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From: Andrew Roller <roller39@IDT.NET>
Subject: Aug 9th Honey Haven part 2 of 5 (NND)
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_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
HONEY HAVEN
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Chapter Two
Were we lovers? No, we were not. Definitely not. I was sure
of that. I lay in my bed, my bedsheet quickly pulled up to my chin. I
stared at Dave, my eyes wide, surprised. I realized that my legs were
spread under the sheet and that he could see the outline of them.
Quickly I clipped my thighs together. Teddy cowered beside me, lying on
the big pillow at the head of my bed.
Katrina stood beside Dave. She was dressed in the prim garb of
an eighteenth century lady. He was dressed like an Italian gentleman
from the same period. They were holding hands. Katrina smiled, tossed
her head.
“You’ll be late, sleepyhead,” she said to me casually. Her
eyes showed that she did not really care. She smiled at Dave, squeezed
his hand. He squeezed hers in return. She carried a mask on a stick in
her other hand. It was shapely, made to disguise the eyes. It had dark
gems studding it. They were ersatz, I knew, but they looked real. Her
mask was pink, shading into lavender. It matched her dress, a swirl of
deep pink and light purple, abundant with ruffles, hugging her waist and
her bodice but cascading down over her long slim legs in great brocades
of silk. Underneath, I sensed her legs were bare. It was in the way
she stood, provacative, with her hips thrust forward, as if to invite
one to look, if they could somehow lift the heavy folds of her dress.
She was poised, I knew, on the most delicate of high heels. I’d helped
her pick them out yesterday in a Venetian store. They gripped her small
feet like a china shop owner might clutch at his most precious wares,
afraid to drop them, afraid, despite the closeness of his fingers around
them, to even touch them.
“We didn’t come down here so you could just spend the whole
time sleeping in your bed -- alone,” Dave groused. I think he was a
little angry with me for oversleeping. We had left Heloise three days
earlier, all our assignments complete. We were tourists now. Dave,
Katrina, myself.
I sat up in my bed. My bottom felt smooth and soft against the
sheet underneath. I was wearing a sheer nightie, like the one I’d worn
at Svetlana’s. Dave had bought it for me, yesterday, in a lingerie
store. It was exactly the same as the one he’d taken me in, up my
bottom, except this one was shorter. It covered only the highest curls
in my pubic thatch, leaving all else exposed. In back it covered just
the shelf of my bottom, where it bloomed from my back. My ass cheeks
were quite bare, and he knew it, since he’d picked it out for me, and
‘fitted’ it to me by pressing it up against my clothed body in the
store.
It was warm in the room. We were staying in a cheap hotel. It
had clean sheets, though, and clean rooms, and that was all that really
mattered. An air conditioner set in my wall wheezed, combatting the
warmth of early evening outside. In an hour or two the night would cool
the city, but now the blazing heat of the hot afternoon lingered,
unwilling, like me, to depart.
“Get up, silly! Are you going or not?” Katrina asked
irritably. I wondered what they’d been doing all day. We’d danced the
previous night ‘til dawn. Then we’d stumbled back to our rooms to
sleep. I slept by myself, Katrina and Dave across the hall. It was an
old hotel. Bathrooms were shared between rooms. I shared mine with a
balding middle-aged man who used the toilet to read his mail and woke in
the morning with smoker’s cough. Katrina and Dave, in separate rooms
across the hall, shared the same bathroom. I was beginning to doubt
that they were as careful about their privacy, though, as I was with
mine.
“Well if you leave I’ll get dressed,” I said. I’d already
picked out my clothes for the festival. Long, opera-length gloves,
granny boots, and a dress that hugged my figure like Katrina’s dress
hugged hers. My dress was yellow and green. Underneath mine, though, I
intended to wear panties. No garters, though. Katrina had insisted
that I not be too formal. This was especially true of our breasts. Our
dresses were designed to clutch at our ribs and to rise high on our
backs, where they gripped our narrow shoulders and arms. Despite this
careful layer of covering, though, all frilled silk mixed with ruffles,
the front of each of our dresses was, at the breasts and above,
completely nonexistent. Katrina’s dress at least cupped the undersides
of her breasts. It lifted them unnaturally high. Her bare nipples were
perched just above the lacy top of her dress. In my case, though, my
dress left my breasts quite unsupported and naked. I didn’t know which
dress was worse. Katrina’s, that presented her nipples like ripe
strawberries, or mine, that left my own bosoms completely free, to sway
or wiggle or wobble whichever way they pleased as I walked.
Katrina tossed her head again. She let go of Dave’s hand and
tugged at the veil that shrouded the nakedness of her breasts. It was
separate from her dress, a large, puffy, cloud of fabric that she wore
round her neck. It was held in place round her throat by a slim
thread. It rustled when she moved. Lightly it covered her arms. It
had no sleeves, but lay rather atop her arms, and was tied very
delicately by a single thread to each of her gloved wrists. It was also
tied, by a thread so slim it might break, to the back of her dress. It
was made of diaphanous silk, but folded in on itself again and again, so
that its sheer, playful layers might hide the nudity of her breasts.
Yet in a final touch of decadence, its designer had left it open in
front, with no ties, save that round Katrina’s throat. Whenever she let
go of her shawl-like veil, its halves spread away from each other,
revealing what, through the sheer folds, had already been hinted at:
her naked bosoms. For my dress there was a similar shawl. We would
dance in them, I knew, and in the motions of our dancing we would be
helpless to keep ourselves hidden.
“Dave, she wishes to dress in private,” Katrina told our
friend. She turned to him and kissed him briefly on his lips, careful
not to smudge her lipstick. As she did so, she let her hand touch his
groin. She gave him a gentle squeeze. Then she walked to my bedside.
Dave, enticed, lingered a moment in the doorway. Katrina turned her
head, looked back at him. “Dave,” she snapped, quietly but firmly. He
gave a shrug and turned and walked out to the living room where the
front door to my room lay. I heard him open the outer door, step into
the hall. He closed the door behind himself. I heard him turn the key
in the lock, so no one would walk in on us.
“He has my room key!” I said to Katrina.
“He found it on the bureau in the living room,” Katrina said.
“You know how guys are. You can insist he give it back later.” Gently
she took the sheet from my fists under my chin. She drew it off my
body. “It might be safer in his hands for awhile, anyway,” Katrina said
to me. “You don’t have any pockets in your dress.”
“But I can put it in my purse,” I told her.
“No purse tonight, silly,” Katrina told me. “For me or you.
Just give anything you think you’ll need to Dave. He’ll keep it for
you.”
“But I don’t want Dave carrying around my things for me!” I
said, stubbornly. Katrina ignored my response. Instead her eyes
flitted down the nude expanse of my body. My nightie hid nothing. My
flesh could be seen underneath it, deeply tanned, from my toes to my
head, except where I wore my bikini when I was posing for Eveline
Elginton on the beach. There I was white, round my breasts and in a
band that stretched across my pubic hair at my hips, and on my bottom.
Katrina gazed at my bush, drew the sheet back more, revealed my bare
legs.
“Roll over,” she said.
“Huh?” I replied. My eyes were still wide from waking up to
Dave.
“Roll over,” Katrina said again. She took me by my slim
shoulders and turned me in my bed. I gave a squeak, then cooperated,
until I was flat on my tummy, my chin resting on my pillow. My palms
flitted at my sides, uncertain.
Katrina pressed her palms into the flesh of my bottom. I
squeaked again. “Well, you’re nice and healed,” she said. She spoke of
my ordeal under the cat at Svetlana’s. “How’s your hole feel?”
“Good,” I replied. A bubble formed on my lips as I spoke. I
felt babyish. I wished she’d quit touching my bottom but I liked, all
the same, being pampered by her hands in such an intimate place. She
eased my cheeks apart. Perhaps I needed to be checked. In my hole.
Dave had been rude to take me that way. Katrina was 16. She could
check me and tell me I was okay. It had been my first time. Between my
legs, where it really mattered, I was still virgin. I liked that. I
had endured Dave, and suffered under his intrusion, and yet, I was still
pure. Virginal. I wriggled my hips against the bed. I arched them. I
slipped my hands underneath me. I touched myself between my legs. My
lips felt squelchy, wet.
“Why didn’t you go to Rome with Steve?” Katrina asked me.
“I dunno,” I answered. The pressure of the pillow on my chin,
enveloping my jaw, made my speech slurred. But I did know, didn’t I? I
touched myself. My spot. My virginity. We would have been alone, he
and I. There would have been a honeymoon suite and we would not have
emerged from it for days. I would not be a virgin now, if I’d gone to
Rome with him. Instead I’d accompanied Katrina and Dave. Well, it had
really been me and Katrina, going by ourselves, just us two girls, and
then somehow, at the last moment, after Steve had already left with
another model, his second choice for his Roman honeymoon, Dave had
showed up. Katrina and I had been stepping into a cab with our things,
and there he was, suddenly, holding the door open for us as Heloise, on
the mansion’s porch, waved goodbye. The cabbie came round from the
trunk where he’d stowed our luggage, and Dave handed him his suitcase.
“What’s the matter, can’t get a date?” Katrina had asked Dave
as I slipped within the cab.
“You both can’t just go to Venice by yourselves,” Dave had
replied. “Two girls, both underage, who’ve never been there -- with no
chaperone? I won’t allow it.”
“He can be our guide,” I’d called from inside the cab,
foolishly. I had been a little worried about being alone with just
Katrina in Venice. Sure, we had plenty of money from our modelling
(especially from what Svetlana had sent us), but that was my worry. Two
girls, loaded with cash, wandering around Venice all by ourselves. Dave
seemed to me a sensible companion. He knew I didn’t like him but that I
respected him, and he’d already had his thing up me, so I felt like he
was, maybe, just a little obligated to look after us. Of course I had
no intention of allowing him to get himself in me again. Once was
enough with somebody like him, big and rude and gruff and spoiled rotten
from being a handsome model all his life. But he did owe me, I felt,
and we needed somebody big like him. Not Steve. Steve was too boyish,
too easily outwitted by the cons and crooks we might meet in Venice, not
to mention that he was less strong than Dave. Steve was cute, he had a
nice male body, but Dave was big, like a monster in some ways, I
thought, which was just what we needed to keep us safe in Venice.
And so Dave had come along. I fondled my slit as I thought of
how safe I felt with him. Katrina and I could go anywhere, and we
already had, exploring even the meanest streets, plus of course the
wonderful sights. With Dave by our side we didn’t have to worry at
all. Guys got out of the way for him. Men with evil intentions
straightened up when they saw him sit down next to us in a restaurant.
I felt wetness on my fingertips and remembered last night, before we
went dancing, how Katrina and I had gone into a small cafe and Dave had
gone immediately to use the restroom. Some guys had been watching us,
from another table. Then Dave showed up, sat down between us, and the
guys’ faces fell.
I felt a light slap on my bottom. It intruded into my thoughts
and I let out a small yelp.
“Don’t play with yourself,” Katrina said in an amused voice.
“Sowwy,” I replied. My voice lisped in my pillow.
“What were you thinking about?” Katrina asked suspiciously.
“Nuthin’,” I breathed, softly. My breath was pregnant with
desire. I sighed, lifting my bottom. Katrina slapped it again.
“Ow! Quit it!” I cried. I rolled over onto my back. My
breasts rolled on my chest, fell away from each other under my nightie.
Their tips were stiff, lifting the nightie up from the tips of my
bosoms.
“Let’s get you dressed so you can go out and party with
everyone else,” Katrina said to me. Her eyes gazed at mine. “You don’t
want to lie in bed by yourself all night, do you?”
“No,” I replied.
“Good,” Katrina said. Expertly she took my shoulder and forced
me to sit up. My bottom felt good, pressed once more into the
bedsheet. She couldn’t slap me there now.
“How long will the party last?” I asked.
“It’s the first night of the Carnival. It should last all
night,” Katrina answered. “We’ll ride in a gondola and go dancing and
feasting. There will be parties all over town and, dressed in our
costumes, we shouldn’t have any trouble getting in anywhere, at least
that’s what Dave says.” She drew me from the bed, but I resisted a
little, and sat with my legs dangling over its side. My bare feet
swayed in the air, too short, despite my long legs, to touch the floor.
“Dave’s pretty cool, don’t you think?” Katrina asked me. “I
mean, we would have just checked into some five star hotel, and spent
all our money, but he knew of this out of the way place, with its big
rooms, and its inexpensive rates. And now we get to party all over
town, without paying anything.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “I’m saving my money for college.” I pulled
at the pink silk hanging rather uncertainly off my shoulders, cloaking
my tits in its nothingness, letting them be seen while pretending to
hide them. “And nighties,” I added. Katrina bent and tugged at the hem
of my nightie. It barely covered my belly, leaving my furred private
all exposed between my thighs.
“Why did you let Dave pick this out for you?” Katrina asked
testily. “It doesn’t even cover your pussy.”
“I know,” I answered.
“Tsk,” Katrina said, trying in vain to pull my nightie down
over my delta. “If you let Dave pick out your clothes for you, dear,
you’ll wind up buying nothing but this sort of thing.”
“Well, he helped us pick our dresses,” I said. I cast a glance
at mine, waiting to be put on, hanging from a hanger in the open closet
of my room.
“That’s different,” Katrina said. “This is a festival. We
have to wear costumes. He’s been to the festival before and knows how
we should dress.”
“Do I get to wear a bra with my dress?” I asked. I opened my
thighs as I spoke. I felt naughty, showing my breasts like I would in a
dress like that.
“No,” Katrina replied. “You know that. The party’s all about
being uninhibited.” She smiled at me. She shook her hips slightly.
“Sexy and free,” she added.
“Have you and Dave been doing it?” I asked her, seriously.
Katrina frowned.
“That’s our own personal business,” she said. She tossed her
head. She urged me from the side of the bed and I dropped my feet to
the floor and stood up. “Maybe we have, and maybe we haven’t,” she
said.
“I’ll bet you’ve at least shared a shower,” I said to her
accusingly. Katrina blushed, slightly.
“Come on, Cindy,” she said, changing the subject. “You do want
to bathe before you go out again, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course,” I replied.
“Well hurry up. Your roommate isn’t reading his mail on the
toilet right now. Get in there before he decides to make the bathroom
his second home again.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “He can take forever in there. Sometimes I
have to knock really loudly! And all the while I can hear him sitting
in there, flipping pages and stuff, and opening envelopes. And he
grunts sometimes too. I don’t know what could be so exciting about
getting some envelopes and some magazines in the mail.”
Katrina gave a smile that seemed like a knowing smile, but said
nothing. She walked with me to the bathroom I shared with the man next
door. It sat between my bedroom and his. It was old, large, with a
commode with an overhead tank and a claw-footed bathtub. It had once
been ornate, but now its tiles bore cracks and its walls, once painted
with bright designs, had faded. Still, it was clean. It had an odd
sensuality about it, a reminder of Venice’s ancient past, when my room
would have included both my suite and the other man’s. Grand rooms with
high ceilings, a private bath, everything new then, and bearing the most
lavish appointments. I could tell how this hotel had once been. I
liked thiking of the lords and ladies who must have stayed here once,
long ago, and how this hotel might have been used for their private
assignations.
“Hurry,” Katrina told me, giving me a pat on my bottom. “Dave
is already floating around in our gondola.”
“Is it here?” I asked, a note of excitement in my voice. Dave
had taken us in one yesterday and I’d liked it very much.
“I’m sure he’s busy renting one right now,” Katrina said. “You
know how handsome he is. He’ll find two other girls to accompany him if
we don’t hurry.”
“Okay,” I agreed. I pulled my nightie over my head. I tossed
it on the floor, unthinking, despite its expense, eager to hurry now,
lest I miss a gondolo ride. I got a towel from the bathroom closet
while Katrina turned on my bath. The old pipes leading into the tub
guttered, wheezed. A moment later a flow of water spouted from the
tub’s faucet. It was clean and fresh and frothing, despite what you
sometimes hear about Venice not being the tidiest place. Katrina
adjusted the tub’s handles. She picked up a Mr. Bubble I’d bought for
my baths and sprinkled some in. I was ready now, my clothes off and my
bare feet cold on the bathroom’s tiles, eager to jump into the tub’s
warm water.
“Don’t splash around,” Katrina told me. “The man complained to
me and Dave last night when he met us in the hall.”
“Oh, he thinks I’m just a baby,” I replied.
“Well, I guess he’s decided you’re not responsible,” Katrina
said, watching me test the water’s temperature with my toes. “He said
he thought Noah’s Ark was going to come sailing up the canal behind our
hotel, from all the water you left on the floor of the bathroom.”
“I was playing,” I said. I stepped over the rim of the tub
with my other foot, satisfied with the water’s temperature. The bubbles
in the tub rose around my ankles.
“Oh, what were you playing?” Katrina asked. I blushed. I
tugged at the small rope around my neck. Dave had tied it there when we
first arrived in Venice. A small rope, completely unpretentious, that
lay tight around my neck and that had been securely knotted in back so
that it could only be removed with a knife. Its ends were frayed,
hanging down my back just an inch or so, like a collar one might find on
a puppy whose master, either from poverty or disdain, prefers to secure
with a length of rope out of his woodshed, rather than a leather collar
bought from a store. Dave had tied one around Katrina’s neck as well as
my own.
“I had to be, well, disciplined,” I said. I promptly sat down
in the shallow tub water the minute I’d spoken. I pressed my into the
tub’s bottom, feeling the slickness of its white porcelian.
Katrina laughed. “You pretend to be so modest and then that’s
what you play when you’re locked away in the bathroom, by yourself?”
I blushed more fiercely. “No,” I said. “It’s just, I
wondered, that’s all. Wondered what it would be like if that man came
in the bathroom and tied me to the faucet and spanked me with his
belt.” Katrina was still laughing. A blush covered all of me, I think,
right down to my toes. I picked up the bath sponge and rubbed my arm.
“Hurry and I’ll do your makeup for you after your bath,”
Katrina told me. “And then I’ll get you into your dress.”
“Who helped you into yours?” I asked her.
“A very thoughtful person,” Katrina replied. Her eyes glowing.
“Well it must not have been Dave then,” I said. Dave was
somewhat less than the perfect gentleman I expected a man of his age to
be, though he tried, I guess, and he wouldn’t have been as good a
protector of us if he was too gentle. Katrina drifted over to the
bathroom’s sink and opened the medicine cabinet above it. All my makeup
stuff was in there. The man hadn’t seem to like that I stored my stuff
in the bathroom, instead of keeping it in my room. But he had his
laxative and his antacid pills in there, so naturally I thought I might
put my stuff there too.
“When did you need Pepto-Bismol?” Katrina asked me.
“That’s not mine,” I answered, raising suds on my breasts.
“It’s the man’s.”
“Oh,” Katrina said. “You know we’re only going to be here a
few days. You might lose this stuff if the man checks out and somebody
else checks into his room.”
“No,” I said. “I think he lives here. He told me he’s an
executive of some kind -- for a beer company I think -- he said this is
a great place to stay if you don’t want to have to rent a house while
you’re in Venice, or stay in some expensive hotel room.”
“Oh well, then I guess you can leave your stuff here,” Katrina
said. “Though I doubt he liked seeing you put it all here. Do you
still use a Barbi compact?” She laughed.
“Sure,” I said, scrubbing my pussy. “It works. Why not?”
“I’m sure he loved seeing this,” Katrina said. “A
Winnie-the-Pooh toothbrush.”
“That’s not Winnie-the-Pooh, that’s Piglet,” I said. “I like
him. He’s little like me and doesn’t know as much as Winnie and
Tigger. I almost bought Tigger, though. I like him too ‘cause he’s
fast and does lots of stuff.”
Katrina turned toward me, holding up my toothbrush. “I’ll bet
that man thinks you’re in the third grade,” she said in a slightly
reproving voice to me.
“Well, then he won’t try to sneak into my room when I’m
asleep,” I answered matter-of-factly.
“That’s probably what you need,” Katrina said, twirling my
toothbrush in her fingers and looking at it. “A daddy like him to spank
your bottom and make you grow up.”
I lifted one of my legs out of the still rising tub water and
began scrubbing my knee. “He’s too fat,” I said. Katrina turned and
replaced my toothbrush in the toothbrush rack in the medicine cabinet.
The man’s, next to whose I’d placed mine, had since disappeared. I
guess he kept his toothbrush in his room now. Maybe he didn’t like
Piglet.
Katrina closed the bathroom cabinet. She’d taken out my hair
brush, and she languidly began brushing her hair with it. She stared at
her made-up face in the cabinet’s mirror.
“I don’t like people using my hair brush,” I called to her from
my now quite bubbly tub.
“Well, mine’s locked in my room, and Dave has the key to it,”
Katrina told me. “Anyways we’ve already shared a little more than your
hairbrush, at Svetlana’s.” I said nothing. I remembered our tryst
there. It had been strange, exploring another girl that way, my muff in
her mouth, hers in mine. I’d cum like never before on her tongue, as
she’d tried to devirginate me with it.
“Do you think we’ll meet any cool guys at the Carnival?” I
asked Katrina.
“We’ll meet lots,” Katrina answered, still brushing her hair.
“How many do you want to meet?”
“Lots,” I replied. Katrina giggled.
Suddenly there was a sound of water gushing from a container.
Katrina whirled around. “Cindy!” she cried. “Why didn’t you turn off
the water?”
“Ooops! Sorry!” I said. I leaned forward and gripped the
handles of the tub’s faucet.
“Hurry!” Katrina said. “You’re flooding the bathroom!” Water
continued to pour over the sides of my tub, carrying all my bubbles with
it.
“I know! I know!” I answered. The tub’s handles were big in
my hands. I twisted them. They moved slowly, graciously, as if to move
more quickly would show disrespect to the princes and queens who once
bathed here.
“Oh, my!” I heard Katrina say. Hastily she lifted up her
skirts so they wouldn’t become wet in the water. Her stiletto heels
barely kept her feet from being submerged. She advanced, then had to
back up, retreating away from me as my bathwater followed her across the
room, threatening to wet her feet. “My God, it will take hours to mop
all this up!” Katrina said. She retreated further as I struggled with
the tub’s old, slow handles. They squeaked irritably as I turned them.
Katrina fled from the bathroom entirely. The water followed her into my
bedroom.
“You do need to be disciplined,” Katrina said to me later, when
we were both in our costumes. Our heels clattered under our skirts as
we descended the hotel’s broad, winding staircase. The steps were old,
squeaky, but still firm underfoot. An elderly woman, sitting doing
knitting in a chair behind the front counter that served as the hotel’s
check-in desk, looked up.
“Could you send someone up to her room?” Katrina asked the
woman. The ancient clerk put her knitting needles into her lap. She
cupped her hand behind her ear. She leaned forward in her chair. “Room
2B,” Katrina told her. We’d heard the man coming back to his room as we
finished dressing in my room, avoiding the puddles my bath had made. I
knew we didn’t have much time to get help for the bathroom before the
man decided to use the toilet. “Her room is 2B,” Katrina said to the
woman. “She couldn’t get her bath off and the bathroom has water all
over the floor.”
“And lots of bubbles too,” I added. Katrina glanced angrily at
me, silencing me.
“And her room, the floor needs to be mopped,” Katrina told the
woman. “Some of the water flooded her bedroom too.”
“EEEEEYAAAHHH!” We both heard suddenly. Even the old woman
heard it. Immediately there was a loud thump on the ceiling above us.
“What was that?” I asked, wide-eyed. I looked at the woman, at
Katrina. It sounded like something heavy had just dropped into the
hotel’s second floor. I imagined a U.F.O., or maybe an asteroid. I’d
seen a show on Italian T.V. about asteroids. I didn’t know what the
announcer was saying, but he’d showed a house where an asteroid had come
crashing down from space, right through the ceiling.
“The fat guy just slipped in your bathroom,” Katrina told me.
She still looked angry. Even angrier than before.
“Ooops,” I said. I looked down at my toes. They were hidden
beneath my skirt.
“God Damn Fucking--” I heard a deep male voice hollar from the
second floor. Suddenly, there was another scream, and another loud
thump.
“I’ll bet he makes me take my Piglet toothbrush out of the
medicine cabinet now,” I told Katrina.
“Never mind your toothbrush,” Katrina said tersely. “Anyway
the tub’s broken and it flooded her bathroom and I guess you might need
an ambulance too,” Katrina told the woman behind the desk. Then she
took my hand and we hurried through the lobby to the back of the hotel,
where Dave was waiting, hopefully, for us in the canal with a getaway
gondola.
We floated languidly on the canal. Its waters lapped quietly
against the buildings alongside it as we passed. They were old, each
one made of bricks and mortar, or stone. Behind us the gondolier rowed
our gondola. We approached a stone bridge. Costumed revellers stood
atop it. They leaned out over the bridge’s parapet and offered
handfulls of confetti to us. It sprinkled down, we passed into it, like
into snow. I stuck out my tongue and caught one of the colored bits of
paper on it. Katrina, mischievously, opened her veil and let them see
her bared bosom.
She told Dave of how I’d let the water run over the tub into
the bathroom. He looked at me, as if sizing me up. I shrank a little
under his gaze. “And the man came back, and he tried to use the toilet,
and he fell -- twice,” Katrina said to Dave. She held up two fingers to
emphasize what, no doubt, had proven to be two quite painful falls for
my overweight neighbor. Dave grunted, nodded.
“We can help her learn to behave better,” Dave said. He
grinned at me. I didn’t like his grin. He had his arm around both
myself and Katrina, sitting between us. The gondolier behind us began
to sing. It was a romantic song, but I didn’t feel to romantic with
Katrina telling Dave how I’d been bad.
Nothing more was said, however, at least not on that subject,
and we floated from one canal to another as the gondolier took us on a
watery tour of the city. Dave and Katrina chatted. Dave told us about
the city’s seedier past and I blushed a little when he glanced over at
me, speaking of how lords and ladies had once held great orgies atop the
cities’ roofs, out in the warm summer air, under the stars.
“Of course, only the elite were invited to such festivities,”
Dave said. “But the whole city, I’m sure, could hear the screams of the
ladies and the grunts of the men as they fucked away in each other’s
arms until dawn.” He looked again at me. “It was before electricity,”
he said. “And they’d pick a moonless night, so they could rut without
being seen, except perhaps by starlight. But it was always on one or
two of the tallest buildings. And it would happen at Carnival time,
when there was much merriment in the streets below, and even if people
did hear screaming, which they certainly must have, they took less note
of it than they would have on a night when the city lay asleep.”
“You sound like you went to some of those orgies,” I told him.
I bumped his side with my elbow. “You’re certainly old enough.” Dave
frowned. Katrina let out a gay laugh.
“She’s right, you know, Dave,” Katrina said. “I think I see a
wrinkle on your forehead.” She reached up and touched a gloved finger
to his face.
“I’m not THAT old,” Dave harrumped. “For those days or to have
wrinkles. I’m only in my 20’s.”
“Still you’re older than me,” I replied. I flexed my back and
felt my bare, pert breasts rise as I arched my chest. I was secretly
glad they were naked. I could feel their freedom under my shawl and I
wanted to open myself to the sky, to let whomever might wish to gaze at
my young tits and handle them with lust. I could feel the tips risen
and stiff. The shawl opened. It had no tie, save that round my neck,
in its front. Hastily I gripped it with my hand, lest the gondolier,
leaning forward, catch sight of them.
“Here is the restaurant where we’ll be eating,” Dave said. Our
gondola approached a building with terraced steps. They led right down
to the water of the canal. The lowest steps were submerged. Above, on
an open portico, I saw diners. They were all in costumes. Candles
glowed on their tables. I saw a trio of violin players drifting between
the tables, playing soft music.
Our gondola bumped against the restaurant’s steps. The
gondolier came foward to help us, but Dave beat him, leaping up and
expertly passing out of our craft to the steps without rocking our
boat. He turned, tipped the tri-cornered hat he wore, then leaned down
and reached for Katrina’s hand. She extened it. He urged her to her
feet. Rising, she permitted him to escort her from our craft. I
followed, helped by Dave and the gondolier. I was younger and more
unsteady on my high heels, especially in a boat, than Katrina was.
Nonetheless we both gained the firmness of the stone steps. It felt
good to stand on them. Dave placed an arm round Katrina’s waist, then
mine. He walked us up the steps and into the open-air restaurant.
After dinner we danced, slow dancing, to the tunes of the
violin players. A string quartet joined them, adding music from a
stage. At first Katrina danced with Dave, then I did. Then a man,
letting go of his wife after a dance, approached me. He asked me to
dance and I said ‘yes.’ As he offered me his hands and I reached for
them, my shawl opened. He gasped as he saw the nakedness of my
breasts. Quickly I pressed my chest to his to hide my nudity from the
crowd. My arms, caped in the shawl, kept me from being seen behind the
concealing billows of silk. His shirt was white and crisp. It felt
good against my nipples. I let my head rest on the upper part of his
chest. He gazed down at me, wondering at my youth, my boldness. I
looked up at him and smiled.
“I like your costume,” the stranger said to me.
“I like yours,” I answered. I could feel the jutting of his
thing in the groin of his Colonial-style breeches. He wore boots on his
calves. They were black and well-polished. He stepped carefully as we
danced so as not to step on my small, pretty feet under my skirts.
We parted when the tune ended. I closed my shawl with my hand
before anyone could see how naked I was. They might, if the light were
strong, see my nipples through the sheer billows, but in this restaurant
it was too dark. Candlelight was its only illumination. The man gazed
at me. I smiled, turned, found another stranger waiting hopefully for
my hand. I accepted. He gasped as the first had done, as I raised my
hands to take his. I liked the feel of his crisp new shirt too.
We departed from the restaurant. We floated through a crowd of
gondolas now. The city was busy with life. I saw all sorts of
costumes. Women wore masks with flamingo’s feathers, or the feathers of
eagles. Katrina and I used ours only sparingly, too delighted by what
we saw to try peeking at it from behind a mask’s eyeslits. I saw a
woman with a long cape, open in front, and under it she wore only a
sheer pantsuit. It was all silk and decorated with a patterned design.
Another woman wore a sumptous blue coat. It looked like a fur coat but
it was made entirely of blue feathers. She was standing in her gondola
and under the coat, which extended to just her waist, she wore a cape,
and under that a thigh-length negligee. It was sheer, and hung open in
front, just like her cape and her feathery coat. Under it she was bare,
save for a lingerie bra and panties. They were blue, semi-sheer, richly
patterned with lace. I looked at her naked legs, her bare tummy. She
caught my eye, smiled. Then she slipped her mask in front of her face,
hiding her eyes. But the rest of her remained on view to whomever might
care to gaze at her lovely figure.
Katrina reached across Dave’s lap. She put her hand between
his legs, which were casually spread, and squeezed his crotch. Dave
grunted. The woman smiled, seeing it, though she kept her mask over her
eyes.
“You’re looking at that woman, aren’t you?” Katrina asked.
“Uh, yeah, how’d you guess?” Dave replied. Katrina massaged
the bulge where his prick was straining to release itself from his
pants. He wore Colonial breeches, like the man who’d danced with me.
“She’s lovely, and has a beautiful costume,” Katrina said. I
sensed a hint of jealousy in her voice. Our gondola approached the
woman and her two lovers. I saw she was young, perhaps as young as
Katrina and myself. Both the men were much older. She stood between
them, and at first I envied her, thinking her the wise owner of two
perfect studs. Then I realized that perhaps it was they who owned her.
There was a collar around her neck and one of the men held a leash in
his hand that connected to her collar. The other man, garbed like a
prince on his way to his stables for a bit of evening riding, held a
long, whippy crop.
“Together we would exactly equal each other,” Dave called to
the trio.
“Yes we would,” one of the men grinned back. The young woman
looked from Dave’s crotch to Katrina and I. Katrina drew back her hand,
replaced it on her lap. Dave’s bulge remained in the front of his
pants. He did not close his legs to hide it.
“We’re going dancing,” the man with the leash said. He nodded
behind himself, toward a building with flashing lights on his exterior.
“Club Go,” it said in bright letters. Sound from its interior drifted
out across the water of the Grand Canal. It was modern-sounding, not
slow and romantic like the music we’d danced to after dinner.
“We’re going there too,” Dave replied. Our gondola passed
theirs. I glanced back. I saw the man with the crop lift the back of
the young woman’s cape, her coat, her negligee. Then the other man, the
one with the leash, grabbed her panties from behind and yanked them down
to her thighs.
“Look!” I breathed, as I saw her white nether cheeks exposed to
my view. Dave turned. Katrina turned. Suddenly the man with the crop
drew it back and applied a single, swift loud CRACK! to the behind of
the woman. She shrieked. Her voice carried across the water of the
canal. As soon as the blow had been delivered, the man with the crop
let go of her clothing. As quickly as she’d been bared, she was
covered, except for the panties which I knew must still ring her thighs,
under her negligee and her cape and her coat. Unsteadily the woman sat
down in the gondola. The two men sat down beside her. Their gondolier,
as if nothing had happened, began singing a slow, romantic song. Their
craft began a meandering turn and shortly was following us toward the
nightclub. Partiers in the other boats, momentarily distracted, glanced
toward the sound of the shriek, saw nothing, save a slowly moving boat
with a happy, singing gondolier and three occupants. Did they know?
Had any of them seen what I’d seen? I couldn’t be sure. Perhaps,
perhaps not. I guessed not. It had been to brief, too quick. Other
people were standing in their gondolas, to talk or to throw confetti out
on the water. Others were sitting. The festivities continued.
Our gondola arrived at the landing of the Club. Dave got out,
then helped Katrina, then me. The gondola with the girl who’d been
whipped pulled up behind ours. I saw her struggling to get her panties
back up, under her many outer garments, before she was required to stand
up and get out. She succeeded, the men seemed not to notice, or to
care. She adjusted her bottom on the seat she shared with them. When
one of the men rose from her gondola, stepped out, and then turned to
help her out in turn, she seemed relieved at the opportunity to rise and
get off her seat. As she stepped from the gondola the other man, behind
her, gave her a friendly push on her ass. She winced. I looked at
her. Her eyes met mine and she blushed.
“You have cruel boyfriends,” I said to her as she approached
me. She was blonde, like me, almost my same height but a little
taller. She had promient breasts like my own. They pushed out between
the open halves of her garments. I envied her bra. I had none. Hers
was quite pretty. I knew it would fit me if I wore it.
“I know,” she answered. She would have stepped closer to me,
perhaps for solace, but one of her boyfriends caught at her leash and
pulled it tight. She stopped in mid-step, yanked back by her neck.
Then he turned, handed something to their gondolier. I imagined it was
a large tip. Dave tipped ours. He said ‘thank you’ in Italian. “I
only just met them too,” the young woman said to me. She lifted a
finger to her throat and pulled with it at the leather collar that bound
her neck. I saw it was a dog’s collar.
We walked across the club’s landing to its front door. Three
men, three women, forming two mis-matched couples by gender, all of us
costumed. The doorman took money from Dave. He seemed not to mind my
age, or not to notice. We slipped inside. The couple behind us, with
their female on a leash, passed the doorman as easily as we had. It was
Carnival. The rules that might rein at other times had been suspended.
The interior of the club pulsed with life. I saw both costumed
dancers and casually-dressed tourists. They intermingled, easily,
dancing with each other as if all dressed alike. A flash of light
struck my breasts and illuminated my nipples. It passed away, just as
quickly, but another followed soon, in time with the music, briefly
showing my nudity to the crowd. We walked onto the dance floor. We
were eager to dance. I began dancing with Katrina and Dave, as before,
but a young man intruded and lured me away. He seemed surprised when a
beam of pulsating light illuminated my nipples under my silken shawl. I
smiled. I glanced at his legs and saw he was indiscreet, himself.
There was a huge bulge in the front of his pants.
“Did you bring your kitchen sink along?” I asked chidingly,
feeling mischievous. He followed my eyes. He saw himself. The
tightness in the front of him pants must have been killing him.
“I wish I could dance like you,” he said, lifting his eyes to
my breasts. I smiled, let go of my shawl. It fell open and my breasts
showed themselves. They swung and bounced as I danced with vigorous
speed. My hips pushed forward, drew back, gyrated. I felt my skirts
modestly swirling around my feet while my breasts jiggled wildly on my
chest. Others looked, I did not mind. I saw another woman with her
breasts bared like mine were. It was fun. It was permissible, at
Carnival.
I did not leave any hearts unbroken. I danced with every man
who asked, dumping him as quickly as I’d let him into my life, so I
could meet still more men. The music filled my ears and vibrated inside
my body. I saw the young woman who’d been whipped out on the canal.
She was dancing, happy now. Her leash hung free from her body. It
whipped about as she danced, striking others. They seemed too entranced
with her beauty, with the seductiveness of her costume, to mind. I saw
Katrina too, dancing with Dave a lot, but not always. Once I saw her
dancing with one of the men who’d cropped the girl in the gondola. She
let her nipples show. They looked like twin treats, perched up above
her bra, pushed up so that no eye, however unobservant, could miss
them. Her nipples were stiff.
The man with the crop, which he now had thrust through a belt
round his waist, so he could dance, pulled Dave aside. I saw him
whisper into Dave’s ear. Dave nodded. When there was a break in the
music they walked over to me.
“Where’s Katrina?” Dave asked.
“Over there,” I said, pointing. She was dancing with the man
who had been fond of the feathery girl’s leash.
“Annabelle, come,” the man with the crop called out. I saw the
girl in the feathery coat turn. She bade goodbye to the young man she’d
been dancing with. She crossed the dance floor, weaving through the
crowd of dancers.
“Yes?” Annabelle asked pertly. She lifted her eyes to the man
with the crop as a child might, obedient.
“We will go now,” the man replied.
“We will go with them,” Dave told me. He gestured toward the
man with the crop. “This is Carl,” he said. The other man, with
Katrina, came up beside us. “And this is Jake,” he said. I nodded, not
sure what to do. I wished to keep dancing, but I seemed not to have
been asked for my opinion. Katrina took my hand and looked at me
anxiously.
“Where are we going?” I asked her.
“Downstairs,” she said in a hushed voice.
“Can we dance downstairs?” I asked, curious.
“Yes. Yes you can,” Jake grinned at me. But I didn’t like his
smile, for some reason, and looked quickly away. He grasped Annabell’s
leash and urged her forward.
We walked through the club. At the rear, through the parting
of people as we made our way, there appeared a door. It was painted
green and had a doorman standing by it. He looked at me rather
suspiciously, then at Katrina, at Dave. Dave pulled out some bills and
paid him. Overpaid him, perhaps. The doorman opened the door for us.
We passed through to a flight of steps. They descended down a narrow
staircase. There was no railing, just the steps, and steeply rising
walls on either side of them. A single bare bulb, hanging from the
ceiling, illuminated the passageway. Dave went first. He made Katrina
hold his hand so she wouldn’t fall. I held Katrina’s other hand,
following her. I heard the two men and Annabell come through the door
behind us. I turned once, briefly. I saw an ashen look on Annabell’s
face. It made me shiver. Why was she sad? We’d been admitted. We
were going to dance more privately, that was all. There was no need to
be sorry about it. Perhaps this was a more exclusive place we were
going to, surely it must be. I liked dancing. It didn’t matter to me
where I danced, so long as I could.
As we descended the steps I realized we were climbing down
below the surface of the canal to our rear. I hoped it would stay in
its place. I didn’t want to find myself being flooded, down here, like
I’d flooded the bathroom at the hotel.
Dave opened a door at the base of the steps. We went in. Him
first, then Katrina. At once I heard her gasp, sharply. Yet, still
holding her hand, I allowed her to pull me in behind her.
My God! I couldn’t believe my eyes! I saw we were in a large,
bare room. Its walls were as bare as the walls of the steps we’d just
descended. In the middle of the room was a large stone block. A nude
girl was stretched across it. Her hair was coiffed, pinned up neatly,
and her face was painted as prettily as mine, I saw, when she turned her
head to look behind herself. But the similarity between us ended
there. Her dress, which she’d apparently been wearing, was held by a
costumed woman. She had it folded over her arms. The girl on the block
was on her knees. Her arms were chained to manacles in front of the
block. They were made of old, rusted iron, but they seemed to hold her
fast all the same. I saw someone had made her don cotton wristlets, as
if she were going out for a round of tennis. They protected her wrists
and kept them from chafing against the rusted iron. Behind her, her
legs were also bound. They were forced apart in a wide vee. Her fig
nestled tightly between her splayed thighs. Its only covering was a
light fringe of pubic hair. The room was brightly lit, especially where
they block lay. The poor girl had no hope of remaining modest. Her
ankles, like her wrists, were banded with small cotton bands, to protect
her from the rusted iron manacles which held her feet. She looked
straight at me. I don’t think she even noticed me, though, for she was
trying to see the brutish man who stood behind her. In contrast to her
lily-white skin, he was tanned and swarthy. He had on a hood, masking
his face, but from the rough, gnarled look of his limbs, the excessive
hairiness of them, I guessed he was no handsomer under his hood than he
was across the rest of his body. He was tall, but stocky, and seemed
most disagreeable to me, for he wore an undershirt, stained with sweat,
and had a fat belly. He reminded me of sergeants in the Army, strong
but fat too, a sort of sergeant-biker, with his fat belly and his black
hood and the tight black pants he wore. They ended at his knees,
leaving his calves bare. His calves were as hairy as the rest of him.
On his feet he had boots, but they lacked polish and ended round his
ankles, like short little galoshes a pervert might wear, exposing
himself on dark nights in the park.
Two men, gaily costumed, and much better looking than the
executioner (for what else could he be, with his hood?) checked the
bonds of the girl over the block. She struggled. It was hopeless. A
woman in the crowd laughed, not without pleasure, at her struggles.
Under the girl’s belly someone had placed a worn cushion. But her
breasts dangled free, off the block, twin pendant ripe fruits, waiting
to be spurred into wildly swinging action.
The executioner held aloft a long whip. The two men who had
bound the girl to the block stepped back. The whip looked menacing.
They did not wish to be struck by it. One of them handed the
executioner a wad of bills. He took it, looked at it, counted it
quickly with just his thumb, going through the bills like a man in a
fish market might, in the dead of winter, counting the bills hastily
because the cold was worse than being underpaid. But here, in this
brightly lit room, the denominations on the bills looked generous.
There was too much in the wad, if anything, not too little, but the
executioner pocketed it all.
“We are in luck,” Dave said quietly to myself, to Katrina.
“They are just starting.” I saw another girl, still in the crowd, but
standing slightly apart from it, being undressed by a man and a woman.
They helped her out of her costume. She was young, young as the first,
over the block. She glanced worriedly from the woman to the man but
said nothing. Her breasts were revealed, her belly. The woman, getting
her dress to her hips, pushed it down off them with the help of the
man. They handled her gently, yet I knew what they must be undressing
her for. I saw her pubis. I did not want to be like this, in this
room, seeing poor girls undressed to be beaten, but I was so transfixed
by the scene I could not turn away. Annabelle entered behind us. I
heard her gasp, a small frightened yelp. Then she was quiet. Her
boyfriend held her by her leash.
“What’ll it be?” the executioner asked the man who had paid
him.
“How severe can you make it?” the costumed gentleman inquired.
The executioner laughed. It was a sharp, unpleasant laugh. His big
belly shook as he laughed.
“I can kill her with this,” he said, dangling the whip before
the man’s face.
“Not - not that severe,” the costumed gentleman replied.
“We still have other uses for her,” the other man, his
companion, told the executioner.
“Just the bottom,” the first of the poor, unfortunate female’s
boyfriends told the executioner. “Smarten her up a bit. You know, give
her something to remember you by.”
“Permanent?” the executioner asked. His voice was gruff. He
seemed bored by the men’s inexperience in such matters.
“No. Not permanent,” the second man said. “A good, thorough
striping, that’s all. We don’t want her tattooed with the thing. Just
a good lashing to make her ship shape.”
“Ship shape,” the executioner said, rolling his eyes. “I’ll
whip her into shape alright, but she won’t be able to sit down for a few
weeks.”
“A few days,” the second man, who seemed slightly better versed
in things whippable, said to the executioner. His companion nodded,
mutely. The executioner yawned.
“Nobody ever really exercises my talents,” the executioner
said. “Okay, a thorough whipping, but don’t leave anything for her to
remember ME by, eh? I’m just a hired hand.”
“That’s right,” the second man said, firmly.
“It’ll hurt like hell all the same,” the executioner told him.
“That’s what we want,” the second man said.
The man and the woman who’d just finished undressing the girl
who would follow whispered in her ears. They seemed to be trying to
comfort her. She was shaking. Her knees wobbled. The woman bent and
lifted her leg and extended it. I could see the girl’s puss, up between
her legs. The girl stared at her ankle, and watched as the woman
slipped a cotton anklet around it.
My eyes scanned the room, perhaps looking for the brave little
toaster who would appear, or some more manly hero, and stop the
proceedings. Instead, all the men seemed transfixed by the plight of
the pretty coiffed girl poised over the block. The women, wickedly,
seemed as entranced as the men. Yet among some younger girls, at least,
girls like me, I saw troubled faces. Was there excitement mixed with
their worry? I guessed there must be, for I felt it in myself. My
nipples were stiff on my breasts. I saw eyes glance at me and, among
those nearest to me, they discovered my secret. I wore an elegant
dress, but my breasts were utterly bare. They could see my flesh, my
red nipples. I blushed, I hung my head.
SCREEEEAAACK! All heads snapped to the center of the room. I
felt my own lift, stare, as a wild shriek escaped the girl bound over
the block. I watched as her bottom tensed, contracted, a new red line
marking its otherwise pure, lovely white surface. My hands flew to my
own bottom in empathy. Is that how I’d looked, when I’d tasted the crop
at Svetlana’s? Yet this was no delicately-tailed crop the executioner
swung. It was a bullwhip. Made for big, sturdy bulls, yet used instead
on this soft young girl’s bottom.
“Ohhhhh---aghghgh!” the blonde with the coiffed hair cried.
Her bottom relaxed, then tightened again. She bit her lip and ground
her teeth. Her hips waggled. She could not escape her fate, but at
least her voice could escape, to our listening ears, and she could shake
her ass for all it was worth. She was caught, pinned by her limbs to
the floor, but her lovers had wickedly left her ass room to shake and to
strive under the lash. The pretty victim relaxed her cheeks again, then
tightened them once more, squeezing them repeatedly to try to throw off,
or at least to better endure, the whip’s sting.
Oh, why must men find delight in such awful things, I
wondered? I looked again through the silent figures standing in the
room, looking for a hero. I saw a tourist girl, young like myself,
flanked by a man and a woman. She gave them beseeching looks. Though
neither she nor they were decked out in costumes, they’d decided that
they would participate in the Carnival after all. In its deepest, most
intimate ritual, here in the room that was submerged under the water
level of the Grand Canal. As the girl watched their hands, her two
lovers began to undress her. She lifted a hand of her own, tried to
resist, but the woman slapped it away. Casually, as if the girl had no
right to refuse, or even to complain. Glumly the girl saw her blouse
undone, her shoes untied, her shorts lowered. Then the man, with a
flourish, as if unwrapping a precious gift, but one meant to be
consumed, like Christmas sweets, lowered the girl’s white panties. She
was left standing half-naked, her bare pubis showing while her bra
remained on her chest and her small, pink socks still carefully sheathed
her small feet.
The girl over the block was still grinding her hips into the
pillow atop the stone. Her asscheeks contracted and relaxed,
rhythmically, rudely. She still bore but one stripe. The executioner,
less vulgar than I had first thought him, was letting her make a show of
herself (though she had little choice in it), and to be admired. She
did, I had to admit to myself, have a lovely round bottom. With the
application of the whip, it was made to move in sensuous ways that could
only have been imagined without it. Tensing, releasing, tightening
again at the thought of what still lay ahead, for the executioner, to
keep the girl’s mind absolutely on him, struck his whip aimlessly
against the floor.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! Each slap of the whip upon the floor
caused the girl to start, to freeze, expecting it was her the whip would
connect with. When it proved to be only the hard, stone floor, she
seemed relieved, yet frightened too, for it meant she still had to wait
for what was yet to come.
“Oh, please! Get it over with!” the pretty small blonde said
at last. She lifted her head, tried to free herself. I watched her
legs straighten and she tried to pull her feet from the manacles. Her
bottom hung quietly, still flexing a little, but waiting now, waiting
for the inexorable moment when she would be struck again.
A low wooden bench was set near the block. It was empty. I
had thought little of it, barely noticed it. Yet now, I saw the girl
who was waiting to be whipped led forward by her lovers. She was nude.
The woman carried her clothes. A man I’d not noticed, one of many
costumed revellers, turned and received the girl from her lovers. He
bade her to turn and, drawing a rope from his coat pocket, he pulled her
hands behind her back. Quickly he knotted the rope around her wrists.
Then he took her by her small, diminutive shoulders and pushed her ahead
of him. They walked round to the front of the bench. He sat her down.
She tried glancing down, perhaps to check for splinters in the wood, but
he plopped her right down, before she could look, and told her not to
move. He left her there, walked back behind the bench, and turned his
eyes to the fate of the girl over the block. I did not like him. He
was old, grey-haired. Yet he had a magisterial look about him, as of an
ancient inquisitor, or bishop, or judge, passing upon the fate of those
who fell into his grasp. All were guilty. All had to be delivered to
the executioner for a penitential flogging. With serene eyes he gazed
at the gasping girl over the block. He apprised himself of the state of
her bottom as a judge might, reviewing a parolee’s sentence. Yet he
kept silent, for it was the girl’s two male lovers who got to choose
what would be done to her.
I started. I felt fingers at my back. I twisted my head back.
“No!” I breathed. My voice would have been louder, but I was
too frightened to speak in the hushed silence of this wanton, buried
room.
“Yes,” Dave replied. Katrina sidled up to me and took my
hand. She smiled. A little abashedly, yet pleasantly, as if she had
already resigned herself to Dave’s suggestion that I be put over the
block.
“I must see him do it to you,” Dave whispered in my ear. His
words sent an erotic thrill up my spine, even as my mind reeled. He had
picked me! Not Katrina, but me! For this most intimate act it was me
he wished to see.
“I- I do not wish to,” I said. I felt my breasts rise and fall
as I spoke, softly, so as not to be heard except by Dave. He towered
behind me, kept unbuttoning my dress. I felt it open in back and the
air of the room, slightly dank, cool despite the bright lights, touched
my shoulders, my shoulder blades. My spine tensed. Dave kept
unbuttoning. I felt his hands, behind me, spread my dress open.
Katrina untied the shawl where it attached to my wrists. Then she
reached up behind my neck, and untied it there. My dress was dropped to
the floor. My shawl was lifted off by Katrina. I looked down over my
breasts, at my knees. They wiggled in and out, back and forth,
nervously, as if I had to go to the bathroom.
Eyes drifted toward me. Dave grasped my wrists and pulled them
behind me. Then he pushed me forward. I found myself padding barefoot
across the room. My naked bosoms bounced in time with my stride. The
minister of the whip (what else to call him?) received me. He turned
me, took my hands, bound them with rope. Then he sat me down, next to
the other girl. As soon as I sat, the girl who was a tourist was
brought forward. She still wore her bra. The minister, receiving her,
told her lovers to take it off. They complied. Her young breasts
sprang into view. They were like delectable fruit released from a
basket. Plump peaches, with hard pink-tipped nipples.
“She will not scrape them on the block?” the woman asked the
minister.
“No. She’ll be pushed forward, like the blonde, so her breasts
dangle freely,” the minister answered. Then, with the greatest
deference, he asked the girl, “Would you like to keep on your socks, or
should I take them off?”
The girl nodded, mutely. The minister looked bemused. Then,
smiling, he said, “I know not for which answer you nod, but the floor is
cold. Keep your socks.” He smiled. He brought her round to the front
of her bench and sat her down. I envied her socks. The floor was cold
and I sat with my feet poised, only my toes touching it, to keep my feet
from getting cold. The nude girl next to me, who would be second over
the block, sat with her feet poised like mine. Thanks to her socks, the
tourist girl was able to sit with her feet flat on the floor.
WHACKCK! The tourist girl’s knees jumped at the sound of the
whip.
“Eeeeyooooh!” the blonde over the block shouted. She had
finally gotten her second stroke. Two red lines now marked her bottom.
She strove to escape, to rise, but the block held her fast. Her ass
ground its cheeks together, uselessly, a consolation prize for being
unable to escape. Tears plopped from her eyes and hit the floor. Her
mouth drank in air and her young breasts waggled wildly on her chest.
Her back arched, her bottom jutted into the air, then shrank as the
sound of the whip hitting the floor met her ears.
Time passed. The blonde took another stroke, a fourth, each
measured for the maximum impact, each separated by a long interval so
she could fully taste and absorb the whip’s sting.
“May I fuck her?” one of the girl’s lovers asked at last.
Boldly he unzipped the fly of his trousers. The executioner looked at
the minister.
“Do not drop your pants,” the minister said. “It would be
unseemly. A certain decorum must be maintained. But if you wish to,
ah, release yourself, and have your way with her, I shan’t object.”
“Thanks,” the man answered. To the delight of the women in the
room, he pulled forth a huge, snake-like penis. It wobbled on the air.
I heard the tourist girl gasp beside me. How he’d managed to keep that
big thing confined in his pants, I had no idea. The man, his dick now
exposed to the air, hard and pulsing, turned to his companion. “I’ll do
her cunt, you do her ass,” he said, matter-of-factly, as if discussing
who would drive to a sporting event, and who would take the wheel on the
way home.
“Sure,” the other man said.
I closed my eyes as the girl received her lover. She was
embarrassed, and her bottom was sore, as she was quick to point out to
him, but one could not say that, when he was fully within her, she
didn’t enjoy him. I heard her sigh and gasp. I heard him grunt
happily. He sounded like a hedgehog rooting in the bushes, content and
happy as he dug into her with his cock.
Then the other lover, the one assigned her nether route, took
his place. The girl screamed at this. She did not want her bottom
fucked. I could hardly blame her, having tasted it once myself. I
glanced at Dave. He grinned at me, wickedly. I looked away and shut my
eyes again.
The girl was at last released. She couldn’t get up. Her
lovers had to lift her and carry her back down into the crowd. There,
at the back of the room, I saw them sit her flaming bottom into a big
wooden tub. It apparently had ice water in it, for she shrieked at the
first touch of the chilly water on her bottom. It was big a wooden
tub. The men sat her over its lip. Her feet dangled outside the tub.
A soft pink towel hung over the tub’s lip, to protect the undersides of
her knees from the raw slatted boards that made up the top and sides of
the tub. The men supported the girl as she sat. They held her arms, so
she would not topple backward into the tub. A woman approached, took
out a towellette, and daubed at the girl’s eyes.
“There, there,” I thought I heard her say to the girl. The
girl sniffled. She must have tensed her bottom for suddenly her mouth
gasped, worked in a kind of rictus of pain, and then stilled again. Oh,
how sore she must be behind, I thought, gazing at her. How awful that I
too was fated to undergo the same journey, strapped to the block,
flogged, fucked, and finally dealt with a little more tenderly, by a
woman with cheap moist towelettes.
The journey for the girl beside me had already begun. The man
and the woman who had undressed her now fitted her arms and legs into
the manacles alongside the block. The rope that had bound her wrists
lay untied on the floor. The minister walked over to it, picked it up.
He put it back into his pocket.
Her punishment was delivered. When it was through her lover,
the male, ground himself into her newly injured backside. And then,
seeing her released, I knew my own turn had come.
I did not wait for them to come and get me. As soon as the
girl ahead of me had been lifted up from the block, I rose from the
bench. The minister, thinking I was trying to escape, darted forward.
But he did not stop me when he saw my intention. With my chin lifted
high, my pretty coifs bouncing on my cheeks and down the back of my
neck, I walked proudly up to the block. I felt my breasts bobbing on my
chest and heard a gasp from the crowd. No other girl had shown such
temerity. I reached the block, looked down upon it. Then, carefully, I
bent my knees. The minister rushed forward and caught me round my tummy
before I could, as I’d intended, drop my knees to the stone floor. He
lowered me gently, lest I lose my balance and hurt myself. My knees
touched the stone floor gracefully, lightly. He eased me forward. I
felt my belly touch the worn cushion atop the block. It was damp from
the sweat of the other girls. There was a stain of semen upon it where
a male lover had given his all. Yet, in its way, it was comfortable. I
let my weight bear down upon it. I felt like a fish put over the block
at a fishmarket, or weighed, wiggling still with life, in a scale. My
arms were bound behind me and my head and breasts hung low to the floor
on the far side of the block. My hair dangled down off my head, long
loose curls of blonde hair glowing under the bright lights that flooded
the area round the block.
“Oh, she is so brave -- and so young!” I heard a woman
exclaim. I heard zippers unzipping. Men, unable to contain themselves
at the sight of my willingness, presented themselves in the crowd. They
found female hands to work their stiff rods or, absent that, began
pleasuring themselves. I felt a thrill of excitement. I was victim,
yet inspiration too. As I heard zipper after zipper undone I realized
not a man in the room could contain himself at the sight of my young,
voluptuous body placed so receptively over the block. To tease them, I
willingly spread my legs. I straightened them. I was mindful, too, of
the whip, and glanced back, anxiously, yet I couldn’t resist causing all
the men to milk themselves at the sight of my open cunt.
“Ah, God!” I heard a man exclaim. I looked round to see if I
could catch sight of Dave. Turning my head, looking far back behind
myself, I saw him. He was out too! His big banana-like prick hung
stiffly in front of him. Katrina, a little ashamed to be touching him
so publicly, nonetheless flitted her hands in admiration over his
organ. I saw Dave’s face, casual at first, tense.
“Not yet,” I thought I saw Katrina mouth. Not yet, wait ‘til
she’s whipped, don’t spend on the floor, I knew she must be saying.
Dave was twice her age, but with his thing forced from him pants and in
her hands, he was like a small boy too, being tutored.
“So this one thinks she can challenge me, eh?” I heard the
executioner grouse. His whip hit the floor. I froze. My knees
locked. My elbows straightened.
“Ah, you are not insensitve then,” the minister said gaily, in
my ear. He unbound my wrists. “I was worried, thought perhaps a girl
your age had somehow matured too quickly.”
No, I had not been, I assured him. Not by speaking, but by
suddenly beginning to shiver involuntarily. What was I doing? Oh, that
whip would hurt! It would make me scream. I would be debased and
fucked and left to the care of a woman and her disposable moist
towellettes. I resoved to trick them, to leap up and run. But
suddenly, in my fear, I found that all my limbs had turned to water.
They were lifeless. I could not move them. But the minister moved
them, and gently clothed them in cotton wristlets and anklets. Then, as
I felt the life begin to return to my limbs, he locked them swiftly into
the rusty old manacles.
I wriggled hard over the block. I tried to rise, pressing my
tummy into the pillow for leverage. I felt my ribs bulge from my sides
with the effort.
“Ah, she is so slim,” I heard a woman say.
“Yet with a bumptious bottom,” I heard another add. Traitors!
I thought.
“Please not too hard,” I squeaked to the minister. He lingered
by my face, contemplating me. He cupped my chin. He raised it.
Helplessly my breasts dangled heavily beneath me.
“Yes,” the minister assured me. “Quite hard.” He saw me
gasp. My limbs quivered still. My springy nipples danced in the air,
at the tips of my pendant breasts. I felt a sense of deep communion
with him, somehow. He’d placed the old rusted manacles on my hands and
wrists himself, and protected them first, so considerately, with the
small cotton wristlets. It was as if the rings were extensions of his
body. It was his strength holding me, I felt, though in fact he had
cheated and used evil clamps to hold me down. He squeezed my cheeks, my
jaws. My lips puckered into a receptive O.
“You adore the attention, don’t you?” the minister said to me.
His voice did not accuse. It seemed to express understanding. I tried
to shake my head ‘no.’ His hand gripped my face. I could not move it.
My lips tried to move but remained in the forced O of receptivity.
My eyes glanced down fearfully. Beyond the thickness of his
wrist I saw his crotch. It bulged. Despite his grey hair, his age, he
sported a hard on. I marvelled at it. In his youth he must have been a
stallion, I thought, having any girl he pleased, breaking many hearts.
Now, lined with age, he retained his virility still. I wished suddenly
I could kiss him there, console him, forgive him all his years and make
him young again. Just as quickly my mind recoiled. No! He was old and
I was young. We did not belong together. Yet, in his menancing, prying
hands, I felt a kind of security. He was wise, graceful in his cruelty,
knowing just how far to push a girl, I sensed... and when to stop.
“I’m-- I’m a virgin,” I managed to stammer through my pursed
lips. He stroked my hair. He coiled a finger in the ringlets that made
up my coiffure.
“Then this is your audition,” he replied, suavely. “Your grand
opening.”
“No!” I squeaked. My eyes gazed at his crotch. At any moment
I expected him to unzip himself and make me take him. I did not want to
take him, ever. He was old. I was just a baby.
Every man in the room now had his penis out. I did not have to
look to know this. I could hear the sighs, the grunts of male pleasure,
as the woman present pleasured them. It was, I knew, a light pressure
they applied, just a touch of fingertips. The men were being teased,
prepared. At the right moment an orgy would begin. Then all would be
wild, unscripted. Now a rude decorum still obtained, the men’s pricks
out, the females slowly bringing them to the brink of madness.
I lay over the block. I felt the length of my long legs,
pinned at the feet, rising in sweet slim lines to the apex where my cunt
lay. It showed itself between them. Fleecy, inviting, virgin. I felt
a wetness upon its lips.
The minister thrust his hips forward. I gasped.
“Take my zipper with your teeth,” the minister hissed at me.
His voice sounded like that of a snake. I shivered. I resisted. His
hand, under my chin, forced my face forward. My knees bent in
rebellion, my hips bucked, but I could no more refuse him than a horse
could, locked into a mating box. I felt my lips press against the sharp
coldness of his zipper. Unwillingly, his fingers gripping my cheeks, I
bit the metal tab. In a sudden act of vengeance, feeling so exposed
myself, I yanked it down.
“Good. More, more,” the minister murmured. I saw his
underpants bulge up between his opened zipper teeth. They bumped my
nose. I smelled a musky scent. Unwillingly, guided by his fingers on
my chin, I tugged the metal tab of his zipper to the very bottom of his
fly. “Now dig it out,” the minister snarled at me. He squeezed my
cheeks harder. My lips pursed more. I could not keep from doing as he
ordered. My lovely curls hung down round my face, my eyes, down the
back of my neck, shivering, as he forced my perfectly coiffed head into
his crotch. I smelled his lust, his need. I licked involuntarily at
his underpants, hoping that was all he wished.
“Don’t get my shorts all wet. Pull out my penis!” the minister
told me angrily. I heard laughter somewhere, behind me, all around me.
People were enjoying my torment. The executioner waited with his
bullwhip for permission to flay my naked ass.
I sucked at him. I strove with my lips to open his
underpants. “Suck harder,” he ordered. He reached down and sliced two
of his fingers between us; between my lips and his awful thing. He used
them to help me, opening his cotton fly in his underpants so I could
more easily pull out his organ with my mouth.
“Ack!” I cried. I felt the fleshy strength of his penis
against my lips. He pursed them harder. I was young. I might bite him
if he wasn’t careful. He kept my lips pushed out so that I could not
get my teeth on him.
“Suck it out,” the minister ordered me, again. I pressed my
lips against his cock. It felt like I was kissing the back of a snake.
Somewhere, buried in his underpants, lay the cock head, hidden from me
still. I extended my tongue between my lips and licked along the shaft
of his trapped cock. “Suck,” he ordered. I withdrew my tounge. I
kissed hard with my lips against his cock. I sucked. I pulled at his
organ, searching along the shaft of his cock for the still-buried head.
“Eeeek!” I shouted. Suddenly his head popped out. It landed
right in my lips. I silenced my scream. I heard him yell at me to suck
him. I felt my lips, split wide by his massive organ’s head, begin to
suck upon him as one sucks upon a straw. His pre-cum oozed into my
mouth. It was salty. I was repelled by it. My tummy tightened. My
hips bucked again upon the block. There was laughter. I heard a rustle
of skirts as several women, inspired, apparently knelt upon the floor to
service the cocks of their men.
“It is good,” the minister said. Abruptly he drew back. It
was good, for him, for I was just pressing my teeth to the skin of his
cockhead when he pulled it from me. Another moment and I might have
succeeded in biting him. I longed to do it. He deserved it. He would
torture no more girls with his wicked thing if I bit it off.
“She’s all yours,” I heard the minister say. He stepped away
from me. I heard a crack. I sobbed, clenched my cheeks. My bottom
wobbled naked on the block. I flexed my ass, realized it had only been
the floor the executioner had struck. I sighed, whimpered. My
apple-round bottom, its cheeks split receptively, waited.
“She is a virgin!” I heard a male exclaim. The minister,
wicked man, had shared my secret. There was laughter.
“She will not be, after tonight,” I heard another male say.
“She wishes to lose it theatrically, or is afraid to consent,”
a woman said.
“She wants to be brought to it. Some girls are that way. They
cannot bear to just say ‘yes,’” a woman added. Several men groaned.
They lost themselves, I think, in their wives mouths, upon hearing,
unexpectedly, of my virgin state.
“Give her bottom a good licking,” a woman declared. “She wants
to be punished for giving herself away tonight.”
Did I? I wondered. No, surely that was not it. I’d been
struck by the cat at Svetlana’s and that had been no pleasure, except
perhaps afterwards, when it left my bottom strangely glowing. I
struggled again to get up. The manacles that held me were old, rusty.
I was young. Perhaps I could break them.
A sudden touch upon my bottom. Fierce, hot. It splatted
across both my cheeks and impressed itself into them. A moment later it
was gone. The sound of its cracking rang in my ears.
“Eeeeeeyaaah!” I cried. The whip! It had struck me at last!
I felt my bottom cringe, release, cringe again. I jammed my cheeks
together. I felt them open. Air touched my bottom now, nothing more,
yet my cheeks were raging. Oh, how they hurt. A bright red line, I
knew, now spoiled the lily-skinned purity of my ass.
Laughter. More groans as yet more men spent into their wives
hands and mouths, or hung uncertainly at the brink, striving, fighting,
to hold themselves back under the assault of my sufferings, my screams.
Did they find this sexy, seeing me splayed like this over the block?
Wicked men! Yet I could only cry, spill my tears upon the floor. It
was damp, wet from the tears of the girls who had preceeded me.
“See how she works her cheeks. So round, so pretty. They
should make this an event at the Olympics!” a woman remarked. She
sounded old, mature. Decadant, like the minister. I rebelled against
my bonds and tried again to free myself. It was no use. The iron held
me fast. I gasped, sagged. My bosoms swayed ripely underneath me. I
was defeated. I could only wait for the next stroke of the whip.
SKEEEEERCK! Ah! It caught me anew. Wickedly it struck on my
bottom’s underside. I felt the blaze of it across the base of my
cheeks. It lifted me up, momentarily, then leapt away, leaving a streak
of redness and pain in its wake.
“Yeeeeooouuuuch!” I cried. My bottom shivered. My cheeks
tightened, squeezing hard, then opened with complete surrender, only to
bunch up again with utter fright, and then to open still again. I
squeezed them repeatedly, trying to throw off the pain. It was no use.
I wept, coughed, let out a smaller scream. My breasts danced underneath
me, swaying like gourds, like coconuts on a palm beset by a storm.
“How sweetly she struggles,” a woman remarked. I heard a loud
shout as a male, apparently, shot his seed into his lover’s mouth.
“I would give her first place if she were in the Olympics,”
another woman said.
“I’d pin the ribbon right on her ass,” a man said.
“You may pin yourself right up her cunt, perhaps, if her
boyfriend lets you,” a woman said. “Or, better yet perhaps, right in
her ass, if that what suits you.” There was more laughter.
CRRRAKK-AKK! A double blow! Twice the whip scourged me,
hitting first one of my cheeks, directly, then leaping to the other. I
ground my tummy into the cushion upon the block. My hips rose, fell,
rose again. I screamed, loudly, lifting my head, my eyes gaping. My
nostrils snorted like a woman’s, in the deepest pangs of birth. My legs
froze rigid, then bent a little, at the knees. Twin sparks of pain
radiated hotly outward from where the whip had struck my cheeks. Like
fire racing across an oil spill, the pain seemed to envelop my whole
bottom. I screamed more loudly.
SCRAAAAAK! Again the whip coursed across my seat. My scream
intensified. They had not let me wait! They were beating me! I was
being flayed alive!
WHAAAAAACK! Oh, God! I couldn’t believe it! The bullwhip
tore a new scream from my lungs as it bit yet again into my tender ass.
I wriggled my bottom. I bucked my hips. I ground my tummy into the
cushion underneath me and squeezed my bottom’s cheeks as tightly as I
could. They opened just as quickly, then tensed again. My bottom was
on fire! I balled it tightly, felt it spring open again, huddled my
cheeks once more. I pushed it out into the air. Oh, please, let it
cool somehow. It must cool!
WHIIIIIIACKCK! The whip glided in, masterfully, and struck my
cheeks anew. I shuddered under the blow. I screamed. I wished the
minister would return. I would not try to bite him, this time. I’d use
his cock to gag myself and die, so as not to have to suffer from the
whip.
SCRAAAAK! It struck again. I was being given more strokes
than the other girls, though I was younger. My mind was in torment. My
ass cheeks were tumultuous. I screamed perpetually now. I cried. I
was being lost, ruined. I could not save myself and no one else wished
to. I heard, somewhere beyond my screams, more gasps of male pleasure
as men used my plight to sperm their lovers mouths.
A finger pressed insistent at my bottom. It was slim, finely
nailed. A woman’s finger. No! It felt slick, oily. It had been
dipped in oil to prepare me. It prodded between my cheeks. It dug in
my anus. I tried to clamp my cheeks, to push it out. Flames seared my
bottom with every movement of my seat.
“Ahck!” I yelped, half gagging on my tears. My hair matted
itself across my face where my locks, wettened by my tears, had found
themselves stuck, much as I was being stuck by the finger.
“She needs someone slim. I am too big for her,” I heard a
familiar voice say. Dave! No! Dave was asking... was asking for a
male with a slimmer penis than his own to plow my bottom!
“Yes, he looks good,” I heard a female say. Katrina! I heard
people behind me. Someone, I sensed, was being examined. “The
discharge looks clean,” Katrina reported to Dave.
“You’d better not give my girl any diseases,” I heard Dave say
to someone. I twisted my head. Somehow I managed to look back over my
shoulder. There was a man. He was slim, athletic. He was presenting
himself to Katrina and she was kneeling in front of him, inspecting his
cock. She kissed it. I sobbed. My bottom hurt so badly! I could not
bear to have a male stick his awful thing up it!
“He is too young to have any diseases,” I heard a woman laugh.
“Have him use a condom, if you’re so worried about it,” I heard
a man, bitter that he’d not been chosen, grouse.
“No, I want her to feel him as he really is,” Dave answered.
“She must get used to the feel of cock. She is still too anxious.”
“I could break her in,” I heard the minister say.
“Perhaps,” Dave answered. I felt a shock of fright run down my
spine. Perhaps?! Perhaps?! Did Dave intend... No! Oh, I should have
gone with Steven, to Rome! He was my favorite. Why had I held back,
balked? Now I would pay for it, awfully.
“Mount her,” Dave ordered. I felt hands touch the backs of my
legs. Was it him? I tried to twist my head around again. I was too
weak. I was scared. I dropped my head and sobbed new tears upon the
floor.
The hands had callouses on them. They slid up the backs of my
legs to my flaming ass. “Ack!” I cried, as they touched it. Oblivious
to my pain, they gripped my aching, whip-marked cheeks. “Yeeeeek!” I
screamed at the male touch. Such hard, calloused hands, and they paid
no attention to my bottom’s state. With relish the male rubbed my ass.
He seemed to savor my condition, my soreness, how his hands alone could
pain me, his touch as harsh, upon my wounded flesh, as the whip had
been, when first it coursed across the softness of my pretty, rounded
ass.
He quartered my cheeks. With his thumbs he pulled them open,
peered with lust between, at the dimple of my anus. I felt the heat of
his member. It was close, hovering just above my seat. He had no place
to put it and, bending slightly, he brought it into contact with my
ass. It bounced once against my right cheek. He moved just a little
and it settled hotly between my bottom’s halves. I stirred on the
cushion. I did not want him and yet, somehow, it thrilled me to have a
penis caught between my bottom’s cheeks. Precociously I pushed out my
bottom, caught him more. He was deeply impressed in my ass’s furrow
now. I could feel his throbbing. I squeezed my cheeks together. I
would milk him there, deflate him. He would spend up across my back and
leave my anus pure, unviolated.
“No,” he murmured. “I must get myself in you.” I felt him
rise. His cock swept upward from where I’d tried to trap it. Then it
pushed down again, this time the head alone. It was big, bulbous. It
made a target of my ass and pressed hard, arrow-like, against the
bullseye of my anus. “Don’t squeeze your cheeks,” he told me. His
thumbs gripped me harder. He yanked my cheeks ruthlessly apart. “Don’t
squeeze yourself. I have to get myself inside you.”
“No! Not there!” I yelped. I wished to have him in my cunt.
“I cannot deflower you. That is for your master to have,” the
young man at my backside replied. His voice was deep. It sounded a
little ragged, half overcome with lust. “I can only help your master,”
he explained. “Your backside must be prepared for him. He is too big
for you.”
With that he stabbed hard against my rose. I screamed.
Katrina, appearing suddenly before me, placed a soft hand across my
mouth.
“No!” I blurted into her palm. She caressed my head. She
pulled at the curls of my coiffure that had become stuck against my
tear-stained face.
“There, there,” Katrina murmured. She patted my head. “It
must be done. I was deflowered not so long ago. You must be too, if we
are truly to have fun together here in Venice.”
The man at my rear pushed again at my hole, between my cheeks.
I felt a giving. A receiving. His head jammed itself into my hole.
His pee hole, I realized, gasping as his head split into my cheeks, was
now within me. I stammered ‘no’s into Katrina’s hand. They went
unheard. Small puffs of breath, the sound of my refusal muffled.
“I’m going to take you gently at first, and then, when I’m
fully in, I’m going to fuck you,” the man in my behind told me. “It
will be rough at the end. But I’ll try not to tear you up inside. But
you must be made to take it. There is no other way.”
“See? He is an expert,” Katrina told me. She patted my head.
“Then we’ll have fun back at the hotel.”
“Unh! Unh! Unh!” I gasped. I felt the man’s penis intruding
into me. I flexed my ass. I tried to squeeze him out. He slapped my
behind in response. I shrieked. The slap was light but, upon my
whip-marred bottom, it sent flashes of pain coursing all across my ass.
Deeper he penetrated. I sobbed. I could not keep him out! He
was wet with oil. Someone had lubricated him. Hard as I squeezed, he
intruded deeper.
“Put more on,” I heard him say. I felt a squirt upon my
bottom. No! I realized then he was being oiled as he fucked me. I
twisted my head back. I caught a glimpse of a woman’s body. She was
oiling him! Katrina gripped my face and made me turn my head to her
again.
“Lift my skirts,” Katrina called to a man. She chose one at
random, apparently. He came at once. Her skirts were drawn up as the
boy at my backside continued to drive himself into my ass.
Katrina pressed her hips forward. Her legs were bare now, her
skirts lifted up to her belly. I was forced to kiss her panties. I
smelled the sweetness of her cunt. The man behind Katrina slipped the
ties of her black undies. They were small, they fell with a quiet
flutter to her feet. Her nest showed. Katrina urged her hips forward
again and pushed my nose into her curls.
“Lick. Lick my pubis,” Katrina told me. “Concentrate on
finding my spot. Do not worry about the man in your behind. Forget
him. Concentrate on me. Find my spot and give me pleasure. Do it now,
girl!” she added, throatily. I heard her yelp. The man who’d helped
her lift her skirts was now poking at her bottom.
“You both need it,” the man husked to Katrina.
“No!” Katrina shouted. “Dave!”
“Eeeeyack!” I screamed. I was penetrated with a lunging
thrust. It speared me to my core. I worked my hips, pushed them back.
The man at my rear was too deep, too deep! He was forcing himself
deeper than I imagined anyone could go! We were both in peril now,
Katrina and I, both of us with our bottoms at pillage. I ground my
mouth against her mound. I smelled her, I licked at the honeyed
sweetness of her cunt.
“Oooohhhh!” Katrina gasped. Had I found her spot? I did not
want to. I bucked my hips, trying to rid myself of the man in my ass.
Katrina sighed again. In revenge for what she’d done to me I stuck my
tongue into her cunt. “Oooooh!” Katrina murmured. I did not want to
please her. I wanted to fuck her, to make her know what I was
suffering. My head lurched forward. My ribs strained. The nipples on
the tips of my breasts stood out in all their tiny glory.
“Ahckck!” I gasped. The man in my derriere made himself go
deeper still. “Noooo!” I sighed. But my tongue was up Katrina’s twat
and it only served to tickle her. The man in my bottom ignored me.
Then the fucking began. Dave proved no help to Katrina.
Perhaps her bottom needed to be opened too. Perhaps he’d tried her,
when they played together in their room, and found himself too big for
her. We both needed experience, I realized, though I did not want it.
If Dave, with his big cock, was to enjoy us, he needed lesser men to
open us for him.
My head swooned. I gave a screamy moan. Katrina clenched her
thighs. My tongue was trapped up her slit. I could not remove it. The
man behind Katrina had her asscheeks yanked apart and he was hammering
her behind. In and out I could feel him move, each stroke more rapid
and complete than the one before it. Her bottom ground against him.
She tried to get away but couldn’t. She cried out for mercy. He fucked
her harder.
I was a hole, nothing more. The man at my ass used me,
plunging deep, drawing back, then gouging his way in again. I felt the
air ripped from my lungs. I tried to scream, Katrina held my tongue.
“We must thrust in unison,” I heard the man behind Katrina call
to the man in my own ass.
“Yes,” the man up my ass replied. “Let’s see if we can’t.
Pull back. Are you back?”
“Yessss!” came from the man who’d suggested they rape us
together.
“Okay, now in,” the experienced boy in my bottom called. I
gasped into Katrina’s nest as he forced his way into me.
“Oohhhh! GOD!” Katrina cried. It was a double salute, a
double penetration. There was no stopping the men now. They were in
unison. They paced themselves. Each man’s thrust complimented the
other’s. I was forced forward at the same moment as Katrina. My tongue
slid deeper up her twat as we bunched together. Each of us, she and I,
put pressure on the other, letting the men leverage themselves into our
heinies. We were captive. We could only scream. (She better than I,
with my trapped toungue!) We could not resist. We were helpless. We
waited for the throbbing members to release their seed. We prayed for
it, clenching ourselves. It was the only way to set ourselves free.
Standing unsteadily, I leaned forward. I was free again. Nude
but free. I kissed Annabelle. She was being undressed for the block.
The executioner would whip her next.
“Goodbye,” I breathed. My teary cheeks wet her own.
“Goodbye,” Annabelle replied. Her voice was all nervous,
trembly. She didn’t wish to be whipped. I felt semen trickling out my
bottomhole and tried to clench my cheeks to stop it. “Goodbye,” I said
again, stupidly. My head felt dazed. Somewhere Katrina, herself barely
able to stand, was getting my clothes collected. I couldn’t leave
nude. I had to be dressed again, before we went upstairs.
“Ooooh, I don’t want to,” Annabelle breathed nervously to me.
“I know,” I answered. I had not wanted to either. But now I
had received, both the whip and the young gentleman’s cock. He had left
my bottom raw inside, yet fingered me at last, upon my clit, giving me
my sinful, hoped-for pleasure. I was wobbly kneed, satisfied despite
the soreness of my bottom. “Mmmmm,” I said, pressing my lips to
Annabelle’s. “It will not hurt too badly,” I lied. I pressed my palm
to her tummy. It was bare, warm. It drew in at my touch.
“Don’t,” Annabelle answered. I think she feared I would pass
my hand down to her muffin.
“Goodbye,” I breathed again. Then I toppled over, unable to
stand, but Dave, holding me lightly by my shoulders, swung his arm down
and caught me across my belly with his arm.
30
----------------------- Dreamgirls -----------------------
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