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From: Andrew Roller <roller39@IDT.NET>
Subject: Cunt Castle part 1 of 3 (NND)
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_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
CUNT CASTLE
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Chapter One
I sat obediently with my lover at dinner. I sipped my
Chardonnay but said nothing. We’d met just last month. I’d taken
several male lovers since my “sinful sojourn,” as my mother called it
when holding tea in the parlor for her friends. She had taken to
relieving her mortifaction at my not turning out “her way,” as she liked
to call it, by publicly humiliating me in front of her friends. But I’d
culled a few secrets from her old photos and letters that told me the
60’s weren’t the placid decade of civility and conformity that she now
claimed they were.
“Well,” she would say, over her teacup. “We did have to
protest the social injustices of the time. Vietnam, civil rights. But
otherwise we went to class and did our homework and trained ourselves to
be modern working women,” my mother would patiently explain to me.
“Styles are styles, my dear, and the media is always full of hype. Now
go do your homework, and that doesn’t mean ‘go chat up men on the
Internet.’ I can read your e-mail now, so don’t think I won’t catch
you.”
And she’d nod to her friends and they’d all chime in on how
important it was to “protect the safety of a child,” namely, me.
I’d taken back my old name, “Fleury,” short for “Fleurette.”
But I’d changed it a little in my 14th year of life. “Furry,” I was
known as now, and you can probably guess what my boyfriends thought of
when they called me that.
I was no longer trying to grow up. I felt dreadfully mature,
in fact. Trying to keep my various men friends and boyfriends from
killing each other while still actively liking me was no easy job.
That’s why I was so happy when I met Louis. He was French, full of
money, and with a sly, overpowering manner that absolutely guaranteed a
girl she’d bear at least one of his children, whether she wished to or
not. He made it possible for me to forget my other boyfriends, gorgeous
as they all were. He expected me to focus fully on him, to think of him
all the time, even if he skipped asking me out and I knew he was making
love to another woman just to force me to pout and see other men. And,
of course, the whole time I’d be with some other man I’d be thinking of
him, spoiling to get revenge. When we’d meet I’d be eager to wreck his
hopes, but find myself embraced in his arms instead, melting like
butter.
And so it was I sat at dinner now, in one of Montevideo’s best
restaurants, watching the moon rise over the sea and the homely fishing
vessels as they trundled out for a night’s hard work amidst the waves.
My panties were tucked into the breast pocket of his $1400 dollar
jacket. He’d dared me to take them off and, infuriating me at last with
his teasing, I’d slingshotted them at him when the waiter’s back was
turned and the other diners seemed occupied. I think a middle-aged lady
saw me, but no one else. Except, of course, our dinner guests, Polly
and Andre.
“You should send her to Traflangier,” Andre chuckled, still
amused that I’d shot my panties at my boyfriend.
“Eh, you know what they call that place,” Louis replied. He
dabbled with the plastic sword sticking up from his Daiquiri. He leaned
close to Andre, speaking low, but not so low that I couldn’t hear.
“Cunt Castle.”
“Hmmm?” Andre asked. He looked pleasantly startled. Polly
shot me a look of disgust and rolled her eyes, as if to say, ‘Men!’
That one word said it all. But I didn’t mind. I was enthralled with
Louis. Polly was just 13. She reminded me of myself a year ago, except
she was more like my mother, always trying to be prim and proper. I
think she loved Andre despite herself. She still had her panties,
though from the length of her dress you’d have wondered whether she
intended them as underwear or outerwear.
“It was intended as a place of sexual liberation in the 60’s,
run by an old pharmacist who used to hand out his homemade drugs to the
kids like they were candy. Then, in the 70’s, as his flock grew a
little older, it became a ‘sex for health’ place, for people who weren’t
into jogging 20 miles a day but didn’t mind spending lots of time each
day humping in bed. ‘Sexual therapy and then sexual recovery’ came into
vogue in the 80’s, with everyone in the final days disavowing their
sexual past as they feared their newly-born children might one day walk
in their ways.” Louis took a deep drag on his cigarette and exhaled.
“He died about then, ‘87 or so. For awhile the place lay dormant. Then
his estate was finally settled and his niece took it over. Nowadays she
runs it as a place where girls can be taken to ‘receive instruction,’ as
she puts it. Men take their wives there, or their lovers.” Louis shot
a glance at me. “Or a girl might take her manly boyfriend there, it
makes no difference.”
Louis lifted his hand from his drink and fiddled with my
panties. Part of them stuck out the top of his pocket, and I was
wishing he’d stick them all the way down in so no one would see. “And
so the place is alternately called ‘Cunt Castle,’ or ‘Cock Castle,’
depending on which version of the eroticized estate most suits your
fancy. As for me, I propose a suggestion. You and I might send Polly
and Furry there for two weeks, and then later, they might send us.”
A shiver ran down my spine. Immediately I knew somehow he’d
pull it off. And I knew something else too. Despite his words, I knew
he’d never let me send him there. No, it would just be me. My mind
swirled. What must it be like to be taken someplace by your husband, or
your lover, and made a love slave for a week? How long was it? Did he
say a week, or was it two weeks? I’d found a book once in my dad’s
dresser, when I was snooping around. It was under his underpants.
Probably a fitting place for it, too. Story of O’revoir, or something.
O? Au revoir? I couldn’t remember. Maybe it was the book version of 9
1/2 weeks. I’d seen part of the movie once, late at night, after Leno.
Well, this was 2 weeks. Yes, that was it. Two weeks. Polly looked not
the least amused, but I found myself a little intrigued. And I could
hear a little voice somewhere inside me warning me away. ‘no, furry,
and change your name back too, you can’t go there, your mother will
report you missing and...’
That’s why I liked Louis. My other men friends worried
constantly that they might get in trouble seeing me. Louis absolutely
did not care. He knew my mother had her ‘surveillance radar’ on me 24
hours-a-day. He knew if I disappeared for two weeks there’d be no way
to hide it from my mother. And now here he was, smoking his head off,
not caring the least about the Surgeon General, and proposing sending me
to some weird castle or something where I’d get to play Geisha Girl for
two weeks. Polly was right. Men!
“Alright,” I heard Andre agree. And I realized I must have
missed some crucial bit of their conspiratorial conversation, the words
spoken just quietly enough to force Polly and I to strain forward to
find out what they had planned for us. “The price is steep, but it
would be worth it to make this bitch more agreeable.” He pinched
Polly’s thigh. She flinched, frowned. She looked like a cat who,
seeing a canary, wants it but remembers the last one had given it
indigestion. My cat ate a bird once, one that had eaten pills intended
for pigeons. Only a fast trip to the vet had saved her. My mother
insisted on giving her away a year later when we moved. I wanted to run
away, to go back for her, but I got lost trying, and the police
delivered me home at 9 o’clock that night to a cold supper and stern
words from my father. I know the real reason mother insisted on giving
away my cat. It was pregnant, and she didn’t want me to know about
sex. But I knew. I saw her getting fat and a friend had told me the
reason. Mother maintained we were feeding her too much, and actually
cut back on her food. I had to feed her surreptitiously under the
table.
“Okay,” Louis said. He smiled at me. Nothing more was said
between them. He ordered dessert for us. Cherry Rhubarb pie. A little
sweet, a little sour. Was it a way of telling us what they had in mind
for us? I didn’t know. I ate mine slowly, savoring the tangy mixture,
yet contemplating it to, wondering if I should let Louis lead me into
his fantasy of me being his absolute, total slave. I had no illusions.
That’s what it would come to. Utter subservience to his will. I felt a
thrill deep inside myself as I wondered whether I should accept this, or
run to the maitre de, explain I was only 14, and that Louis was not my
father at all but my illegal lover. The police would come quickly, he
would be whisked away. Or he might harm me. There’s no telling what an
enraged man might do. Then again, if I slipped away, to use the toilet,
he would never know. My daddy would protect me from him. But my daddy
screwed my mother every night. He was mine, but...
Louis was mine altogether. Well, he loved other women, but I
hoped he loved me most of all. If I said ‘no’ to him I knew I’d lose
him. Oh, what to do? What to do? I looked at Polly. She was
complaining about her dessert. Andre was quite indulgent. She
explained to him in her high-pitched voice that while the cherries were
fine, the rhubarb was much too sour. And, come to think of it, the
crust was not flaking properly. Her mother made much better crusts than
this. Andre nodded patiently. Louis rolled his eyes, accepted that the
girl must be listened to. I liked the way Louis rolled his eyes. So
worldly. Yet, as I gazed at Polly, I noticed how freely her breasts
shifted within her blouse. It was tight. She had let her jacket become
unbuttoned. Andre liked toying with her clothes while she was eating.
I saw that Polly’s blouse was tented where her nipples were. She was
excited by all the attention she was receiving, both from Andre and
Louis. Why had she not worn a bra? I had a bra on, a nice black one,
with my vest neatly buttoned over it, to give just a hint of it out the
top. Yet she, with her jacket now opened, showed everyone how thin her
blouse was and how stiff her nipples were. I glanced around. Did
anyone else see besides us? Oh well, we girls have a right to skip our
bras if we wish, but... This was an elegant, high-class restaurant, not
a nightclub. The waiter returned. Andre made to order a cherry pie,
without the rhubarb, but after her long soliloquy Polly seemed not to
wish to change her order after all. I knew then she just wanted to be
noticed, paid attention to. I was jealous. Here she was, cheating,
with her nipples all erect and her blouse treacherously thin, with even
Louis watching her now instead of me. Should I slip away to the ladies
room and ditch my bra? That would top her, me sticking my bra in the
waste bin where it might be seen by the other ladies, and returning,
sitting down, with my breasts noticeably bare beneath my little vest.
The waiter, at a nod from Louis, presented the bill. Louis
handed him a $100.00 bill and rose. We were leaving, just that
suddenly. Polly, more or less finished with her pie by now, took a
quick sip of her coffee and the four of us were outside the restaurant
within the minute. I felt the cool night air brush against me beneath
my skirt, my panties still tucked neatly in Louis’ pocket. I reached
for them, for the bit of them that stuck up, in his jacket, where he
might have worn a carnation instead of using my underwear. With a suave
movement he brushed my hand away. He wanted to keep them. I gritted my
teeth and realized I would have to bear up without them. I felt so
cool, so free. There was absolutely nothing underneath my dress. The
wind caught it. My hands leapt to my thighs, trying to keep the doorman
fetching our car from catching sight of my nakedness. I regretted
wearing such a short dress now. Mother would never have approved, and
now I knew why. It was not handkerchief-short, like Polly’s but it was
still way too short to run around in without any panties on.
Three couples passed us, the men in tuxes and the women wearing
evening gowns. We nodded. I gripped my dress tightly, trying not to
look obvious as to why. Louis’ convertible rolled to a stop in front of
us. The doorman hopped out. Discreetly he offered me his hand, and I
hoped he’d not seen anything in his lazy roll up the last few feet of
the restaurant’s driveway. Or the couples, for that matter. With
people in front of us, behind us, I wished to get into the safety of
Louis’ car as quickly as possible. The doorman opened the side door and
seated me. I made sure my skirt got tucked right up under my bottom.
Louis plopped into the driver’s side seat as Polly and Andre got in
back.
“Louis!” I hissed. But he ignored me. As the car pulled away
he removed my panties from his pocket and handed them to the doorman.
“She won’t be needing these,” he grinned. The doorman smiled
back, glanced beyond him to me, and I hunched as fast as I could into a
humiliating crouch on the front seat. Behind me I heard Polly giggle
into her hands. Andre failed to suppress a chuckle.
“Louis! That was awful!” I sulked.
“You are young, I am young, the night is young, and we are
free,” he said, a whisp of the poetic in his voice, the lights of the
restaurant passing away behind us and a starry sky opening up ahead. I
sat up a little. I felt the long silkiness of my hair flow out behind
me and into Andre’s face. He was forced to move a little closer to
Polly to get out of my hair. She moved a little bit away, keeping her
distance. She did not want him toying with her clothes in the back
seat, for she knew she’d lose them if he did. Passersby would find
13-year-old girl’s panties on the road the next day, a sock, a shoe, and
think the worst.
Louis turned on the radio. My favorite song wafted into the
night. Up on a down escalator. A remake, by a new band. Or at least
that’s what Louis said. I’d never heard the original. I began to sway
to the tune. I did feel free. I wasn’t at home, like I was ‘supposed’
to be, doing my homework. I wasn’t even chatting with guys on the
Internet. My mother should at least be happy for that! You never know
who you’re talking to on the Net. It makes it exciting, but it can be a
drag to. I was sure I was talking to Sylvester Stallone for three whole
weeks and then it turned out to be the nerd down the street. He
collected Stallone movies and I found out (after the fact, of course)
that he even published a zine about Stallone called ‘Millions of Cunts
and Dead Bodies.’ He probably knew more about Stallone than Stallone
himself did. So I wound up being in his stupid zine. When our
‘relationship’ fell apart he wrote, ‘Bimbo Stoned on Stallone,’ and put
all kinds of things in the story, including totally untrue stuff about
me that he’d made up.
I saw the road was becoming thick with old trees, their
branches obscuring the sky. Moss hung from some of them, almost
reaching into our car as we passed. I shivered a little. An owl passed
overhead, startled by our passing. In back Polly was prattling about
her mother’s pie crust, and how she sometimes made home-made lollipops
for her, and Polly and her little sister would peddle them round the
neighborhood in a wagon.
“And this boy, he always tries to get them for 50 cents instead
of a dollar,” Polly declared, quite caught up in her recital. “He says
our lollipops aren’t WORTH a dollar! Well, if they’re not worth a
dollar, what is he doing standing there arguing with us, when it says
right on our wagon, ‘lollipops, $1.00’ Don’t pull on my jacket, Andre.
It’s special. My grandmother bought it for me. Anyways, I think he
should just read our sign, and if he doesn’t want any, he should just
let us be. Finally we made a sign that said ‘lollipops for girls only’
and...”
I let my mind detach itself from Polly’s babble. She was a
little girl sometimes, a moody teen other times. You could never tell
which. I think she liked best getting some man totally absorbed in her
life, listening for hours perhaps, and just having him sitting there,
endlessly fascinated. It was certainly more than her dad did. He was a
big fat guy who threw his rolled newspaper at her and told her not to
interrupt him when he was watching T.V. Trouble was, he wasn’t ever not
watching T.V. And her mother was as much of a bitch as mine was. So we
partied together. She’d done it already, several times, said she liked
it but it had scared her at first. I tried to keep an eye on her a
little, like a sister might. Not that she was my sister. She reminded
me now and then that she was free to do as she pleased. But I kept a
subtle watch over her, if I could. Like right now, I knew Andre was
trying to slip her jacket off. She probably didn’t even notice, except
she kept batting his hand away as she talked. Her nipples stood up like
thorns in the chilly night air. I think she was actually trying to
button her jacket up but she was so preoccupied in telling her stories
that she never quite got it accomplished. She liked to wave her hands
around a lot to make her Important points, which were always quite
numerous in her stories.
Suddenly the trees gave way and I saw, up on the heath, an old
castle crumbling in the moonlight. Its turrets stood up starkly but you
could see that time had eaten away at them. I think the Spanish had
built the place as a fortress, to guard the harbor, but had not gotten
much done with it before quitting. Then, later, a millionaire at the
turn of the century had taken up residence, intending to finish it, only
to go bankrupt, leaving it half-built, and wearing away in its original
Spanish form from the storms that blew in off the coast each year.
Gazing at it, I sensed it was otherworldly, its stones glimmering in the
moonlight, half there, but also not there as much as it was there.
“It looks so strange,” I said to Louis. Our small sportster
began crossing the lea. I saw cows grazing on either side of the road.
We were out in the country now, down the coast, coming at the castle in
such a way that I guessed we’d been in the forest behind it, and would
wind up at last smack in front of it, the road now curving round to
affirm me, the pounding of the sea now reaching our ears as we ran along
the edge of a cliff and soon found ourselves at the castle gate, with
the sea at our backs, some 50 meters down where the rocks dueled
endlessly with the waves.
The gate was closed, but I saw the latch might be lifted to let
us in. Louis stopped the convertible and leapt out. For a moment I
speculated on jumping into his seat and just driving away and leaving
him there. But I was too young to drive. I might get in trouble. As I
watched the swagger of his hips I knew I couldn’t do it. He was such a
rogue, and I loved him for it. He lifted the latch and the gate, with a
loud creak, swung open fairly easily, its opening slowed only by its own
rust, and by the sense I got that it had never been quite properly
installed. Louis returned to the car, and we breezed on into the
compound behind the castle’s broken walls. I was reminded of Troy,
after the entrance of the Trojan Horse, except here the problem was as
much that the walls had never been built as that they had since been
destroyed by the elements. I could see piles of shattered stone mingled
with neatly stacked stones, waiting a century now to be built with,
grass growing amidst them, their weight gradually sinking into the
earth, returning to that primal bedrock from which they had once been
quarried.
We glided to a stop in front of the castle’s residence. It was
a modern home built upon and within the stones that had made up the
original unfinished fortress. Louis had me get out and guided me up to
the front door. We must have been expected for, without knocking, he
opened the door and let me in, waiting for Andre and Polly to step in
behind us.
I found myself in an entryway floored with maple, potted plants
sprouting flowers and vines, a living room beckoning just beyond. A
woman emerged from the room. She was darkhaired, exquisitely dressed.
She seemed a bit of a cross between a modern business woman and a lady
in her home expecting to entertain guests. Her blouse was ruffled,
long-sleeved. She wore a patterned vest over it with a long flowing
dress cinched round her narrow waist that hung in folds down her legs to
her shoes. They were modest, not spiked high heels like Polly and I
wore, but not flats either, sort of inbetween, elevating her just enough
to give her a graceful, self-assured dignity without being showy. I
immediately felt a sense of warmth and comfort seeing her. She smiled
at us. Louis took me by my elbow and squired me into her living room.
We sat down on a brocaded couch. A primly dressed young woman
dressed in a maid’s white blouse and black skirt brought us tea. I took
the cup, saw it was excessively fragile, held it with a little
trepidation. I thanked the maid and took a sip. It was delicious!
“Jasmine, with a twist of Orange,” our hostess smiled. “The
cup is from before the war. I do so like authentic things, you know. I
was surprised to find the set of them here, still intact, given my
uncle’s antics.” She glanced at Louis and I thought I saw a knowing
look pass between them. I gulped. Was she really a hedonist? She
looked so proper, a new traditionalist, like someone you might find at
the health food store sifting beans with a pitcher, worried that
Campbell’s might give her lymph node cancer or whatnot.
Louis engaged her in a pleasant conversation about the weather
up on the heath. She said it could be windy sometimes. Polly said she
was glad it wasn’t windy tonight since she’d already found her dress
‘liked to be up more than down,’ as she put it, on nights when the wind
blew. It was short enough that a good gust might completely lift it and
wrap it inside out around her waist.
Our hostess, who went by the name of Rose, laughed. She said
Polly’s sort of dress was a favorite of hers in her high school days,
and with legs as excellent as Polly’s she shouldn’t feel the slightest
remorse in picking such a revealing skirt.
“Stand up, girls,” Rose said to us quite abruptly. “I’m sure
your boyfriends have seen you in your bikinis before. Strip down to
your bra and panties, each of you. I want to see how pretty you are in
them.”
Anxiously I stood. I’d wondered when she’d broach the reason
for our visit here. Couldn’t we just sit and sip tea? It was so nice,
the room was so pleasant, decorated in a style a woman might choose for
our home. Yet, rising up, I felt Louis’ eyes running up my legs, and
Andre’s too, hoping to catch a glimpse of what should have been
concealed beneath my skirt but wasn’t.
Polly stood up too, like a child at a recital might stand, as
if to play a song and sing a melody, and win a prize. She liked being
the center of attention. I, however, seeing the maid return, felt less
sanguine, less Pollyannish. Was I to bare myself in front of her? I
tried to clear my throat.
“Ma’am, I’m--” I began. How could I hint to her that I didn’t
HAVE any underwear on?
“Just unzip it,” Rose said, still seated, waving her finger
like a man might, commanding.
“Ohhh, I don’t mind, I guess,” Polly announced. “Could we go
down to the beach perhaps? I don’t have my swimsuit but I could swim in
my panties.” She unzipped herself, the fiend, leaving me with little
choice to follow, as the mens’ eyes all turned to her to watch. I
zipped down my dress in back and we both pushed our miniskirts down our
legs to our ankles.
“Oh!” the maid exclaimed, seeing my naked bush.
“She’s new,” Rose said, grinning with a sideways glance at the
maid. She spoke to me, as if confidentially, as if between friends. I
with my dress round my ankles and she with her lovely clothes that
covered her from neck to toe, sitting as I stood before her, Andre and
Louis grinning at my back. Or, rather, a my body a little lower down...
Polly laughed. “I’d forgotten you shot your panties at Louis!”
she laughed. She bent and picked up her dress and stood momentarily,
not knowing what to do with it. Then Louis, the devil, reached out and
took it from her, making her beam. I think she had a thing for my
Louis. Perhaps she hoped to have both he and Andre eating out of her
hands simultaneously, with me forgotten.
“And your blouses, dears,” Rose added.
“Oh, I don’t have my bra on,” Polly piped up. Suddenly it
mattered to her that the maid was present, observing us. Maybe she
didn’t even want Rose to see her.
“You may go topless on the beach here in Brazil,” Rose said to
her.
“Yes, but my parents don’t allow it,” Polly replied.
“I’m not your mother,” Rose said. “So take off your top. I
won’t tell.”
Reluctantly Polly shed her jacket. I unbuttoned my vest,
dropped it to the floor. Louis bent and picked it up. With a grin he
passed it to Andre. What were they planning? Polly was having trouble
getting her blouse off, having chosen to just pull it over her head
instead of unbuttoning it, and she danced around on her tiptoes with the
blouse up round her face and her panties entrancing the men. Her
boobies, substantial in size for her age, wiggled freely. Her nipples
were naughtily stiff, and I knew she was quite aware that both our
boyfriends were eyeing her keenly.
I settled for a less acrobatic undressing. Reaching behind
myself I unsnapped my bra. I did it without thinking, seeing Polly’s
breasts so grandly displayed, forgetting entirely that Rose had not
requested it.
“My,” Rose said, drawing the men’s attention to me. “I like
the no-nonsense approach.”
“Whoosh!” Polly let out a great breath of air as she freed
herself from her shirt. Her bosoms gave a final joyous wiggle, then
gradually settled down. “Oooo, you’re totally naked,” Polly declared,
seeing me.
“Well, I have my shoes on,” I answered.
“Don’t leave your friend like that,” Rose told Polly. “And
pick up your blouse. Don’t just drop it on my floor.” Contritely Polly
picked up her blouse and gave it to her boyfriend. Then, shrugging and
putting her hands in her panties, with a dubious glance at the maid, she
yanked them with childish efficiency down her legs and walked out of
them. “Pick those up too,” Rose reminded her. Polly turned, bent over,
picked up her undies. “Bring them to me,” Rose ordered.
“To YOU?” Polly asked.
“Yes.”
“Do as she says,” Andre said gently. Polly complied, a bit
puzzled. Rose accepted her panties, gave them a quick sniff, then
beckoned me. I approached her, carrying my bra. I’d not had time to
give it to Louis. Rose made me bend forward as if she wished to whisper
something in my ear. Instead she bade me to open my mouth. Did she
wish to inspect my teeth?
The panties! Before I could refuse, Rose had popped the entire
wad of Polly’s discarded underpants into my mouth.
“Oh, my!” Polly said. But Rose took her hand, keeping her from
drawing away, and took my bra and pulled Polly down to her face by her
hair. With Polly staring Rose right in the eyes, Rose bound my bra
across Polly’s rosebud mouth, forcing it between her lips, then tying it
tightly in the mane of her hair at the back of her neck. “Ooooph!”
Polly was reduced to saying, her wished-for protest cut off before she
could give it. As for myself, I had only to reach into my mouth to take
out her odious underpants (tasting them revolted me!) but somehow I
sensed I must not disobey. Lightly, brushing my hand over my mouth, I
touched them, but I did not remove them. The maid watched us both with
ever-growing amusement. Behind us, our boyfriends were clearly
enchanted.
“Good, you learn your lessons well,” Rose said, seeing I had
not removed her makeshift gag. “Keep it there, hold it in your mouth.
It delights your boyfriend to see you so, and it delights Andre also.”
She turned her eyes back to Polly, who was hoping to untie the knotted
bra at the back of her head. “No, Polly!” Rose told her. “When I
attach something to you, you are to leave it there until I wish it
removed.”
The maid had skirted round behind us meanwhile and I felt her
take both my arms and draw them back. I was complaisant. I did not
think quickly enough. A moment later I felt cold steel bind my wrists
and a telltale ‘click’ gave me the warning I’d wished I had sooner.
“Yes,” Rose said. She lifted a fingernail and ran it down my
belly. “How sweet you look all nude, with nothing but a gag and
handcuffs to adorn you. And your pretty shoes, of course.” I wished
very much now to spit out Polly’s panties but I felt Louis and Andre
rise from the couch behind me and draw near. They both lifted weights,
I felt a sudden sinking feeling that any disobedience on my part would
do nothing to advance my interests and only make things worse for me.
Polly made to bolt away but the maid, expert at least in
something, caught her before she escaped and managed to get one handcuff
locked round her wrist. Andre, his hands reaching out to grab her,
quickly immobilized her so that her other wrist could be attached to the
first.
“Now, girls, I’m glad we have that out of the way,” Rose said
politely. She remained sitting still, all cultured and dignified. The
men returned to the settee. The maid remained close, certain to
intervene if we did not do as asked. I realized she was much stronger
than she looked. I wondered if she worked out with men at the gym. Her
figure did not show it, but I her arms, though slim, had a steel in them
I’d not sensed earlier.
“Omopho,” Polly began.
“Shhh,” Rose scolded her gently. “You’ll be here with me for
two weeks, Polly. That’s all. But I’ve entertained many girls like
yourself and I really don’t need to hear all your little complaints and
protests. I myself was trained here, long ago, under my uncle’s
tutelage. And I was only seven, so you’ve nothing at all to complain
of.” She settled her hands in her lap and looked at us both. Her eyes
admired our nudity.
“There is much that I must do with you both in two weeks,
girls, and I expect strict compliance with all my requests. We haven’t
really any time for disagreements.” The maid, who had, unnoticed by me,
withdrawn briefly, now reappeared and passed into Rose’s hands a most
daunting object. A paddle, hard as oak and with holes cut through its
center so it could be swung faster. “This is one of my friends that
helps me keep order in my house,” Rose said, receiving the paddle with a
warm caress of her hands upon it. “I’m going to introduce both of you
to it so we can understand what’s at stake when I ask you to do
something. Fleury, you’re the oldest. You first.” With that she
pulled me right up to her knees and had me stand bending over them.
“Don’t drop your panties, or it’ll be extras for you,” Rose told me.
I bit into the silky cotton of Polly’s panties and felt Rose
raise her hand behind my bottom. For a moment I just stared at the
rug. It was so lovely, deep-pile with interwoven threads of different
shades of blue.
WAHACKCCK! I nearly jumped out of my skin as the paddle
descended and hit my behind. What a smoking hand that woman had!
“Eeeeyahah!” I cried. I nearly regurgitated the panties in my
mouth, spittle and all, the sting was so sharp. My bottomcheeks wobbled
as if a thundercloud had shattered upon them. The pain reverberated
across my hemispheres, impressing itself deeply and making me want to
burst into tears.
“Two more,” Rose said. Without waiting to hear from me she
thundered in another blow. I did lose the panties this time.
“Eeeeeek!” I shrieked, loud and long and lusty. My poor heinie
shuddered and felt for a moment like it had been pressed into a hot
summer sidewalk. I gasped.
Rose waited a moment for me to quiet down.
“I’d prefer if you’d not wake my other guests,” Rose said. She
lifted her hand and toyed with my locks of hair. She brushed a few
strands back from my eyes. “They turned in early, you know, and I’m
sure they’d love to have you join them. But the male slaves are so
rough. I don’t want you too put out your first night here. One more,
dear. I’ll forgive the panties.”
And with that she laid on the third stroke, as hard and firm
and unforgiving as the first two had been. I screamed out my pain and
collapsed over her knees, still so neatly covered by her conservative
dress. I kicked up my legs and held my bottom like it was the last
precious thing on earth. Tears welled in my eyes and I did not try to
hold them back.
As I wept, the maid picked up Polly’s panties from the floor.
As soon as my sobs had subsided a little she stuffed them right back
into my mouth.
Polly, for her part, had run and hidden behind the grand piano,
but Andre had fetched her and now brought her to Rose. She was bent
over amidst much gagged squawking and given three butt-thumping swats
just as I had been. Louis, meanwhile, took me back to the sofa and had
me sit my wounded bottom down on his lap. I could feel his thing rudely
growing up between my asscheeks and I did not like it at all. How dare
he be excited at my suffering? And yet it was undeniable that he was.
As I squirmed with painful remorse upon his groin he grew bigger and
bigger. His cockhead pushed deep into my crevice and I soon found my
squirmings were actually impaling me upon him. I tried to shift my
bottom but he restrained my legs, holding me by my naked thighs so that
I was forced to relieve the sting of my fanny by grinding it into the
upwardly rising stem of his thing. Finally I was able to sit still,
sniffling, with Louis grinning his sardonic grin at me as Andre consoled
Polly in a similar manner.
“Come, girls, we haven’t all night,” Rose said. She stood and
beckoned us all to follow. We were led back into the entryway and,
through a portiere, up a long flight of wooden steps. They were
brightly polished. I had to be careful not to slip on the brightly
waxed surface. Upstairs, with the noise of rowdy parties emanating from
closed doors on either side of us, we walked down a long hall. At the
back we were let into a little girl’s bedroom.
What a pretty room it might have been, but it had, like the
castle itself, a twin nature to it. I drew in my breath over Polly’s
panties as I saw that the lovely fourposter bed, intended to have a
canopy, had instead made use of its four posts to allow straps to be
fixed to them. I eyed the straps at the baseboard posts and guessed my
own feet might soon make their acquaintance. Lifting my head, I was
shocked to see straps hanging above for the feet or the arms to be
placed in, should anyone wish it, while a mirror on the ceiling promised
to reflect all back down upon the poor victim bound in the bed.
Next to the girl’s bed was a painted nightstand, with flowers
and decorative daisies embossed in small wooden embellishments upon its
white surface. But atop it, next to the bottle of the Winnie the Pooh
bubble bath, lay a heap of men’s condoms. There was also a tube of
lubricant and, next to that, a sinister looking device that I knew to be
a speculum.
Rose turned to us both and met our eyes. We stood before her
like disciples waiting to be crucified, all trembly kneed and with our
bottoms still feeling like well-smacked jello. Our teats were hard,
though, and my tummy swirled at the prospect of such complete
subservience to Louis’ wicked wishes. We had simply made love before,
in our trysts. We had not gotten kinky.
“Girls, I will do my best to provide for your comfort while
you’re here with me,” Rose explained. “But you must each surrender
yourself completely to your lover’s desires. And he may desire whatever
he wishes! He is not to be denied anything for the next two weeks, and
I will make sure of it. Although I am a complete feminist, I do believe
men have rights too. Men need to dominate sometimes, and to control.
Here they will be permitted to do that. Elsewhere they might be
punished for raping their wives, or talking to or even looking at girls
like yourself. Not here. I provide this as a small service to mankind
to allow him a brief retreat to the days when men were men, and
unrestrainedly so. There will be no political correctness here. The
law is their law, and you must obey.” She smiled. “You must think of
it as being done for you, otherwise you will never be able to bear it.
That is what I discovered. If you remember that always they are
thinking of you, watching you, whoever might actually be screwing you,
then you will find yourself able to accept it all.”
She turned and turned down the bedcover and top sheet on the
bed. “Now Polly, since Fleurette went first last time, let’s have you
be first now. I want you to get on the bed and lie down on your tummy
and open up your legs. Nice and wide.” Rose took Polly by the arm and
guided her onto the bed, Polly lifting her knees, first one, then the
other, so she could crawl onto it. Rose made her lie flat on her tummy,
then placed a pillow beneath her chin so she might have some comfort for
her head. Her arms remained firmly bound behind her. “Spread your
legs, Polly,” Rose told the girl. She slapped her bottom lightly to get
her to comply. Immediately, still sore from the paddle, Polly opened
her knees into a wide vee, lifting her heels up and letting them kick
aimlessly in the air. “Now stay like that, Polly, while I vaseline your
anus for you. Don’t make me tie you. You’re a big girl and you should
be able to take this.”
“Whomapmout?” Polly asked behind her gag. Rose opened the top
drawer of the dresser and drew out a jar of vaseline. She dipped her
finger in it and, at a squeak from Polly, opened the girl’s ass and
rimmed her anus. “It’s an enema, dear. You’ll have a nice solid enema
stuck up your bottom to get out any shit that might be in there. Then,
after you go potty, your boyfriend will show you what it’s like to be
buttfucked. Have you ever been buttfucked before, Polly?”
“Noooophoph!” Polly squealed behind her gag.
“I didn’t think so...my, you’re so tight!” Rose exclaimed. “I
wish I was still that squeaky-tight but I’m afraid I’ve had men sawing
away in me since I was seven, and I’m quite a bit older than that now.
Lie still, Polly, I don’t want to cut your insides with my fingernail.”
Rose stuck her finger into Polly’s hole with some considerable
effort and then, to squawks from the girl, lubricated the inside of her
channel up to the first inch. Polly seemed to sense that she might be
injured and lay with only a few wiggles while the passage was eased. At
last Rose drew out her finger. There was a cup on the nightstand for
little girls to have water in and Rose dipped her greased finger into
the cup to wet it. Then she wiped off her finger on a linen
handkerchief that had been lying fresh in the drawer. I made sure to
remember not to ask for a drink during the night.
The men, on their own initiative, began disrobing. I don’t
know if Rose noticed at first, perhaps it suited her purpose not to.
Off came the men’s dark, steeply-priced jackets, both tailor made and
worn to convey substance and rigidly conservative values. They dropped
them on the floor like day-old laundry. Their ties followed, loosened
first, nooses being undone on the scaffold by prisoners given a
last-minute reprieve. I saw their breath increase. Their chests worked
rhythmically beneath their starched shirts, runners getting up their
wind for a critical race.
As the men worked open their shirt buttons Rose, sitting primly
with her finger in Polly’s hineyhole, looked up. A smile flitted across
her face as she saw the sumptuous manflesh being exposed just as fast as
the boys could get their bodies out of their clothes. She let her eyes
fall across their hairy chests, tracing their fingers a moment with her
stare as they raced to get their shirtbuttons open. And then her
countenance took on the appearance of a woman delighted by the vigor of
her charges, but finding them undisciplined.
“Ah, boys,” Rose said with a librarian’s condescension,
scolding a whisper. “Did I say you could undress?”
“No,” Andre admitted, staying his fingers a moment. My Louis
kept on unbuttoning his shirt.
“Louis!” Rose admonished him. Reluctantly he stopped his hands
over his navel button.
Lightly Rose brushed back her long ink-black hair from her
face. Her coiffure had become slightly undone by her exertions within
Polly’s anus. “While both of you are free to dominate your
girlfriends,” Rose began, with a wiggle of Polly’s bare bottom
indicating she wished to get up. Rose slapped her tushy lightly with
her hand. “While you own your girlfriends,” Rose began again, “I own
both of you gentlemen, during your stay here at my castle. In my
presence, you are to ask my permission before you do anything so gauche
as stripping your clothes off.”
Andre seemed mesmerized by her words, but my Louis balked. He
fingered his final shirtbutton, eager to get it undone so he could go on
to his pants zipper. He flexed his considerable biceps, which were
still encased in the starched white sleeves of his shirt. “I could
break your skinny little body in two,” Louis snarled under his breath,
looking directly at Rose. She did not flinch or show any emotion. She
simply stared back at him.
“Louis,” she said finally. “I do have protection. A certain
drug lord looks after my welfare, for a cut of my profits, of course.”
Louis kept his face set in a look of noncompliance. “Lord Shaftsbury,”
Rose intoned. Louis’ face softened. He seemed suddenly resigned to
obey. I felt a shiver run right down my spine to my tailbone. My first
love, I did not wish to meet him again. I’d left him behind, though
we’d been so close once. I had Louis now. Yet Louis seemed to sense
that, despite his muscles, which Lord Shaftsbury did not possess, he
would be most unwise to take on my first lover. “Ah, so you’ve heard of
him,” Rose continued.
“A sewer rat, but a very powerful sewer rat,” Louis muttered.
“Good, then I’m glad to see you’ll behave. Really, Louis, you
had me scared for a minute there. I don’t necessarily turn away men who
can’t obey, after all I am running a business here, but I don’t play
with them personally. You must work on your chivalry a little, Louis.
All your needs will be satisfied beyond your wildest dreams, but you
must learn the virtues of patience and self-control.” She dropped her
eyes to his considerable crotch.
“I can hold my sperm better than any man,” Louis growled. He
was still upset by being bested by Rose, I could tell. I think that’s
why I loved Louis so much. He was so primal. A bull in a necktie
(which now lay on the floor beside his jacket). I guess I was hooked on
musclemen at the moment.
Rose ran her lips over her tongue. They sparkled with her
saliva. “Let’s see your equipment, then, Louis. You have my
permission. But keep your distance. Little Polly here is a bit anxious
about having your thing up her hole.”
Louis gratefully yanked off his shirt and started working open
his pants. “I brought my own girl,” he said, with a glance at me. I
stood at attention by the bed. My hands were gripped by the handcuffs,
and pinned behind my back. I held Polly’s panties in my mouth, though I
longed to spit them out. Imagine, being gagged with another girl’s
panties. I remembered her peeing in the ladies room at the restaurant.
Had any pee droplets dribbled into her panties? I hoped not. I
couldn’t taste any pee, anyway, though there seemed to be a hint of cunt
juice. I tried not to think about it. There was a wetness between my
legs. I knew it wasn’t from any unmet bathroom needs. I was too
terrified to think of anything like that at the moment.
“You’ll do only what I allow,” Rose said to Louis. She jammed
her finger deep into Polly’s hole, abruptly, as if frustrated by Louis’
continued obstinance. Poor Polly bleated like a shorn sheep. Her
bottom bounced on the sheets as if it had just been given a shot. Rose
turned her head to Andre. His penis popped from his pants as he managed
to be the first male in the room to present himself. “Andre, I didn’t
say you could undress, did I?” Rose asked him. Nonetheless her eyes
feasted on his erect organ as eagerly as mine. I scolded myself, but
couldn’t help it. Some say a dead body is that way. You can’t tear
your eyes away, though your mind screams at you to. Well, Andre’s rod
was much more mesmerizing. I licked my lips, involuntarily, blushed
when I’d realized I’d done it. Louis frowned at me.
“I see if you’re to become regular users of my castle, you’ll
need some training,” Rose said to Andre and Louis. As she spoke, Louis
got his pants fully open and his huge penis popped out. It was long and
thick and I and Rose gazed at both his and Andre’s for a long minute,
comparing them, gauging their strength, their potential for endurance.
I think two finer cocks were never on display. Polly chose to play the
child and hid her face in her pillow. I noticed her thighs part an
extra inch, though. She wanted them both, but was too shy to say so.
“We are going to have a little intermission,” Rose said
suddenly. She stood up from the bed. At once Polly rolled on her side
and gazed at everyone, her mouth open, her legs turned but still
invitingly wide. She walked to the dresser. She dipped her finger that
had investigated Polly’s backside into the water cup. She dried it on
the handkerchief. Leaning over the dresser, she reached down behind
it. She withdrew a wickedly slender Malaccan cane. The men looked at
her with uncertain eyes, their cocks on full display. “Finish
undressing, men,” Rose commanded. They eased down their trousers,
revealing their athletic legs. They kicked off their shoes, confident,
but perhaps just a little worried too, as Rose flicked her cane idly
against the side of the dresser. It made an insidious swish through the
air and then struck the dresser with a clean, sharp whack.
When the men were free of everything, including their socks and
shoes, Rose spoke again. “I’m going to cane you both on your bare
buns,” she said simply. She took off her vest, never letting go of the
cane as she spoke. Then she undid the buttons of her blouse. Finally,
reaching behind herself, she unhooked her bra. Her bosoms spilled from
the brassiere. They were twin cones of quivering white flesh, made all
the more alluring by the fact that, from the waist down, Rose still wore
her yuppie-perfect dress, while from the waist up she was utterly nude.
Rose whacked the open palm of her hand with her cane when she
was stripped bare to the waist. She eyed Louis and Andre, both of them
naked as jaybirds now, their cocks quivering with manly need, their
bottoms surely as worried as mine was. “Turn around, both of you,” Rose
said to my boyfriend and Polly’s.
“No! Please,” I begged, but Polly’s panties, in the mouth,
obscured me. I did not want to see our boyfriend’s lovely asses flayed,
laid open by the cane. I liked my boyfriend’s butt just as it was!
Yet, difficult as he’d been just a minute before, Louis now turned and
offered Rose his backside.
“Open your legs,” Rose said to both men. They seemed
uncertain. “I know, I know, you do not wish your testicles injured.
You must both trust me. You must show complete subservience to me. If
you’re both good I shouldn’t think I’d have the slightest interest in
cutting off your lineage.” With an exchange of frustrated glances,
Louis and Andre parted their well-built legs and showed Rose their
testicles from behind. They were two nutsacks of perfect proportion,
heavy with sperm and promising many babies for both of us. I wanted to
rush forward and save them from whatever might transpire. Rose walked
up to both of them and felt between their legs and squeezed their sperm
pouches. I prayed she didn’t milk them too thoughtlessly. A stray
touch might trigger their seed, and all might be lost.
“Bend over,” Rose ordered. Both men glanced at each other,
then complied. They gripped their ankles. Their dongs were pushed down
by their bending stomachs. “Oh, you are both so long,” Rose said in a
tone that was half admonitory, half admiring. She clucked and ran her
fingers slowly down the tender underside of each man’s penis, leaving
little pinch marks as she went, testing the tensile strength of each
organ. I watched, holding Polly’s panties delicately in my mouth. Oh,
how I longed to soothe those poor pinched penises. But with Rose armed
with a difficult cane, one whose reputation was as challenging to a
backside as any imaginable, I was in no mood to test her will.
Both men held up well as Rose felt their organs, their balls,
examining them from behind as thoroughly as a gynecologist might check a
woman with child. “Very good,” she said at last. “Please remain
standing just as you are. I like my men compliant sometimes, depending
on my mood. Now I’ll give you both a few whacks to show you who’s
boss.”
“That’s a ruthless cane,” Louis said, looking through his
parted legs with his head upside down. I almost giggled, losing Polly’s
panties. He looked quite silly.
Rose patted Louis’ rear. “I don’t believe in making things
easy, dear,” she said quietly. She lifted her cane and ran out its
length on her palm. It was a frightening four and a half feet long, I
guessed, yet it was incredibly light, just a handle, really, with a
shard of palmstem sprouting out to its tip. A silken thread wound with
lighthearted grace along the stem, then looped through a hole at the
tip, where it formed a decorative little bow. A very feminine
instrument, really, but able to pack a substantial bite. “Ready, boys?”
Rose asked.
“No,” Louis and Andre grunted, no doubt wondering how a castle
that promised them utter freedom wound up having them bare their holes.
“I expect you both to be as demanding with your girlfriends as
I am with you,” Rose said, sending a chill down my spine. I pushed my
tummy out, struggled with my handcuffs. No use. My breasts jiggled on
my chest. My ribs showed.
Graceful as she was deadly, Rose turned away from the men and
lifted her cane above her head. But for the fact she was topless, I
might have thought I was watching high culture, a ballet in New York or
Berlin. Rose touched a finger to the tip of the cane, bending it toward
herself, watching with upraised eyes a moment as it flexed in her
hands. Then she released the tip, lowered her head, and whirled about
and struck Louis right on his ass.
“Yeeeeow!” Louis shouted with all the force a man might
muster. His head shot up. His balls bounced beneath him, though they
were, fortunately, not a recipient of the blow. His ass clenched and
then released, clenched again. Spittle flew from his mouth and hit the
floor. His cock waggled like an old lady’s finger.
I drew in my bottomcheeks tightly as I watched Louis’ buns
contort from the blow. His asscrack shrank to a narrow threadlike line,
then, his cheeks releasing themselves at last, his hair within showed
again. He did not get up. He remained bent double, though he might
have stood, grabbing his ankles tight. I admired his fortitude even as
I pitied his pain. A slim line, no more than a pencil, announced itself
across his backside. It was deep red.
Louis received his in turn. His antics, complete with his
penis flying and his balls bounding like twin balls in Jacks, burned
deep into my mind. I found myself liking the show, even as I knew I
stood a good chance of getting equal treatment myself before the night
expired. I prayed I’d be somehow forgotten. Let Rose whip the men, and
fuck them afterward. Polly and I would be good girls and just watch.
Her footing sure, her aim precise, Rose gave each man a
half-dozen strokes of the cane over his tense, sweating rump. She never
hit anyplace twice. That would have been truly cruel. It would have
burst those tight little buns, right across their surface, and made them
bleed, possibly marking them for life. I thanked God Rose had a
practised hand. I could tell these weren’t her first victims. Her
expertise was daunting. She told myself and Polly where she would hit
from the second strikes onward, describing the men’s asses in loving
detail. And then she’d hit right where she’d promised. Louis and Andre
gritted their teeth. They said nothing, except to howl and moan. I
felt their cocks got ever more huge, though, despite the obvious pain
they were suffering.
At last Rose permitted the men to stand. Their hands flew to
their hineys and they ground their teeth as they worked their palms over
the injured surfaces. Their knees moved back and forth a little, as
they stood in place still, examining the damage and trying to assuage
it.
“Oh, come on!” Rose teased. She made Andre howl by sticking
the end of the cane straight into his asscheeks. “That’s nothing,
boys. A little starter. Turn around and let’s see how your things are
doing.” The men turned about, their eyes wincing, their penises bigger
than I’d ever seen them. Rose poked at the tip of Andre’s cock with her
bow-pointed cane. Andre lurched backward to avoid a second touch.
“Let’s adjourn briefly to the sitting room, where we can
contemplate what’s to be done,” Rose said, turning with a meaningful
look at myself and Polly. Louis, apparently guessing at its purpose,
went to the side of the bedroom and drew open a door. Beyond lay not a
bathroom, as I had expected, as you’d find in any ordinary bedroom, but
an upstairs parlor instead. Walking toward it, I realized that the
bedroom we were in was not for sleeping at all, but for training a girl,
pure and simple. The sitting room served as a place where a man might
talk with Rose and plan the girl’s denouement. It was fed by a back
stairway that meant a visiting girl, perhaps in olden days brought up
from the village, could immediately be debauched. The front entrance,
the grand staircase, the long hallway leading past the other rooms, all
could be avoided. A girl of 12 might be slipped within the house with
nobody seeing. She could be used, her hymen torn, and then taken away
again, all through the rear of the house, perhaps while a formal dinner
transpired below, or an elegant ball.
I heard heavy footfalls on the steps. A maid entered into the
concealed little parlor just as we ourselves walked in. There were no
windows in the room. It had the feel of a hidden chamber, like the
bedroom itself, which also allowed in no light from outside. It was
sumptuously decorated, however, with overstuffed chairs, paintings, a
few books. The wallpaper was damask, not paper at all, but silk, finely
patterned with natural dyes. Rose told us this as we stood and looked
at our place of confinement. She warned the men not to shoot themselves
onto the walls.
“Bring a comforter for each of the young men,” Rose told her
maid. The men stood with squirming legs and buttocks, obvious in their
condition of agony. Their pricks stood out like thick, throbbing spires
above their strainingly-tight balls. The maid, whom I’d glimpsed as we
sat so calmly in the parlor downstairs, was an old woman, perhaps 60.
She’d spied on us a little downstairs. I’d dismissed her from my mind
at the time, hardly paying her any attention. I thought she was the
cleaning woman. She looked too old to serve us. I wished we still had
the young girl. She was polite, attentive, helpful. The old woman,
whom I’m sure the men never saw at all as they relaxed downstairs, was
dour and mean. I doubted not that she felt the men had just gotten what
they deserved. They were rich boys from the city. Her husband, I’m
sure, was no more than a peasant farmer, laboring in the fields by day
until his skin cracked in the sun and his hands turned to gnarled
claws. His sex would have shrivelled by now, leaving his wife bereft.
She was worn and lined from age and years of hard work. She had no pity
for us. I shrank back as I looked at her. It was so humiliating, where
was the girl? She I’d felt a little embarrassed about being nude in
front of, but this woman! Her eyes grazed me like a toad eyeing a tasty
bug. It was so shameful to be stripped naked in front of such an old
hussy, her hands gnarled, her breasts hanging low and flat like
pancakes, her hips huge and matronly. Worst of all, she wore her
clothes as neatly as if she were going to church. Layer after layer of
clothing hid her figure from our view. A heavy dress of white showed
its hem beneath a second dress of black, each flowing down from her
middle. I knew she must wear bloomers beneath, encasing each of her
legs. I could hear them rasping together as she walked. Above her
rustling, heavy dresses was her blouse, with a firmly buttoned vest over
it, and a full-length apron tied down her front. She wore a maid’s
hat. It looked like it was so well-secured to her head that she
expected to meet a typhoon. Only her arms and hands were bare, her
sleeves rolled up, as if she’d just been doing the laundry. Her arms
were thick and manly. They were spotted with age, as was her face. She
glowered at us, but with a trace of amusement in her eyes, cynical
amusement, jealous and wishing the worst for us. Her hair, neatly drawn
up into a bun, gave her a business-like look. It was a sharp contrast
to my own hair, flowing and free and playful, and Polly’s. Even Rose’s
pretty coiffure, slightly mussed now, looked utterly uninhibited
compared to our maid.
I thought the maid would turn and have to go back downstairs,
but she opened yet another door, into a closet, and drew out two
comforters and set them on chairs for the men. With gritting teeth our
loves sat down, each in his own princely stuffed chair, but with his
bare buns smarting fiercely as he sat on the downy white-ruffled cushion
brought by the maid.
Standing in my birthday suit, with my titties twitching, my
muff moist, I tried to avoid the maid’s eyes. Polly too seemed to find
her modesty. She had the added discomfort of a shiny heinie-hole,
obvious from the traces of fingermarks Rose had left behind. They
trailed out from the center of her backside, leaving no doubt what had
been done. All vaseline trails lead to the greased butthole, as a Roman
might say. She wore her hair with a My Little Pony ribbon tying off a
few of her long locks, a kind of ponytail that bound a few ropelike
strands of her hair together but left the remainder underneath free.
The effect was to make her look even more schoolgirlish than she already
did, and all 60-year-old maids know where a little schoolgirl should be
on a Saturday night. Home preparing her lessons, so she could go to
church on Sunday, both morning and evening, and say her rosary. Instead
Polly stood with her hiney packed with vaseline, her hole prepared for
the men’s cocks which stood up so heedlessly.
“Get the potties out for the girls,” Rose said with a refined
air, as if we were to be entertained at an embassy instead of made ready
for sex. The maid glanced at myself and Polly and, as we stood hoping
to claim seats for ourselves, waiting only for Rose’s permission, she
brought out two children’s potties and sat them down on the top of a
dresser along the back wall. I blanched. I think I felt my blood rush
to my face and my toes simultaneously, with all parts between equally
pink. Were we to sit up on the dresser? The men’s chairs, I saw, were
angled to give them a perfect view of the potties. The maid brought a
stepstool out of the closet and sat it down in front of the dresser.
Rose, swishing her cane, turned to myself and Polly. “Girls,
do you have to go to the bathroom?” she asked. Polly and I quickly
shook our heads no. “Well, then you’ll just have to sit on the potty
until you do,” she smiled. We looked at her with woebegone eyes and
nervously constricted throats. “Married women have sat on them,” Rose
said. “You two are practically ‘of age’ by comparison. Don’t worry,
I’ll hold your hand as you mount the stool. I don’t want you to fall.
Once you’re settled on the potty you won’t have any worries. The
dresser is nice and big. Come, girls, I want to make sure you’re both
toilet trained before I put you to bed for the night!”
She urged us both forward. Then she had me step on the stool
first, minding me to be ladylike, and she watched as, with her fingers
touching my handcuffs, keeping me balanced, I stepped with a well-lifted
knee up onto the dresser. The maid stood nearby, her eyes prying into
me like a lesbian’s. Involuntarily I showed off my sex with my
movements. Raising up each of my legs, I felt nervous under her gaze,
like a showhorse about to be put to stud. My males sat nearby, gazing
wishfully at my cunt. It felt incredibly open, swollen with yearning.
Finally standing where all could see me as intimately as they wished, my
pussy above their heads, my feet firmly planted on the dresser, I
blushed anew. I felt like a model hired out to med students to teach
them the female reproductive system. There’d be no cold cadavers
today. We’d make a clinical assessment of an actual girl, watching her,
probing her, making her cum for us so we could learn all aspects of her
most completely. In our coats, with our spectacles on and our headlamps
lit, shining into her privates. I turned and faced the toilet. There
it was, just like I remembered sitting on as a child, except I was 14
now! Gracefully as I could I turned my fanny to it and sat down on the
seat. I tried not to think of having a bowel movement.
“Lift your legs, draw up your knees to your chin,” Rose told
me. I saw that there were footrests running out like wings from the
sides of my toilet. Sticking out just far enough, they were adorned at
each end by a little hole through which I might, if I was utterly
foolish, stick the spikes on my pumps. Under Rose’s watchful gaze I
drew up my heels until they were level with my bottom. Then, carefully,
I fitted each of my heeled spikes into the hole provided for it. I felt
the spikes slip down like long nipples into the clamplike holes. I
realized that, with my arms cuffed behind me, I stood little chance of
extricating my legs without Rose’s permission. Gazing down, I saw my
cunt was widely displayed, my thighs not blocking it at all. I turned
redfaced once more and could do nothing as the maid glared at me with
ravenous eyes.
Polly was seated in turn upon her toilet. We sat shivering,
our honeypots lewdly displayed, our tits quivering, their roundness
brazenly offered by our contorted postures. Our nipples stuck up like
pins atop our balloon-like tits, perhaps hoping to stab the maid’s
fingers should she choose to touch us.
“Pee when you like,” Rose told us, taking a chair for herself,
not needing a comforter. “We’ll enjoy it when you do.” She asked the
maid to bring stiff drinks for us all. “To ease the men’s sore bottoms,
and serve as anesthesia for what the girls must endure,” Rose declared.
“And for myself too, to fortify me for the night ahead.” She laid her
cane across her knees. They still hid within her dress, the only
modesty remaining amongst us, the combatants for love.
“Oh, what is to happen to us?” Polly asked when the maid
loosened her gag and tugged it bib-like beneath her chin. Before Rose
could lift her eyes from her own drink to answer, the maid was already
forcing Polly to swallow a glassful of liquor. “Yuck! It tastes
terrible!” Polly confessed. At the restaurant she’d pretended to sip
the drink Andre ordered for her. Now she made no attempt to hide her
displeasure.
“Drink it down!” the maid ordered. Polly gasped and received
another mouthful of gin. She spluttered. Some went down, the rest
splattered itself in droplets over her tits. The maid brought the cup
to me and insisted I drink some too. She plucked Polly’s panties from
my mouth and held them while I leaned my head forward. I did my best to
swallow down the drink. In truth, I didn’t like it much either. The
maid swallowed the rest herself. She did not stuff Polly’s panties back
into my mouth. Instead, she lay them in a little saliva-wet ball next
to me, on the surface of the dresser. I did not mind, but it seemed
strange. Was I to lecture, from my perch here atop the potty seat?
Were we to be fed dinner? Baby food, perhaps, strained so we could feed
on it with little fuss, while we pooped and pissed into our potties?
Rose smiled, thanked the maid, told her to remain in the room,
standing over by the corner closest to the door. The men, amazed at the
sight of Polly and myself, fondled their hard-ons. Rose warned them not
to cum. All three, plus the maid, waited for Polly and I to pee.
“It is hot here now in the summertime,” Rose said, making small
talk, though all three kept their eyes on me, on Polly. “I let my
guests swim naked, during the day, in the pool. Before I felt they
should wear swimsuits. Many of the girls are from the best families. I
did not wish them to expose themselves in front of the field hands.
After all, this is a working farm. The help has work they must do each
day, planting the crops and tending them, harvesting them in the fall.
It seemed inappropriate to me to have the girls baring their all in
front of peasants. But they bugged me about leaving their panties and
bras off, so I finally allowed it. The bras, of course, were just my
little rule. Those silly decency laws! I’m glad they were repealed.
South American girls should be able to go topless on their beaches if
they want to. But here, at the pool, I wanted to make the girls more
conscious of themselves. Sometimes a breast halter is necessary to
teach a girl that she’s sensitive and can sag someday if she doesn’t
take care of herself.”
“Well, you don’t sag,” Louis grinned. He gazed at her breasts
with open admiration.
“I had a strict mother who always made me wear a bra,” Rose
replied. “But the girls today, they want so much to be free. They want
to feel a part of nature. So last summer I let them take their bras
off, and this summer its the bottoms that have come off too. Now they
look like little Indians out by the pool, splashing around all day. We
built a baby pool this year and they simply love it. You can see them
paddling around in it with their waterwings on, as if they were children
in preschool, or lying on a towel sucking their thumb and hoping someone
will notice them. I think they enjoy showing themselves off to the
field hands, with nothing hidden, knowing the field hands can never have
them. I do not allow mixing or fraternization between the two groups.”
She laughed. “God knows, there’s enough swapping and mixing just
between the paying guests, without letting the field hands in on it
too!”
Louis looked at me. “Keep her in a bra and panties if you let
her use the pool,” he said. “I want her breasts and bottom white so I
can paint on them with a whip. I like to see the contrast, the red and
the white. Make sure she always is covered if she goes outside.”
Rose smiled. “Louis, you have such a wicked eye for detail.
Of course that’s the real reason I wished to keep my girls covered up,
so you could see the swats on their bottoms when they were spanked.
Perhaps I should be more strict, then, hmmm? Not let them play nude in
the pool?”
“Be more strict,” Louis answered, still gazing at me. He
sipped his drink. His fingers ran up and down his cock, lightly, toying
with himself to ease his penile tension, yet not too much, lest he spurt
right onto the carpet.
“I’ll make sure Fleury is always modest outdoors, then,” Rose
agreed. “And how about you, Andre? Do you wish to keep Polly’s
privates nice and white so you can see your handiwork more clearly when
you flog her?”
“Yes,” Andre nodded. Polly squirmed on her potty seat. I saw
she was about to blurt out words of disapproval. I turned my head to
her. I caught her eye. Despite my fright I tried to ease her own.
Silently, for we were being watched. She looked at me, I at her. We
shared sympathies with our eyes. Surely they would not mistreat us.
Louis had merely fucked me, a boyfriend and girlfriend exploring the
newness of each others’ bodies. And Andre had not abused her. I hoped
we were just being treated a little here, teased. Something different,
something new. Yes, the paddling had hurt. Being bent over by Rose,
whacked on my fanny. Yet I’d felt a kind of delirium as it was done. I
was so mortified, with the maid watching, so shocked, and yet so free,
so female. My breasts had felt like love balloons, bouncing their
fulsomeness beneath me. My bottom had seemed to blossom under the
punishment, my cheeks reddening like roses, dewy springtime in my nest.
And the men watching. Their eyes fixed on me. Christ’s Second Coming
would not have torn their gaze away. For a moment, I was the absolute
center of their universe. Just me, the mother goddess-girl, in total
command of them despite my suffering.
Rose talked about last winter. The men listened, enjoying her
voice, looking at her sometimes, or just sitting with her and admiring
Polly and I, perched on our potty seats. I studied the wallpaper. So
expensive, and all devoted to me, at the moment, and Polly. There were
rich shades of red interwoven with paler yellows, and pinks. A
chandelier above our heads sparkled crystalline light upon our bodies.
The maid stood mute. She watched Polly, myself, like a schoolmarm after
school supervising study hall delinquents. Polly’s soft young breasts,
rising so nicely to impudent points, their tips hard with excitement,
rose and fell on her slim chest. My own cones offered the same
spectacle, my teats thrust forward by my manacles, lifting with my
inward breaths, dropping slightly when I exhaled, jiggling their
fleshiness with girlish allure. The soft, imperceptible swell of my
belly wished for babies. The maid studied my navel. How many young had
she birthed? She might have been pretty once, but the exertions of
bearing young had worn her down finally, stretching her, filling her,
increasing her size and her girth. I doubted she’d known birth
control. Each new year brought its season of spring, her belly blooming
full just as the new flowers opened. Summer’s heat saw her in the
maternity shed, out back, grunting as she gave yet one more baby to the
world. I wished to know how Rose’s farm hands lived. I knew a little,
from my travels. But I wanted to live amongst them, rise in the morning
with the dawning sun and toil all day under the master’s lash, bedding
down finally to the demands of my husband’s penis. Such dreamy thoughts
I had, sitting bound upon the child’s potty. I think, at that moment,
for Louis, I would gladly have worked under his guidance for the rest of
my life. He would be the man of the plantation, I would be his willing
slave. He would train me to work in the fields and watch as I stooped
over to pick each little flowering cotton bud, the breeze lifting my
short, thin dress and exposing my bottom. Would he let me have
panties? I doubted it. He would watch me and use me and grow strong
from my labor. He would be the richest man in Georgia, and I, for a
little while, in my budding youth, I would be his peach. And when he
left me for another girl I’d sneak into his room at night and stab him
with a dagger, just as he’d stabbed me so many fruitful times with
himself.
The men finished their drinks and the maid refilled their
glasses. Rose watched their carefree abandon, sitting with their
punishment forgotten on their frilled comforters. They had a better
seat than I, sitting on a hard plastic potty. I envied them. My arms
were starting to ache. I wanted to flex them, to move about. My thighs
felt okay. Between them I trembled, though, wishing for touches the law
didn’t allow. Here I hoped the law wouldn’t prevail. Rose made her own
rules. I watched her with obedience showing in my eyes. I would do her
bidding. She would test me, would satisfy me. Surely it would not be
more than I could stand. She herself looked fine, her hair neatly
curled, her bosom impressive, her toes peeking out from beneath her long
flowing dress.
“Men, I really don’t approve of you playing with yourselves,”
Rose said finally. The men looked up. They were both in mid-gulp with
their newly poured drinks, their hands on their penises, lightly
stroking themselves. The maid slipped into the bedroom a moment, then
returned with two extra large Penis Pumpers. Rose took them from her.
“If you men insist on having stimulation, then I’m really going to have
to insist you use these,” Rose said brightly.
Louis and Andre looked at the glass cylinders. They were long
and hollow and open at one end. Within each was a detachable rubber
condom. I realized a man could insert himself, ejaculate into the
condom, and then simply dispose of it when done. But what was the
rubber tubing running down from the tip of each glass? At its closed,
snouted end, this tube ran out, leash-like, until it ended in a rubber
inflation ball. It reminded me of a blood pressure cuff, except it
wouldn’t be putting pressure on your arm.
“I’ve never even used one of those,” Louis scoffed. Andre had
a slightly guilty look on his face. He was shy compared to Louis,
though built just as well. Had he been left alone on a Saturday night
or two? I glanced at Polly. She was looking down into her potty bowl.
‘There’s nothing in there unless you put it there,’ I wanted to say to
her, but I kept quiet instead. I was intrigued by the newfound plight
of the men.
“This is a place for doing new things,” Rose said quietly. She
stood up and walked over to the men. Her dress swished with refined
grace. If her boobs hadn’t been joggling nakedly on her chest you might
have thought you were in an office with her. She knelt and laid Andre’s
pumper aside for a moment, on the floor. She took the pumper intended
for Louis and frankly stuck his cock into it, first capturing him at the
head like a botanist might bag a butterfly with a net, then sliding all
of him into the tube with effort, as if putting in a snake. Louis
watched, holding his drink up to his chin, wanting to drink it but too
mesmerized to remember it. Andre’s cock stood up proudly. He seemed
unhappy at being put into the tube, but there was noplace he could hide
his stemming organ. Rose did him next, gripping his shaft and jamming
him all the way into the pump. Then she returned to her chair, trailing
out the tubing behind her. She sat down primly, holding an inflation
ball in each of her charming hands. Her eyelashes fluttered. She
smiled at Louis and Andre.
“Ready, boys?” she asked. With delicate fingers she squeezed
the balls.
“Whoa,” Louis blurted, feeling the first pangs of pleasure as
the sheath in the glass gripped him more tightly. “It feels just like a
cunt.”
“It’s supposed to,” Rose smiled. She squeezed the balls in her
hands rhythmically. With each new squish of them the men felt yet more
pressure upon their cocks. Louis’ face turned red. He was like a
virgin, experiencing this particular depravity for the first time. I
was delighted I could see him in his newborn state, with no
preconceptions, none of his cynical moods. This was real, he’d never
felt it, and it had him not by the balls but by his most precious asset
of all, his dong. Andre had a little smile on his face, as if to say,
“Ah, yes. I remember this. It made me feel guilty, but it got rid of
my blue balls.” I giggled and looked at Polly. She stared wide-eyed.
She did not notice Andre’s guilt. She was just a child. She had seen
so little in life she could not pick up the nuances an adult like me
could. Well, I was only a year older than her, but I was ahead of her,
that was for sure. As she sat enthroned on the Potty, wondering at her
fate, I tried to feel more secure. I was with the man I loved.
Shouldn’t that be enough? Polly was too, but she felt a child’s love, a
marvelling kind of love that was unreflected upon, like a girl seeing
her first lollipop. I’d tasted lollipops and liked them.
Our twin popsicle boys were up to their ears in pressure. They
gritted their teeth, watching with fretful eyes as Rose gave yet more
pumps to the little balls in her hands. She proceeded slowly now,
letting each man savor the interval, if he could, wondering if each pump
would be her last, hoping it would be.
Squish! Rose gave a final squeeze, or so I hoped, to the
balls. She grinned at the men with the smile of a contented cat. They
would not dare disobey her now. “I hope you don’t drink too much,” Rose
said, as the men ordered more liquor from the maid, to ease their
sweating brows. “After all, you’ll need my permission to pee. I don’t
really think you want to try going inside those things, do you? It
would just add to the pressure, if your urine could come out at all!”
Louis nodded, grunted. “Just try to get used to it, Louis. Andre’s
been there before, haven’t you, Andre?”
“I never pumped mine up this much,” Andre confessed.
“Well, you’re in a ladies’ hands now,” Rose replied. “You men,
when you masturbate you do just as you please, don’t you? My, my,
that’s no way to have fun. You must put yourself in a woman’s hands.
Let her decide how fast, or how slow, how hard, or how easy. As for me,
I expect the most from my men. You’re both so big and strong, and proud
of your muscles. Well, you’re penises mustn’t be spared. Their
training must be just as rigorous. That’s why I keep these Penis
Pumpers on hand. I mean, I have no use for them myself, hmmm? No,
they’re just for unruly customers, or, sometimes, if they’re lucky, for
special customers like you boys, big strong men used to having their
way. Well, not in my house. The girls are yours to do as you please
with, but we must always remember that between yourselves and me, I’m
the one who sets the rules.”
Louis shifted in his chair. He flexed his arms. They were
like bull’s flanks, wide and muscular. “I ought to walk over there and
break your neck!” Louis scowled.
Rose flinched. Her skin was so white, so delicate, her neck
rising from her bare shoulders constricted a moment, then eased. “Yes,
I like finding the very roughest men, who can still be trained, though
not, perhaps, by others, and breaking them to my will,” she said. Her
face looked a little worried, but she tried to smile. “It’s that
simple, Louis. Andre’s no problem. I enjoy him, who wouldn’t? But
it’s men like you I really seek, Louis. O.J. types, rough and tough and
not afraid to take me on. I guess I try to scare myself a little. But
anyway, there you have it, Louis. It’s better to be truthful, I
suppose. You could probably leap right up and strangle me, and kill
everyone here to hide your crime, but that’s what draws me to you,
Louis. Please don’t spoil it for me. Play along a little. Rein in
your lust and your anger.”
Like music in the ears of a savage beast, her high-pitched,
lilting voice, so cultured, so civilized, seemed to quiet Louis’ lust,
though it did nothing to ease the condition of his erection. Perhaps
he’d been looking for her. A woman who could find just the right way to
break him. I felt immensely jealous, but knew I was learning too. I
tried to copy Rose’s poise, her shy self-assurance. She was very
admirable, I thought. She could wrap men round her fingers, men other
women wouldn’t dare touch, and make them heel. Yes, heel. Louis was
like a big dog, one that runs everyday, a thick-chested doberman
perhaps, all black and brooding and deadly. He’d gone easy on me so
far, but I knew he harbored vicious passions. They might spill out of
control at any moment, and then who knew what might happen? If I
weren’t so young, he might have abused me already. Instead, he’d loved
me with restraint, but it was a caged kind of restraint, the kind an
executioner shows to a prisoner before he despatches her. Like Anne, I
waited for my thousand days to be up. Perhaps that’s what drew me to
him, his awfulness, his pirate nature. As a little girl I’d snuck into
a lion’s cage once, crept close. He’d yawned, watching me. I’d yearned
to stick my little head in his mouth, just once, to impress myself with
my boldness. My girlfriend had watched, too scared to come into the
cage with me. As I contemplated my chances of dying or living the
keeper came, shouted, rescued me from the cage. I’d only been three,
but I knew loins weren’t just storybook friends. Girls could get eaten
by them. I watched as he shut the cage door, made very sure it was
locked. Now I was inside the cage again. Society had locked the door,
most firmly. There were hotlines and neighbor patrols and community
meetings, but I’d slipped into the cage again, found a loose latch,
exploited it. And here I was, showing my cunt, so bad, yet loving how
the men eyed me. Despite their imprisoned dongs they were looking at
myself and Polly again, watching us breathe, watching our titties
jiggle. Did they long to spurt in us? I knew they must.
I heard a tinkling sound. My face twisted to the side, my eyes
confronted my companion.
“Polly, you’re peeing!” I hissed.
“Of course I’m peeing! I have to go to the bathroom!” she
declared. She was a frank creature. She did not understand the
exquisiteness of trying to hold it, with the men watching. Maybe they
relished the contrast between us, her so artless, so unaware, me knowing
more, striving to be mature. As if she were in school, she peed into
the bowl, her eyes observing the stream. It ended with a few golden
drops. She watched them fall from her privates. She looked at Rose.
“May I go now?” she asked.
“You just went, dear,” Rose replied, laughing. Polly blushed.
I felt my face go red too. The maid smirked.
“That makes me want to go too,” Andre said.
“Does it?” Rose asked cheerily. “You may do so, Andre.
Provided one thing...”
“What’s that?” Andre asked. “Just tell me. I’ll do it. I
need to pee pretty badly.”
Rose bent forward and grasped the hem of her skirt. Lifting it
up her legs, she said, “You must let me pee in your mouth.”
“What?!” Andre asked, his cry echoed by Louis. Rose got her
skirt up above her waist and tucked it in there so it wouldn’t fall back
down again in front. I saw her legs were as flawless as I’d imagined
them. Long and sleek, with thigh-high stockings making them into
sheened columns, statuesque. Though I’d yet to see it, I knew her
bottom must be a tight ball of desire, wiggling freely when she walked
yet high and perfectly shaped, not yet broadened and fattened by
children.
“Come, Andre,” Rose said. “Not in your pump, of course, but to
me, dear.” She tugged on the cord which held them together. Andre
responded. He got up and come to the woman who held his dong encased in
the tube. I smiled at his haunches. They were striated with
cane-marks, yet he seemed to have forgotten them, so deeply enmeshed was
he in thoughts for his penis, held and captured by Rose and now held for
ransom in return for a perverted act.
Andre knelt. Polly watched with amazed eyes.
“Don’t worry, It’s just a game,” I assured her, though I’d
never seen it played.
Rose lifted her heels onto her chair. She glanced at me,
smiled. She was sitting like Polly and I now, though in better
comfort. She scooted her bottom forward so that its forward edge might
overhang the chair’s seat. “Put your mouth right up to my cunt,” Polly
told Andre. “Don’t let any of my pee spill on the floor.” Andre
obeyed. As his mouth drew close to her his breath exhaled. Rose
shivered, tossed her head back. Like a man making a seal on something,
Andre closed his mouth over Rose’s pussy tightly, perhaps hoping to
repay her for the vacuum she’d slipped on his dick. Rose sighed and
gave a little cry. I knew Andre’s tongue must be dabbling within her.
“Alright, Andre, I’m going to pee now,” Rose said. She looked at him as
one might regard a puppy. Andre’s cock waggled between his legs.
“Urck!” emanated from Andre’s mouth, all covered up but still
audible, the sound no doubt coming out his ears as he suddenly felt his
mouth squirted with pee.
“Don’t drink it, Andre. Just let it fill your mouth. That’s
it, exhale and inhale through your nose. Let your cheeks puff out.
They can hold a lot of fluid. Yes, you’re a good doggie, Andre. Let
your mistress pee right into you. Enjoy the taste of her flow over your
tongue. Don’t fight it. Ahhh, you’re my diaper, Andre. I love you.”
When Rose was finished, Andre looked like one of those puffer
fish you see in the ocean. She let him stand up and he looked around
for somewhere to empty himself. Louis exploded into laughter, seeing
his condition. “You should be paraded around in front of the other
guests, you pantywaist!” Louis roared. Andre glowered at him but could
say nothing for fear of losing the pee. The maid went into the bedroom,
returned with a bowl. It looked like it might have held candies.
“In here,” the maid said gruffly. Andre put his face over the
bowl. He seemed like a dental patient, gazing into that bowl, his
cheeks swollen. And then, with a spluttering whoosh, he dumped his
mouthful of Rose’s pee into it.
“Give him some bourbon to wash his mouth out,” Rose told the
maid. She nodded. She set the bowl aside, to take downstairs, and went
to the little bar where our drinks were made. She poured a tall glass
of bourbon for Andre, brought two empties along for him to spit into.
Andre returned to his seat and gratefully received the new liquor. He
cleansed his mouth most thoroughly. Rose eyed Louis. “My bladder is
filling again,” she warned him. Louis frowned and decided to look down
at his cock. Rose eased the pressure a little, twisting the knob
beneath the ball to let out some air.
“Thank you,” Louis breathed.
“You’re being very good, Louis,” Rose complimented him. “Shall
I leave my dress up? Do you like seeing my bush?” Her voice sounded
curious, as if she wanted a true answer, not just a lusty remark.
“God, I love your cunt,” Louis confessed. He looked from his
own privates to hers. “Take the dress off, take everything off. Get on
the floor and let me fuck you!”
“I’ll start with the dress,” Rose replied. She stood and
unzipped herself in back. The garment fell down, pooled round her
ankles. Daintily she stepped out of it. She turned about and presented
her bottom to Louis’ eyes. “Most men like my ass best,” she grinned.
It was perfect, round and upended like a bottom should be, with graceful
twin cheeks that begged to be poked. She bent forward and gave her
tushy a little wiggle.
“God, I could die in that ass!” Louis crowed.
“Well, Louis, you’re about to,” Rose replied. With a devilish
grin she backed up to him. As the maid picked up her dress off the
floor she stuck her butt right into Louis’ face. I could see he was
getting a brownnose, without even having to ask. “Do I smell good,
Louis?” Rose asked. Louis, his nose apparently stuck inside her
shithole, nodded as best he could. “Fuck me with your tongue,” Rose
insisted. “You know where. Put it right in. It will teach you a good
lesson for speaking meanly to me.”
As I watched with shocked eyes and a jealously burning heart,
Louis introduced his tongue to Rose’s butthole. She spread her cheeks
with her hands and he found himself suddenly accommodated. Had she been
enlarged to take a man more easily there? I did not know. His tongue
browned, Louis began to fuck her with it just as he might have done with
his penis. She laughed, then cried. Tears of joy, I guessed. How
intimate, to have your love clean out your butthole for you! Louis
tongued faster now, stabbing her repeatedly in her ass, making her moan
and beg for more. She forced her perfect fanny back into him more,
urging him deeper. As Andre watched, feeling suddenly let off easy,
Louis gouged out Rose’s hole with his darting tongue.
Rose slipped her hand down to her pussy and massaged her clit.
Her delicate, long-nailed fingers worked expertly over her own sex. She
shrieked with pleasure. How odd it felt to see our discreet, cultured
mistress pleasuring herself, while my boyfriend reamed her butt.
Somehow, feeling a little detached, I imagined I could be seeing my own
mother, a few years younger perhaps, getting it from my dad. It seemed
something I should not be seeing. Yet it was transpiring right in front
of me, like two parents fucking in front of baby lying in the crib.
Polly gave a little cough. I looked at her, she at me. There
was an ersatz smile on her face. Her teeth sparkled whitely.
“Did you get splashed?” I asked her, looking down at her
bulbing bottom cheeks where they hung within the potty seat. It brimmed
full with her pee.
“A little,” she replied, lisping. I could tell she wanted
someone to finger her. Her pussy lips puffed with temptation. Even
fingering herself would have been quite satisfactory, I’m sure. I knew
that’s how she’d usually found pleasure in life, lying in bed, dreaming,
her finger busy down below.
Louis must have had something of the true gentleman in him,
despite all his hardness, his surlyness. For, as he strove to tongue
Rose as deeply as possible (despite the obvious availability of his
dick, which would have done the job much more completely) he reached to
Rose’s front with his hand. Gently he pulled her own sticky fingers
away from herself and replaced them with his own much more expert ones.
His calloused, hairy male digits carefully rubbed her round her spot,
then a little over it, making circles, tiny circles, doing her with care
and grace like a woman wants it, despite the fact she was making him
clean out her bottom. Rose howled with throat-wrenching passion. She
placed her hand over his and thanked him by pressing him more deeply
into her. She abandoned herself to love, ramming her buttcheeks into
his face again and again. I knew then why I loved Louis so much. He
could be mean, and tough, and he loved to swagger, but when the chips
were really down he gave his all, even if you teased and tortured him.
He fondled you and kissed you and (yes) tongued you, a perfect gentleman
in the throes of love, despite all that had gone before; the barbs, the
slights, the arguments, the slaps and (if you provoked him enough) the
beatings. And, looking at his cock, I knew the night wouldn’t end
simply with him tongue-fucking her. She, or somebody, was going to get
Louis’ glorious dick rammed right up her. Then he would be rough again,
slamming himself into you and making you groan and making your body
creak like all your bones would crack, until at last you lay under him
puddle-like, all teary and honeyed and spent.
The maid ignored Rose’s wanton cries. She freed Andre from his
cock-tube, as his reward for being a human urinal for her mistress.
Andre, his face delirious with delight at finally having his cock back,
sank into his chair with its comforter and just sat a moment, staring at
his erection, savoring how it swayed hugely above his crotch, as if
saying, “Free at last! Free at last! Thank god I’m free at last.”
Cocks couldn’t speak, of course, but his seemed like it wished to. His
balls tremored underneath, his nuts swamped with sperm, hoping soon to
ejaculate it.
Her skirts bustling round her, the maid approached us. She did
not look at us. We were nothing to her. She placed a hand on the front
of Polly’s potty and to my surprise I saw the front of it open. The
maid reached in and pulled out the bowl which held Polly’s pee. She
left with it, went downstairs. A minute later she returned with a clean
bowl and put it in where the other had been. She snapped the front of
Polly’s toilet shut. Then she opened the front of my potty. She took
out my bowl and looked inside. There was nothing there. I still held
my pee inside me. She put my bowl back, closed up my toilet, and
returned to her corner where she waited to serve us.
Rose finished her course with Louis. I heard footsteps on the
stairs. The young girl who had served us earlier appeared. She held a
plateful of steaming hot towels. A metal cover was over them, but the
fat maid lifted it up, took out a towel, and went over to Louis. She
wiped his face as a mom might clean up her five-year-old, fresh from the
backyard mud. The young maid departed. I watched her go. I wished she
would stay. I liked her better than the old one.
Standing, nude but for her stockings and pumps, Rose walked to
the plateful of towels. Her hips swung with fulfillment. She had a
gorgeous bottom, all round and boldly jiggling, with a free, swaying
grace that announced she was a woman. She took a towel for herself,
walked back to the men, and spoke quietly and cheerfully to them as she
stood before them, toweling off her privates. Then she wiped Andre’s
dick with her towel to clean him up a little too. He’d been drooling
precum like a baby drools spittle, watching her and Louis get it on.
“It’s time to get you out of that horrid Pumper, Louis,” Rose
laughed to him. She knelt before him, gradually released the pressure
in the tube, and then drew it off him. She tilted the tube to her eye
and looked inside to make sure Louis hadn’t spent any of his sperm in
it. “Just precum,” Rose said approvingly. The maid brought a towel and
Rose wiped down Louis like she might do a horse, loving and cherishing
his erection, making me jealous. I could do nothing but watch. My
hands were still bound tightly behind me, locked in hard police steel,
leaving my titties and pussy to whomever might wish to plunder them. I
felt tender and vulnerable. I had no protection if one of them should
choose to do something awful to me.
Rose gazed at me with cat’s eyes when she was done wiping my
boyfriend. “Fleury, you’re proving quite a champion today, holding back
your pee,” she said to me. “But I’m afraid I’m going to have to
encourage you a little. Polly’s peed, and me too. Now it’s your
turn.” She approached me. Beyond, the maid brought empty,
narrow-necked liquor bottles for the men.
“What are these for?” I heard Louis ask. Rose turned, looked
back over her shoulder. “Don’t you have to go? Put your penis tip to
the open neck of the bottle and see if you can fill it with dandelion
wine, as we call it here. I’ll make a girl drink it if you do. Some
girl you don’t even know. Piss in the bottle and fill it up for her.
When you’re gone, off at your job or elsewhere, you can remember your
homemade bottle of wine here, and know that some female will be made to
cherish every drop. Piss, Louis. A fine penis like yours must make
excellent pee.”
With that inspiration, Louis wedged the bulbous nose of his
cock up against the open bottleneck and lustily let loose his urine.
Andre did the same. Rose returned her gaze to me and put her fingers to
my pussy. Lightly she tickled me.
“Doon’t!” I cried. Beyond her I saw my boyfriend peeing, and
Polly’s, and suddenly she started a stream of her own. Rose put a hand
between her own legs and, standing there before me, suddenly began
peeing on the carpet. The maid rushed forward to catch what she could.
I guessed she’d be the one to have to clean the rug.
“Pee with us,” Rose urged, tickling my cunny.
“No, I, it’s too perverted,” I gasped. I did not want to be a
full-grown girl of 14 peeing like a two-year old on a plastic potty. I
felt a bubbling within me. I could not hold it! Suddenly, peeing over
her fingers, I made my offering. Rose smiled. No more words were
exchanged. We stared at each other, then both looked down into the bowl
as my pee came out. It was utterly decadent. The moment seemed to last
forever, the men peeing behind Rose, she herself wetting the carpet, the
maid scrambling to get down between her legs with a teapot, the only
thing she’d had to grab when Rose suddenly decided to go; and Polly,
childishly peeing into her potty with not the slightest reservation. It
was a potty, after all, and she was a girl who wished to go.
In a few moments all our bladders were empty. The men sat back
down in their chairs. The young maid appeared, took their bottles away,
inspecting the contents and thanking them for their contribution to the
estate. The men’s urine would brood in chilled wine cellars, next to
expensive wines, until they were ripe and ready to drink. The finest
pee-wine, aged to perfection, from men with impressive dongs and girl
would beg to have put up her.
The older maid withdrew the teapot from between Rose’s legs.
She brought a hot towel for Rose to wipe her hand on. Rose cleaned her
fingers. Then she let the maid withdraw my bowel and, when it was gone,
she reached between my legs and toweled me with the hot towel. After
she’d done me, and the maid had taken Polly’s bowl away, she towelled
Polly too. We both squirmed at the feeling of the towel, so steamy and
hot, touching us in our most erotic parts. Polly let out a little yelp
of pleasure as her own spot was cleansed and aroused. I guessed Rose
might be preparing us for the next step. Being fucked. It could not be
delayed much longer. The men were hard beyond belief, trembling with
their hugely swollen balls, desperate to cum. Polly and I had been
teased and tormented to distraction. Only Rose seemed calm. Perhaps
that’s why she had gone first. Being done with her orgasm, she could
now cooly play the ringmistress to the rest of us. Yes, that must be
it. She’d used Louis to bring her off so she could more accurately
guide he and I as we did it, and Andre and Polly. That was our purpose
here, wasn’t it? To be mated. To make love to each other as we never
had before.
Rose lifted each of my heels out of the little holes on either
side of the potty which held them aloft. She set my feet down on the
dresser. I felt sensible again, not all exposed like some underage
tart, dreaming of being broken by the overseer out in the fields or in
the stables. Rose took a key from the dresser and reached around behind
me and unlocked my handcuffs.
Oh, how wonderful it felt! I lifted my arms and rubbed my
wrists and inspected them. There were red marks where they handcuffs
had bound them. “Stand up,” Rose said. She took the tips of my fingers
and helped me rise up from the toilet. With her hands guiding me I
stepped down from the dresser. Then, she made me pause, a finger
touched to one of my nipples. She took Polly’s panties from the dresser
top and smiled at me and told me to open my mouth.
Oh, God! I did not want to. But, somehow, I let her urge my
teeth apart, and she replaced the panties in my mouth. “Go to Andre,”
she said. I shook my head no. My eyes were wide with disapproval.
“Yes, Andre,” she insisted. “I’ll not have any opportunities wasted.
He has a fine penis and I want you on it. Polly will have your lover
this first night. You are still a slave, my darling. Go to Andre and
take hold of his penis. Don’t let him cum, or put it in you. Just hold
it possessively like you would Louis’, and I’ll be with you
momentarily.”
I obeyed. Trembling, looking straight into Louis’ eyes as I
walked to Andre, who stood to receive me, I walked with swinging hips
and naked, jiggling tits. I clasped Andre’s penis as, somewhere behind
me, Polly let out a squeak of dismay.
“Yes, Polly, she will have your wonderful boyfriend. But you
will have Louis,” Rose told her.
“I don’t want Louis. He’s too mean,” Polly insisted. But Rose
replaced her bra over her mouth and tightened it so that no more could
be heard from her. She loosed her handcuffs and made her stand and
guided her, wobbly-legged, her breasts bobbing like tennis balls on her
chest, down from the dresser. Rose led her over to Louis and Polly
looked for all the world like a first-grader being brought into the
schoolhouse to meet her new teacher. Louis received her with a groping
hug and kissed her deeply. Polly squealed unhappily as his broad palms
gripped and explored her angel bottom. Andre patted mine. I knew how
they both wanted us. They’d conspired together, I realized, and decided
they must both have our buttholes. Polly’s was already prepared. Rose
turned me around and helped Andre part my cheeks. The maid brought
vaseline and as I stood there, watching Polly embrace my boyfriend in a
prolonged kiss, my asshole was prepared for fucking.
“Time for bed, gang!” Rose said cheerily when I’d been readied
for love. Andre and Louis marched myself and Polly back into the little
girl’s bedroom. “Up on the bed, girls,” Rose ordered. Together Polly
and I scrambled up on it, not wanting to, but having to. Rose got out
her whippy cane just in case we disobeyed. “Heads on the pillows,
bottoms high,” she said. I gulped. I prayed a fucking was all we were
getting. Breathing hard with nervousness, Polly and I both crouched on
the bed. Our heads bumped, then our hips. We were sisters of mercy,
about to milk our men, and I hoped they’d be merciful.
Rose untied Polly’s bra from her head and drew it off. “Oh, I
want to go home!” Polly declared at once. Rose turned her attention to
me and removed the panties from my mouth.
“Kiss for luck,” Rose told us. We turned and looked back at
her over the naked spheres of our heart-spit asses.
“Mayn’t I please go home?” Polly repeated. Rose gave no
answer. Instead she swung her cane in and caught us both at once in a
sweeping stroke that burned into the tenderest, choicest part of our
bottoms, right on the underside of our cheeks, where they meet with our
thighs.
“Ooohoooo!” Polly and I both cried together, gasping into each
other’s open mouths. Then, realizing we’d misbehaved, and that there
was no escape, we jammed our faces into each other and kissed for all we
were worth.
“Very good,” Rose complimented. “You’ll need each other,
girls. Get acquainted and comfort each other.” She turned and took
vaseline from the drawer of the nightstand and began greasing up the
men. Oh, how I wished to be the one to lube those manly genitals, but
the privilege fell to Rose. I was left with kissing little Polly, both
of us nervous and scared. Someday, perhaps, I’d get to have my own
castle and entertain studs, but right now I was still just an
eighth-grader, out at night when I should be home studying. Would my
mom worry about me? Suddenly I wished to be with her instead of here,
nasty as she was, doing my chores and being a good daughter. But it was
too late, too late!
The bed creaked. Polly and I felt ourselves bounce upon it as
both Louis and Andre got in with us. Their cocks were enormous and
Polly and I, wriggling our cane-struck bottoms, tried to peek back at
them as we kept on kissing each other, lest we be smacked again. The
men kneed their way forward like roosters, proud and tall and with
penises stemming. I felt a bulbous cock-nose wedge itself into my
indwelling bottomcrack. A bump against my anus. I remembered Max, his
torments with quinine and dildoes, that had come so close to splitting
apart my behind. Now danger loomed again, though it was natural
cockflesh, hard and pulsing and definitely wielded by a male who would
not be denied.
Polly cried in alarm as she felt Louis test her virgin hole.
Oh, I pitied her. She had never had this before. Louis would be
relentless, I feared. He was hungry as a tiger and his thing was
gigantic. I heard Louis grunt as he forced his peehole into her,
wedging her hole wide with his flaring penis head.
“No, no, no, no, I want to go hoooome!” Polly begged.
“Quiet, bitch!” Louis snarled. His voice sent a shiver of
terrible fear down my own spine, and I was not even receiving him.
Polly began crying. I shouted as Andre found me receptive and pushed
his cock into me like a hard bolt being slammed into a lock. I guess
Max’s training had done a little to ease my tightness, if only at the
psychological level. Instinctively I’d let my cheeks part to receive
Andre, not even conscious of it, thanks to the long hours in Max’s
basement with a fake dong up my butt.
Polly had no such training. She compressed her valentine
cheeks as tight as she could, crying all the while. Louis rammed her
hard, making no headway. In frustration he rose from her bottom. He
got off the bed, rocking it, his cock bitterly hard between his legs,
swinging with febrile male impatience. He presented his erection to
Rose. “She’s impossible,” he said. “Bend over. I cannot wait.”
Rose smiled. She turned around and presented her ass to
Louis. She bent double and placed her delicate hands on her ankles.
“Not in my bottom, please,” she said. “I have to take someone else
there, later this evening, and he always fucks me quite hard.”
“I don’t care,” Louis answered.
“Louis!” Rose cried in dismay. He took her in her ass even as
I felt Andre ensconce himself to the full in me and begin to saw away.
Polly knelt beside me, her face in her hands, weeping. Her bottom
remained poised just as it had been before. The men worked Rose and I,
forcing themselves in very deep, then drawing back, almost popping out
of us, only to slam in again. I croaked and groaned and heard Rose
moaning where she stood victimlike on the floor, still neat in her
heels, her hair nicely coiffed, but twisted right over so that her lips
kissed her knees.
“Please, just cum!” I begged Andre. He was drilling in and out
of me like a maniac, delighted to find I’d been trained to show the
least resistance to anal penetration.
“God, you’re so tight! And yet, you know how to receive me, to
work with me instead of against me,” Andre marvelled. He shafted
himself repeatedly in my buns, admiring his glistening cock on the
outstroke, relishing its penetration when he thrust his hips forward
again.
“You should date more -- more older girls!” I gasped. “We know
how to dolooo it!” I was losing my ability to speak properly, he was
buggering me so vigorously. Beside me, Polly in her innocence kept her
face hidden. Her lofted bottom squeezed tight as it could to keep any
men from attempting it. But I knew what that would get her. I said
nothing. I was being fucked all the way to the promised land and back
again, all in my little hole.
“Louis! Enough! Spurt, please!” Rose begged my boyfriend. “I
can’t take anymore!” He hammered her mercilessly. Perhaps Polly had
been right to deny him, though she’d surely pay for it later, with pain
across her bottom instead of inside it.
“I want to cum but I’m so hard I can’t,” Louis said gleefully,
each word exploding separately from his mouth, like shells from a
cannon. Rose screamed, high-pitched. Louis growled like a lion and his
buttcheeks flexed tight. Somehow, just as with Polly’s bottom, though I
couldn’t see with my eyes yet I could sense all just by hearing. She
was tight as a kitten, too young to fuck, Rose was split wide and
enduring, Louis’ buttcheeks contracted to tight little buns as he now
spewed his sperm into her backside. I was tight and loose at the same
time, naturally tight but trained to give way to the penis. Andre
shouted and I knew his beautiful white buns were squeezing themselves
together, just as Louis’ were, for suddenly I felt a wet gushing come
shooting up my fanny.
Within a few minutes all was done. Our teasing had climaxed.
We shuddered down from the heights of bliss to a sweat-sheened
aftermath. I reached for Polly and kissed her mouth, lifting it from
her hands, as her boyfriend withdrew himself from me.
“It was good, Polly, it was really good, you should try it
sometime,” I said to her maliciously. She whimpered and tried to resist
my kisses, but was too awed by her circumstances to do so. She kept her
bottom poised, naughtily, I thought, as if to beg for what she’d just
refused. Did she want it or not? I could not tell. I don’t think she
knew. Rose stood and brushed back her long hair, turned and kissed
Louis. Andre kissed my back, then my bottom, as I engaged Polly in a
deep, feminine kiss, a kiss between sisters, though we were just
friends.
“Let us have some refreshments,” Rose said, parting at last
from Louis. “I can stay a little longer before I have to go meet some
more guests. Saturday’s a busy night, you know. But it’s been
wonderful meeting you, Louis. You fuck like a monster. Somehow I’ll
have to talk my next guest out of taking me up my ass.”
“It’s your ass, not mine,” Louis replied callously. I
trembled. It was that carefree callousness that attracted me to him,
yet it left me sure I’d find myself by the roadside someday, abandoned,
pregnant with his child, while he went off to sow his seed elsewhere, a
Johnny Appleseed of love.
Rose led us back into the private parlor. I drew up Polly from
her posture of submission and she walked with me, holding my hand
tightly, knowing she would probably have to pay for her disobedience on
the bed. Rose sat back down in her chair, queenlike, and the men
returned to their own comforter-clad seats. Rose rang for the maid and
had her bring out two more comforters, one for her newly fucked ass and
one for me. Polly was made to sit down with her bottom right on the
rug. I got to sit beside her, on the rug, but with a comforter under me
since I’d given up my anal privacy to Andre.
Punch was brought, liquor-laced, to ease us and make us feel
comfortable. Mine tasted good. Polly liked hers. Rose smiled, sipped
her punch. The men expressed a need to pee again and Rose told them to
finish their punch, then pee in their empty glasses.
“Now Polly, you will have to relax those bottomcheeks and get
over your inhibitions,” Rose told the girl. Polly looked up at Rose,
her eyes wide above the rim of her glass of punch, sipping it down
slowly, watching as the floating orange peel in her cup drifted beneath
her snub little nose. “You see, when you’ve been caned, then you’ll be
thinking so much about how your bottom hurts that you won’t be able to
resist a man up your hole. It’s quite necessary, really. Men deserve
to be able to fuck your bottom and you may as well let me get you going
here, at the castle. I realize Louis might have been a little rough
with you, but don’t let that scare you. He was desperate, that’s all.
I took care of him, as it turned out.” Rose shifted uncomfortably on
her comforter. She touched her bottom with her fingers. “Really,
Louis, that was awfully hard. I’m lucky I’m not bleeding.”
“You’re lucky you’re not dead!” Louis chortled.
“You scare me sometimes, Louis,” Rose answered. The maid set
down a potty next to Polly for us to share. She got on it, perhaps
hoping to escape the whipping Rose was proposing to her.
“My cup is full,” Andre announced, looking down at his empty
punch glass. It held his pee now, right to the brim.
“Empty it for him, Matilda,” Rose told the maid. She took his
glass, brought another. I wondered at her silence. She was so big and
fat and old, so gnarly. Again I felt embarrassment at being nude in
front of her, but there seemed to be nothing I could do about it. As
Polly peed into the potty I looked around for something to wrap myself
in, saw nothing.
Rose let a silence obtain. Her voice quieted, Polly’s pee
filling the potty was the only sound. Then Rose cleared her throat.
She dipped her finger into her drink, drew it out, watched it drip a
moment back into the punch, then licked it clean. “Men, I have another
engagement,” she said with a certain meekness. Yet there was a
definiteness to her tone which seemed unbreachable. The men said
nothing. Their cocks had been serviced, their faces seemed satisfied.
It had been such an agony for them, waiting to spend, that I think they
might have shot more than they’d hoped in coming, perhaps exhausting
themselves. Still, their penises both seemed to flinch and rise a
little at her words, especially Louis’s. What was he up to?
“Girls, say goodbye to your men. You’ll be staying with me
awhile,” Rose told me and Polly. Poor Polly, holding her drink
delicately aloft as she peed, almost spilled it on herself.
“But- but,” Polly blurted. And I knew what her objection was.
In addition to losing her boyfriend, she had yet to cum. Her coyness
had proven too coy. I saw her pat her tummy suddenly, then slide her
hand lower. Rose gave her a warning look. She had kept her long,
swishy cane with her and she sat with it across her knees. It kept the
men in line as well as me and Polly. Despite her sumptuous breasts,
Rose was delicate as a flower petal. She needed the cane, I knew. It
was her only protection. Night after night she must play this dangerous
game, teasing powerful men, yet always, somehow, maintaining control,
often with just her well-wielded cane coming between herself and them.
How had she fared when she was still inexpert with it? I guessed she’d
had to learn fast, to keep herself from being raped and killed by men in
the throes of passion.
Louis stood. His frame rippled with his powerful muscles,
seemingly chiseled from stone, now all in subtle movement as he walked
first to Polly and, bending low, lifted her hand. He kissed it. She
watched him with big eyes, preschooler eyes, as she sat on the Potty,
the last wisps of her pee sprinkling into the toilet.
“Goodnight, little cunt,” Louis said sardonically to Polly.
Then he came to me. He thrust his rising cock at my lips, arching his
hips into my face. At the same time he reached down and patted my head,
fondled my hair. “Be good,” he told me. Reluctantly, not liking the
blatantness of it, I kissed his penis for him. He made me kiss him
right on his pee hole. There was no way to avoid it. Polly giggled.
Andre presented his loins to Polly and, at a cross word from
Rose, she was forced to kiss her boyfriend’s pee hole just as I had
been. Then both men left us. They exited through the little girl’s
bedroom. The maid followed them, to gather their clothes for them and
help them dress.
“Oh, please don’t go,” Polly commanded in a whining voice from
the throne of her potty. Rose remained seated in her chair, waiting for
the men to pass out. The maid closed the door to the little girl’s room
a moment later, and I heard her lock the door.
The young maid entered the room. Curiously, she was naked, her
hair tousled, her cunny wet and showing signs of having been fucked.
The night was growing late. All who might were partaking now, I
guessed, maids and guests alike. The maid trembled with repressed
lust. Had she been interrupted in mid-fuck? Rose looked up at her,
surprised. I guessed she did not know the maid, perhaps with the
connivance of the old one, had been getting bonked downstairs.
The girl bent close to her mistress and whispered in her ear.
“Oh my,” Rose replied. Suddenly she seemed to forget entirely that our
maid was nude and wet. Something more pressing had been brought to her
attention. “Oh, well,” Rose looked at us. “It’s hardly what I’d hoped
for, but these two are the only two available,” she mused aloud to
herself. Polly stood up from the potty. Her luck seemed to be turning
worse every moment she sat there. “Girls,” Rose said abruptly. “Come
downstairs with me.” Rose stood up, a mood crossing her countenance
that dictated complete obedience.
“Oh, but what for?” Polly asked. She made to sit down on her
potty again. I could smell her pee in the bowl. I wished she would not
add more to it.
“Do not ask why,” Rose replied. “But to keep from splitting my
cane across your backside, I’ll tell you that you’ve won a little
reprieve. We’re going out, girls. And here I was just getting you all
ready, Polly, for a nice whipping. Well, you hardly drank any of your
punch, anyway. Good. You’ll need to be alert. Flurry, no more punch
for you. Give me your glass.”
Reluctantly I got up from my comforter, straining to rise and
unbend myself. I’d been happy, sitting on the floor, sipping my
liquored punch, letting my well-reamed ass close in on itself again.
Andre had been big, and my bottom wished simply to sit and recover. But
I was forced to turn over my half-empty glass to Rose, who handed it to
the maid. The young female looked at it a moment, then gulped it down.
“Never mind,” Rose said to her, and stepped past the girl.
Then she turned, gazed at her again, and handed her the cane she
carried. “Take this and whip yourself with it,” she said. “You deserve
it, for dereliction of duties, but I haven’t the time to whip you for
getting laid on the job. Make sure you have some nice stripes on your
ass when I come back or I’ll do it myself.” Rose then beckoned Polly
and I. Seeing a chance to depart from the presence of the cane, Polly
and I quickly followed. As we went down the steps I turned once, saw
the maid trying to whack her own hiney with the cane. She looked silly,
trying to stick her ass out, only to draw it in when she banged the cane
down upon herself. I turned and went downstairs. A little howl trailed
down the stairs after me. I guessed she’d finally managed to mark
herself, regretted it. Would she continue? I did not know.
I found myself in a large storeroom at the base of the stairs.
A flour sack had split open and lay with its contents upon the floor.
Nearby a naked man stood. He looked like a gardener. He held a cap
with a feather in it over his genitals. There was a little flour on
him. Rose laughed, seeing this male specimen standing buck naked amidst
the soup cans and preserved fruit and dried meat, the rows of boxed
foodstuffs and the sacks of potatoes.
“Is the maid preparing you for dinner?” Rose asked. The man
replied in Spanish. I could not understand him. I guessed he was the
paramour of the girl upstairs who was now inexpertly trying to flog
herself. Rose passed on, we followed. Polly turned to peek at the
man’s butt as we passed.
“He has cute buns,” she confided to me. She sounded like she’d
not said such a compliment before, as if she were trying it out for the
first time.
“Don’t try to be naughty, Polly,” I said to her. “You’re
naughty enough as it is, just being yourself.”
“No I’m not,” she pouted. “I just wanted to see, that’s all.”
“You just want someone to stick his big thing up you,” I
teased.
“No I don’t!” she insisted. We might have continued this
banter, but Rose guided us outside into the darkness and chilliness.
The midnight sky opened up overhead. Except for a light on what I
guessed was gardener’s shed, we stood in moonlight and starlight only.
I looked up, Polly did too. Our earthly thoughts were forgotten.
“Ooooh, I see the big dipper!” Polly said, pointing.
“That’s the Southern Cross,” I replied. Or was it Orion?
There were so many stars.
“Bend over, you two, I’ve got to wash your bottoms,” Rose
announced from behind us. How did she get back there? I heard a
splashing sound. I turned and saw she’d got hold of a hose. There was
a gurgling as the hose filled itself to full force. Rose lifted the
hose. Polly and I stood wonderingly a moment. Then, grabbing her hand,
I bent low and took her with me. I fixed my gaze on the shed with the
light on it down in the mellowing fields. Summer was upon them, the
cool night sky of summer consoling them after a long day’s heat.
“EEEEEeeeek!” came wailing into my ears, and I thought it was
Polly for a moment, then realized it was the girl upstairs. I heard a
gruff voice. Was it the man we’d seen in the storeroom? There was a
sound like the wind, though far off, as if blowing from the upstairs
window, and the girl screamed again. I heard a distinctive crack of
palmstem, singing as it met with fulsome bottomflesh. How could there
be a window upstairs, I wondered? I’d seen none. Perhaps it had been
covered over, to allow us privacy. Obviously the young maid’s suitor
now wished to let in the night air. If her cries at being punished
entertained his fellows out in the shed or the huts of the field hands,
so be it. They would no doubt congratulate him for his exertions, I
guessed.
“Yeeeek!” Polly shouted next to me, right in my ear. My cry
joined hers as I felt the ice-cold hose water whoosh upon my bottom.
“Hold still, girls, we haven’t time for a bath,” Rose
admonished us both as we leapt up. I looked back at her a moment, then
decided I wished to have Andre’s seed washed out of me however I might.
It felt like the Antarctic was going up my bottom, but no matter. I
took Polly round her waist and made sure she suffered with me. After
all, it was her boyfriend’s spunk that had been pumped into me. We both
bent over again, and Rose applied the hose to our backsides. Polly
hooted in dismay, even as the girl upstairs yelled anew at the
ass-searing cane. She was too hot on her derriere, we were too cold.
There seemed to be no happy medium here. Our cries mingled, each of us
wishing we could trade places.
Rose gave me the hose a moment later and bent over. She
directed me to clean off her bottom, just as she’d done to me. I took
the hose and, with a gleam of revenge in my eyes, happily made her
scream as I doused her with the water. It was the temperature of an ice
berg. Polly stood shivering nearby, watching, holding herself. The
screams of the girl upstairs subsided into sobs. Soon I heard her
moaning, and a cry of “deeper!” wafted down, mingled with the urgent
grunts of her boyfriend. She would need the hose next, I surmised.
“Come, we must dress. There is really no time!” Rose said.
She stood erect again and took my hand, casting aside the hose. She did
not bother to turn it off. We hurried back inside. I felt grateful for
the warmth of the storeroom as we passed back into it. We did not go
back upstairs. Instead Rose led us into a laundry room. There I saw
clothes neatly folded in piles, as well as more waiting to be washed. I
imagined the old maid worked down here, laundering clothes, seeing and
smelling everyone’s residue after they’d fucked. The discarded panties,
the torn bras, the sheets with their distinctive, tell-tale wet spot.
“Ah, the satin sheets. These were on the bed where Lord Astor
entertained his new lady friend last night. What was her name? Miss
Elginvale, yes. Runs the local children’s charity in town. Always on
T.V. I like her jewels,” the washerwoman would murmur to herself. She
would know all the gossip, intimately, just by sniffing the sheets.
Rose rummaged through the pile of clean laundry. She found two
pair of cutoff shorts and handed them to us. We took them, still
dripping wet. “Oh yes, a towel!” she declared. She got towels for each
of us, finding them in the stack of clean laundry, then pulled t-shirts
out for us too, and scarfs to tie around our necks, that we might not be
too plain.
“Oh, I have to get these stockings off!” Rose said of herself.
She yanked down her hose. “Take off your heels if you like, and I’ll
give you tennies,” she added.
A few minutes later we emerged from the laundry room. We were
ready to go out on the town. At short notice, I thought we looked
pretty good. There’d been no time for bras or panties. I wore a simple
pair of cutoff shorts, cut too high in the back, I thought, where my
bottomcheeks hung out a little. They were frayed and there was no belt
for them, but they did the job of covering my most important parts,
except for the little hole over my bottomcheek, the right one, giving a
sneak preview to people that I wished they might not have.
For my top, I wore a tee-shirt with short, rolled sleeves
turned up to my slim shoulders, with the midriff knotted off to show my
tummy. A scarf was knotted round my neck, making me look like a
cowgirl. I wore old but clean tennis shoes. Rose gave me a cowboy hat
to make me feel special.
Polly wore cutoffs like mine. Her bottomcheeks peeked out the
bottom of her shorts, jiggling as she walked ahead of me. Her shorts
were already wedged in her ass. She wore no panties. She seemed not to
mind. I think she liked the feeling of her shorts pressing tightly to
her. She’d not been fucked. Perhaps she hoped the shorts would allay
her desire a little. She’d not been as fortunate as I in the matter of
a shirt. Hers was simply cut off at the midriff-point. There was too
little of it to tie. And her shirt was sleeveless. You could look
within the big armholes cut in the side of it and see her breasts
looming within, the pert undercurves of her breasts. Distinctly her
nipples stood out from her shirt, lifting it. The material was thin and
if it had not been dyed yellow I think I might have seen right through
it. There was a faded beer can imprinted on the front of her shirt.
The bottom of the can was missing, as was the portion of the shirt on
which it had once been imprinted.
Polly tugged worryingly at the hem of her shirt. “I need
something better than this if I’m to go dancing,” she proclaimed. Rose
swatted her jean-clad bottom.
“You have a cute bellybutton, and nice tits,” Rose answered.
“Don’t be so shy, dear. It’s after midnight. There will only be other
girls like there, like you, a little older perhaps, and guys.”
“That’s what I mean!” Polly protested. “Can’t I have your
shirt?”
“No, dear, you’re the youngest. You’re the only one who can
fit into that shirt. My boobs are much bigger than yours, and Fleury’s
are bigger, too,” Rose answered her. “Now be good and don’t complain.
I did the best I could for you.”
“Oh, when will I have boobies as big as Flurries’?” Polly
whined. Her face pouted.
“Yours aren’t that much smaller,” I assured her.
“Then let me have YOUR shirt!” Polly begged.
“Just don’t bend too far over,” I laughed. Sulkily she ceased
her complaining, knowing she was stuck with what she had. Rose took us
through the house and out the front. A limo waited. We slipped within
and Rose told the driver to take us into town.
I looked over at Rose as we settled into the car’s back seat.
Despite her hastily-chosen attire, she looked like a million dollars, as
usual. Her hair had been quickly repinned atop her head. She’d touched
up her makeup, using a kit in the laundry room and staring with brief
but effective intensity into a cracked mirror next to the dryer. A
peasant blouse bared her tanned shoulders and absorbed the fullness of
her breasts. She wore no bra beneath it. Her nipples tweaked the light
material and lifted it in tiny twin peaks. The blouse hugged her ribs,
leaving her belly bare, showing how smooth and soft it was, how
invitingly it offered itself to men who dreamed of being fathers.
Riding low on her hips Rose wore a leather miniskirt. She had
no undies underneath. It was all that separated her from the hands of
would-be lovers. She had it tucked beneath her now, it barely cleared
her bottom. Her long thighs shone whitely in the moonlight that bathed
the limo’s cabin. Rose had her window down to let in the night air.
Inside, a heater hummed to keep us warm. Pee wee boots with rowelled
spurs fitted themselves to Rose’s feet. Like us, she wore a scarf,
though only Polly and I had cowboy hats. In compensation, perhaps, Rose
wore leather gloves with beaded Indian designs upon her hands.
Rose lowered a mirror, flicked on a light, and checked her
makeup again. She had a purse with her, unlike Polly and I, and she
opened it and drew out a tube of lipstick. She did her own, then passed
it to Polly. Sitting between us, Polly had discovered a small hairdrier
tucked into the limo and had put it to use on her hair. I kept my hat
on. I hoped she’d finish soon. I did not want to ride around with wet
hair, though I was farthest from Rose’s open window. Rose herself had
dried her hair with a blowdrier in the laundry room, but ushered us out
to the car before Polly and I could make use of it.
Rose passed a hairbrush to Polly. “Comb out your hair, we must
look our very best,” she told the girl. “Then let Flurry do her hair
too.”
“Okay,” Polly replied. She was happy now. Absorbed in
herself, she brushed her long locks. Rose passed me her makeup kit and
told me there was a mirror pinned to the ceiling above my head. I drew
it down. It hung by a hinge from the interior roof. I flicked on its
light.
“Not too much,” Rose warned me. “I don’t want you to look
older than you are. That would spoil the fun.” I looked at her, saw
her smiling, but decided to heed her advice. Young girls with too much
makeup on didn’t look mature, they just looked silly. I pushed back my
cowboy hat. Carefully I traced my lips with the lipstick. Rose passed
me eyeshadow and I brushed out my lashes. I applied some rogue to my
cheeks. Then Rose managed to part Polly from her blowdrier and I took
off my hat and did my hair.
I heard Country music wafting across the night air. We pulled
up in front of a ramshackle place with the name of Rawlies’ Rodeo.
Looking out, I saw was a saloon, built outside of town to evade the
finer points of the law. Bright neon flashed into my eyes. The limo
ground to a stop in a parkinglot made of gravel. Rose had her driver
open the car doors for us and Polly and I, followed by her, tumbled
out. I could hear dancing inside.
Rose shouldered her purse and we crossed the parking lot
together, holding hands. We passed up a small flight of steps. They
creaked under my feet, as if the whole set of them might collapse
because three lightweight women had chosen to trod upon them. We were
met by a huge bouncer. He glowered down at us. Our well-curved bodies,
our skimpy clothes, impressed him not in the least. ‘Gay,’ I thought to
myself, and realized a boy in swim trunks would have been his preferred
date for the night.
Rose, her confidence undiminished, smiled at him. “Hi Bubba,
we’re here for the show,” she said quietly.
“Oh!” The bouncer’s eyes bulged from his fat face. His
stomach trembled. “You must be--”
“Yes,” Rose answered, keeping her voice low.
“Come right in,” the bouncer said quickly. He turned as a dog
might, eager to please a master, his huge butt rolling with hasty
gracelessness. I saw his jeans were too low on his hips to cover him
properly. The top of his buttcrack showed. Polly turned up her nose in
disgust, seeing it. I did too.
We were ushered inside. A cacophony of celebrating people,
dancing and drinking and swearing, greeted my ears. The place was
packed. We could barely fit in amongst them. Smoke from cigarettes and
cigars laced the air. Loud music, accompanied by flashing colored
lights, competed with the steady white light flowing out from behind the
counters where drinks were served. I saw a sign announcing beer for
$5.00 a glass. The band seemed terrible, I could not see them but I
could hear a rasping hillbilly voice somewhere in the distance,
obviously live. No one would record crap like that. It sounded even
worse than Ministry. Yoko Ono would have taken this place by storm.
“Booss,” the fat man bellowed. “The strippers are here!” At
first his words did not register. Then I felt people turning, pulling
back from me, seeing me with new eyes. A round of applause erupted.
Rose strove to maintain her composure. She pushed myself and Polly
forward, following quickly behind us.
“You are a big fat dolt,” Rose told the bouncer as she passed
him. He stared after her, then shrugged.
“That’s why I’m gay,” he said aloud, to himself. He turned and
went back to his post outside, away from the women with their overheated
perfume, the men with their full-grown desires. He had no interest in
such things. His loves were home asleep, tucked in at eight o’clock.
With a sinking feeling I realized I must be the entertainment
for the evening. For the moment, though, I just wanted to get out of
the crowd. There were too many of them. I felt oppressed. As the
applause continued, Rose herself ushered us back, back, deeper into the
crowd and then finally through it, passing us through a door, which
quickly opened for us and then closed behind us.
Holding Polly’s hand, I looked around at our new surroundings.
Rose passed out from behind us and confronted a large, handsome man in a
suit. We stood in a room backstage. Somewhere to my left I could hear
the band playing. I realized we were in the room performers used to
prepare for their acts out on the bar’s stage.
The man smiled at myself, Polly. He wore a vanilla white suit,
as if he were about to deliver a Sunday sermon. He was young, with a
wry grin that made me feel like I might be disrobed by it alone.
“Your doorman is an idiot,” Rose said to the new male in our
life. He smiled at her. He had teeth that sparkled like I knew the
devil’s would if I ever met him.
“He keeps the trash out,” the vanilla-suited man replied to
Rose. “And lets the good stuff in.” His eyes openly admired Rose’s
bust.
“David, to change your plans like this, at the last minute.
It’s just not fair,” Rose answered. “Don’t expect me to do this again
for you. Just this once, okay?”
“Okay,” David replied, but with a voice so casual I knew none
of us could put any faith in it.
Rose turned and faced Polly and I. “Girls, we’re going to
continue your training here,” she said. “Both of you, please get
undressed. We’re going to give a little show for David’s customers.”
“Waht?” Polly asked, her high-pitched voice cracking, urgent.
She lifted a hand to her shirt. It was so brief, its hem ragged, her
titties sticking up within it. Was she now to lose it? I liked this no
more than she. My jeans hardly did their job, but at least they did
something. I didn’t want to take them off in this strange place, even
if the vanilla-suited man looked like a pastor who could keep whole
flocks of choir girls happy.
“I have to undress too, so don’t complain,” Rose replied. At
once she pulled up her peasant blouse. It fitted her tightly. As it
crossed over her breasts it set them to lewdly wiggling. I put a hand
to my mouth. We were just to strip naked, without even anything to
wear? David approached Polly. She squealed. He put his hand to the
zipper of her cutoffs and zipped it right down, exposing her bush. He
yanked them down her thighs and a moment later she was bare from the
midriff down, wearing just her tennies and shirt, with her scarf
decorating her neck. Polly put a hand up to her cowboy hat, to assure
herself that it remained. There was a method to her madness for, with
that on, the man might not remove her shirt.
David slapped Polly’s bottom. Her hands flew behind her to
protect herself. Then he lifted off her hat, having neatly tricked her
right out of it. I stood watching, fumbling with the buttons on my very
short Levi’s 501’s. I guessed there was no way to avoid our fate.
Polly shrieked as David lifted off her shirt. Her titties jiggled from
her struggles, alluringly. She bobbed and weaved her naked hips. Her
asscheeks quivered.
I dropped my shorts. Rose took off her skirt. Then she came
to me and pulled up my shirt for me, baring my breasts. Polly cried
anew as David undid her scarf. Then he sat her down on a chair, pushing
her into it, and lifted each of her legs in turn and took off her tennis
shoes. She looked like a little girl, each of her legs awkwardly lifted
in turn, her slit showing, her eyes big with fright and apprehension.
Rose finished stripping me, sitting me down finally in a chair of my own
and pulling off my tennies and socks.
We were given platform pumps, with long lace ties that had to
be bound to our calves to keep our new heels on. Rose did mine. David
did Polly’s. Then we were made to stand and we were each given a baby
doll nightie.
“It doesn’t cover my bottom!” Polly declared, when hers had
been slipped on. Mine didn’t either. It wafted down over most of my
bush, leaving a little showing, then arched round my legs and up high in
back, letting nearly all of my ass be seen.
“Imagine you’re on your honeymoon,” David told Polly. I
glanced toward the stage, where the band had ceased playing. I doubted
she and I were going to find ourselves in a bedroom. More likely, we
were going to find ourselves out there, on stage. I felt the strap of
my nightie slip down off my shoulder. I lifted it back up, realized it
would be a chore keeping both my straps up at once. They were too
flimsy, too close to the ends of my narrow shoulders. Whatever
deficiency my nightie had down below, it made up for it by being too
widely spaced where my straps hung from my shoulders. Was this nightie
made for a bigger woman? How could it be? I guessed whoever designed
it had in fact a girl of 14 in mind, and wicked plans for her.
Polly was no better off. We each sported a decorative bow in
the front of our nighties, where the decollete front dipped too low,
showing off almost all of our bosom. Our nipples, barely covered,
pointed like bell pushes into the fabric. It was filmy, silky soft, a
girl’s perfect companion for bed but hardly a garment to be worn under a
spotlight out on a stage in a bar!
“No panties,” Rose was saying to Polly as I regathered my
thoughts. A woman stood behind me, gathering up my hair so it would not
block the view of my body. Lady Godiva was better dressed than I,
riding her horse, with her hair long and free. David, mesmerized by
Polly’s youth, tied her hair into pigtails, pinned in a few barrettes to
make her look younger still.
I turned and looked at Rose. She was buckling a dog’s collar
round her own throat, as if she were to be David’s own special pet. The
woman finished with my hair and helped Rose with her collar. She had
trouble buckling it, wearing her cowboy gloves. David gave Polly lace
mittens.
“Here, put these on, you’ll need them,” he grinned. Polly,
resigned to the inevitable now, slipped on little mittens that covered
her palms but were otherwise fingerless. They had little bows that
needed to be tied around her wrists. David tied them for her. Then he
gave me a similar pair and, with his help, I put them on.
“Oh, couldn’t we please have panties?” Polly begged.
“No,” Rose answered. She was in no mood to waste time
arguing. The woman touched up my makeup, Polly’s. Rose donned a cowboy
hat. It had a chin strap and she neatly tucked the slim strap under her
face, turned and looked in a mirror and adjusted her hat. Then she
stepped into a very small skirt and pulled it up her legs. She wore no
panties underneath. She zipped it up as David watched her. The zipper
was in back. She zipped it carefully up her bottom so as not to pinch
her flesh. The skirt had steep slits up each side. When she walked I
saw the skirt was little more than a pair of flaps, one in front, one
behind, joined at the waist. It was made of shiny brown suede, matching
her boots and gloves. She did not attempt to cover her breasts. They
bounced freely on her chest. Her nipples were stiff.
Rose, still wearing her neckerchief, looked in the mirror once
more and tugged it so it would hang just right, teasingly, way to short
too cover her boobies and yet tricking one into thinking, somehow, it
might have been a blouse, if only it hadn’t, well, been a neckerchief
instead. Tightly her dog collar bound her neck. It showed only that
someone possessed her. There was no hope it might provide her with
modesty. Rose turned to us. “Let’s go, girls,” Rose commanded. She
urged us up a small flight of steps, like someone in the park urging
reluctant doves ahead of her. Doves domesticated by the park’s
visitors, fed until they were plump. Polly and I walked with wiggly
bottoms, our cheeks round, apprehensive. She shooed us ahead of her, we
could not refuse. Leaflike, blown by the gust of her determination, we
emerged from the dressing room, and suddenly found ourselves on stage.
Polly and I blushed fiercely as the crowd beyond the spotlights
erupted into howls and cheers of applause. She and I were festooned in
our nothing nighties, with nothing else to hide us from their stares. I
gazed out across the stage. There was a pole, made of plastic. It was
fairly wide, about a foot wide perhaps, or nearly so. It lay lengthwise
along the stage. It was elevated to the height of our thighs. Its top
half was slathered with whipped cream.
Dazed by the lights, Polly and I proceeded out onto the stage.
We held hands tightly, scared stiff. Our nipples were no less
frightened, poking into our nighties, showing themselves for all the
world to see beneath the harsh stage lights. Our hips waggled with our
fear, making our bottoms sway back and forth like women’s bottoms, fresh
from love. We’d each been given a teddy bear and we clutched it for
dear life, praying we might somehow be delivered by the bears, or saved
by them.
Polly and I approached the cream-lathered pole. Rose managed
to get our hands apart and drew Polly from me. I stood stock still,
watching, as Rose led her to the other side of the stage. The two of
them had to cross over a mud pit in the center of the stage. The pit
was lower than the rest of the stage, and two boards had been laid over
it to allow Rose and Polly to cross. As soon as they’d done so, a man
appeared and took away the boards. He wore workmen’s clothes. He was
fat, though not as big as the doorman. I wondered if he too were gay.
Probably not. As he passed, I saw a bulge in his trousers. He escaped
from the stage via the steps we’d come up. I knew I must not follow.
“But I’ll get cream all over my pussy!” I heard Polly declare
from across the stage. Rose had made her straddle the pole and she
stared down at it apprehensively.
“Sit!” Rose urged and, so that she might not disobey, Rose
placed a firm hand on the girl’s shoulder and shoved her down. Polly
cried out and felt her bush and her cunny come straight down on the
pole.
SPLAT! I heard her as she sat. I realized I must do the
same. Rose looked over at me, her eyes firm, uncompromising. I
approached the pole. I stepped across it with one leg, then gazed down
at it.
“Put your teddy bear in your mouth, then,” I heard Rose say. I
looked up. Polly had just stuck the leg of her upturned teddy bear
between her teeth, so that she could grab hold of the slippery pole with
both her mittened hands. Poor teddy. He wore a little shirt, leaving
his belly and bottom bare. As Polly held him aloft, his leg in her
mouth, his bare woolly bottom knocked against her chin.
I put the ear of my bear in my mouth. I didn’t want to lose
him. He was my security blanket. He would save me, somehow, from this
creamy pole and the ominous mudpit. My bear dangled by his ear, still
grinning stupidly at the audience. His legs were stuck open as wide as
mine were. I had no choice. I must sit on the pole, or worse things
than this would happen to me.
Daintily I reached down with my hands, my mittens protecting my
palms, at least. My breasts swung within my nightie as I bent forward.
I placed my hands on the pole. The cream was cold. Then, delicately as
I could, I seated myself on it.
Squish. I felt the cream enter my cunny as my cuntlips
splurged open upon the pole. Even in my virginal tightness I could not
keep the cream out of my genitals. I felt the gookiness enter my
buttcrack and smear the lowest portions of my bottom with its essence.
Polly protested over the leg of her bear but, with its foot in
her mouth, I couldn’t understand her. The front of her nightie had a
smidgen of cream where it touched the pole. In back, I knew her bottom
was spoilt like mine, the cream adhering to her darling cheeks where
they made contact with the pole. Her nightie, useless, rose up to
reveal her heinie, leaving her squirming cheeks with nothing to protect
them from the audience’s admiring eyes.
“Pull yourself to the center,” Rose told Polly. Simultaneously
she pushed the girl forward, making her drag herself along the pole.
“Oh, I’m getting more cream in my pussy!” Polly shrieked. But
with Rose watching, she had to obey. She did not want to feel the cane
again. She knew, as I did, that there must be a cane someplace nearby,
or, failing that, the male customers would gladly take off their belts.
I felt wet cream pass beneath myself as I drew myself with my
hands along the pole’s length. I turned and looked over my shoulder.
Behind me the pole was now clean, wiped off by my own ass and thighs!
Polly wished to cry, but couldn’t find it in herself to be quite that
upset. The cream was soothing, it surely teased her and wettened her
just as it was doing to me. She had not gotten hers yet, perhaps this
sperm-colored cream would be an acceptable substitute. I saw her
suppress a smile as she drew herself toward me. Yes, she felt it too.
She flushed, realizing the audience could see her pleasure just as well
as I could. Rose pretended to ignore the effect of the cream and the
sliding pole upon us. She liked maintaining a facade of decorum, no
matter what might be happening. Inside she might be plotting like a
slut, but her outward demeanor remained that of a lady entertaining
guests at Buckingham Palace.
In a few moments Polly and I faced each other across the mud
pit. Her face glowed softly. Shyly she looked away from me. I wanted
to take my teddy from my mouth but my hands were all covered with
cream. My mittens had been little help. Their sheer fabric covered my
palms, but I had cream all over my bare fingers.
Carefully, her boots protecting her, Rose stepped down from the
stage into the mud pit. It was not very deep, just a few inches. She
had to balance herself within it carefully, though, for the mud had been
poured over pillows. She made Polly and I scoot ourselves out over the
pit. With our platform heels, we each had to step into the pit, while
still sitting on the pole. The pit was just a little lower than the
rest of the stage. The mud did not quite touch my toes. I hoped it
never would.
Rose was very attentive of our safety. “Keep your toes pointed
inward,” she told us. “If you fall, I don’t want you to break either of
your ankles.” I turned in my toes, like she ordered. It was harder to
keep perched atop the pole this way, but I knew if I was unfortunate,
God forbid, to fall into the mud in front of everybody, I at least would
plop down as my heels rose up beneath me. I did not want them to get
caught in the well-cushioned pillows. Fortunately, the pillows in the
pit were covered with slick pillowcases. Our feet should slip right out
from under us if we truly lost our grip on the pole. Rose, though, had
to be extra careful, standing on such a slippery, cushiony surface, lest
she be the first to embarrass herself in front of the crowd.
Fortunately, her heavy cowboy boots helped her keep her balance. I knew
now why her spurs were blunt. They would have pierced the pillows.
Looking down at them, I realized they were filled with air. I hoped my
spiked heels didn’t poke through them.
The man in the work clothes returned. Before I realized it,
he’d taken my teddy bear from my mouth. He took Polly’s also. She did
not want to lose hers, gave a little squeal of displeasure as the man
pulled it away. In return, he presented her with a big pillow. He
handed me one also. We received the pillows with cream-laden hands. I
did my best not to get any of the white goo on the rest of me.
“Ick!” Polly said, trying to fling the cream off her hands
before the man made her take a pillow.
“Don’t, Polly,” Rose cautioned. She didn’t want any cream
flung on her, or on me.
“Mmm, it’s nice and soft,” Polly said happily, squeezing her
pillow. Taking mine, hefting it, I realized it was a pillowcase stuffed
full of light, downy feathers. Polly plumped her pillow and a sleepy
look crossed her face. What were we supposed to do, go to sleep right
here on the pole, over the mud pit?
The workman handed Rose a whistle. She snapped its chain
around her neck. It hung sweetly between her breasts. She smiled at
us, standing over us, our referee, I suddenly realized.
“Girls, you are going to have a pillow fight,” Rose announced
to us, letting the audience hear too. “I hope, Polly, that for your
sake you’re not a pacifist, or you’ll be taking a little mudbath.” Rose
smiled.
“Oh, I want to go home!” Polly cried, but I saw her eyes told a
different story. She realized she’d like nothing better than to knock
me straight into the mud at our feet.
“Fight hard, girls, but no biting or scratching or pulling,”
Rose cautioned us. “Just use your pillows, please. If either of you
cheats, I’ll make sure you pay for it, right here, in front of the
audience.” She grinned and I knew, I think everyone knew, what she
meant. Our bottoms would wish for cool cream to soothe them when she
was done correcting any fouls.
Rose lifted her whistle from its resting place between her
boobs. She put it to her lips. She drew in air, her breasts lofting
upwards as her lungs filled. “Ready, girls?” she asked. And then she
blew her whistle as loud as she could.
WHACK! Before I’d even taken my eyes off Rose, Polly was
already giving me her best shot. It was, in fact, a feeble first
effort, her hands wielding the pillow with much less skill than she’d
soon have after a few more swings. The pillows were awkward. Big and
bulky, with a weight that shifted around because the feathers were loose
inside and lightly packed. I found my first try almost sent my pillow
flying from my hands. I’d held it too easily. I gripped it tighter. I
caught my breath. I’d almost disarmed myself on my first attempt! I
tried again. The pillow swung past Polly, who ducked. This time I
almost lurched from my pole, with the weight of the pillow swinging
round at arms length, taking in nothing but air, pulling with me as a
shot put thrower is sometimes pulled by his metal ball.
Just as I recovered my balance, Polly retaliated with a blow
much more certain than her first. It caught me right in the head,
making me dizzy. I slung my pillow at her again, aiming for her boobs.
OOF! Polly bounced backward as I slammed my pillow right into
her bosom. Her young teats protected her, yet she arched backward,
nearly falling. She steadied herself, then swung at me just as I tried
to deliver a death blow. Our pillows crashed together in mid-air. Rose
laughed, watching us. She’d escaped the mud pit, stood to once side, so
that if either of us fell we would not splash her with muck.
My hair tumbled in single locks from atop my head as I strove
to dismount Polly. My coiffure, so neatly pinned up and curled, was
coming undone. Polly’s pigtails flew about her as if she were trying to
catch the cow as it leapt for the moon. Our breasts bounced around
within our nighties. Our bottoms worked hard to keep us aloft, our
cheeks churning atop the poles, oblivious now to the cream which
squished ever deeper into our buttcracks and cunts.
“For a pair of well-brought-up schoolgirls, they certainly
fight like stray cats,” I heard David said. He had come up upon the
stage, stood close to Rose now, caressing her in front of the audience.
She tried not to notice as he placed a hand beneath her skirt, standing
behind her, and felt up her bottom.
THWAP! THUMP! My pillow whammed into Polly, hers hit me. I
swung again. I was a year older. My aim was more correct, my blows
harder. She fought like a child, all wiggly and full of emotion. I was
a teen, cool despite my imbalances, my precarious hold upon the pole,
gripping it with my thighs. The cream was slippery on my inner thighs,
making my hold all the more difficult. I had to clamp my legs to the
pole as if I were a prostitute milking a client. The squishiness
between my legs made my sex hungry. Polly, striving to unseat me,
nonetheless smiled a little to herself, amidst her exertions, loving the
wicked pleasure of a pole thrust between her legs and slick with cream.
“EEEEeeeekKK!” Polly announced suddenly, and I knew she was
going down. Mightily she fought to stay up, wiggling like a fish in its
death throes, caught on the fishline but still hoping to evade its
fate. The mud loomed like a browning skillet to receive her.
“Nooooooo,” she cried, and then there was a loud SPLOOSH! beneath me as
she tumbled straight into the mud soaked pillows. I cringed. I hoped
no mud would splatter me.
Polly, full of dismay, swam about in the mud, trying to stand
up. I looked down at my legs. A little mud had hit them. I flicked it
off my with my fingers. I was triumphant. Except for the cream between
my legs I was as neat and clean as when I’d mounted the stage. I gazed
out at the audience and smiled at them. I lofted my pillow over my
head, like a boxer lifting up his trophy belt. I was the world
lightweight champion of the mudpit and creampole.
Rose crossed over to me, avoiding the hapless Polly. Lightly
she took my hand and helped me up off the pole. I put my hand to my
pussy and tried to wipe off some cream. It was hopeless. The stuff was
all over my crotch, the underside of my bottom. I hoped my nightie
would keep me modest, but it hardly could. It was too short and the
audience, sitting close, had a beaver’s eye view from down below,
looking up to the stage and straight between my legs. Mirrors hung
above us gave them a view of Polly’s misfortune. She sobbed as she
realized how silly she looked. She was the loser, and she didn’t like
it at all. Little kids always hate losing at games. But they usually
do, anyway.
I felt a mudball land right between my legs. In shock, I
looked down at myself. It looked like I had a turd clinging to me
between my thighs. I realized the mud had been thrown by Polly.
“Hey! You can’t throw mud at me! I’m the winner!” I shouted.
She giggled. “I can too,” she insisted. “Watch!” She threw
another mudball, and it hit me right on my tummy.
“Rose!” I cried. Polly was ruining my appearance. I’d be as
messy as she if she didn’t quit. But instead of helping me, Rose
slapped my bare bottom.
“You’re entitled to the winner’s spanking!” she grinned. David
had followed her across and he was fondling her from behind again. I
think it had addled her mind. Suddenly he pinched her, right between
her legs.
“Oooh!” Rose cried. She turned serious, not wanting to be
humiliated like that in front of everybody. “Please, David, don’t!”
But he pinched her again, harder, just as another mudball grazed my
pretty coiffured hair.
“Oh, that’s IT!” I screamed in frustration. “Now we really
will have a fight, Polly!” I stomped toward her, sending, I think, a
little shiver of fear down her spine. She was smaller than me, after
all, and a whole inch shorter. I figured I could step into the mud pit,
bend down, and neatly grind her head right into the pillows before she
could retaliate. Then I’d escape from the stage, and be done with this
nonsense.
Behind me, David made Rose sit down on the pole. He forbade
her tucking her skirt under her, which she tried to do, but which proved
too short in any event. But I had no time to worry about the loss of
our referee. I knew I could take on Polly and quickly avenge myself,
then perhaps quit this whole place entirely, leaving her and Rose to
figure out how to escape the ever-randier crowd.
With a cautious step I entered the mud pit. Polly cowered
before me, sinking into the mud, mouthing words of repentance, softly,
as if afraid to even raise her voice before me. Just as I tried to get
my balance on the pillows, so as to bend forward and seize her, she
leapt at me like a cat catching a parrot.
“Polly!” I cried, but realized too late her fear had been
faked, to fool me. She yanked on my nightie, hard, catching the hem
where it tried to keep my pussy from showing and dirtying it with her
hands. My nightie pulled taught. Only one of my straps was on my
shoulder. The other was constantly falling off. Polly yanked again.
Somehow my remaining strap held. Desisting, she grabbed up a handfull
of mud.
“Here, you have to go to the bathroom!” Polly announced. She
took the big clump of mud in her hands and and jammed it right up
between my thighs, reaching back to stick it within my ass.
“Polleee!” I shrieked. As she worked the mud into my heinie I
felt myself lose my balance. I crashed down into the mud. She squealed
with happiness and, taking more mud in her hands, opened the front of my
nightie and dumped mud into it, smooshing it all over my breasts.
We were both messy now. But her hair was still golden, and I
saw a chance to wreck it for her.
“No! Not my hair!” Polly cried. I grabbed her closest pigtail
and, scooping up some mud for her, I smashed it right into her lovely
blonde locks. I rubbed the mud all over her hair so she would, truly,
be a dirty blonde.
“Oh, Boo! Hoo!” Polly wept. I’d gotten the better of her now.
But not for long. She overcame her grief very quickly, and picked up
mud and smooshed it right into my face.
“No, Polly!” I yelled, but in opening my mouth I found myself
actually eating the mud which now covered us.
WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! I heard. Polly and I both ceased our
fighting and looked up. There, on the pole, was Rose. She had leaned
forward until her belly was pressed to the pole as well as her face, her
bosoms crushed and squeezed out on either side of it. She held on tight
as David, standing behind her, gave her an impromptu licking on her
bottom with his belt. Her lovely hair had cream in it. There was cream
on her face. She burst into tears as David gave her a particularly
nasty blow with his belt. Yet, clamping the pole with her thighs, I saw
that she was wiggling to and fro upon it, rubbing her clit into its
sensuous slickness.
The audience applauded wildly. I thought I heard people
disrobing out beyond the floodlights. David ceased beating Rose. She
sobbed a little, then quietened. Awkwardly she stood up from the pole,
her whole front messed with cream. She straightened her shiny dress.
It was caked with cream, just like her bare bosoms. There was less on
her face. She tried to wipe it off. Then, still sniffling a little
from her spanking, she walked over to Polly and I in the mud pit.
Rose tugged at the neckerchief round her neck and straightened
it. Wiping a tear from her eye, pushing back a loose strand of hair
from her face, she lifted her chin. Her eyes took on their imperious
gaze once more. Her tits were bare and smeared with cream, her nipples
poked through the stuff like cherries topping ice cream, but her face
was serene, composed. Goddess-like. Helen after being raped by Paris.
“Bathtime, girls,” Rose said to us. We ignored her. I spit
out mud and molded it in my hands. Playdoh, colored brown. It was
fun. I would make dinosaurs with it.
“Come, you two, we must get offstage before the audience joins
in the fun,” Rose told us. We gazed up at her with children’s eyes,
happy now in our playpen of mud, two girls suddenly free of the adult
world, reduced to toddlers in a sandbox. “Up,” Rose insisted. We could
not stay. We’d find ourselves joined by men with penises if we did.
Reluctantly we let her pull us up. We got out, tried to brush off the
mud, found we only smeared it over what little whiteness remained of our
bodies. As a last act of vengeance Polly yanked down my nightie.
“Polly!” I blurted, but my nightie was down round my ankles
before I could stop her. She smeared her mudcaked hands over my still
unsoiled tummy, protected before my my nightie.
“Look! Tic Tac Toe,” Polly said gleefully. She drew X’s and
O’s on my belly with her muddy fingers.
“Come, Polly,” Rose said, and gave the girl a slap on her naked
behind to get her attention.
“Owww!” Polly moped. She rubbed her heinie, despite the fact
that she would make herself messier still back there, hoping to assuage
the sting. I took her hand other hand, squeezed it. Together we walked
offstage, she rubbing her butt, me just walking casually, knowing the
audience watched my clinging cheeks jiggle about as I made my exit.
Rose was more circumspect, her bottom a red pattern of stripes, making
her sway her hips more than she wished. Together we stepped from the
stage. Looking behind me, just once, I saw David unzip himself. I
heard him announce to the audience that the show was over. He presented
his penis to them and, as I looked away, he peed on them. I heard
several women scream as his stream gave them an impromptu shower.
With careful steps we descended the staircase back into the
safety of the dressing room. I felt the floodlights of the stage as
they slipped away, one moment illuminating me for all to see, the next
unable to pierce the curtain that closed behind me. A small, but
effective curtain, at the top of the stairs. Beyond it we could clean
up, pee, eat, whatever we wanted, without being offered as entertainment
to public view. David tromped down the steps behind us. He pulled up
his zipper. Even he was through, though perhaps in a more basic way
than we were.
Turning, I spotted a small glass shower stall. A woman was
just finishing up cleaning it. She plunked her mop into a bucket. I
saw that the stall was set upon wheels, and could be moved, perhaps out
onto the stage, or anywhere else one pleased. A hose ran from the
shower head to a sink. It was a sink used for washing hair, as in a
beautician’s parlor, except now, with the hose attached, it could
provide water to the portable shower.
“Well,” the woman harumphed to herself, dropping her sponge and
cleaning fluids back into a little cart in which she carried her bucket
and mop. “I do hope I don’t have to scrub this shower stall down again
tonight.” She did not see us coming. She was a woman who appeared to
just be arriving at middle age. Her face was careworn, and I guessed
she must be a single mom, working her way through life to support
children left to her by a lover long gone. She stood, put a hand to the
small of her back, grimaced a little.
“Oho, honey, you ain’t even begun to start workin’,” the lady
who’d done our hair piped up. The cleaning lady turned her head, saw us
approaching.
“Oh, shit!” the cleaning lady swore.
“They got a little muddy, I’m afraid,” Rose said politely to
the cleaning lady of myself and Polly.
“How could they BOTH lose?!” the cleaning lady asked.
“They’re just little girls. You know how little girls are.
They find mud irresistible,” Rose smiled.
“What, you didn’t know they was puttin’ on the mud show
tonight?” the beautician asked the cleaning lady? The beautician was
laughing and slapping her thighs. “You cin forgit about strippers with
boas, honey. David’s into REAL entertainment now!”
“Damn, I’ll be here all night cleaning,” the cleaning lady
answered as we stepped past her and inspected the shower stall.
It was old. The glass was yellowed and it was cracked in the
upper corner of one of the panels. Significantly, there was no door or
curtain to the stall. Just three glass walls, with the front utterly
open, perhaps so an audience could see inside. I guessed it was used
mostly on stage.
“Get in, girls,” Rose said. She placed her small palms on our
bottoms and urged us to step up into the wheeled stall. “I’ll go after
you.”
“What happened to you, honey?” the cleaning lady asked Rose.
She took a lesbian’s interest in Rose’s injured heinie.
“She gave David his money’s worth, and the crowd too,” the
beautician opined.
“Is that sperm or just whipped cream?” the cleaning lady asked
Rose, taking some amusement now in our plight.
“It isn’t your concern,” Rose murmured. She blushed a little.
The beautician laughed again, a harsh laugh. She and the cleaning lady
lacked all culture. But they were, at least, not caked with mud or
ass-whipped. They at least had clothes on.
Polly and I huddled into the shower stall. Rose fitted us into
it, pressing upon us with her hands. It was a tight fit. Rose nodded
to the beautician. The beautician turned on the sink and a moment later
a spray of ice cold water blasted down onto us.
EEEEEEK! Polly and I both shouted in unison.
“A little warmer, please,” Rose told the beautician.
“A LOT wamrer,” Polly said somewhat inarticulately, her speech
garbled by the shivering cold water. We clung to each other under the
spray. Our nipples poked at each other’s bosoms like thorns. I felt
the water sleet down my belly and gather like snow in my pubic curls.
The water warmed. David settled into a chair and opened his
fly. Rose turned and watched him as he took out his cock and began
stroking it. He was huge and hard and a gleaming drop of pre-cum formed
on the tip of his penis. Rose stepped away from the shower so he could
watch us. She offered us soap, no washcloth, no sponge.
“Do each other,” Rose told us.
“I can wash myself,” Polly protested.
“Do as you’re told,” David said. His voice brooked no
disobedience.
We still wore our platform pumps, with our calves and ankles
bound by their straps. We still had on our fingerless mittens, and wore
scarves round our neck. Light pink pastel scarves, that once had
matched our nighties, and made our t-shirts look alluring before that,
but now hung all by themselves. Polly still had barrettes in her hair,
and it was pulled into pigtails.
I lifted my leg up behind me and reached back to undo the
lacing of my shoe.
“Don’t bother,” David told me. “Just soap each other where it
counts. Use your hands.”
“But I’ve got mud between my toes,” I said. I looked at him,
the water streaming down on me, warm now, breaking up my coiffure and
pushing my hair down into my eyes. I saw he would not allow me to do as
I wished. I was bathing for his erotic entertainment only.
“Come and suck my cock,” David told Rose. Trippingly she went
to him, her feet encased in her heavy cowgirl boots. Her dress hid
nothing, arched up in front and back by her responsibilities, showing
her pubis, her bottom. Quickly she knelt and put her mouth to his
cock. She began to service him. He sighed, relaxed more in his chair.
The cleaning lady and the beautician laughed.
As we washed, Polly and I found pleasure in each other’s
hands. My fingers explored her slit. She swooned, fingering me in
turn. In his chair David strove to poke his organ deep into Rose’s
throat, even as he fought to retain his seed within the confines of his
balls. Such were the games we played with each other.
At last David’s passion ran its course. Rose stood up from
him, her cheeks bloated with his sperm. David told her she did not have
to swallow it. She went to the sink and spit out his essence.
“I’m sorry, but I prefer only to swallow the sperm of men I
love, and you, sir, are just a client,” Rose apologized to David when
she’d emptied her mouth. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand.
“It’s okay. I don’t love you either, or the girls,” David
answered. There was a satisfied look on his face. “I just needed to
cum, and you were available.” He zipped himself up. “I care nothing
for females anymore. However beautiful they may be, to me they’re just
a gentlemen’s way of relieving himself. I might be gay, or just jerk
myself off, but that would hardly be proper. It’s sort of like going to
the bathroom to me. Just as I have to poop and piss, I have to shoot
now and then too,” David said with a glowering smile to Rose. “You’re a
walking toilet, my dear, nothing more. Despite your pretty legs.
Sorry. I just have no feeling for you, that’s all. Or any woman.”
“Well, the feeling’s not mutual,” Rose replied. Tenderly she
touched her bottom. “In my case, I’ll be feeling you for the rest of
the night, sir.”
“And tomorrow too, at breakfast, I’ll bet, sitting on extra
cushions,” David laughed.
“Come on, girls,” Rose told Polly and me. “We’re done here.”
The beautician turned off the shower. She detached the hose from the
sink. She turned on the faucet and rinsed away David’s sperm. The
cleaning lady passed her mop over the floor outside the shower stall and
wiped up the water that had exceeded its bounds. Polly and I waited,
watching her. When she was done, the cleaning lady took a big fluffy
towel and spread it out on the floor for us to step on.
Wetly Polly and I emerged from the shower. Our neckerchiefs
dripped. They were sodden. Our mittens retained a little soap. Our
feet were mostly clean, with perhaps a trace of mud between our toes.
The cleaning lady gave us a towel to share.
“Thank you,” Polly and I both lisped in unison to her. We were
shy, quiet, domesticated. We both wiped our faces on the towel. Then I
took it and dried Polly. She dried me afterward. David rose and poured
himself a drink, watched us absently, as if wishing he might stroke
himself, but also glad that he’d rid himself, at least for now, of his
need to cum.
Polly and I stepped off our bath mat towel to give Rose room to
take a quick shower herself. The beautician reattached the hose to the
sink’s faucet. As David cleared his throat impatiently, sipping his
drink, Rose rinsed off under the shower.
We rode in silence back to the castle. There was just Rose,
myself, Polly. The driver was in front, separated from us by smoked
glass. The moon gleamed overhead, a miniature spotlight. In a normal
car, passing vehicles might have looked in, their occupants seeing our
dishevelment. But behind the tempered privacy glass nothing could be
seen. I felt squishy between my legs. I know Polly did too. The
leather stuck to our bare bottoms. We were damp. We had nothing now,
save our scarves and our shoes. And our little mittens, hiding nothing,
letting even our fingers show. Polly sat uncomfortably. I knew the
sting of Dave’s belt still blazed deep into her flesh. He had hit her
hard. Had she wanted him to? I wished to ask, could not find the
courage to do so. We were three females, adventuring in the world. We
met men, on their terms, daring them, paying for it a little, perhaps.
I wondered what else Rose had planned for us. Did I wish to stay with
her? Should I disobey my lover and find a way to leave her? I looked
at Polly. She sat twiddling her thumbs. She seemed entertained by it.
I do not think the night affected her the least, now that it was past.
She was like a toddler, crying one moment, content the next, sleeping in
the cradle of her mother’s arms. Her blonde hair hung down round her
face, over her shoulders. She’d been allowed to undo her pigtails in
the car. She seemed shrouded in innocence now, her hair forming a kind
of veil, keeping her modest. I wanted to reach out and pinch her bare
bottom but I did not. She was sweet. I wished I was still like her,
unknowing, even as I experienced love, kept innocent somehow by the
imperviousness of my youth. A year ago I’d been like her. But I’d
grown. My experiences had eventually taken hold and changed me. Lying
that first night on the beach, pulling down my panties, I’d been a babe
still, hoping to be splashed by an unexpected wave. A wave rising above
the tide-mark, wetting me, bathing me in its overpowering love. And
then I’d met Barbi, and Lord Shaftsbury. How he had loved me! And
lastly I remembered Max, brutal and direct, prying apart my ass and
making his love felt within me. And so many experiences in between.
Yet I was only 14. I had still so much to see. I’d stay a little
longer with Rose, I decided, at her spooky castle.
“What are you thinking about?” I asked Polly at last, nudging
her.
“Don’t bother me,” she replied, not looking up from her
twiddling fingers. “I’m making up a new song.” She hummed a few bars,
her head still down, her hair still blocking her eyes from my view.
“What sort of song?” I asked.
“Pink Panther,” Polly replied. She looked up. “Rose, do you
have T.V. at your castle?” she asked. Her hair fell back and I saw her
face, her nose upturned, her lips puckered as if inviting a kiss.
“Yes,” Rose answered. “Why do you ask?”
“I like the Care Bears, and Pound Puppies,” Polly declared.
“They come on every day, during the week, when there’s school. And then
on Saturday there is Pink Panther, and on Sundays I sometimes like to
watch Captain Doom.”
“We’ll see,” Rose answered. “If you’re good I suppose you both
can be permitted certain liberties.” She had glanced at us but now she
turned and looked out the window, as if lost in her thoughts. Was she
thinking of past lovers, or making plans for us?
“I don’t need to see cartoons,” I said aloud. I straightened
my back, feeling mature by my declaration.
“Well, who cares about you?” Polly said. She went back to her
finger-fiddling.
“Louis,” I said to myself. “Louis cares about me.” And my
parents, sort of, but they didn’t matter. Your parents always love
you. In their own way, of course, trying to keep you a child. So it
was Louis, I guess, who loved me most of all. And I decided to keep him
happy by staying with Rose, just a bit longer, at the Castle whose name
I dared not say. Even to myself.
The castle seemed different when we returned. A man in a black
robe waited and watched us as the limo pulled up the drive. I did not
see him until the last minute, then realized that he must have been
there all along, vulture-like, watching our car approach. He opened the
door for us, from Polly’s side, and we spilled out. Our eyes widened as
we saw him. His hood was thrown back. His head was bald. It gleamed
in the moonlight. He did not smile. He showed no emotion.
Rose scooted herself out behind us, using our door. “Branson,”
she breathed, seeing our new visitor. He perhaps smiled a little at
her. I could not tell.
“I’m finished with Miss Pettance,” Branson said to Rose. His
voice breathed with intelligence, yet was low, growling, brooding.
“Her two weeks are up already?” Rose asked.
“They are,” Branson answered. “She will serve her husband
better from now on.”
“It is good that you are finished, then,” Rose said. “I have
two new guests. We’ve played a little, but their training hasn’t really
begun in earnest yet. Show each of them to a room of their own. Have
them bathed. They are not to do anything by themselves. Assign a
female attendant, for privacy. Make it two. They are young, and might
prove wilful.”
“Yes,” Branson said. He turned to Polly and I. We shrank
back, looked with wondering eyes at Rose. She tossed her hair back.
She seemed not to see us, yet she was thinking of nothing else. “The
potty, wiping, all is to be done by their attendants. Have them fed.
Then see that they are put to bed properly.”
“Yes, mistress,” Branson breathed. His breath seemed to flow
out like a dragon’s at rest. Hot, tense, waiting.
“Polly, Fleury, stand up straight!” Rose told us. “Be proud of
yourselves. Arch your backs, lift your bosoms.” We obeyed, knowing not
what else to do. I wished for a bikini at least, standing nude before
Branson. “All is being done according to your lover’s wishes, so don’t
fight it, please. You will be well cared for by Branson. I have other
responsibilities right now. We’ll meet again in the morning. Until
then, behave, act your age, and remember that trouble can be easily
repaid. I intend to make you both grown-up girls, and you can both be
grown-up girls, I can tell, because you already have the right demeanor
and attitude.” We stood quite alertly, our backs rigid, gazing at her
in the moonlight. I felt the moonlight caress my bosom and bottom, my
flesh jutting out to intercept it. “There! Such perfect bodies,” Rose
complimented us. “Truly, it is like curating delicious new works of
art, working with both you girls. You are living museum pieces, the
best of the new, the avant-garde, fresh from Andy Warhol’s studio, or
some new artist, perhaps, unknown yet to the larger world. When you are
finished here your lovers must hold coming out parties for you, in my
opinion. You will be perfectly formed then, not just in body but in
mind too. How you’ll delight men, and twist them round your fingers.
You’ll have Louis, Andre, or any others you choose. But first you must
learn to be submissive. To submit, yet control, that is the trick of
it, for a female. To control by submitting. Don’t worry, I’ll show you
how. Take them, Branson, and make them do just as you say. Bye,
girls. We’ll meet again soon!” She turned, and her bottom gleamed in
the moonlight. As she walked away from us, she tugged down her
too-short skirt to try to hide it. We were left watching a slim leather
bib flap haplessly over her tush, hiding nothing, really, given how her
hips wobbled. She had a bold derriere and such a small skirt could not
compete with its fullness. Her bottom was womanly, complete and round
and yet firm and trim. It swayed and jiggled with a life of its own,
though, tossing her bib-like skirt to and fro, catching even Branson’s
eye, though I guessed he’d seen it many times before. She retreated
into the darkness, leaving us, going someplace in nothing but her skirt
and boots, perhaps to fuck out back on the haystack with the help. As
for myself and Polly, we were hastened up the castle steps and within
its doors.
Upstairs I found myself placed in a small but hospitable
bedroom. It had no windows. None had seen Polly and I as we entered
the castle, and I was thankful for it. We both had had quite a night.
I felt someone enter the room behind me. I turned quickly on
my heels. It was scary, being alone suddenly, without Polly beside me.
She had been taken elsewhere, by Branson. I did not know where.
“Hi!” two female voices chimed at me. They looked like college
girls. Their hair was piled atop their heads, one blonde, the other
brunette. The brunette introduced herself as Joanne. The other said
her name was Sylvia.
Both girls wore long, flowing dresses. But seeing them, I was
immediately struck by how their dresses had been forcibly altered. In
front, the dress of each girl, despite binding her closely about the
waist, had been pulled back to show off her bosom. Their breasts were
young and bare and they had obviously been chosen because they had
lovely bosoms, high and finely tipped by rouged nipples.
Their dresses were pulled apart below the waist. Their legs
showed, right up to their muffs. Their skirts were rolled up in back,
letting their bottoms bulb out. Uncovered, their derrieres shone with
youthful dignity, white and soft and cleft in the middle.
“Why- why are you dressed that way?” I asked, gulping as I
spoke.
They giggled. For a moment I thought of Tweedle-Dum and
Tweedle-Dee. “You are dressed more conservatively?” they asked me. I
flushed crimson.
They walked up to me and took up a position on either side of
me and gently guided me with light-touching hands on my shoulders and
back toward a room next door. “It’s for convenience’s sake,” they said,
their voices soft and melodious. “We don’t have to lift our skirts when
we pee, or when we poop, and, of course, men have ready access to us,
which is the main point of it. Branson ordered it. Otherwise we would
not dress this way. But our lovers enjoy it and Branson offers us to
them, and other men too, dressed like this to kill, you might say, or,
rather, to fuck and show off our all bodily functions, which some men
enjoy seeing.” Each of them spoke a line or two, contributing to the
other’s thoughts. It was eerie. They seemed like twins. They were
mentally bound into Branson’s world, and that of their lovers, as fully
as any two girls could be.
The adjoining room proved to be a private bath. Like my
bedroom, it had no windows. I found there was a tub already waiting for
me, a big claw-footed tub, old-fashioned, with hot water and bubbles
filling it to the rim. Gratefully I let the maids undress me and I sank
into its warmth. The two girls, older sisters it seemed, with me as
their darling baby sis, knelt down on either side of my tub. Carefully,
trying not to get their boobs wet with bubbles or spray from my
splashing, they washed me completely. I tried to push them away at
first. But they insisted on doing me.
“Relax,” they said. “You will have plenty of chances to do
things later.” Their eyes twinkled. “Just let us do this. It is
mundane. You are to be spared such silly things. We’ll bathe you, and
wipe you when you go to the bathroom, and we’ll even spoon-feed you,
how’s that? Relax and enjoy it. We ourselves were once like you...”
They spoke on, easing my fears, though never entirely. Joanne had been
studying Law. She’d been in her first year, toiling away, buried under
seven classes worth of work. Then, one day, she’d met a new lover
(after abstaining to get all her studies done). He brought her to
Castle Cunt, and she’d never left. She was a ‘veteran’ now, here for a
whole month, perhaps staying forever, she didn’t know. Law school was
forgotten. Life was forgotten. She was just Joanne now, the brunette
sex pet in the lovely but too-revealing robe. She did as she was told,
she explained, and thought of nothing else. She began like me and, when
her initial training was done, she decided to stay on to help out with
the new girls, while undergoing more advanced training herself.
“But the delightful thing about it,” Joanne assured me. “Is
that you don’t have to plan. They tell you everything. It’s hard
sometimes, but never from the standpoint of responsibility. You have no
responsibilities. You get to sink completely within your body and let
them love and admire you.”
“Don’t you have responsibilities now?” I asked her. She
sponged down my tummy and on into the cleft between my legs.
“Not really,” Joanne answered. “I mean, I don’t have to obey.
I’d be punished, sure, but they would do that. And they would care for
me as they punished me. It’s not like real life, where you have to
worry about rent, or eating, or getting here or there. My lover sees to
everything. Even if I’m being punished, it’s his responsibility to see
that I’m fed, and watered...” She looked at Sylvia and they both
giggled.
Sylvia had been a nurse. She’d been a new nurse in the Air
Force, just done with MIMSO and ROTC. No boot camp for her. To be an
officer and a nurse one had only to attend a two-week training, with
doctors. But working the night shift at the hospital, trying to keep
up, and keep everyone happy, had burned her out. She’d gotten a chance
to leave the Air Force, and jumped at it. Downsizing had saved her.
Now she was just her boyfriend’s sex pet. He commanded, more thoroughly
than any general, but she could obey or not, as she wished, though she’d
be punished most indiscreetly and intimately if she chose to disobey.
“We’re planning to have me branded at the end of the month,”
Sylvia told me, sending a shiver down my spine. “I’m trying to prepare
myself for it. It makes me very scared. But I want to wear his
initials within the cleft of my bottom, much as I wore rank in the Air
Force, except these indications of status would be much more intimately
placed. Already I’ve met two girls who have similar marks. Imagine
going to a party where everyone had such rank and comparing each other’s
brands!” Sylvia’s face glowed at the possibility.
“Yes, its exciting, but I think I’m too frightened of something
like that to ever do it,” Joanne replied, in a rare show of disagreement
between the two.
“Maybe I’ll convince you by my example,” Sylvia offered.
“Don’t feel you have to,” Joanne answered.
“I would never do that,” I breathed. I touched my bottom
cheeks. I parted them a little, beneath the safety of the bathwater. I
felt the water flow against my anus.
“You’d be surprised at what you’ll do once you’re properly
trained,” Sylvia assured me. I listened, said nothing in reply. My
stomach had butterflies flying within it.
30
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