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From: Andrew Roller <roller39@IDT.NET>
Subject: Love Child part 13 of 15 (NND)
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_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
LOVE CHILD
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Chapter Thirteen
We were led upstairs to a bedroom. A large bed with black iron
railings waited. It had been stripped of everything but a covering
sheet. A small wooden stairstep led up to it. One by one we were made
to file up the little steps and get into bed. We lay the only way we
could, on our bellies. We cried quietly, wetting the big pillows
arranged for our heads.
Women entered. Large, broad women who had borne many
children. Our bottoms must have looked like ripe little apples to
them. Skinny legged girls from America, we were, with waspish hips.
We’d never known the pain of the delivery room, the labor of bearing
young. We only played at sex, recreationally, for the amusement of men
like the grandee. He favored girls like us while making the women work
in his fields. Now they must take time off from their chores to pamper
our little fannies, our bottoms which were so delicate and pretty until
we’d chosen to display them in the square.
Had we chosen? We had not resisted. Why had we not screamed,
shouted? I knew the answer but I did not want to know it. The rough
women with rough hands squirted our tushies with atomizers. A light
cologne on whip-skinned flesh. Our heads shot up, we grimaced, cried
out. Tremblingly we found each other’s hands and held them tightly.
Pots of cream were brought. Spreading our legs, curling our
toes in agony we accepted the cream on our beet red bottoms. The rest
of ourselves shone whitely, our backs and legs, our arms, still moist
with the sheen of summer rain, now mixed with a light sweat as we
endured the women’s healing ministrations.
“My, how lovely they’re wounded,” a woman said, entering the
room with the grandee. She was a large mexican lady. Glancing over our
shoulders we were told by the grandee that she was his wife.
“They are going to masturbate for you dear, these college girls
from America,” the grandee told his wife. We cringed with humiliation,
knowing we would do just that if he permitted it. And then he did.
Shoving my hands down below my belly I joined the other girls in
frigging myself silly.
We threshed upon the bed, screaming and twisting our lovely
hair about with abandon. Our wanton bottoms jiggled madly as we
worshipped ourselves. At first we were totally self-absorbed, contained
within our own pleasure. But then as the first orgasm passed and we
pushed ourselves on to another we turned our faces to one another and
began kissing frantically. I think Tiffany and I were the first to take
it up. The rest followed our example. The mexican women watched, their
chores and children forced to wait while they attended upon our
privileged bodies. We screamed together and finally laughed together
and at last we settled back down, back to the pain in our arses that
flared into our minds again as soon as our pleasure had subsided. Then
the mexican ladies went to work on us again, bringing more oils, more
salve and healing balm. Lightly we continued to toy with ourselves as
they worked. At last, one by one, we passed off into sleep, the women
still laboring over us.
Several languid days passed at the grandee’s. We played in the
pool, ate at dinner with him, conversed with him in his library. Always
we would kneel on the floor, unable to sit. The grandee provided little
mats for us. During this time our bottoms simply would not accept
panties, or anything else. We could wear whatever we wanted on our
feet, or on our chests, but we were forced to leave our asses bare.
Mostly we pranced about in clingy little t-shirts. Jealously the
mexican women would watch us, scrubbing floors at the mansion or washing
dishes, or working in the garden. Our laughter was lilting, childlike.
Our eyes sparkled. We played tricks on each other sometimes, squirting
each other with bottles of seltzer water, shooting whipped cream,
flinging our jello desserts at each other.
Sometimes the grandee brought over gentlemen friends, but he
did not let them touch us. They were mere business associates, he
said. We were too precious for them.
One day I managed to get myself into a pair of panties. Soon
the other girls followed suit. The grandee eyed us the next day at
lunch. We sat on chairs, eating at his table. We were all modestly
dressed in shorts or skirts. The mexican women served us, bringing
fresh vegetables they’d just dug up from the garden.
“Oooh! These are so delicious!” Tiffany exclaimed, spearing a
stalk of broccoli with her fork and eating it. Hand-drawn butter
dripped from it, ran down her chin. She licked her lips. We gorged
ourselves on the vegetables, bade the women bring more. For dessert we
had fresh-cooked rhubarb pie.
A few more days slipped past. The grandee took his wife
shopping in the city and brought back presents for us. Presents we
could keep. Rings, earrings, little baubles to spice a girl’s fancy.
We sashayed around the house in clothing all the time now. We did not
want the Mexican women or their children to see our nakedness. In the
evening we played ping pong, sometimes with the grandee’s business
friends watching. We never wore bras and our breasts would bounce
lewdly as we knocked the little white ball back and forth to each
other. In the daytime we often lounged by the pool, though the grandee
insisted we stay in the shade and keep our boobies and bottoms covered.
He said there were enough dark women in Mexico. We would order the
mexican women to leave off their digging or washing and bring us mint
juleps. We’d lounge about and gossip with each other, read People
magazine, play tic-tac-toe in the back of the T.V. Guide. (He kept
english language copies for us, special subscriptions from America.)
“Are you having fun girls?” the grandee asked us one evening at
dinner.
“Yes!” we all gushed in response.
“And how are your bottoms?” he asked. Our faces sobered.
“All better,” “All better,” “All better,” we piped up
reluctantly.
After dinner he made us stand in a line and drop our shorts.
He examined each of us, looking at our seats but not touching us.
A mexican woman came into the dining room to collect our
dishes. She looked at us. Her eyes seemed to smile with wicked
delight. I felt fear in my tummy and tried desperately to quash it.
###
It was a flight to nowhere. Pretend Airlines, it was called,
and the grandee had built it in his basement. There was a cushioned
bench in the middle of the room. It was equipped with seatbelts.
Beyond lay the “cockpit,” where the stewardesses of Pretend Airlines
might be flown however the passengers wished them to be.
Three men from the village were to be our passengers. The
grandee said they were nephews of his. They arrived wearing business
suits. They were strapping men, a bit surly, “difficult” passengers who
threatened to run a poor stewardess ragged.
All around the pretend airlines set-up the mexican women of the
house sat in chairs with their children. They were “passengers” only in
the sense that they got to watch. We were mortified when we walked into
the basement and saw them there. But they simply gazed back at us.
They sat with their children, waiting for the “flight” to begin. They
did not mind having their children see the antics of white American
women.
“Hi! My name’s Tiffany,” Tiff began, speaking to the men as
they strode past her and took their seats. Her voice had an air of
forced cheeriness. “I’m the head stewardess on this flight and I’ll be
the one primarily responsible for your pleasure. If you have any
problems with the service, please let me know about it!” There was
laughter among the men. “Now this is a pleasure flight, boys, but I
expect you to behave. Do you think you can do that?” They nodded, but
you could tell they might choose to misbehave at any moment. However
they were a little in awe of us, I think, they’d never flown on an
airplane. They looked around the basement expectantly, as if any moment
they expected us to actually take off.
We’d spent hours being made up for this flight. Our hair was
perfect, combed down over our shoulders in glossy waves. Our nails on
our fingers and on our toes were carefully shaped and painted. Our
bodies had been rubbed all over with baby oil, vigorously, until the oil
had been absorbed completely by our skin, leaving behind a healthy,
vibrant glow. Mexican ladies had done all the work, beauticians from
the village. Women with broken nails and hair streaked with grey. They
spent most of their days in the fields, not the beauty parlor, for there
weren’t enough customers.
Two days earlier a seamstress had arrived from the village.
She’d made us take off all our clothes in the upstairs bedroom and she’d
measured us meticulously. Then she and several helpmates had sewn our
flight uniforms for the grandee and his nephew’s pleasure.
Glancing at Tiffany, you might think we’d done alright. She
wore a pilot’s cap upon her head, with a straight black bill in front
and official-looking “macaroni” above it. A slinky black shirt with a
straight hemline covered her torso. The shirt had a turtle neck and
long sleeves. Epaulets adorned her shoulders, each with four stripes,
showing her rank.
Her legs were encased in long black boots of the finest leather
that came up to her knees, where they had a “gathered” cuff. Above that
were her stockings, black fishnet, but with threads so closely
criss-crossed that you could barely discern her skin beneath. Looking
at her thighs, you might think that the stockings were pants legs. Only
there weren’t any “pants.” Just the stocking/leggings, rising up to her
thigh tops, then stopping abruptly. Between the tops of her stockings
and the hem of her shirt you could just make out the lower half of her
white cotton panties.
To make her look even more officious, the grandee had given
Tiffany glasses to wear. She stood before the passengers now, checking
her manifest to make sure they were all “aboard.” Holding a clipboard
in her left hand, she put a pencil to her lips with her right.
Meanwhile, the rest of us fidgeted. We were dressed the same
as Tiffany from the waist up, but with less stripes on our bars. We
wore no glasses. From the hemline of our shirts to our feet we were
completely bare. We stood around the “cabin” in high heels, to elevate
our bottoms. Our legs flashed nakedly when we walked. White flesh,
with our shirts riding up in back exposing our creamy asses. They
looked like cream puffs, jutting out sassily at the Mexican ladies and
their children.
“Gentlemen, I must make sure that you didn’t forget to bring
any of your equipment,” Tiffany said to the grandee’s nephews. “Please
unzip yourselves so I can check.” Proudly the men undid their trousers
and displayed their cocks to her. They were big and brown and pulsed
with the vigor of the countryside. Politely Tiffany tapped each one
once with her pencil eraser, then replaced it in her lips, studied her
manifest a moment, and then called me forward.
“We’ll need some measurements of this equipment so I can
properly adjust the planes’ ballast,” she told me. I saluted her
smartly. The girls and I got a ruler from a table and we measured off
each man’s cock and announced the figure to Tiffany. The mexican ladies
murmured at the sizes.
“Ten inches! Eleven on this one! Oh, my! This one is twelve
inches long!” I cried, the other girls joining in with me as I announced
the numbers.
“Hmmm, I’ll need the circumference also,” Tiffany replied. We
went back to the table and rummaged around. We returned with a cloth
tape measure. With delicate hands we wrapped each man’s cock with a
loop of the tape. Again we announced the figures. The women had grown
fine young men, good for more than plowing fields.
“Lastly we will need the specific gravity of their balls,”
Tiffany said. Have them stand and drop their trousers. Amber, get a
pitcher of cream, warm cream, so their balls won’t become chilly. Make
them stand with their legs apart and lift out their balls and plop them
into the pitcher of cream. Then look inside and guesstimate how much
cream has been displaced.”
The first man to be measured this way made the cream spill out
of the top of the pitcher. It ran down the insides of his hairy thighs,
down to his pants where they lay crumpled around his ankles.
“Oh my, well I guess we’ll just have to do the best we can,”
Tiffany sighed. She wrote down Amber’s wildly made up guesstimate of
“40 pounds.”
“Good heavens! We can never take off with that much weight on
board,” Tiffany exclaimed.
“What shall we do?” Amber giggled.
“I shall have to take off my panties to compensate,” Tiffany
announced. She put down her clipboard and pencil on a chair. Then,
bending her knees daintily, she rolled her panties down her legs and
carefully plucked them past the cuffs of her boots.
Holding them as one might a piece of rubbish, disdainfully,
letting them dangle down, she walked over to the edge of our pretend
airplane and dropped them. “There,” she announced as they landed on the
floor, as if they’d fallen out the door of the plane to the asphalt
tarmac below. She walked back to us and picked up her clipboard once
more. “I do hope you other boys have been fucking a little more than
this one has, or I may have to get completely naked!” Tiffany said. The
men grinned. They longed to see the big boobies that bulged with such
promise within her tight flight shirt.
We had lost so much cream that we decided to refill the
pitcher. Somehow the grandee had thought to provide us with a whole
bottle of it, sitting on a warmer on our utility table in our
make-believe flight kitchen. We refilled the pot and measured the next
man’s nuts. “Forty-five pounds!” Amber announced happily, spilling even
more cream this time and leaving a milky pool in the center of the man’s
descended trousers.
“Well!” Tiffany announced. “I am the head stewardess, you
know. I do have certain privileges because of my rank. Amber, I want
you to take off your shirt.” The girl looked slightly taken aback. She
had been hoping to get Tiffany undressed with her fantastic
measurements. “Yes, Amber,” Tiffany nodded solemnly. “Off with your
shirt right away so we can get airborne.”
“I could take my hat off instead, that would do,” Amber said.
“No, your hat means you are an official Pretend Airlines
stewardess,” Tiffany replied. “You must keep that on. Take off your
shirt. You don’t have any rank anyway.”
“I have three whole stripes, look at them!” Amber said,
pointing to her epaulets.
“Yes, but it was a mistake by the seamstress,” Tiffany
replied. “You are the official milk maid on this flight, still a
stewardess of course.” She was making it up as she went along, I could
see, but the men obviously didn’t care. Roles were being created even
as we played. I wondered what title I’d eventually get. Official hot
seat?
Reluctantly Amber pulled up her shirt. Her youthful breasts
popped out as she yanked it past them. The shirt was tight, specially
made. They’d sewn it on her an hour before. Wiggling her hips and
bottom, her legs ridiculously akimbo, Amber finally got the shirt off.
“Don’t help her, girls,” Tiffany advised us. “She must be able to do it
herself if we should crash land in the ocean. Clothes might make us
drown in the water, you know. I’ll explain all the procedures in case
of crash landings in a minute.”
The last man was measured, by a nude Amber, wearing only her
hat. Her lovely breasts jiggled above his stiff-jutting organ. Twice
her perky nipples grazed across his pee hole. The man trembled, in
ecstasy. The cream bathed his testicles, warming them, perhaps killing
some sperm with its warmth. But he had plenty more.
“A hundred pounds!” Amber announced, hoping to get the whole
crew undressed. She didn’t like being the only one completely naked.
“Amber, are you telling the truth?” Tiffany asked over the rim
of her glasses. “Because if you aren’t, I’ll have to swat you with my
official stewardess paddle.” She pointed to a hard wooden ping pong
type paddle, but with a long handle, hanging from a nail on the wall.
“Um, only 48 pounds, actually,” Amber said, screwing up her
nose and recalculating the imaginary figures in her head. “I guess I
over guesstimated.”
“I’ll say you did,” Tiffany replied. “Sylvia, why don’t you be
the one to take off your shirt this time? You’re the littlest of us,
and nobody will mind if you’re naked. People only complain when they
see big girls walking around naked in Mexico.”
Sylvia took the jibe well and uncomplainingly put down her hat
and peeled up her shirt. It took her even longer than Amber to get out
of it. She danced around the floor, wriggling her torso, her bottom all
a-jiggle. She stood on her toes in an effort, apparently, to inspire
her shirt to move up.
“Don’t rip it, Sylvia,” Tiffany warned. The shirt was stretchy
and light and could possibly be torn if it was excessively mishandled.
Of course, to do so would spoil the game of getting it off. “Girls who
rip their uniforms will be punished immediately,” Tiffany said, as if
reminding us, reading imaginary words on her clipboard. But I knew that
the threat of punishment wasn’t imaginary, for besides the paddle a
whole range of flagellating equipment waited on the far wall.
At last Sylvia got her shirt off. Her breasts bounced freely
on her little chest, her ribs heaving with her effort. Her hair was
hopelessly mussed. Only the first of many such little disasters, I
imagined. Disgustedly Sylvia tossed her shirt out the “window” of the
plane (an imaginary space newly invented by her). She brushed her long
hair with her hand, trying to mend her coiffure. It had been neatly
curled in long strands and arranged just so. She’d been walking very
daintily up ‘til now to keep it that way.
“Never mind your hair, Sylvia,” Tiffany said. “It’s time for
us to take off. Men, pull your pants back on and sit down and let the
girls buckle you in.”
The men looked incredulous. Their pants were soaked with cream
and their cocks were hard as iron re-bars. They protested but the
grandee ordered them in Spanish to do as Tiffany asked. With great
effort and to the merriment of the mexican women watching (not to
mention the flight crew!) they stuffed themselves back in and sat down.
They were obviously uncomfortable as we bent low and strapped their
seatbelts across their waists. Meanwhile, Tiffany read off the
remainder of her flight instructions:
“Men, if we should have to attempt a crash landing it will be
necessary for as much weight as possible to be thrown from the plane.
This means that you will have to ejaculate as quickly as possible.
Should you not be able to do this one of our stewardesses will have to
undergo an enema, so I hope you will be able to help us out on this.”
We looked up at Tiffany, shocked at the thought of having our guts
filled and spilled in front of the mexican women. But this the grandee
had actually written for her, and she could not alter it.
“I shall have to be the pilot,” Tiffany said next. We knelt by
our three male passengers for takeoff, massaging the protrusions in
their pants. She turned around and faced the chair that was designated
as the pilot’s chair. It was turned backwards, so that when she sat
down on it her arms were folded over the chairback. Her naked butt
loomed proudly at us. With accomplished grace she took hold of a dildo
just beyond the chair. It had been standing on what we girls actually
used as our make believe flight kitchen. It was a master touch, using
the dildo as the plane’s flight stick. None of us had thought of it,
nor the grandee. Simultaneously the dildo became Tiffany’s radio
communicator.
“Head Stew to tower, head stew to tower,” she announced. “I’m
ready for takeoff!”
“Takeoff approved, Head Stew. And take off your shirt while
you’re at it.”
“Sorry boys. Maybe some other time,” Tiffany replied to her
make-believe companions.
Then Tiffany pulled back on the dildo, pretending to take off.
But after a little while she announced that the plane was racing down
the runway and wouldn’t be able to make it.
“The tower says my ass is too fat!” Tiffany exclaimed, looking
back over her shoulder at us. “Will one of you men please stick your
thing in my butt and help get it up?” We were shocked at her courage.
We knew she had the tightest asshole in the universe and her butt,
though mature and well-rounded, was anything but fat. It was just a
game she was playing, getting more and more involved with every second.
I gulped as I watched the middle nephew leap up and drop his trousers.
If Tiffany was willing to sacrifice her butthole for our fun, what
wouldn’t she sacrifice?
Sylvia, perhaps remembering her past conquest, leapt to her
feet and helpfully fetched a phial of oil. The man’s stiff rod burst
from his zipper. Together they lubed him up. Amber bent low just
before he was ready to enter Tiffany and enclosed his organ with her
pendant breasts. She could play make-up games too.
“Now you go back and forth, like this,” Amber said, looking up
sweetly at the man. She wriggled back and forth, sluicing his oiled
dick between her close-held breasts. Then she let go of her boobs and
kissed him lightly on the head of his penis. “Good luck!” she smiled.
The man had lost a lot of his oil between Amber’s bosoms, so Sylvia
hastily re-did the lube job. Or penis job, as the case might be. We
were just inventing it as we went along, and I found myself enjoying the
whole thing more and more with every tantalizing minute.
“Oh! I think I’ve got it!” Tiffany said, not sure she wanted
another impalement at the hands of Sylvia, or perhaps meaning only to
have teased the man all along.
“Nothing doing!” Sylvia replied. “You made me take my shirt
off and now its your turn!”
“Sylvia, there is a big difference between a shirt and an
anus,” Tiffany said. But we’d all gathered round her now. We stroked
her and told her how pretty she looked and made her put her hands behind
herself and pry apart her buttcheeks. Cheryl squirted a little
preparatory oil into Tiffany’s anus with an atomizer. Tiffany started,
bit her lower lip. Bravely she held her lovely hams apart with her
slim-gripping fingers.
“Ooooh, NO!” Tiffany choked as the big knob burrowed into her
butt.
“YES, TIFFANY!” We all cried delightedly. Tears welled in her
eyes as she realized how difficult it would be for her to take him. He
was large, and she was smaller than she’d remembered.
With grimacing, anguished little puffs Tiffany took the big
member up her colon. The going was so slow that we decided to get the
ruler and measure off the inches as they went up. Suddenly, when he was
about halfway up the young nephew discharged. He tried frantically to
yank his cock out in an attempt to prevent it, but he was stuck! Only
after his member had deflated somewhat was he able to get it out.
Tiffany, our pilot, was left weeping, her face down on her arms, now
folded back over her chair back. But she was not unhappy. She’d
conquered another sexual hurdle in her life, and a fearful one at that.
Well, halfway, that is.
Tiffany stood up finally and announced that the plane was up in
the air. She was back in control, looking as pretty as ever and still
wearing everything but her lost panties. But her butthole had a
telltale smear of semen on it, and the excess had trickled down to her
love pouch.
“Well I guess I’ll just have to be a sticky stewardess thanks
to your half-assed job, sir,” looking down at him. But we’d been
massaging him and he was up again, ready for more. “No, no, sir! There
will be many emergencies later that we’ll need your strength for,”
Tiffany said. He sat back. He was hard and did not want to lose
himself again. It was too enjoyable watching us all with his penis nice
and stiff. Another ejaculation might spoil his fun for awhile, leave
him out of the festivities. As for the other men, they looked like
they’d gladly fuck anything that moved, immediately.
“Men, the pilot has turned off the ‘conceal cocks’ sign,” she
said helpfully. “You may now display your organs freely if you wish.”
Grunting with relief they unzipped themselves and yanked out their
penises. They held them aloft at her, though they remained obediently
seated.
“Very good, boys,” Tiffany said. “The pilot sends his
compliments.” She bent over and gave a teasing lick round each man’s
purplish plum. When she lifted her mouth her lips gleamed with their
pre-cum.
We all waited with tingling anticipation as Tiffany retrieved
her clipboard. I wanted to rub myself. I saw Sylvia give herself a
furtive little wipe between her legs. She looked at her fingertips.
They were wet with her dew.
“Tonight’s dinner is baked bosoms,” Tiffany announced to our
passengers. “However, since our oven is broken you will either have to
eat them raw or go hungry,” she added. “Which do you prefer?”
“Yours!” they exclaimed. Tiffany tapped her foot impatiently.
“That’s not what I meant, boys, and you know it. I see however
that you do wish to partake of the evening meal. Amber? Sylvia? We
must eat quickly. Come over here and present your bosoms at once.”
With little gulps Amber and Sylvia obeyed, both of them the
youngest, with freshly grown bosoms waiting to be plucked by our fares.
Sylvia seemed especially nervous. Her breasts had been growing
recently, perhaps because of all the sexual excitement she’d been
undergoing. She said her nipples felt sore and she wasn’t sure she
wanted to.
“Sylvia!” Tiffany warned. After getting her butt bopped a
second time by the girl she wasn’t about to show her any mercy.
The girls climbed into the willing laps of the men, facing
them, offering them the fruit of their bodies. Greedily the men took
their titties in their mouths and nursed frantically upon the nipples.
It was the first and the third nephews who were favored in this way, the
one in the middle looking slightly bereft. “You, sir, I have a special
treat for,” Tiffany said. She walked over to Cheryl and wrapped her arm
round the girl’s waist. She brought her to the man and had her stand
right in front of him. “Cheryl,” Tiffany said. “Since you’re my best
friend I want you to give this man our pussy of the month, or is it of
the mouth?” she said. They’d been playing checkers all morning together
so I guess that was as good a qualification as any for “best friend,”
although I felt a little crestfallen when I heard her say it. Cheryl
glowed, happy at last to have a little attention on her yearning,
excited pussy. These airplane games were very stimulating. She placed
her hands firmly on the man’s broad shoulders. As he watched, delighted
out of his mind, she thrust her still-clad torso toward him, aiming to
hit him smack in the kisser with her bare pussy. And she did! Soon she
was moaning as the man hungrily ate her out. That left only me and
Tiff.
She came over to me, tall and proud and ever so sophisticated.
Although I was almost as tall as her I felt meek in her presence. “You,
however, are my breast friend,” Tiffany smiled at me. “Take off your
shirt. No wait! She went and got a ruler off the nightstand that was
our flight kitchen. “Take your shirt off now,” she said. “And you’d
better hurry ‘cause I’m going to keep on smacking your ass until you
do!” I knew she had to. The mexican ladies were growing restless.
They did not like seeing us having this much fun. Or perhaps it was in
the minimal script the grandee had written on her clipboard. In any
event I saw in Tiffany’s eyes that she was begging me not to refuse.
I nodded. I turned my back to her and she positioned me so
that my pretty fundament was facing the audience. She took off my hat.
I toyed with the hem a moment, not wanting to lift my shirt. Finally,
with a quick confirming look at Tiffany, I began the arduous process.
WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! I yelped and danced as I Tiffany laid
in the first strokes. The other girls, surprised, looked up at us. I
thought I heard Sylvia breathe a sigh of relief that she’d not objected
to offering her breasts. She saw that the alternative was obviously
worse. With renewed enthusiasm the girls gave themselves over to the
men, not wanting to be next for the ruler. Cheryl especially, for she
still wore a shirt.
I yanked and pulled at my shirt, finally releasing my breasts.
They spilled out and immediately joined in my antics, juddering freely
all over the place. Soon my shirt was up around my face, and I couldn’t
get it off my head. For seemingly the longest time I scampered about,
Tiffany chasing me with the ruler. “Stop!” she cried, laughing. “You
can’t see and you’ll bump into something!” Like a little animal I
jiggled about, my ass reddening more every few seconds as Tiffany’s
ruler connected. At last, to my vast relief and with an enormous sigh,
I managed to tug the shirt above my chin, then off the top of my head.
But my arms, upraised, were still trapped in it. Like some wiggly
mutant from Dark Castle I leapt about the room. Tiffany found my heinie
wherever I went and gave it a new crack. In the end I finally got my
shirt off, tossing it right at the mexican ladies. They clucked their
disapproval. My hands immediately flew to my ass and as we resumed our
“flight duties” I stood briskly rubbing it.
Only Tiffany and Cheryl retained their shirts. The rest of us
wore only our hats and heels, no doubt the cutest flight attendants
these nephews had ever laid eyes on. Perhaps the ONLY flight attendants
they’d ever laid eyes on, living as they did in their rural village.
Our cunnies were moist, Cheryl’s more than most. Tiffany had a violated
bumhole, stepping awkwardly sometimes because of the lingering
discomfort there. But our elegance remained, despite our disheveled
locks and not-quite-perfect makeup. We were still stewardesses on
Pretend Airlines, and our men were still eager passengers.
The grandee had given Tiffany one rule above all the rest, and
we all knew what it was, even the nephews. There could be no cunt
fucking. I imagine with all of us eager for one another there might
have been an orgy then. But the grandee and his guards stood by
watching, and we knew anything we did to each other wouldn’t be half as
bad as suffering under them. Tiffany stood considering, wondering what
to do next. Impatient with herself, she absently brushed the sides of
her thighs with her hands. She still looked very distinguished in her
boots and stockings, the rest of us bare or bare-legged.
Suddenly she turned and looked at her imaginary altimeter.
“Oh, my!” She cried. “Gentlemen, we are losing altitude. Please take
absolutely everything off!” She turned to Cheryl. “You too, hun. Get
out of that shirt.” Cheryl didn’t mind, for it looked like Tiffany had
forgotten about spanking people while they were trying to get out of
their shirts. Best to get undressed before she remembered. Meanwhile,
the men remained seated, handing their clothes up to Tiffany as they
pulled them off. Clutching their clothing she went to the side of the
plane and tossed them into an imaginary sea.
Returning to the men, Tiffany sat down on the lap of the
nearest one.
She wriggled until he was nicely placed in her bottomcrack. The man
groaned, his organ trapped once more, but he did not mind this sort of
confinement. Tiffany beckoned me and together we got off her boots.
Then I rolled down her stockings. I pulled them off her feet and tossed
them out to sea. There were high heels waiting especially for this
moment, held up by the grandee, and I ran into the audience and got
them. The mexican ladies pinched at my bottom as I ran through them.
They were allowed more liberties tonight, apparently. I shivered.
Returning to Tiffany, I quickly fitted her into her shoes.
“The natives are restless,” I whispered.
“I know. Think of something!” Tiffany hissed.
“Well, I don’t really want to take one of them up my bottom,
despite what we did to you,” I said.
“Thanks a lot!” Tiffany replied.
Suddenly there was a rustling in the crowd, as of someone
passing through. We looked up. The grandee approached, a woman on his
arm. She looked to be in her mid-twenties and she was stylishly dressed
in a long flowing gown. I had not seen her before. She was spanish but
had very light skin. Her eyes gazed at us intently. She seemed fiery.
I think we all blanched at her approach, knowing some new twist in our
game was about to occur. A twisted sort of twist too, knowing what sort
of man the grandee was.
“Girls, I believe the purser has come aboard,” he said. “I’ve
told her you’re running an unprofitable airline,” he smiled. She looked
at him, smiled back.
“What do you wish me to wear, darling?” she asked the grandee.
“This is my best dress.” The grandee snapped his fingers. His wife
came forth, her great garments bustling. You could hear her pantyhose,
underneath, rubbing together. When she reached our new player she held
aloft what looked like a pair of long white spaghetti straps, with just
a small tube of fabric at one end. A sort of midriff, perhaps, but one
that would only cover the belly, leaving everything else most
inconveniently exposed.
“What is that?” the white/spanish woman asked. She looked at
the grandee puzzled.
“Put it on. It is a shirt,” the grandee’s wife said in a thick
accent. It was a sharp contrast to our new visitor’s almost perfect
english.
“Oh! I do not like being so exposed!” The fair skinned woman
answered.
“Do as you’re told, Lisa,” the grandee advised in a low voice.
“Oh, I shall! But give me a scarf at least. Something to give
me a little class, anyway!” A scarf was fetched and duly presented. It
looked pink. It looked hardly worth arguing for.
Guards came and quickly stripped Lisa. Then she put on her
shirt. It went on much easier than ours had. It fell in great cutaway
loops from her shoulders, with the biggest armholes I’d ever seen, going
all the way down to the morsel of fabric that cluelessly hid her
bellybutton.
The neckline of the blouse, if it could still be called that,
plunged as low as the holes for her arms. This silly, utterly useless
shirt failed to contain Lisa’s lovely bosoms in any way. Indeed, her
whole torso was exposed, from her shoulders all the way down to the
meagre bit of cotton that loosely wrapped itself round her tummy,
looping around her back but doing no better back there. From between
the homemade spaghetti straps of her shirt Lisa’s bosoms offered
themselves to the audience. Gallantly she tied on her neckerchief,
tossed her head, walked over to us. The guards had left her nothing but
her shoes.
While all this was going on the men, poor souls, had been
driven from our plane by the guards. Haplessly they bid us goodbye, as
butterflies took off in our tummies, wondering what this portended. The
five of us were squeezed onto the bench in their place.
With apprehension building moment by moment amongst us, we
watched as Lisa walked past us to the wall. She placed her hands on her
bare hips and scanned the implements used for giving beatings. At last
she selected a riding crop. It had a long handle. She walked
confidently over to us and gazed down at our trembling bodies.
“Please take your hats off when you are in my presence,” Lisa
said politely but firmly to us. We did so, with queasy hands. We
dropped them on the floor. Watching, Lisa seemed inspired. “I see how
you treat your hats,” she said. “Carelessly. But look!” She walked
over to one of our shirts, discarded, wrinkled, picked it up off the
floor. “Look how you treat your flight suits! This is unacceptable,
girls!” We shivered under her harsh gaze. “Tiffany!” she barked. “You
are supposed to be the pilot! Where are your panties, young lady?”
“Umm, we were losing altitude,” Tiffany offered sheepishly.
Their eyes seemed to dance as they looked at each other. They were both
nearly the same age. Both of them had absolutely knockout bodies. They
both liked being in charge, and they seemed to sense all this in a
moment, gazing at each other.
“Tiffany, have you ever been in the hands of a professional
dominatrix?” Lisa asked quietly. Tiffany blanched, tried to recompose
herself and failed. Her hands were jittery as she laid them on her
thighs.
“N-No,” Tiffany said. She was afraid, you could hear it in her
voice. But she was also proud, and I felt her unwillingness to back
down from what seemed like a dare.
“Lift up your arms, Tiffany, all the way,” Lisa said, her voice
still low, almost whispering. Tiffany obeyed, her hands shaking
slightly as she raised them above her head. Lisa took the hem of her
shirt and yanked and yanked until the woman’s breasts fell out. Then
she pulled some more and Tiffany’s head reappeared. A moment more and
Lisa had the shirt completely off her. Tiffany settled her hands to her
lap. Lisa regarded her newly revealed bosoms with admiration. “You
have delightful breasts,” she said at last.
“Thank you,” Lisa replied. She did not call her ma’am.
“A bit wilful though, aren’t you?” Lisa asked. She dropped
Tiff’s shirt to the floor as carelessly as we had dropped our own.
Tiffany looked at her. Whether from nervousness or to feign confidence,
Tiffany licked her upper lip. Then she shook her head, once, as if to
clear her hair from her eyes. There was still electricity between them
as they gazed at one another.
“Yes,” was all Tiffany said by way of reply, but it spoke
volumes.
“Please stand, Tiffany,” Lisa said. Tiffany rose. Lisa took
her by the wrist and led her a few steps forward. Tiffany did not offer
any resistance. I watched her in a mirror. Her tongue was lolling
out of her mouth. It was as if she were dumb, or wanting to be. Lisa
walked round behind her, those dark spanish eyes relishing every inch of
Tiffany’s flesh. She squeezed each of Tiffany’s bottom cheeks in turn,
as if weighing them, judging them, counting the ounces of fat that
protected her there. In her other hand she still held the crop.
A shiver ran up Tiffany’s spine. She drew her hands in front
of her, pressed them to the tops of her thighs. Would she try to slake
her desire in front of all the Mexicans? I wondered. Could Tiffany,
the glamour goddess, really touch herself with so many crude and coarse
people watching? She bent forward slightly, dipping her back,
presenting her bottom, pressing her fingers harder into her thighs.
Just inches from her pussy. It was hungry from all our playing.
Pushing, pushing, sighing, pushing harder.
Lisa, meanwhile, was oblivious to Tiffany’s tussle with her
conscience. Or maybe she just didn’t care. She traced the crack of
Tiffany’s bottom with her finger. Tiffany flexed her cheeks once,
otherwise did not resist. Was Tiffany hoping Lisa would make her
choices for her?
With avid pussies we sat watching, wishing the men were still
here. Several of us, including me, stealthily dipped our fingers into
our dells. We glanced at one another, looking down. Watching fellow
fingers going to work. Important work. Let Tiffany wrestle with
herself. We were all younger than she, more natural. She was the head
stewardess. We were just undisciplined helpers.
Mistress turned, saw us. We gasped and withdrew our hands.
But none of us closed our legs. They remained open, our snatches
begging for more. Mistress surveyed our glistening pussies. To our
surprise she said nothing, merely nodded her approval. Then she turned
back to Tiffany.
We were flustered then. It seemed o.k. to frig ourselves when
it was not allowed, had to be done in secret. But to do it openly? How
unladylike! We glanced fretfully at each other.
“Open your legs, Tiffany,” Mistress said to our lovely leader.
Tiffany’s legs were hardly pressed tight, but she widened her stance,
looked questioningly at Lisa. Then she followed the woman’s fingers as
Lisa put them to Tiffany’s slit.
“Oh!” Tiffany gasped. Lisa explored her.
Inspired, I put my hand Sylvia’s slit and rubbed it for her.
Maybe she would do mine also. Instead, she squealed. Mistress turned,
looked. Sylvie put both her hands to her mouth. I withdrew mine, too
late!
“Girls, how indulgent do you think I am?” Mistress scolded,
walking over to us, leaving Tiffany bereft. “Doing yourselves is one
thing, but each other? Do you think we Mexicans have no civilization
down here whatsoever?”
“I-I was just following your example,” I stammered.
“I am preparing Tiffany for discipline,” Lisa replied sternly.
“Is that what you are doing to Sylvia here? Do you intend to play
Mistress behind my back? Is it a coup you are planning, Barbi?”
“N-NO,” I gulped. Tiffany turned, watched mistress. Her eyes
were mirthful. One domme admiring another. And I noticed Tiffany
admiring Mistress’ bottom also. Did she hope to have a turn with the
riding crop? Would they trade off, sharing the crop, until they were
both black and blue?
“M-Ma’am, it is proving to be a rather looong flight,” Sylvia
said. Her eyes stared up at Mistress, large as saucers. Of course I
felt it then. We all felt it, even Tiffany. We had to go to the
bathroom! Sylvia had perhaps just been making an excuse for me,
friendly girl that she was. We’d all been together now long enough to
have gotten into the habit of covering for one another. But once that
dastardly thought got loose, going to the bathroom, it was devastating!
We’d been dizzied by our strange visitors, our new surroundings, by
desire itself. But now we had one overwhelming thought on our mind, and
it was certainly the most unladylike that we’d had all evening. Peeing!
And where was the bathroom? None of us had been down in this
awful basement before, obviously. We played in the sun. We did not
seek out dank underground rooms with God knows what inside them. The
nearest bathroom I could think of was at the other end of the house,
upstairs, by the pool. And then there was one two floors up, near our
bedroom. But down here? And how would we get by all these people?
It was then that a rescuer appeared. He strode forth, dressed
in the attire of a Bullfighter. A breaker and tamer of bulls. But we
were merely she-cows.
“The grandee! The grandee!” I heard whispered in the onlookers
gathered behind me. But how could it be? The grandee was old, this man
was young, and heart-stoppingly handsome!
“Good evening, girls.” He nodded to us deferentially. As if
perhaps he were addressing the Ladies’ Garden Society. We shivered, all
naked and raw and desperate to pee. Tiffany stood with a hand placed
delicately over her pussy, squeezing it as politely as she could, her
thighs squished together. The rest of us looked no better.
“Do you beautiful young women have to go to the bathroom?” the
man asked. Gritting our teeth at the indignity of it all, we nodded.
“Well I am the son of the grandee. His house is mine also, and
everything in it. Including guests. Even undressed guests.” He
smiled. A man’s smile. He might be polite but there were wicked
thoughts up there in that curly-haired head of his. “Please come with
me, girls.”
The mob of primitives behind us let out a murmur of disapproval
as they watched us all stand and begin to follow the young grandee from
the room. He turned to them. He spoke in Spanish. We trooped on past
him, led by Lisa, who apparently knew where he intended for us to go.
We were let through a door and found ourselves in a small but
charming pub. There was nobody inside but ourselves. I gazed at rows
upon rows of smartly arranged glasses. They stood on wooden shelves.
Cherrywood paneling lined the walls of the room. A bar beckoned,
offering stools to rest our tired fannies on. There was a table, too,
perhaps for intimate conversation, surrounded by armless, arrowbacked
chairs. And there were many bottles of liquor, whatever variety you
might wish. Fine for drinking, I thought, but I wanted just the
opposite at the moment.
“Ah, girls,” the young grandee said, entering triumphantly
behind us. He flipped on a T.V. so he could monitor the proceedings in
the other room. I watched as a Spanish man and woman were selected from
the members of the crowd itself. They emerged from it and took our
place in the center of the room. Our chairs were replaced by the guards
with a large sheeted mattress. The man and woman began tenderly
undressing each other. They were young, I realized. Uncertain. It was
their first time together. A forced marriage. Between a king and queen
of the prom, so to speak, voted to be together by the others who now sat
watching them.
“About our potty,” Tiffany finally said, turning her gaze from
the T.V. to the grandee. She was bold, delicious. She tossed her hair
across her shoulders like a young mare, confident and daring. Her eyes
smoldered at him as she held herself in with a hand cupped to her dell.
“My father is a forgetful man,” the grandee smiled at her. He
took up her challenge, but gracefully. “He builds places like this, to
drink in to your heart’s content. But he forgets that what goes in must
come out down below. The most I can offer you is privacy, that’s all.”
Lisa had fetched a popcorn bowl and now held it out to us. “Go in
there,” the grandee said. “I have never seen white girls pee before and
it will amuse me greatly.”
“Well, I for one have to go too badly to argue with a pervert!”
Tiffany snapped. She was not used to being tormented. She was used to
being spoilt by men, plied with favors by them...until they bored her
stiff. Hastily she squatted over the bowl and separated her cunt lips.
Gazing up at the grandee, still defiant, she released her golden rain
into the bowl. The rest of us waited, jittery and urgent. Languidly
Lisa hefted the popcorn bowl, poured it out in a sink, rinsed it and
replaced it on the floor. One by one we relieved ourselves in it until
we were all through. The grandee sat at the table, smoking. His eyes
glittered at our display. Someone thoughtfully wetted a towel and we
passed it from one to another, wiping ourselves. We retreated to
various parts of the bar, some of us sitting on stools, others on the
floor by the T.V. Tiffany casually pulled out a chair at the grandee’s
table and sat down with him. She blushed slightly as he admired her
nudity. Her breasts wobbled on her slim-ribbed chest. They were
swollen and heavy, their nipples sticking up with no hope of being
modest.
“May I buy you a drink?” the grandee asked. He was smooth,
unruffled. An amazing gentleman. Tiffany giggled, a little
embarrassed.
“If you wish,” she said.
“Lisa, please fetch us drinks,” the grandee ordered Mistress,
who sat opposite Tiffany, the two of them sharing him between
themselves.
Ah! Mistress looked taken aback. Tiffany had turned the
tables on her, made HER the slave! Visibly distressed, Lisa rose. As
she passed the grandee she girlishly stuck her tongue out at Tiffany.
We laughed. He looked, had not caught it. Tiffany merely smiled, a cat
with a mouthful of canary.
Amongst ourselves we appointed Amber to get us drinks. She was
young and puritanical. She did not like drinking. Saying it tasted
“yucky” and we shouldn’t be doing it, she whiningly got the glasses for
us anyway. Each of us in turn told her what we wanted. Cheryl saw to
it that she mixed them correctly. She got up on the bar and lounged
along the length of it, stretched out like some lioness at noon.
Watching Amber as one might a cub.
Our hair bedraggled, our bodies shiveringly naked in the cool
room, we nonetheless created for ourselves a sort of little party. We
felt silly, awkward, yet somehow liberated. Except for the grandee and
Lisa, there was nobody here but ourselves. Just us girls, thankyou. No
boys invited. Just our Master, keeping a watchful eye over us. We
giggled and chirped and gossiped. On the T.V. the man and the woman in
the other room lay down on the bed and began making love. Sipping our
drinks, we watched. A microphone picked up their small talk, piped it
into our room. We could not understand what they were saying, but we
could easily guess. The man presented himself to his new Queen. She
opened for him. They merged.
We watched, mesmerized, as the couple began to fuck in
earnest. Their moans flooded the room. I sat on a stool, backwards, to
watch the T.V. The stool had a back to it, for comfort. My legs were
open around the stool’s back. It was shaped in the outline of a heart,
subtly cut so as not to be too obvious. Except for the outline of wood,
heart shaped, the stool had nothing else to offer in the way of back
support. Through this well crafted opening my pussy showed, above it
the smooth outswelling whiteness of my belly. Just above the back of
the chair my breasts dangled, sweetly, as I leaned forward watching the
T.V. My hands, resting on my knees, supported me. I wanted them
elsewhere, though.
All around me the girls were becoming agitated as we watched
the amorous fucking on T.V. Yet, glancing at the grandee for
permission, we met eyes that told us “no.” He would not allow us to
pleasure ourselves, as Mistress had. He expected us to be proper young
ladies in his presence. We must not abuse the little period of
refreshment he was giving us. We could drink, laugh, talk, watch T.V.
But we must not do more. It would be unseemly, yes! American girls
must remember to behave properly when they are in a foreign country.
They should not carouse like rowdy tourists. Far from it! They should
learn the local customs, admire the language, immerse themselves in the
culture and ways of the native people.
Well, we weren’t doing too badly on that last score, I thought
to myself. With my pussy tense and my belly rippling, yearning, my
bottom splayed upon the seat, I leaned closer to the T.V.
“I want to be a mommie,” I thought, watching the Spanish groom
take his newfound bride. She was virgin, seemed too old to be but was.
He speared her, she screamed. I trembled as I watched him rod her, his
shaft thrusting in and out, blooded.
Lisa meant to walk past me. Tiffany, still seated with Master,
had ordered another drink. Lisa stopped, though, next to me, put her
hand on my shoulder. Together we watched as the man in the next room
fucked his bride in earnest.
“It is terrible but beautiful,” Lisa murmured, watching the
bloody prong at its work.
“I know,” I whispered. As we watched she put her hand to my
belly, caressed it.
“Have you ever had a baby?” she asked me.
“No,” I breathed.
“Neither have I,” she said. I put my arm around her waist and
hugged her to me as we watched the grim groom, all business now,
ignoring the bride’s imprecations to desist.
“He must impregnate her, she will conceive,” Lisa said to me.
“I want it,” I gasped.
“I know you do,” Lisa said. Reassuringly she stroked my belly,
as if her love alone could make it rise, bear fruit. She dipped her
finger in my navel, pressed, indenting me further. Alas! She was not
properly equipped and she could not enter there.
“Lisa!” Master called. She left me, went to fetch Tiffany’s
drink. Returning from the bar she winked at me as she passed. My hair
unkempt, my legs open, my tummy yearning I looked back hopefully. I
would have had her as my husband then. She could have taken me, I would
have striven mightily upon any implement she chose to bear a child for
her. Together we could have do it, I was sure. Love would have found a
way.
But she hurried on, went to the Master who withheld his seed,
taunting us. He’d watched us make fools of ourselves, from somewhere,
hidden in the crowd, watched as we’d pranced about in our little
uniforms and then shed them. Watched as we toyed with the men but kept
them from us, mostly, thinking ourselves to be the temptresses. Yet now
he out-tempted us, made us crazy for what only we were supposed to
bestow. We were the bestowers, not the beggars! Only men were supposed
to beg! On bended knee, “Will you marry me?” “I have to shampoo my
hair, come some other time.”
Yet now he held us tight within this room and denied us. He
was Master and we were but little nudie slaves, without clothes and
almost without self-control. Little nudie slaves yearning to do his
bidding.
“Is there any way I could accommodate you, Master?” Tiffany
asked him. Her wide spread eyes gazed at him artlessly. Her hair
tumbled over her shoulders, uncombed. She licked her lower lip. She
held her tongue there, waiting, as if he might wish to plop a cherry on
it. Or a plum. A big plum, yes. With a long, thick stem still
attached.
30
When we were done .
30?
Tiffany--our tit(ular) leader
She came to her senses
Spanish girl came up, sat beside me--a lesbian thespian she could have
said I was so flushed and hot I did not hear
Stand up and confess to him she urged giving my little bottom a hearty
slap. I laughed i could not refuse him... after all...sigh
And oh sir I took drugs in your house I did not resist when they were
offered to me I sobbed a little
He listened to my blushing admission twiddling with my pussy hair all
the while
You girls must rub yourselves for 15 seconds every minute. Igor here
will time you.
breast friend
The problem was that she wore nothing down below. The hem of her shirt
cut across the top of her pubic hair and--driving in a van,
escaping
palming our white bottoms. Getting behind a girl he would stroke her
seat and then grab her hair and push her forward. With her bent over he
would fun his finger down her butt crack and then
ordering the mexican women to bring us things sometimes, or telling them
to go away. We were mistresses at heart, not slave girls; bitchy and
presumptu
They were surly and matter of
My confused welter of thoughts swirled within
marching up the grandee’s lawn subsided soon after. It had been crazy,
thinking to enslave myself to some man! I lay on a towel beside Tiffany
the next day. Our bottoms still glowed from yesterday’s flogging,
though the heat was beginning to subside.
“I love it here, but we simply must get away,” I whispered to
Tiff.
“Don’t worry, I have found a key,” she mouthed back. “To a
van.” Behind us, unhearing, a spanish girl applied ointment to our
bottoms.
The five of us had been pampered all night by young spanish
girls from the village. They’d volunteered for it, they told us. Our
heinies were rubbed with perfumed oils as we lay upon a large bed. Five
across, just like at the wall. The bed was stripped down to just the
covering sheet. The spanish girls cavorted above us. The grandee had
forced them to undress. Their young teats, newly sprouting from their
flat chests, hung clingingly down as they scampered about. The grandee
watched us as the five of us lay there sobbing, holding hands. We still
shivered with need from the effects of the drug, our legs spread
invitingly for any Rameo who might happen by. Finally, stepping close,
the grandee gave us permission to masturbate. Sighing with pent up
relief, not wanting to but having to, we glanced at each other, then
quickly thrust our fingers down our tummies to our cunts. The spanish
girls continued to minister to us, considering our naughtiness to be
quite natural, nothing to be ashamed of. spraying on the first healing
lotions from atomizers, we frigged ourselves silly.
As I jerked my bottom about I thought of the whipping. The
square, with its intense heat, the people, the flies that buzzed close
to inspect our bottoms, just before the rains came. I cherished the
moment, then drove that thought from my head. With a groan I came again
and again, thrashing on the towel, the spanish girls ministering to me,
while all around me my friends came too.
30
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