga were
secured in a like manner.
"My, my, three little pussies, all in a row," Marguerite said
tauntingly. She flicked our tender thighs with her cat-o-nine tails.
We flinched, gasped. "Come on, girls , everyone's waiting. You said
you had to go to the bathroom." Suddenly, despite my unbearable need
and Marguerite's encouragement, I found I couldn't go. I ground my
teeth and worked my hips. Then, of a sudden, I heard Julie give a
panicked cry and the sound of water splashing into her bowl. To her
intense embarrassment she was peeing in front of a roomful of strangers!
Helga cut loose next, with a soft sigh, pleased perhaps at the
accomplishment of this new perversion. I yearned for panties to hide my
impending release. I clenched my teeth. Could I really do this awful
act? I was but 15, neither a well-fucked wife or a seasoned dominatrix,
a mere slip of a girl with charmingly large titties.
With a shudder I suddenly let go. I joined my friends in
making golden rain, the three of us spurting at once, a unique display
of human fountains. Applause rang in our ears as we tinkled together
for our audience.
At last we trailed off into dying wisps, then droplets,
plinking the last of our pee into mercifully large bowls in a now silent
room.
"There, you did very well," Marguerite praised us. She and
several women removed our blindfolds and unbound us. "Come down and
meet the guests and tell them what it felt like to pee in front of
them."
Flushed with shame, we descended the steps and found ourselves
eye to eye with our audience. Helga managed to replace her loosened tit
beneath her shirt, a near futile act of modesty after what we'd just
been through. Reluctantly we accepted drinks and entertained rude
questions about our figures and our bodily functions.
These guests were allowed to touch, ever so lightly, and I was
felt up in all my intimate places with gently seeking fingers. The
groove of my bottom was delicately explored, my snatch was caressed and
tickled. My breasts, still contained within my shirt, were patted and
stroked. I did my best to hold my drink as I was fondled. My nipples
and clitty grew even harder under the assault.
"I hear you're quite tight," a woman breathed in my ear. "But
willing to work at it."
"Would you like your lovely ass branded?" another asked. "I
specialize in young girls. I have my brazier and hot iron with me. You
need only give the word."
After being teased for many minutes Marguerite told us to bid
our new friends adieu. I had grown to liking one man in particular and,
despite my better judgement, I kissed my fingers and put them to his
lips. His eyes sparkled. He had discreetly avoided touching me but now
he reached out and gently clasped several curls of my pussy twixt his
fingers.
"They plan to whip you," he breathed.
"I-I guessed they might," I said.
"Shall I save you?"
"I am resigned to it," I said of the whipping.
"May I watch?"
"I have no control over who does or doesn't," I replied feebly,
almost in a trance as he stared down upon me, an Atlas in trousers. He
need not hold up the world. Holding me was enough.
I stood, hypnotized, utterly absorbed by this Adonis who held
me solicitously by my sex. I trembled, a torrent of emotions flooding
through me.
"We have three very naughty young bottoms here," a woman said
officiously, inspecting my ass and those of Helga and Julie.
"It is offensive for them to strut about without panties on,"
another agreed. "Are their hineys so much fairer than ours?"
"A good whipping would cut them down to size."
I quaked in my booties upon hearing this, but so tumultuous
were the feelings shivering through me that I did not show any sense. I
stood, dumbly, a lamb at sacrifice, a rabbit frozen in oncoming
headlights.
"They shall not be put to their trials here," Marguerite
replied. "Our host insists that they be given privacy for their
ordeal. Bid them farewell."
Burly men separated me from my trousered Atlas, taking me by
the arms and leading me away. I wriggled like a fish between my
captors. My feet barely touched the floor. My much maligned posterior
jiggled lewdly, a ripe display exaggerated by my half-formed attempts to
break free.
Julie's pretty fundament, well-pumped by her husband in their
brief marriage, still clenched with girlish tightness. It retreated
before me as she too was involuntarily removed from the room. Helga,
her lovely fanny fuller and more mature, announced its departure with a
rude fart. I couldn't help but laugh as Helga blushed crimson right
down to her toes. Marguerite scolded her and flicked her bumptious butt
with the ominous cat-o-nine tails.
Though I was filled with trepidation at where we were being
taken, I was glad to be out of the roomful of strangers. How
humiliating it had been to pee in front of them! I pitied poor Helga
even more than myself. She was so regal, so refined and decorous, to be
reduced to that...a urinating wench! And sensuous Julie, the virtuous
bride who only wished to please, turned into a peeing animal.
I was dwelling on our collective fall from ladyhood when the
three of us were suddenly plopped down on a trio of stools. We were in
an alcove just off the main hall. Hauteur beauticians appeared and
studiously checked our makeup, working quickly. They ripped open our
blouses and our big, bobbling boobs fell out. Our bosoms were powdered,
making the white cones of flesh even whiter. Our stiff nipples were
lightly painted with lipstick to give them an even more dazzling cherry
hue. Our shirts, however, were not removed. Bewitchingly they hung
torn at our sides, still two sizes too small, hiding nothing now but
giving us the allure of captive maidens. Indian princesses about to be
introduced to the ways of the White Man. Princesses, though held
prisoner, with impeccable hair and makeup.
"Bring the young ladies into the punishment chamber," our host
ordered. The alcove proved to lead directly into a large cell. Julie
and Helga and I bleated cries of alarm as we were forcibly herded into
the room and saw what awaited us.
Every conceivable device to desecrate the human body was
there. Racks, trestles, ladders, a full assortment of whips and
paddles, and donkey-sized dildoes. There were devices for squeezing
cocks and opening love holes, both front and rear. And there was a big
brass bed in one corner, for more conventional fucking, with a matching
nightstand. A tasteful pile of colorful condoms waited atop the bedside
table. There were various bottles of lubricant. Mirrors positioned
along the walls reflected everything.
In the center of the room sat three stone blocks. They were
quite high at the rear, which faced us. Then they sloped down and away
from us, nearly level with the floor at their front ends. A pair of
chains had been drilled into the floor at both ends of each block.
Pillows had been placed thoughtfully atop each one.
Our host gestured toward the blocks, and we were impelled
toward them. My spine tingled with apprehension. "You will spend the
next day or so here," our host said, "Receiving your lessons. Do not
expect to be able to stand or sit afterward. During your training you
will be given such food and wine as you require, or even smelling salts,
to revive you and keep you ready for more instruction."
Without asking our consent, our host had us forced to our
knees, then stretched over the blocks. I fought back tears as I
realized what might happen, and that I could do nothing to change my
circumstances. My arms were pulled out straight in front of me,
painfully far, then bound to the floor with chains. My legs were kicked
apart so that they formed a bold upside-down vee. As I knelt there on
the floor my ankles were encircled with chains and secured.
"Three pretty bottoms, all in a row," Marguerite said
admiringly as we alternately contracted and released our bulging white
ass cheeks. We whinnied futile protests, humping the rocks as we made
repeated attempts to stand, to no avail. Our agitated hineys lost all
pretence of modesty as we shamelessly jiggled them about, hoping to
break free of our bonds. Unprotected, they were the highest points of
our trussed-up bodies, inviting attention with their every little
movement.
"I'll bet they wished they wore panties now," a woman said.
"Girls, are you comfortable?" Marguerite asked. "Although your
fannies must suffer I wouldn't want you to be entirely put out. The
pillows under your tummies should ease your experience."
Helga found her voice then and cried, "Marguerite, I am
frightened! We wished only to party--"
"There, there," Marguerite said. She bent and stroked the
woman's hair. "Sweet mare, you will not be harmed. Your host is a fair
and just man and will demand no more of you than a woman may be trained
to provide. Stick out your bottom more, offer your delicious peach
which he finds so entrancing. You are being honored for your beauty
this evening, you and your frisky young fillies. Our host only
entertains the prettiest females here. Let me feel your breasts, ah!
They betray you. Feel how stiff your nipples are." Marguerite fondled
Helga's bosoms then, lightly squished as they were into the stone
block. Fortunately a soft cloth lay under each of our midriffs,
covering the hard, rough stone. My erect nipples pricked the downy
coverlet and would do much dancing upon it tonight, I realized
fearfully.
"You are to be kissed all about your bottoms with the birch,"
Marguerite explained. "Men, including our host, love to see girls
exercised in this way. You will feel the strap too, and my cat-o-nine
tails. You will be shown absolutely no mercy, but lashed no harder than
young females such as yourselves can be expected to bear. Helga, of
course, shall be given the most thorough flogging. She can take it and
she knows it, don't you, Helga? Julie, your bridal education must be
continued. You will be strapped in anticipation of a thorough workout
on the bed. Our host wants to make sure you can bear children easily
when your time comes. And darling little Kimmy, you must have your
bottom opened tonight by a real cock. You must be well warmed for it,
to make you receptive. Your host has a big one and he expects to get it
right up you, no questions asked."
"Oh! Please!" Helga begged. "Stop tormenting us and get it
over with!"
"Brave helga!" Marguerite intoned. "I don't think you
understand, my dear. This is no rude punishment. It's an erotic game,
a party game, meant to last all night. See how boldly your bottoms
present themselves to our view, so creamy white and flawless. Not a
blemish marks any of you. We mean to sit and admire you first, your
nakedness, your indecency. How lovely it is to see three young women
presented in this way, arses up and ready for the fray. You are
helpless. You tremble at the awful stinging you're about to feel, right
on your seats where it will hurt most, do you not?"
We shivered, our lily-white asses trembling, our fatted cheeks
looking like mouth-watering merchandise in a butcher's shop. Marguerite
and our host shared some aperitifs then, after gagging us first so that
we could not spoil their conversation.
How open I felt! My bottom cheeks were split wide by my
obscene posture. The cool air of the room caressed my anus, the aspects
of which my hosts discussed, making my ears burn. Mine was compared to
Julie and Helga's.
"How big a cock do you think each of them can take?" Marguerite
wondered merrily.
"We shall have to test them and find out," our host said,
puffing on a cigarette. "When they leave here they will know not only
their outer measurements, but their inner ones as well."
Marguerite finally announced it was time to begin the
"Proceedings," and rose up with her cat. She walked over to us, her
heels loud upon the hard floor. I felt a shower of tips dangled
teasingly on my ass and leapt fearfully. But she was just playing.
"My, my, what will you do when it is for real?" she asked.
Julie and Helga jumped with alarm too, as Helga let the knotted ends of
her cat brush their exposed bottoms.
"Are you ready, girls?" Marguerite asked. The ends of her whip
danced playfully upon my peach once more. I mewled behind my gag,
hoping desperately for a reprieve. I was too young. I was only 15. I
should be escorted out of the room now, like the 10-year-old in Julie's
story. "I'm not going to kid you. This is going to hurt," Marguerite
warned. I heard the whip rustle as she lifted it.
"Mmph!" I cried then, as the whip laid its first bites upon my
bottom. Marguerite waited while I ground my hips upon the stone, my
precious bottom smarting. Then she gave me two more, "by way of
introduction," she said.
Julie was struck next, and gave a muffled yelp. Helga finally,
and she swore beneath her gag. Deftly Marguerite loosed Helga's gag and
urged the woman to curse her with as many obscenities as she could think
of. "You will need them all tonight," Marguerite warned. She gave her
an extra, harder cut and Helga trilled.
"God-Dammit, you cunt!" Helga shouted. Marguerite laughed.
She took off the gags of Julie and I also, then prepared to give me my
fourth strike.
Swish! Down it came, harder than the other three, and I leapt
like an eel.
"Oooch! It hurts!" I hooted.
"Yes dear," Marguerite agreed, sweeping another stroke right up
underneath the bulge of my cheeks. "How else to make your bottom wiggle
so vigorously, for the delight of your host?" In truth, nothing else
could, as I was soon to learn. There is a certain magic that is
impelled to the bottom in a whipping. It leaps, it bounds, it rotates
lasciviously under the whip's agonizing caress. I was to make use of
its prick-inducing possibilities as a mistress myself, later in life.
For now, though, I was but an innocent, praying for it to stop. Lightly
but firmly Marguerite proceeded with my licking, complimenting me on how
well I took it.
"Such a little Amazon!" she exclaimed. "You paraded your nude
hiney about, causing the men such distress. And you teased us with your
barely-covered teats, sticking up their nipples as if for milking. I
thought you were a lost little maiden from the jungle, so uninhibited
did you seem. And now look at you, taking your punishment like a young
lady should, not swearing like Helga, who no doubt wants her mouth
washed out!"
I yowled and pleaded as she taunted me, whisking the fiery tips
of the cat about my bottom. Is this how the Incas treated their
princesses, I wondered, before they sacrificed them to the sun god? I
thought of the long line of comely maidens through the ages who had
suffered as I was suffering now, presenting their bottoms, being flayed
and fucked. I sobbed suddenly, feeling sorry for myself, and them, big
tears running down my cheeks and plopping on the floor.
The sweeps of the cat became brisker. Wantonly my bottom
contracted, released, tensed and bounded, putting on a bewitching
performance. I screeched loudly, bitterly, grinding my teeth and
snorting, then biting my tongue, sobbing hard. Through bleared eyes I
saw, in a mirror, Marguerite. She was sweating lightly now. Her hair
was tousled from her exertion. Her big bare boobs joggled freely,
amorously, their tips hard.
Marguerite kept her touch light, yet demanding. It was all in
the wrist, as she was to tell me later. "With you I came up short on
each stroke, breaking the fall of the whip at the last moment. Thus I
belabored you sweetly, not harshly, though being so new to it you no
doubt felt I was slicing you to ribbons."
Poor Julie and Helga had to wait patiently while I received my
licking, bottoms twitching, their breath coming in slow, nervous gasps.
Their enforced postures displayed their peeping cunts to our host, their
legs spread wide and held in bold vees. "Surely no position could more
alluringly display the female form," our host commented between drags on
his cigarette.
"It is as nature intended," a female companion agreed (for
several close friends of his had now joined him, to ready his cock.)
"Put up, cunts displayed, clittys tingling. Why should only the giving
of birth be publicly dramatized? How fun it is to make a production
here of the insemination also."
Julie it was who received her lessons next, as I lay crying
over my stone block. She howled and screeched as the first cuts were
laid into her. Dan had apparently not trained her as thoroughly as he
had boasted, or perhaps she was just nervous, for we were in a foreign
land, amongst total strangers. Marguerite whipped her more vigorously,
for she was 19, and a bride. She must get used to life as a woman, the
pain of childbirth, Marguerite said. "You will be bloated when
pregnant, and sick in the morning. You will cry out in agony when you
deliver. And your nipples will hurt from your eager baby sucking upon
them."
"Yes! Yes! Yes!" was all Julie could say, for she wanted
children, and soon. She'd been skipping her pill now and then just to
see what would happen, teasing fate. Saturday night on the boat,
partying in nothing but our teensy little bikini bottoms, she'd
whispered to me that she was off her contraceptives. I wondered if
tonight would be the night she would conceive. She had little choice in
the matter now, forcibly "assuming the position," as they say so
crudely.
Our host rose and came to me then, his purplish-headed penis
looming erectly through his open fly. He removed his belt. I tensed,
my scorched bottom burned and I bit my lip.
"No! Please," I breathed.
"What a fine ass you have," he said, admiring my pink-patterned
hiney. And with that he accorded me a crisp slash.
"Yoouch!" I yelled, arse wriggling. He laid into me then, each
blow coursing across my offered peach "sweetly," as Marguerite later
said, for he was a true gentleman. I hopped and bounded upon the block,
my bottom reddening more deeply with every broad, splatting stroke.
Marguerite moved to Helga then, with whom she was fiercest.
the big-bosomed woman blubbered as the hissing cat scorched her pretty
derriere. I caught sight of her briefly in the mirror, gasping and
panting, still utterly refined even as she suffered so awfully.
Our host cast down his belt and announced he could wait no
longer to plug me. He gripped my offered bottom twixt his thumbs. I
bleated at his touch upon my burning cheeks. Quickly a woman daubed my
anus with cream, his cock already glisteningly prepared beforehand by
the women. He nosed his head against my rose.
"Ah! So tight!" he remarked, the tip of his cock pressing hard
into me.
"Relax, relax," a woman admonished me, stroking my arched
back. Rudely he jerked within me then, popping my cherry. I yelped
with fear and pain. Another quick thrust, and he lodged deeper up me,
my sphincter gripping his shaft, hoping to grip so tight that he could
go no further. But his cock and my anus were oiled well.
"Umph!" he grunted, and pushed deeper still. I bucked and
moaned, pleaded for mercy.
"Oh! You're going too far up!" I shouted then, as he lunged
further into my bowels. I felt as though he were driving all the air
from my lungs.
"You have but seven inches, dear," the woman consoling me
said. My master prodded me, testing my depths, waiting. I must have
given way just a bit, deep inside, for he urged his cock forward again,
finding new purchase up within me where nothing had ever ventured
before.
With little exploratory thrusts our host took me then, finally
lodging himself all the way in, impaling me like nothing ever had upon
his tremendous cock. His girlfriend cooed in my ear and kissed me,
praised me softly for my courage. Then, drawing slowly out, my master
drew himself back until his head poised sweetly at the very aperture of
my route. In again he went then, and I suffered the bittersweet assault
all over again. In a while he began rodding me more smoothly and
regularly, panting at my clenching tightness which made him desperate to
spurt. His girlfriend tickled my clitty to distract me and ease the
torturous passage.
I must have fainted briefly then, for when I awoke it was to
find, gratefully, that I was in the midst of receiving our host's
emission. He emptied his sperm within me and then, limpening,
withdrew. There was a distinct pop as he pulled his knobby head from my
anus. I gasped, felt strangely bereft. In the distance Helga was still
shrieking, though from true pain or merely for show I did not know, did
not care. Our host's girlfriend kept at my clitty and I shivered into a
series of wrenching orgasms, a female animal in heat, bound and trussed
up in a stable of stone, my only purpose in life to be ruthlessly
impregnated by our host's penis.
30
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