Message-ID: <2787eli$9708100047@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/Year97/2787.txt>
From: Andrew Roller <roller39@IDT.NET>
X-Good-Line-Length: yes
Subject: Aug 9th Honey Haven part 4 of 5 (NND)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
Path: qz!not-for-mail
Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam
Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Original-Message-ID: <33EC90DB.4464@mail.idt.net>
---------------------------------------------------------------
PROBLEMS? Please try viewing this with Netscape Navigator.
---------------------------------------------------------------
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
HONEY HAVEN
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Chapter Four
The city was wet. It had rained outside, during the night.
There were puddles in the street and rain dripped from the pavilion roof
that overhung the driveway in front of the hotel’s steps.
Dave held my hand lightly as I stepped up into the waiting
taxi. Then he gave my bottom a push. I gave a shout. The cab driver
looked back. I clutched my fur coat to me and sat down, careful to tuck
my fur under my naked bottom lest it come into contact with the cab’s
well-worn back seat. The cushion of the seat was lumpy under my
bottom.
Katrina got in next, then Dave. He told the cab driver where
to go, in Italian. I couldn’t understand it, but knew what he meant.
The driver nodded. He looked at me, at Katrina. Then, letting out a
low whistle, he turned his head. He turned up the radio of his cab and
the car lurched forward.
We drove along rain-wettened streets. I felt sullen. I fogged
the window beside my face and drew a heart in the moisture left by my
breath. Then I speared the heart with a finger-drawn arrow. I felt
like that heart, well-speared. I shifted my bottom uncomfortably
beneath me. I had beads in my bottom. They’d been inserted by Joan,
one by one, each connected to the other by a long string. There was
some space between them on the string, but, inserted, they jammed up
against each other inside me. Then the natural movements of my rectum,
most disagreeably, caused them to gradually part, and work their way
deeper into me, even as I wished someone would pull them out.
There was a string sticking out of my bottom, with a ring
attached. I was sitting on the ring. But I dare not draw the beads out
myself. Dave told me very explicitly I must keep them up me, to train
my ass to better take his cock. And, worst of all, I had not been given
small beads, the size of marbles, as I’d seen other women receive. Mine
were the size of cherry tomatoes. They were big to help me learn to
accept big cocks.
Katrina had escaped without any beads. She sat drowsily beside
me now, half-drunk from too many champagne enemas. But other women,
before leaving the party, had been beaded, just like me, though many
with smaller, token beads, not training beads as I was being forced to
wear.
I shivered. I did not like Venice anymore. It was too
exacting. I wanted to go home and be me again. I wanted to climb trees
and declare that I’d poop on boys if they tried climbing up into my
treehouse, as I’d done when I was small. We’d argued about the size my
turds would be and my mom, hearing, had made me come inside and stand in
the corner.
“Mmmm! Buy me that!” I insisted, suddenly, pointing with my
finger through the window. My finger touched the center of the heart
I’d drawn there.
“What?” Dave asked.
“Hello Kitty’s Adventure!” I said. My breath made new fog on
the window, fogging over parts of my heart. I pointed at a streetside
store. It was called “Video Value” and it had the new Hello Kitty video
game prominently displayed in its window.
“Ye Gods, you don’t even have anything to play it on,” Dave
groused, seeing what I was pointing at.
“Then buy me a Nintendo too, so I do,” I told him
matter-of-factly.
“Pull over,” Dave told the cab driver. “I swear. I go out for
a nice long of drinking and womanizing and I wind up having to fetch my
two daughters from a party in some hotel!”
“They-- are your daughters?” the cab driver asked.
“Of course! And they should be home in bed, asleep with their
teddy bears, not out carousing with their friends!” Dave answered. “Not
that I’m too young to carouse, myself,” he added, winking at the cab
driver.
“Oh! Yes! The women of Venice are the best!” the cab driver
agreed. He nodded vigorously.
It was left unexplained, however, why Dave would buy a Nintendo
and a Hello Kitty game for his naughty daughter when he’d just had to
fetch her from a suite party, however. Dave came trundling out of
“Value Video” a few minutes later, lugging a big Nintendo under his arm,
as well as my video. The cab driver pressed a button in his cab. The
back of his trunk flipped open. Dave put my game in there, along with
my video.
“Just so I get to decide what you’ll wear when you’re wearing
it,” Dave admonished me, getting back into the cab. Katrina, sitting
groggily upright, slumped against him.
“Yes Daddy,” I replied. Then I giggled. Just so HE’D get to
decide what I wore when I played it? What did he mean by that? I knew
he wouldn’t be looking for me to dress modestly, would he? Did he
really want me to start playing his daughter?
“Yes, controlling what they wear is the first element in proper
discipline,” the cab driver said to Dave. He looked back at him in the
rear view mirror, as the cab pulled away from the curb. Dave nodded in
agreement.
I found myself standing in the hallway of our hotel clad in
nothing but a tiny white t-shirt. It was made for a much smaller girl,
and its sleeves, barely managing to stretch themselves off my shoulders,
clasped at the very tops of my upper arms. The edge of each sleevelet
was embroidered with a chain of small daisies. There was another chain
of them around the shirt’s neck. I’d had to stretch it and the
sleeveholes quite a bit, with my hands, before I could pull the shirt
on. There was a smiling teddy bear’s face on the front of the shirt.
My breasts, lifting the fabric of the shirt so that the undersides of my
bosoms showed, looked ready to rend the bear’s face at any moment. My
nipples poked stiffly from the tips of my breasts, indenting the fabric
in tiny twin points.
My belly was bare. My hips were bare. My muff showed. Dave
had wanted me to shave it, but Katrina wouldn’t let him. She told him
it was still coming in, I mustn’t shave it off so soon. I patted it
with my fingers. The hairs were small, blonde fleecy. I liked having
them. I didn’t want them shaved off.
The door to Dave’s bedroom opened. I looked up at him, my eyes
wide, startled. He’d opened his door abruptly, angrily. He was
stripped bare to the waist. He wore blue jeans but the belt was
removed. He held it dangling in his hand, strap-like.
“Come in, little girl,” Dave said. “What do you want?” I
nosed my way into his room. My legs were naked, my feet. My toes felt
the carpet under them as I padded across it.
“I want to play my Nintendo,” I told him softly. My hands
fluttered back to my behind as I passed him. I didn’t want him to whip
me. I saw my game, all set up, waiting for me atop a low coffee table.
It buzzed happily. Hello Kitty was running through a maze, being chased
by big doggies. They had long tongues and they left trails of slobber
on the grassy maze-floor behind them.
“Then sit down,” Dave said. “It’s all set up.” I saw a plate
of cookies lying on the floor. They were my favorite, Oreo cookies.
He’d already separated them so that I had only to pick them up to lick
up their creamy centers. There was a glass of milk beside the plate,
sitting on the floor. It was cold. It had sweat trickling down its
sides, from the coldness. “Wait,” Dave said. He followed me across the
room. I stopped in front of my game, next to my plate of cookies. I
turned around. He unzipped his jeans and shucked them down his legs.
Then he pulled down his underpants. But he didn’t let go of his belt as
he did it.
Dave’s cock sprang up toward me, hard and ready. I watched it
quivering in the air. It was like a tuning fork. A tuning fork of
love. I wanted to touch it, but it frightened me. It was too big for
me, I told myself.
I wasn’t wearing the beads anymore. Dave had pulled them out
of me when we got back to the hotel, one by one. Katrina had to hold
me. I didn’t like having them put in, or taken out. Dave told me I was
wilful.
It was hours later now, after dinner. We would spend the
evening indoors, just Dave and I, playing my Nintendo. I had worn what
he told me to. He was nude now. He flung his pants and his underpants
across the room. But he kept his belt. We were alone, he and I.
Katrina had gone out for the evening.
“I want you sitting in my lap while you play your game,” Dave
told me. “But first I want to warm up your bottom.” He swung his belt
at me. It caught my leg and I flinched. My hands flew up to my face.
“It still hurts from last night,” I said. I reached back
behind myself. Lightly, with just my fingertips, I touched my fanny.
“No it doesn’t,” Dave said. “It’s barely red. Look yourself,
in my mirror.”
With Dave’s permission I slipped past him. I kept my hands
planted on my ass as I went to his mirror. Then I turned, facing him,
but into the mirror, showing it my backside. I lifted my hands. I
turned my neck, craning, looked at my heinie. It was not anything like
I’d imagined it. There were still pink streaks, showing I’d gotten some
kind of punishment, but the redness I’d seen this morning, examining
myself in my own mirror, was gone.
“Dave, I don’t want to get spanked again,” I told him frankly.
Dave walked over to me. His tread was heavy upon the carpet. His belt
swung as he walked. He lifted a hand and grasped my chin and forced me
to look up into his face. His eyes were severe.
“There is much that you don’t want,” Dave said to me.
“Nonetheless you must learn.” I tried to look away. He jerked my chin,
made me meet his eyes again. “Tomorrow I’m sending you to a school for
virgins,” he said. I blinked, shocked. “That’s right. A school.
Where you’ll be trained in the ways of womenhood. Tonight, you can have
your game. It’s what you want, I know. You even want this shirt, don’t
you?” He grasped it contemptously with his fingers, the same fingers
that gripped his belt. He lifted it. He exposed my nipples. He let go
of it and it sprang backward, too short to cover my nipples without
being pulled down, landing instead on the upper shelf of my breasts.
“Tonight you’ll have your game, just like you want it, and your favorite
cookies. And milk, as befits a little girl like you. But tomorrow be
ready for them to come and take you away. Don’t protest. Don’t
resist.” He saw my fear and grinned. “And don’t worry. It will only
be for a few days. A week, at most. But it’s necessary, if you and I
are to be proper lovers.”
I looked down. My eyes grazed his chest. “I don’t want to be
your lover,” I lisped, my lips distorted by his gripping hand on my
chin.
“That’s what I mean,” Dave said. He did not require me to look
up at him again. “All these games. They amuse me, but I’m tiring of
them.”
“What-- What will happen to me there?” I asked him through my
pursed lips. Boldly I looked up into his eyes.
“You will be made to accept,” Dave said. “Do you agree to go?
I cannot force you. But I’ll not whip you tonight, if you say ‘yes.’”
I gazed from his eyes to his belt. It dangled menacingly in his hand.
“Yes,” I said softly. He let go of my chin. He whacked his
belt hard against the floor. It made a CRACK!, despite the carpeting.
I jumped. My hands flew to my chin.
“Over to the game,” Dave told me. Quickly I walked past him.
As I walked I was conscious of his eyes, fastened on my nude bottom. I
clapped my hands to it.
We spent the night with me sitting in his lap, his boner under
me, me wiggling excitedly as I maneuvered Hello Kitty from the clutches
of all the dogs. My bottom was warm, despite not being spanked. I felt
him sweating under me. I drank my milk and ate my cookies, licking the
cream up first. I asked him if he wished to play Hello Kitty but he
said no, he was playing it enough as he was, feeling my warm derriere
move upon him each time I pushed on the game’s joystick.
Sometimes I had to move to his thigh, to prevent him from
spending. He made me sit splayed upon it, with my cunt pressed to it,
my knees bent and my legs folded back underneath me. I rubbed my slit
on his leg, still playing my game, friskily. Four times I left a wet
spot of orgasmed dew on his leg when he moved me back to his groin.
In the morning, before dawn, with me randy again and him
desperate, he took me to his bed. He laid me on it, stretching me out,
like a sacrifice. He put a cloth under my bottom, to catch the
spendings of blood between my legs. Then he took me, viciously, right
where I’d always wanted it but never gotten it.
The bald man down the hall reported my screams to the
management.
I had only a little time to pack my things and make myself
ready before the woman from the school for virgins showed up. There was
no time for breakfast. I protested. It was too quick, I said. And I
wasn’t a virgin anymore. She dismissed my complaints. She was tall,
well-dressed, with a prominent bust. She had a rich tan that reminded
me of the tropics.
“We will be travelling by train,” she said. “You can eat on
the train. And sleep, also. The school is in the Alps. It is a fairly
long journey.” Her voice was thickly accented, German or Swedish, I
couldn’t tell.
“But Dave--” I said.
“He is downstairs at breakfast,” the woman replied. “With your
friend.” She picked up my teddy bear. “Is this yours?” she asked.
“Yes!” I said. I snatched it from her.
“Come, you will see your friends in a few days,” the woman
said. “There is no need to say goodbye. They will be waiting for you
when you return.”
“But--” I said. She took my arm. I was wearing my favorite
torn blue jeans, a (much bigger) t-shirt, my sneakers.
“You dress poorly,” the woman said. “But it will be
comfortable for travelling, I suppose.” She hefted my bag. “I will
carry it. Scoot! Out the door with you! We will miss the train with
all your delayings.”
I hurried from my room, my teddy bear clutched in my arms.
“Why take all my things if I’m coming back?” I asked. She was right at
my heels, driving me into the hall. She shut my door with a slam.
“The future is not certain,” she said. “It is best to prepare
for whatever transpires.”
I was about to ask her if that included never seeing Dave or
Katrina again, when the door to the bald man’s room opened.
“Young lady!” he said. His voice was like an announcer’s in
the still, musty air of the hall. I looked at him fearfully. He raised
up his hand. I wondered at it, then saw Piglet grinning atop his fist.
“Oh! My toothbrush!” I said. I scurried down the hall to
him. I prised Piglet up from his fist as his big, beady eyes watched
me.
“I woke up an hour early this morning!” the man said sternly to
me. His breath was harsh upon my face as I rose on tiptoe, lifting
Piglet out of his fist.
“I’m sorry,” I said. Piglet popped out of his hand, at last.
“Are you leaving?” he inquired.
“I might be back,” I answered.
“I hope not,” he said. “And that boyfriend of yours should be
arrested!”
“He-- he works for the police department,” I stammered. I felt
I should make something up. Why, I don’t know. Dave deserved to get in
trouble for fucking me, and then sending me straightaway to a ‘school
for virgins.’ I wasn’t even a virgin anymore!
“Poliza!!!” the bald man gasped. He threw up his hands. “In
this country, everything’s rotten. Bad food, bad water in the canal,
bad old hotels where nobody calls the police when some girl is getting
her ass laid by some guy twice her age! No wonder I hate this country!”
“Thanks for getting my Piglet toothbrush,” I said in a hushed
voice. I darted away from him.
“You should be learning your ABC’s, not getting porked!” the
man said angrily. He stepped into his room and shut his door behind
him.
By evening our train was laboring its way up into the Alps.
The woman and I shared a private room on the train. She kept an eye on
me but, otherwise, did not keep me actually imprisoned in the room. I
was free to come and go as I pleased, with her permission. It felt
strange, being half-captive, half-free. I asked about the school but
she only told me that I should feel honored in going. Not all girls
were admitted.
“Who, then?” I asked. I speared a smoked sausage and rolled it
across a pair of broken-open egg yolks on my plate. We were eating
breakfast, in the train’s dining car. Men, passing by or sitting at
other tables, sometimes eyed me with more than Platonic interest. I was
not wearing a bra. My tits wiggled freely beneath my t-shirt. It had a
big photo of a sullen, unshaven Kurt Cobain on the front of it. I
guessed their interest wasn’t in him.
“Only the prettiest girls,” the woman said. Her name was
Matilda. She pronounced it in such a way that it sounded, in her Swiss
accent, much prettier than it would sound in American.
“And how does this Headmaster, this man who runs the school (I
did not dare say its name in the dining car), how does he choose? He
hasn’t seen me, has he?”
“No, of course not,” Matilda said. She plucked a sausage from
her plate and inserted it between her lips with practised efficiency.
She bit off the end of it.
“Then how?” I asked.
“Dave has sent up other girls before you,” Matilda said. “They
were entirely satisfactory, in their face and figure. Of course the
rest of them needed instruction, which is why you’re going.”
“He’s sent--?!” I blurted. I cut off my sentence, lest the
other diners think me more than a schoolgirl travelling with her
mother. Yet I felt insulted. I wasn’t the first Dave had ‘sent up’?
“Darling,” Matilda said. She bit off another piece of her
sausage. “You are not the only person Dave has met in his life.”
“Of course, I know that,” I said. He was with Katrina right
now! Yet, still, how silly it was for me to feel special, when in fact
he’d sent perhaps legions of girls to the school.
“Dave is popular, as you will be,” Matilda said. She finished
her sausage.
“I’m already popular, back home,” I said to the woman. She
glanced over her shoulder. A man at a table nearby was showing an
unusual interest in our conversation.
“We will speak of it more back in the room,” Matilda told me.
Then, more loudly, she added, “You are learning your lines well,
dearest. You’ll be the smash of your school play!”
I nearly giggled out what little I’d eaten of my sausage. It
was intended for the over-curious man, that last line, I knew. It was
fun, being mysterious, pretending, like Mr. Rogers does. But I still
wondered what would happen when we arrived at the school. It was, after
all, a school for virgins. That wasn’t the most politically correct way
to categorize girls, virgin and non-virgin. Nor was it the best
assurance that I would just, as the man back at the hotel had suggested,
be learning my ABC’s.
The peaks of the Alps were tall, and capped with white. They
reminded me of Dave’s penis, sliding out of me what seemed so many days
ago now, though it was just a matter of hours. Slathered with sperm,
more bubbling up from its tip as he withdrew. That’s how the Alps
looked. Fertile, in a male way, despite their barrenness.
We disembarked from the train into a heated station. The woman
had me cross it briskly with her. At its other end we stepped out into
a glassed-off drive. It was open at both ends, but heat rushed down
from its ceiling, keeping us warm. When no cars were approaching the
ends of the drive were sealed by moving glass doors, to keep the cold
out.
A limo was waiting. A driver let us into its back. I found
myself alone. Then the woman slipped in next to me, without my bag. I
heard the trunk of the limo open, close. The driver stepped round the
car and got into the front. We drove off. The end of the glassed-off
drive slid open to disgorge us. We passed out into a snow-laden
street. The glass drive closed behind us. I gaped at the mountains. I
had never seen the Alps before. I clutched at myself with my arms but
it was unneeded. It was warm in the limo.
“Take off your shirt,” Matilda told me.
“Huh?” I blinked at her.
“Your shirt. Take it off,” Matilda told me again. I drew my
arms closer around myself. My bosoms, braless, bulged within my
tightly-constraining arms.
“But it’s cold outside!” I protested.
“You are not outside, you’re in the limo,” Matilda said. “You
wished to be immodest on the train, not wearing your bra. Do you think
you can now play coy and modest?”
“But--” I said. Matilda opened her purse. She drew from it a
short whip. It had many thongs. “I can undress you myself,” Matilda
told me. “But I’ll seek payment for it, from your flesh.”
“Oh!” I exclaimed. I had no doubt she could. She was a tall,
big-bosomed Swedish woman. I was much littler, just 14, and petite, not
possessed with her genes. I unclasped myself. I took the end of my
shirt in my fingers. I drew it up, glancing down at good ol’ Kurt
Cobain as I did so. ‘Incesticide,’ that’s what he would have said.
Kurt would have saved me. But he blew his mind out instead, and would
never see the lights of our limo passing down the road now, in the
gathering dusk.
I pulled up my shirt. It cleared my bosoms. They wiggled
freely. I felt my nipples harden as I lifted my shirt up over my head,
blocking, momentarily, my view of all the world. Then my shirt was
off. Matilda took it, folded it neatly, and put it in her purse.
“Now your jeans,” she said.
“My--” I stammered. Then I said nothing, for I’d let myself in
for this, hadn’t I? Surely I knew a school for virgins wouldn’t be like
a regular school. A real school. I wasn’t a virgin anymore, anyway.
I unbuttoned my jeans and eased them down my hips. I drew them
off my legs, over my shoes. Matilda took them from me. I was left
wearing just my sneakers, pink socks that just covered my ankles, and
white panties.
“Roll down your window,” Matilda ordered.
“What?! The cold air will come in!” I said.
“Only for a moment,” Matilda told me. I frowned. I reached
over to the limo’s door. I looked, pressed a button. A window slid
down. Somewhere up front I imagine the driver saw it on his dashboard.
“Everything alright?” the driver asked in an Italian-accented
voice over an intercom.
“Fine, Ben. Fine,” Matilda said. She leaned close to me, then
pitched my pants out my window. “Roll it up,” she told me.
“My pants!” I shrieked. “You just threw away my pants!”
“You will not need them at the school,” Matilda replied. “Now
your panties. I will save them for you.”
I felt a tear in my eye. “I don’t want to take them off,” I
said, fingering the waistband of my panties. Matilda lifted the
many-thonged crop that she’d laid lightly in her lap.
“Off, or your punishment will begin even before you arrive,”
Matilda warned me, wiggling the whip slightly in her fingers to cause
the ends of the thongs to dance.
“I’m to be punished?!” I gasped.
“You’ll be kept in a punishment cell, what do you think?”
Matilda asked. She gave the whip another wiggle, causing its tips to
swing about with greater latitude.
“But-- but I thought it was a SCHOOL!” I said matter-of-factly.
“All manner of lessons must be learned,” Matilda said. “You
are being changed from girlhood to womanhood. It is a complicated
process. Some girls are wilful, some not. Perhaps you will be more
cooperative than most,” she said. “Now do not speak again until you
have your panties off.”
With extreme reluctance, I slipped my panties down off my
bottom. I felt my cheeks connect with the bench seat of the limo,
gasped at little at the touch of the leather, then slid my undies down
my long thighs. Over my knees, down my calves they went, like a
fragile, departing white dove. I bent and yanked them over my
sneakers. I wondered if those had to go next.
“You may keep the shoes on, for now,” Matilda said,
anticipating my thoughts. “We will be stepping briefly through snow and
I don’t want you to freeze your toes.”
“Snow?” I asked. She lifted a hand, made me give her my
panties. She opened her purse, deposited them, rather diffidently, I
thought, as if she’d rather not had to put my panties in with her
things, and then snapped her purse shut.
“You will not have time to feel the coldness upon your skin,
except briefly,” Matilda said. “But I don’t want your feet getting wet
in it.” She lifted her fingers to my hair, fluffed it. It was long,
blonde, like hers. She seemed pleased that I’d spent a long time this
morning washing it and combing it out, on the train, making it as pretty
as possible. She opened her purse, took out two barrettes. “Here, pin
up your hair,” she said. “Otherwise it may fall and cover you.”
I reached for the barrettes. “You want me utterly naked,” I
said. I noticed my fingers were shivering, though it was warm in the
limo’s heated interior.
“Yes, utterly naked, except for your shoes,” Matilda replied.
‘The school’ didn’t look like anything in America. It was
built entirely of stone. Though no bigger than a modern house, it had
the look of a castle. There was a low, broken wall around it. Matilda
explained, conversationally, that the wall had been higher once, but had
fallen apart with age. The limo nosed between two gates that opened to
receive our car as it approached. Inside, within the low, broken down
wall, were the castle grounds. Small in area, like the castle was small
in height and width, compared to other castles. The limo glided across
the grounds, spirit-like, in the hushed Alpine night, guided by lights
on the castle. Otherwise, in the darkness, it would have been entirely
hidden from view from the road. We were in a remote place. The last
house I’d seen had been 20 minutes ago, further up the road, when the
road was two lanes, instead of just one. The instant the limo parked by
the castle door all its lights winked out. We’d found it. No others
were invited, I guessed.
The driver opened the side door of the limo, where I sat. He
extended his hand. I took it, my own shaking, and stepped in my
sneakers out into a sprinkling of snow. I saw I was on a walk, freshly
swept. The front door to the castle, large and made of wood, was only a
few feet away. There was a knocker on it, carved in stone. It was in
the shape of a lion’s head. I moved across the darkened walk, briskly,
my way lit by the illumination from the open limo behind me.
Momentarily all went almost black, as Matilda blocked the light to get
out. Then the light brimmed out again, softly, bathing the snow, the
front door, just reaching to the height of the knocker.
The driver left the door open so I could see.
“Knock. Knock on it,” Matilda, coming up behind me, told me.
I stood shivering in the night air, stark naked, except for my shoes.
“Knock on it so you don’t catch cold,” Matilda said to me brusquely once
she’d arrived behind me. I felt the warmth of her large body in the
gloom. I hesitated. I didn’t want to go inside! Then I felt, very
softly, a caressing of thong tips sweep across the upper shelf of my
bottom.
KNOCK! I lifted the knocker once, let go, more frightened of
it than before I’d touched it. Yet it fell, with a loud, clamourous
announcement of my arrival. Once, but I sensed that was enough. The
driver shut the door of the limo. Matilda and I were plunged into
darkness. I heard crunching in the snow behind me. I clasped myself,
hard, both in fear and against the cold. Then I realized it was the
driver, returning by instinct to the front of the car.
“Yes?” a gruff voice announced. I found myself with the front
door to the castle flung open. A dwarf stared up at me. His eyes,
finding no answer, chose to slide down my figure and light upon my belly
and bush. I drew in my tummy, instinctively. I clapped my hands over
my muff.
“I’m-- I’m here for the school,” I said, stammering.
“Ah, yes,” the dwarf answered, his eyes widening and rising, a
bit too slowly for my taste, back up my belly, over my breasts, to my
face. “I should’ve guessed. You’re wearing the proper uniform.”
My stomach sank. “Are you the headmaster?” I said, feeling
utterly ridiculous, and about to be made more so.
“Me?!” the dwarf laughed. He laughed like that little weird
boy in the Faithless video. Perhaps he couldn’t get any sleep either,
just like the boy. “Me?! No, I’m the help,” the dwarf said. “You’ll
meet the headmaster soon enough.” He turned. As he waddled away from
me, beckoning me in with a finger, he added, almost in a mutter to
himself, “And wish you hadn’t.” Then he laughed again, a raw, hard,
raucous laugh that sent shivers down my spine, right to my naked
wiggling ass.
We passed through a lavish home. I saw a big sofa with
cushions piled upon it, in front of a hearth. A fire was crackling in
the fireplace and there was a pair of loveseats flanking the sofa. I
thought perhaps I might have a moment to rest myself in one of the
chairs. But the dwarf beckoned me on, Matilda following. As I passed
the coffeetable in front of the sofa I saw a hot pot of coffee steaming
there, a fresh plate of croissants, and a mound of ripe fruit. But,
also upon the table, there was a black riding crop.
“This way,” the dwarf told me. We passed from the living room
out into a hall. It was slightly drafty in the hall. We came to a
large wooden door. The dwarf had a ring of keys around his belt and he
unfastened the ring, lifted it, standing on tip toe, and inserted a key
into the door. He turned it. There was a creaking sound, quite spooky,
and the door swung back. I saw a flight of stairs beyond. They led
down. “You’ll be staying ‘downstairs,’ as they like to call it,” the
dwarf said to me. I felt Matilda at my rear and hurried forward. I did
not want her whipping me. The dwarf led the way, flicking on a light as
we went.
Steps groaned underfoot. They were old. They were made of
wood. I worried they might break, hoped a little they would, when
Matilda, following me, stepped on them. But there was no such luck, for
either she or I, and we descended, down the half-illuminated steps, into
a glowing chamber.
Like the castle, it was made entirely of stone. Stone walls,
stone floor. Much of it remained in darkness, for the light the dwarf
had flicked
on at the top of the stairs only lit two lamps, one at the top of the
stairs and one at the bottom. The dwarf led me along a wall that ran
behind the stairs. It formed the back end of the chamber, the rest
stretching out into the darkness. He had to feel his way along the wall
as we moved, for the light grew dimmer as we left the base of the
stairs. I felt my way too, most tentatively, for the wall felt cold and
a little slimy to my touch. Matilda followed, her own fingers moving
like a blind person’s along the wall.
“Ah, here it is,” the dwarf said. He paused in front of
another wooden door. He was still holding his key ring, and he lifted
it up, having to stand on tip toe again, and inserted a key in the
door. He seemed to know his keys by touch. He did not have to look at
them to find the right one.
An ominous creak greeted my ears. I sensed the door was moving
inward. Then the dwarf reached back, and he found one of my hands in
the darkness. I tried yanking it back, but he’d caught it so suddenly,
and held it so firmly, that I could not. He drew me forward. He pulled
me around what I sensed was a corner. Suddenly I felt myself flung
forward.
“Oh!” I cried. I stumbled, my feet lost in the darkness
beneath me. My arms flew out. The dwarf held me no more. I fell to my
knees. They connected with a softness and I found I’d been pushed onto
something, tripping over it, actually, as the dwarf threw me into the
room. I ran my fingers along it. It felt like a mattress.
The door slammed shut behind me. I heard a harsh laugh
distantly, through the wooden door.
I was completely alone in a pitch-black nightmare world. I
sank down on the mattress. It felt soft under me. I was grateful for
it. I’d have hit the floor otherwise. I smelled the sheet on the
mattress and found it was scented. It smelled like rose blossoms.
Gradually my confidence returned. Someone was taking a little care for
my fortune. I ran my fingers out to the end of the mattress, where I’d
tripped. I reached beyond it. I touched wood. The door! I pressed
upon it. It remained closed.
Time passed. I do not know how long. I sat lost in the
darkness, on my mattress. I did not wish to explore further with my
fingers. The wall I’d touched outside had been slimy. I had no idea
what I’d find if I started poking around in here, wherever ‘here’ was.
I would wait, at least for a time.
I hummed my cock song again.
“Cock, cock, cock, are you in the dock... again?
“Did you pop a girl who was too young?
“And now you’ve got to pretend?
“That by her your balls were not rung?”
I’d surely put whoever was behind this ‘school’ in the dock,
that was for sure, scented mattress or no. I felt an improvement in my
confidence. Yes, I would be Sherlock Holmes. I might suffer a little,
myself, but then I’d put an end to this wicked school, and to the evil
men and women who induced girls like me to cum here.
Ahhh, no! I scolded myself. “Come,” not “cum.” What was
happening to me? Why did I fixate so much on fucking lately? Was I a
bad girl? I should think only of getting home, yes! Of going back to
my mom and dad and of having my dad chaperone me again, wherever I went,
personally, like he still liked to do so much, interfering even with my
few dates. And I’d be under my mom’s supervision too, of course.
“Clean your room, Cindy,” I could hear her saying, even now. “I don’t
know how many times I have told you that, girl. Is your homework done?
And take down that awful poster of Nirvana! Three MEN with terrible
haircuts and no shave. That’s not a proper inspiration for a budding
feminist!”
Femme fatale was more like it now, I feared. I wasn’t Paula
Zahn, or even Paula Jones. I was Pauline, and in peril.
No! I told myself. I was Sherlock Holmes, and I’d get to the
bottom of this school and expose it.
The door opened. A guttering lamp lit up my eyes. I saw a
large blonde figure beyond, holding it, and for a moment my heart froze
in my throat. The ogre! No! It couldn’t be, how could he?! Then I
saw the figure was much handsomer than he, and slimmer, though with his
same broad shoulders. He wore a cloak and breeches, with boots, but no
shirt. The hairy expanse of his chest showed between the open halves of
his cloak. His face was unshaven, like Kurt Cobain’s, but his hair was
longer, much longer. It fell over his shoulders and ended somewhere
down his back. He had a cigar wedged between his teeth. I smelled it,
didn’t like it much.
The man placed the lamp in a bracket in the wall inside the
front door. I could see where I was now. In a room, with my mattress
underfoot. The man kept me fixed in his gaze. He reached for me. I
tried to retreat. He caught me, by one arm. With his other hand he
reached back around behind my small waist and drew me forward. Then he
found my other wrist, and had me caught by both my arms.
“Turn around,” the man said. His voice was hard,
unsympathetic. It brooked no disobedience. I turned about, quickly. I
was too afraid of him to even think of disobeying. I felt my wrists
pulled together, abruptly. The movement pushed out my bare tits. I
felt my nipples harden.
Metal cuffs came against my skin. I heard them snap together.
I wrenched my wrists away, instinctively. Too late! My wrists were
bound. I struggled, but couldn’t free them. The man laughed, grabbed
my fastened arms with one of his hands, and pushed me toward the back
wall of my cell.
He turned me again. Against the back wall he fastened me to an
iron ladder running up the side of the wall. It led nowhere, from what
I could tell. It was the room’s only acoutrement, save for the
mattress. The walls were bare. I pressed myself to the iron ladder.
It was cold. I looked up at the man. I felt my knees trembling.
“I am the Head Master,” the man told me. “There are other
masters besides myself, but I am the one you will primarily be dealing
with.”
“The Head--?” I gulped. “I thought you were--” He ignored me.
“You will obey each and every one of my instructions exactly
and precisely, no matter how repellent. Do you understand?” he asked in
a large, bold voice.
I shrank against the ladder.
“DO YOU UNDERSTAND?” the Head Master yelled angrily. I
shivered. My knees trembled and I felt a sudden need to pee.
“I--” I stammered, but it was the only word I could get out.
“You are unresponsive,” the Head Master said gruffly. “Come,
let’s see what you’re made of.” He reached behind me. He unfastened me
from the ladder. He turned me about, quickly, and unlocked my
handcuffs. I was about to breathe a sigh of relief when he ordered me
to take hold of the ladder in front of me. I didn’t respond. He
grabbed me, hoisted me up, clutching me under the belly with one of his
massive arms. Frantically I reached for the ladder. I caught it. Just
as quickly as he’d picked me up, he dropped me. He reached around me
and seized my wrists and buckled them back into the handcuffs. Then he
fastened them again to the ladder, using a small small clip between the
cuffs to hook me to one of the ladder’s rungs.
I found myself with my back to him. It was an even scarier
position to be in than the previous one, me facing him, with him
glowering down at me. Now I could only see him by twisting back my
head. I did, and saw him open his cloak. There was a riding crop
thrust through the belt of his trousers.
“I’m going to flog your bare behind,” the Head Master told me,
matter-of-factly.
“No!” I shrieked. At last I found my voice. “No!”
The blonde man laughed. “You’re not in a position to give
orders around here,” he told me. He turned me, slightly, and then
stepped so that he was almost beside me. He placed a hand on my belly
and lifted me, so that my bottom was offered.
WHACK! The tip of the crop, which was wide and flat, came down
hard against my ass.
“Ooooh!” I screeched. His palm held my belly, keeping me
suspended, so that my feet dangled some inches above the mattress. I
clenched my cheeks. The sting of the crop burned where it had struck
me. Yet my bosoms, wobbling heavily underneath me, retained their
hardened tips.
WHACK! Again the crop. Again just the flat tip, biting into
my flesh, making me gasp, cry out, blink my eyes. I realized, somewhere
deep in my psyche, that I was receiving a school girl whipping, just the
tip being used, in deference to my age, not the whole length of the
crop, which would have left welts across my bottom. Still, it hurt like
the dickens, and despite the imprisonment of my hands against the ladder
I struggled to free myself from him.
WHACK! Came the crop again. This time he let just a little of
the crop itself touch me, the stem biting with sharp alacrity into my
skin. I hollared out, sure I’d been given a welt now, if only a small
one. A welt that would remain with me for days, for my entire stay here
perhaps, as a sign of my disobedience to him and his punishment of me
for it.
WHACK! Again the crop burned into me. I felt as if a wasp had
bitten my bottom, for he gave me just slightly more of the blade of the
crop, singeing the undersides of my cheeks, lifting my struggling bottom
up momentarily as he swung it up underneath me.
“Hoooooo!” I bleated. “That’s enough!”
“You have a most delectable ass,” he answered, insulting me
with his crudeness. He held me aloft, watching me struggle. I could
not escape his uplifted palm, try as I might. He held me balanced, and
shifted his fingers across my flat tummy whenever I threatened to topple
off him, so as to continue to effortlessly hold me. “One more,” he
breathed in my air. “Still yourself, or I’ll use the full width of the
crop and mark your lovely ass quite distinctly.”
“No!” I screeched. But, suddenly, my limbs stilled. I felt
myself hanging off his palm, cradled, my feet dangling.
“Open your legs,” he said.
“No,” I breathed, but did so, then clenched my cheeks hard
against the expectant sting of his crop on my fanny.
WHACK!
“Yeeeeeek!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. The traitor!
He had not wished to strike my bottom that time! He swept the crop
right up between my legs, and bit into my very cunt!!!
“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeek!” I cried, wildly. The sting was intense, unknown
completely, something I’d never experienced, never even thought
possible. I fell from his palm and he only laughed. He did not try to
pick me up again. Bitterly I stood, still manacled to the ladder, my
legs twisted in on each other, grinding my thighs together in an attempt
to assauge the awful sting. He laughed.
“You will obey more completely next time,” he told me. “And
ere you leave you’ll bring the crop to me, whenver you fear you’ve
disobeyed, and you’ll bend over and ask me to use it.”
“Noooooooooo!” I hooted. I would never do that! How dare he
even imply it? I couldn’t look at him, though, for my eyes were clamped
shut, much as my legs were, though with my eyes I cried tears while with
my legs I rubbed frantically, trying to make my cunt better but not able
to reach it.
“And when I’ve hit you as I’ve just done, you’ll open your legs
to me, so that I might rub it for you,” he gloated.
“No!” I told him, defiantly.
“We’ll see,” he said. “We have plenty of time. You’re not
going anywhere, manacled to that ladder.” He retreated across my bed.
He walked out through the door. Had it been open all this while?
Worriedly I looked back. There were two couples there, male and female,
older than myself.
“She takes the crop well, despite her struggles,” I heard a
female say.
“Yes, but she requires much training,” a man mused. “Much
training.”
Matilda stepped between them. She entered my cell. She had
changed into fresh clothes; a mauve jacket held by one button across her
chest, a matching short skirt. The thrust of her exceptionally large
breasts pushed out against the jacket. Her white skin could be seen,
she wore no blouse, no bra. Despite the lack of sun in this cold
climate she had an exceptional tan; except on her bosoms, which she’d
carefully kept from the sun. The contrast between the white flesh of
her tits and the smooth, richly-tanned skin surrounding them was
alluring. I wondered if her private and her bottom held the same
lily-white charm. Despite my tears, I vowed to tan myself like her,
when I could.
How silly it is, thinking about sun tans, when your bottom is
hurting and you have no clothes and strangers are watching you. Yet I
did, despite my sniffles, my sobbing coughs, my twisting against the
ladder as I rubbed my legs frantically together, trying to assauge the
pain in my snatch.
“How are we doing, little one, hmmm?” Matilda asked me. “Did
you take your punishment well?”
“No!” I blurted. My face was bathed in tears. Couldn’t she
see I’d suffered? She seemed to think my pain was some kind of game.
Her hand touched my head. She turned my face toward the wall. Her
fingers, sharp-nailed, caressed my right thigh, bidding it open. I
worried she might scratch me and let my legs part, just a little. My
bottom wobbled hard, my wish urgent to reclose my legs and rub them.
A finger trailed down between the cheeks of my bottom. “Yes,
just a few little marks,” Matilda said. “They will fade quickly, don’t
worry. The Head Master was kind to you. I’ll have to tell him to be
more severe with your subsequent whippings. You’ll learn nothing if
you’re only teased.”
“OH!” I gasped. What a horrid woman! I couldn’t believe what
I was hearing -- much less that I’d agreed to accompany her here.
“Of course you will have to be fucked up the bottom too,”
Matilda said. She stuck a digit between the cheeks of my ass.
“Nooooo!” I screeched. I closed my legs, jammed my cheeks
together. I felt her finger trapped within my ass. The sharp tip of
her fingernail touched against my rosette. She pushed. My skin was
moist with sweat and her finger eased slightly into my hole. “Stooop!
Take it OUT!” I begged. She pushed harder.
“You are being difficult,” Matilda warned me. “We have ample
ways for dealing with difficult girls.”
“Is she being resistant?” I heard a woman call from the
doorway. Matilda had left my door open, denying me privacy.
“Yes, and the Head Master left her unfucked,” Matilda said in a
voice that brooked disappointment.
“Roger, see to her training,” I heard the woman say. A man
entered my cell. He was clothed, as the others were. Only I was
naked. I glanced back at him fearfully. He smiled, perhaps in an
attempt to calm my fears, but there was a predatory gleam in his eyes.
In another life I might have fancied him; he was tall, had dark hair,
seemed perhaps college age, maybe a little older. Without saying
anything, he unzipped the fly of his trousers.
“Yeek! I don’t want to be fucked!” I squealed. He produced a
large prong that could have passed for a big smoked balogna at the
grocery.
“Yes, very good, Roger, please come here,” Matilda beckoned.
She lifted her free hand, to waist height, crooked an inviting finger.
Roger advanced. His cock wobbled freely in front of his (otherwise
well-dressed) body. Matilda reached with her hand, caught it. She held
it lightly, as if she might be a little afraid of it. I know I was. It
was big and meaty and pulsed vigorously. Pre-cum already was dripping
lewdly from its tip.
“Here, I have some KY,” the woman said from the door. Hastily
she entered the room, her purse open, digging in it. A moment later she
pulled out a plastic tube. She flicked the top off its nozzle. Placing
a hand gently upon Roger’s backside, she peeked around to his front. I
heard her emit a little gasp as she saw his member. “You come bigger
than advertised,” she confessed.
“Squirt it on,” Matilda interrupted, perhaps fearing the woman
would wish to distract Roger from me. I heard a loud, squelchy sound.
Quietly I closed my legs, then began rubbing them together.
Matilda slapped my bottom, hard.
“OUCH!” I screamed.
“Keep your legs open,” Matilda reminded me. I needed no
reminding. I was wilful and didn’t want my legs open. I leaned back,
tried to bite her. She dodged my snapping teeth and smacked me hard
again.
“Which route?” Roger asked matter-of-factly as I stood
whimpering, displaying my well-slapped bottom. His eyes glowed. The
woman beside him stared entranced at his cock.
“Up her tight little ass,” Matilda told him. A glimmer of a
smile flashed upon her lips.
“Do you think she can take me?” Roger asked.
“She must take someone up her tush every day, if she’s to be
properly trained to be receptive to it,” Matilda answered. “You can see
she’s a long way from that right now.”
“I rather fancy her hot little cunt,” Roger said. He leaned
down, his bare cock wobbling in front of him, and caught at my thighs
with his hands. He wrenched them apart. He peered up at my slit.
“No, it must be in the bottom,” Matilda said. “Her master
fancies her there.”
“Why?” Roger asked, still examining the space between my legs.
“She’s young, perfect, quite fuckable. Is she still a virgin?”
“Yes,” Matilda said. “Just deflowered the other day. She’s
only been sent here for bottom-training. Her master wants to keep her
cunt for himself.”
“Greedy bastard,” Roger swore. “But I’ll give her ass a good
reaming, that I can do. Don’t worry little lady,” he said, looking me
in the face. “You’ll have a well-fucked asshole by the time you leave
here.”
“Oh, it’s such a waste to give it to her,” the woman who’d
lubed Roger lamented, still staring at his cock. “She’ll hardly
appreciate it like I would.”
Roger let go of my legs. He gripped my bottom hard with his
fingers. They were long, sinuous, commanding. He forced my pumpkin’s
furrow to open to him. He peered, made a sniffing sound. Then,
pleased, apparently, by my hole, he shoved his hips forward.
“YOOOOOK!” I hollared. I felt his cockhead wedge itself into
my bottomcrack. It felt huge! It split my cheeks and probed against
them, like a cork looking to plug up a bottle.
“Uhn!” I gasped. His peehole found my back hole and burrowed
up me. The knob of his cock forced open my anus. I screamed again,
Matilda slapped a hand to my face and silenced my cry. I squirmed. I
tried to bite her fingers. She pushed my head up, back, by my chin,
keeping my mouth shut. Roger ignored all this, focusing entirely on my
ass.
I gave a gritted screech within the confines of Matilda’s
hand. He was going deeper! I could not stop him. I wriggled my ass,
trying to escape. Matilda slapped my flank.
“More, give her more,” Matilda urged.
“I’m TRYING!” Roger stammered. “I don’t think I’ve been in one
this tight in years.”
“Perhaps a little stimulation will help,” the woman who’d lubed
Roger said. I thought she’d reach for him, but instead her hand came
round my waist and touched my pussy.
“Unfff! No!” I protested, but Matilda’s hand kept me quiet.
With a doughty stroke Roger plowed into my fanny. I squeezed
hard, doing my level best to expel him. He groaned. My tightness was
winning. Matilda pushed my head back farther. I screeched into her
hand as a spasm of pain shot through my neck. Distracted, I let my
bottom open again.
“HOOOOOF!” I screamed over Matilda’s hand. Roger had driven
into me deeper. My legs kicked. The woman’s hand at my snatch rubbed
me hard.
“Yessss, you must take him,” the woman hissed in my ear. My
breasts wobbled heavily on my chest, stiff-nippled. Roger was winning.
I could not keep him out. With another scream from me he rammed himself
home.
Both women kissed me. Matilda whispered a compliment. Roger
breathed a sigh of relief. It rasped from his throat, a half-sigh,
really, for he knew his well-clamped penis still had quite a job ahead
of it. He must stroke me, now. In and out.
“Twenty times, at least,” Matilda told him.
“God, I’ll try!” Roger said. “The feeling of her little ass is
amazing.”
I felt a backward tug.
“Uhn. I think I’m -- stuck!” Roger said. Suddenly there was a
hard slap. He grunted. I realized Matilda had slapped his trousered
ass.
“Get moving,” Matilda told Roger. “Denice, get his pants
down. I want his bare ass showing so he can feel it if I have to hit
him again.”
“What about her?” Denice asked. Her fingers explored my slit
freely, making me honey them.
“Forget her. She’ll get pleasure enough from his cock, or
ought to,” Matilda replied. “I want Roger’s fat little bum on display.”
“Oh, alright,” Denice answered. “But I still think he’s
wasting himself in her.”
Slowly at first, Roger began to move inside me. I heard him
grunt again and then felt his member, tightly held by me, for I feared
it greatly, begin to slide out of my chute. It would have been a
relief, but I knew he’d ram it back up me a moment later.
“Ooooh!” I gritted, as he did.
“Hold still, girl,” Roger scolded me. “Move just your bottom.
Quit trying to hop away from me.”
“Move your bottom vigorously, girl,” Matilda told me. She
slapped my flank. I screamed in her hand. “That’s it, work your
bottom, pump it in and out,” Matilda commanded me. I found my ass
jerking, I did not know why. Had I ceased being afraid? Did I want
it? Him? His big thing?
Roger worked his meaty shaft back and forth in my ass. I
clenched him with my cheeks. I felt him slide back. I pulled forward
to help him escape. Then, when we were almost apart, he shoved himself
once again in me. I arched my bottom back to meet him. I screamed.
Tears sprang from my eyes. But when Roger pulled back, I again pulled
away, and tensed for the moment when he would thrust forward and I would
push my hips back to him.
“She is learning,” Matilda said, quietly. “She’s a bit slow
perhaps, but she’s young. It’s excusable...” Her voice drifted over my
ears. I was one with her, with Roger, now. Denice, somewhere behind
Roger, worked his pants down so that his bum would be exposed to
Matilda’s hand.
I lay on the sheeted mattress that served as my bed. It was
rumpled from all the people that had walked on it. I was cuffed to the
ladder, but only by one wrist, as an animal might be, that it’s master
feared would escape. My door had been left open to train me in
humility.
Food was brought to my cell. Roast pork and green beans, a
buttered cob of corn, ice cream. A big jug of fruit-flavored wine. I
was encouraged to eat, and drink.
“Call for someone when you have to pee,” Matilda told me.
“There’s a bathroom down at the end of the room. The dwarf should hear
you, if no one else does. He’s in charge of the girls in the dungeon.
Don’t wet the bed, whatever you do,” she added, smiling. “I’d hate to
have to give you extra training for bed wetting.”
I ate with my fingers, lying on my back. There were no
utensils. I got messy eating, like a child. I saw no napkin. I knew
not what to do, wiped my mouth on the back of my hand, ate some more,
found wiping my mouth again only rubbed back onto my face what I’d
earlier smeared over my hand.
I fell asleep. Later, I awoke. My cell was dark. There was
only blackness in the direction of my open door. I could make out
nothing, save an urgent desire to pee, in my bladder.
I fought my need. I didn’t want to have to call someone to
release me to go pee. How embarrasing! I squeezed my thighs together.
My pussy still stung from where the Head Master had struck me with the
crop, or I imagined it did. I reached down with my hand, opened my
legs, stuck it inside. Tightly I shut my legs again. I held my
snatch. I pursed my lips, shut my eyes.
“No! Don’t pee!” I told myself. I tried to go back to sleep.
Minutes later, I realized I had no choice but to call for
help. I yelled. I screamed. I clutched at my slit, wishing some one
would hurry. Couldn’t they hear me? I yelled again. I bit my lip and
then, opening my mouth again, feeling resigned, I called for the dwarf.
I heard small footsteps in the distance. A glow began beyond
my door, heightened as the footsteps approached. Oh, God! HURRY! I
screamed for the person to walk more quickly. The glow shimmered as it
grew. I heard the swinging of the big oil lamp in the hand of who ever
was approaching. I hoped it was not the dwarf.
“Ohhhhh! Please HURRY!” I hollared. I pressed hard into my
slit with my fingers. Too late! I felt a sudden wetness, more, and
then screamed again as I realized I was wetting my bed.
Twin eyes glimmered around the opening to my doorway. Small,
set in the face of a dwarf. I heard a chuckle. Frantically I stared at
the face, trying to hold back my pee, failing, as it flowed out over my
hand.
“Did you call?” the dwarf asked me. I shut my eyes, tight. I
strove to contain my pee but could not.
When I had finished wetting the bed, I opened my eyes.
Abjectly I looked at dwarf. My bottom, my legs, lay in a wet mushy spot
on my mattress. The dwarf was grinning.
“Why didn’t you come?” I asked in a high, grief-stricken voice.
“You didn’t call -- me,” the dwarf smiled back.
“You mean you could hear me the whole time?” I asked.
“Of course,” the dwarf said. “But just calling anybody isn’t
calling me.” He laughed. “I figured you’d break down and call me
eventually.”
“You -- you creature!” I blurted.
“Don’t insult me,” the dwarf replied. “Wait until you have to
poop.”
“Young lady, your bed isn’t a potty,” Matilda scolded me when
she discovered what I’d done. It must have been the next morning, for
it was hours after I’d peed and I’d been forced to sleep in my pee,
though I’d managed to move partly off the spot. The handcuff securing
me to the ladder kept me from escaping it entirely.
“I’m sorry,” I replied. I knew not what else to say.
“This will have to be reported to the Head Master,” Matilda
told me. She examined the spot. “And recorded, of course, in your
permanent record, that’s sent back to your lover.”
“Ohhh, I do not wish to be here!” I sighed. My voice sounded
resigned.
“You will learn to enjoy your stay, with proper training,”
Matilda told me. “Don’t worry. I had to learn, just like you, long
ago.”
A man pushed past her. I froze, seeing him. Could they intrude on me
any time, at their whim? He stood over me. He had longish hair
covering his ears, a square jaw. A rude smile spread across his face as
he stared down at me and took in my small body. He was
broad-shouldered, broad-chested. But I huddled close to the ladder,
trying to get out of his stare. I didn’t like him. He had gray-hair.
Thrust through his belt, as if he needed it frequently and didn’t mind
at all using it, was a thick riding crop.
I turned on my side, facing into the ladder. I wished I could mould
into the wall and escape him. But, rolled on my side, hiding my front
side from him, my bottom lay exposed behind me. What could I do? I
reached back, clapped a hand to the center of my behind. But my cheeks
rose and spread on either side of it. I slipped a finger into my crack
to make sure at least that part of me was hidden from him!
“You must learn to fuck not only men you enjoy, but those you do not,
also,” Matilda intoned behind me. “You are here to receive, young
lady.”
The man crouched over me. I let out a shout.
“Get on your belly!” He growled. “Flat on your belly.” I was slow in
complying and he picked me up, like a man lifting a rag doll, and
dropped me onto my stomach.
“Ooof!” I blurted, as my chin banged down on the mattress, my boobs, my
flat stomach and pubis. He scissored my legs open, then saw my wrist,
now crossed under my belly, was still hitched to the ladder.
“She does not need restraints,” the man growled. “At least not when
I’m around.” He reached for the handcuff that banded my right wrist.
He yanked at it, found it secure, fished in one of his trouser pockets.
He pulled out a small keyring, with three dangling keys. It wasn’t a
big keyring, like the dwarf carried, but it contained the single key
needed to open my cuffs. Quickly, as if desperate to have me, he
inserted the wrong key, then the right one, into the cuff binding my
wrist to the ladder.
Click! The cuff came free. My hand wriggled out of it and I drew it
quickly under my tummy. My wrist felt sore.
“Open your legs!” the man yelled. He pushed at my feet, kicking them
wider apart.
“YEEEK!” I screeched. The man threw down his keys. Matilda left, but
left my door open, that I might been seen and heard by any in earshot.
“NOOOO!” I blathered. The man dropped to his knees. He forced my legs
wider. I heard him undoing his belt. My bottomcheeks tensed. He
husked his pants down his legs.
“Clean up her cell,” Matilda told the dwarf. The little man entered as
I felt a big knob press to the right cheek of my bottom. He picked up
my food plate, the jug of wine.
“Hoooo! Please don’t!” I shouted. The dwarf turned, looked at me,
then saw to whom I was complaining. The man on top of me had pulled a
tube of vaseline from his pocket and was busy coating his dick.
“You want me to take the mattress after you’re done?” the dwarf asked
the man kneeling within my spread legs.
“I could care less if she wet in it or not,” the man growled. “I just
want her little hole.”
“Careful-- she’s quite tight,” the dwarf told him.
“Git, you little runt! What do you think I want, a loose-assed
40-year-old whore?!”
“Beg pardon sir,” the dwarf said. He bowed, slightly, and left my
cell.
“NOOOOO! Come back!” I cried after him. Before, I had hated him. Now
he seemed the most considerate of me, though it was very little
consideration.
“Spread for me, little lady,” the man on top of me told me. I felt his
big hands press to the cheeks of my bottom. His fingers were long,
thick. They seemed covered with callouses and felt like sandpaper on my
small derriere. Still, flat on my belly, my ass cheeks rising behind
me, I provided a cushion for those awful fingers, with my seat! He
squeezed both my cheeks, enjoying my softness. “So you wet the bed,
eh?” he laughed. He squeezed my cheeks again. “My, how you’ll have to
be punished for that! Do you think you’re still 3-years-old?”
I wanted to say, ‘Of course not! Get your stinky hands off my ass!’
but instead it came out, “No, sir.”
“Obedience won’t save you now, girl,” the man laughed. “But it will
make it a little less painful for you when I enter you.”
“Oh, please!” I begged. I could sense he would be rough. In response,
without a single word of encouragement or endearment, he poked his big
sausage down between the cheeks of my ass. “No!” I cried at once. He
was so big! I felt like I was being speared by some huge native African
spear. I’d read of a girl once, visiting Africa, who’d bent over and
found herself with one lodged in her bottom. She did not survive the
experience.
“Uhnnnn!!!” I gasped. His big knob pressed hard at my portal. I
tightened my sphincter against it. He pushed harder. “No! Stop!” I
cried. I beat my fists on my mattress. I felt the dampness of my pee
under my belly. “HOOOOO!” I shouted. He bore down on me like a big,
leaden weight. A well-greased weight. I struggled beneath him.
Suddenly, my anus was forced to stretch wider than I could have
imagined. His big plum intruded.
“Yes!” he declared.
“Akhgkhhh!” I said. A scream strangled in my throat. I pressed my
face to my mattress. He was in! I could not stop him now. I squeezed
my fanny, felt him burrow deeper. He was big, thick, and greased like a
ball bearing. His giant poker slid deeper into me, a big slug, enjoying
the resistance my clenching ass offered him.
“Sir, your car has arrived,” a woman said. The voice came from the
door to my cell. I did not recognize it.
“Ah, at last!” the man said. “Those airport limos take FOREVER!” he
grunted. He gave himself a quick thrust in my behind. He seemed poised
between fucking me and not, between cuming and going.
“Do you wish to have assistance?” the woman asked.
“Yes, dammit! There is no time!” the man said. “I’ll be late for my
flight otherwise.”
I felt movement on my mattress. The woman crossed over from the door.
I smelled perfume. Her voice sounded young. I stole a glance,
wondering, hoping she might help me. She was elegantly attired in a
sheer peasant blouse. It left her shoulders and midriff bare. It let
her tits show through its fabric. Otherwise, she was naked, well
tanned, save for a small pair of black bikini panties tied round her
hips.
“Suck my balls,” the man told her.
“Yes, sir,” the woman said. I sensed her go round behind him. He
waited, shafting me just a little, my bottom resisting his every push,
uselessly.
“Ah!” the man said. There was a sharp intake of his breath. “Yes!
Suck me while I fuck her. Harder, woman! I have to discharge and get
out of here!”
“Mmmmf,” the woman, somewhere behind him and lying down under his ass,
agreed.
“Now, little girl, let’s see what you’re made of,” the man groused
above me. I shrank under him, trying to descend into my pee-wettened
mattress. I felt a sharp jab in my bottom. “Oh! Don’t stick your
finger into my assHOLE!” the man cried suddenly. All at once I felt a
spasm run along his penis, half-embedded in my behind, a powerful spasm
that felt like a lightning rod receiving a bolt from the sky. A second
later his big, tense penis exploded into my rectum.
“HAAAAAAAK!” I protested. He was flooding my guts! Big geysering
spouts of him reamed into me. They were deep in me. He was deep in me,
and they discharged with great force well up inside my ass. “NOOOOO!” I
cried anew, beating my fists again on my mattress. But there was no
stopping him. I felt like I was sitting on a fire hydrant! Except it
was halfway up my ass.
He was gone. The woman lingered in my cell. She was a blonde, like
me, but I felt very little affinity towards her. She glanced at me,
looked around.
“Someone must come and take out your mattress,” she said, smelling it.
It had a distinct odor of pee to it.
“I wet the bed,” I confessed. I rolled again against the ladder. No
one had recuffed me. I was grateful for that. I pressed my breasts
against the cold steel of the ladder. It was my security, my sentinal.
Always standing there quietly, pitying me, unable to help but at least
still there when the others had left me. That awful man! I reached
behind myself and tenderly touched my ass. My hole hurt.
“Oh, he left his keys,” she said. “Well, he’s gone now anyway, he
won’t need them again unless he returns,” she added, talking to
herself. She went over to the corner of my cell where the man had
thrown his keys, and picked them up. “Men can be so messy,” she
declared.
“Yes,” I agreed. Big clumps of his sperm were oozing out of my bottom.
“Don’t speak unless you’re given permission, girl,” the woman told me.
“You’re to receive. Be receptive. Take things into your mouth, and
hold them there, gratefully.” She walked to my cell door, turned. “And
be glad I sucked him off,” she added. “He’s the worst. My hole took
days to heal when he fucked me, on his previous visit. If I hadn’t
learned to be receptive, do you think I could have so easily accomodated
his big testicles? Hmmm?”
I shivered against the ladder, facing into the wall. I gave her no
answer.
She walked over to me. She bent down.
“OW!” I cried. She hit me -- on my bottom!
“Do you?” she asked, testily.
“No! Yes! Oh, I don’t know!” I confessed. I couldn’t remember the
question. “OW!” She slapped my bottom again, hard.
“That’s for inattentiveness,” she told me. “You are wilful, girl. You
are here to be trained. Do not resist, more than a small sense of
modesty calls for. You’ll pay for it with skin off your fanny if you
do!”
She stalked from my cell. She slammed my cell door behind her and I
heard her yell to the dwarf to lock my door. Then I heard a short
jingle as she sent the keys flying across the outer room and they landed
somewhere far beyond, on the flagstones. “Little mannnn!” she said in a
disgusted tone of voice. “Get your ass out of the toilet! Quit jerking
off to Hustler! Get out here and get me some light! Do you think I
want to break my ankle?”
There was a lamp in my room, turned low, but providing some light.
Outside my door, she must have been in blackness. Then I remembered
that, no, with the coming of morning there had been a very faint amount
of daylight in the basement outside my door. I wished it was black
instead. Then she would get frustrated and break her ankle.
I lay disconsolate, pressed against my sentinel ladder. I liked its
hardness. It was smooth, hard. I kissed it. I liked the taste of it.
It tasted like iron. I marvelled at myself. Before, I had always liked
sweet things. Yet now, here I was, in my hour of need, kissing iron.
Iron was not sweet. It wasn’t something you just... kissed. It had a
bad taste to it. But I liked my friend, my iron ladder. Was I growing
up, just a little? Was I trying to escape my little girl self? Surely
that must have been why I left Peoria, even America! Because they only
let me be a little girl, there. And not a real little girl, no. A
Feminist, manly little girl. A star swimmer. Even a quarterback! I
liked admiring quarterbacks, but I didn’t want to be one. I liked
cheerleading instead. It was fun, being happy, showing off. It was how
I had become a model. But my mother didn’t like my cheerleading. My
teachers seemed to disapprove. My female teachers, anyway. They wanted
me to be a Senator. To pass their views into law, not my own.
I sobbed a little. I felt confused. I wanted to be me, but what was
me? Everyone kept pulling me in different directions. Time passed. I
think I might have slept a little.
The woman returned. The tall, elegant woman with the black panties and
the peasant blouse. Now she was topless. I rolled over, hissed as my
bottom made contact with my mattress, then realized I was, perhaps,
being a little silly, because my bottom didn’t hurt anymore.
“Get up!” the woman commanded. She spoke to me in a tone of voice that
I didn’t like. I broke into tears.
“Ohhhh! Why are you doing these horrible things to me?” I asked her
through watery eyes. My breath sobbed. She knelt down. She passed her
hand across my forehead and pushed back my once perfect, now disorderly
hair.
“Poor child, you don’t understand, do you? So few virgins do who come
here.” Her tone was solicitous, almost imploring. I cringed under her
touch. I expected her to roll me against the ladder, exposing my fanny,
and slap it. Instead she kissed me. “What is a man’s job?” she asked
me. I sniffled.
“I don’t know!” I snapped through my tears.
“Think,” she said.
“To be STRONG!” I said.
“Hmmm,” she replied. “This is your first lesson then. Listen up. Be
attentive.” She put her hand to my long hair and stroked it. I cringed
again, thinking she’d pull me to my feet by it. She kissed me again.
“A man’s job,” she said slowly, waiting until my tears had abated to
begin. “A man’s job, is to retain his seed. That’s why. How tight you
are! And your pretty little bot-TOM,” she said with emphasis, “is even
tighter. What a challenge to men to fuck you! To go in, and out, and
in again, and yet again, and not cum. THAT’s a man’s challenge. Why do
you think you were brought here? Or even permitted here, hmmm? Because
the people who run this place knew you would be a challenge, for men to
be tested upon.” She kissed me again, as if to keep my attention. “And
what is your challenge, hmmm?”
“I still don’t know,” I confessed.
“Yes, and that’s why you’re here,” she answered. “Your challenge is to
maintain your feminine beauty and charm no matter what happens to you.
No matter what. Do you understand now, hmmm? You’re being tested too.
You must also be strong, not just the men. But, being a female, you
must be strong in an entirely different way. Get up. You have many
tests today, and I expect you to meet each one with beauty and poise.”
“And if I don’t?” I asked her.
“Then you will be punished,” she answered. “But remember, even the
punishments are a challenge, so don’t dismiss them as mere punishments.
That would be too cruel. Get up! Get up!” She pushed at me. I
expected her to grab my hair, but she didn’t.
At her urging, I finally stood. She turned me and looked at my bottom.
“Do you know why you have a bottom?” she asked.
“No,” I pouted. I sniffled.
“To keep you in step,” she said. “In all things. Your bottom will be
used to keep you in step with our program.” She made me flinch by
placing her hand there. I thought she would slap me.
“See?” she said. “How well trained you are, already.” A simple touch,
and already you’re obedient.
In revenge I leaned back against her. I felt her perky nipples
pressing into my back. The nakedness of her breasts cushioned me.
“Where is your blouse?” I asked. I slipped my hands behind my bottom
to keep her from slapping me again. Her hand was gone, surprised away
when I leaned back against her. She took hold of my shoulders and
pushed me lightly forward. We stepped down off the mattress and through
the open door to my cell.
“A man and a woman, new visitors, wished to suck my tits,” she
answered. We entered the dim daylight in the room beyond.
“And you let them?” I asked.
“Darling, I have breasts. Outside of here, someplace else, I wouldn’t
no. Because I didn’t particularly like them. But here, with my
breasts, it is my duty to nurture, to suckle, to nourish. If people
wish to suck my breasts, I must let them. What, do you think they would
take a man’s chest instead of mine? I don’t think so. So hairy! So
flat, except for the simple development of the muscles. But not my
breasts, as a female. Mine are big and sumptuous and inviting to kiss,
and to feed upon. Not that I have milk to provide, alas. But I can
give them the tenderness of my teats, and shout if they bite me. A man
wouldn’t shout, or cry, would he? No, he’d hold back his tears.”
“Ohhh,” I breathed, almost stumbling in the dim light of the room.
“Don’t stub your toe, silly,” she told me. “Lift your feet. Don’t
shuffle. Walk proudly. Now, my name is Trish. What’s yours?”
“Mine’s Cindy,” I said meekly.
“Ah, yes,” Trish replied. I remember that name on our list of new
pupils. “I’m glad to meet you, Trish. Up the stairs now!” She pushed
lightly upon my bare bottom.
We went up the stairs. I felt worried. Her words had aroused me, made
me more confused. A part of me wanted to be totally female, totally
accepting. Of everything. At least for a little while...
We passed out to the living room. I saw several couples there. They
were naked, relaxing. They gazed at me. I was surprised at their
openness, for they struck me as tourists. One woman, with short blonde
hair, had her head propped back against her arm, which was propped up by
the shoulder of a woman sitting slumped beside her. Both woman’s legs
were apart, freely showing their pubises, their furred slits. One woman
wore pink socks. The other had on a robe, but it was flung wide apart,
so that it would hide nothing. Otherwise their bodies were totally
unadorned, save for makeup and earrings.
The men were erect. They followed me with avaricious eyes. Trish
remained behind me, pushing me forward.
“Ohhh, she’s so beautiful!” one of the women said of me.
“You may meet her later,” a woman sitting on a couch with the men
said. She was nude, but for a graduate’s tassled black cap on her
head. She seemed to be there on the couch with the men to restrain
them, to keep them seated. The other women sat across from the men in a
couch facing them. “First we must get acquainted,” the woman with the
graduate’s cap said. “When people first arrive we like them to meet
each other, first.” I realized, oddly dressed (or undressed) as she
was, she must be a kind of instructor.
The woman who was slumped in the sofa giggled, nervously. I saw she
was more anxious than I’d suspected. The pose had merely been a cover
for her own inner fears.
“Now, you’re all freshly showered, in separate locker rooms,” the
instructress smiled. “And you’re all undressed and ready to ‘mingle,’”
she added, laughing. “Keep your legs apart, dear,” she said to the
woman who was slumped. “Sex slaves will be made available to you, but
first you must make yourself available to others.” She chuckled,
stroked the cock of the nearest man. “That’s why I like men so much.
They have no problem understanding that point.” She tickled the tip of
his penis. He gasped. “You don’t mind me touching you there, do you?”
she asked him.
“No, please continue!” he told the instructress eagerly. He looked
studious, a liberated student from some library stack somewhere.
“No, dear, I’m not just going to make you cum in my hand,” the the
instructress told him. “You’re going to fuck, and fuck well, and *then*
you’re going to cum.” She drew away her hand. “And if you don’t,
that’s why I keep this riding crop handy.”
“Let’s move on,” Trish told me. She’d let me pause to watch. At her
whisper I stepped forward again, and felt proud, knowing their eyes all
turned again to me, even those of the instructress. I heard again a
comment on my looks. The men desired me, greatly. The instructress
told them they had to earn me, by first doing an excellent job of
fucking the women across from them, on the sofa.
I was led to a locker room. It was brightly tiled, clean, but smelled
of steam, as of showers freshly taken.
“Sometimes you will bathe for show, usually when you don’t need a
bath,” Trish told me. “And sometimes you will bathe because you need
to. This morning, of course, it is the latter. I want you to bathe,
and then I’ll supervise you while you douche, so that I can insure you
know how to do it, and are able to do it properly. Everything is
ready. I’ll wait out here, away from the water and steam of the
shower.” She stepped away from me. We happened to be standing next to
a curious shelf of paperback books. I looked at their spines, all
neatly arranged in a row like soldiers, waiting at attention. Some of
the titles they bore looked pornographic. Others looked romantic.
“Yes, I think I’ll read this, while I wait for you,” Trish told me. It
was a romance novel. On the cover of it a man was ripping a woman’s
blouse off. It reminded me of Trish, losing her blouse to a couple that
wished to suck her tits. She looked at me, then sat down on a bench and
opened the book. “We mustn’t read anything that doesn’t stimulate us,”
she said, looking up at me. “Of course, always remember, you mustn’t
touch your special places without permission. Not to arouse, anyway,
though its okay if you must wash them. Or put perfume or makeup on
them... honestly...” she added, and gave me a knowing look. “NOT
dishonestly,” she said. “Not to arouse. So go take your shower. But
don’t take too long. I’ll be positively swooning if you do, and I can’t
touch myself either, though perhaps I’ll wish to when you return.”
I felt confused. But I knew I needed a shower, too. At the end of two
rows of lockers there was a shower room. Just outside it I saw
newly-laundered towels in a neat pile, on a bench. There was unwrapped,
fresh soap waiting in a small pile beside them. I walked to the towels,
picked one up, then put it down again. I would need that afterward, I
remembered. I picked up a bar of soap. I read the new letters carved
into it. “Ivory,” they said. I liked Ivory soap. It was for females.
And babies. Lifting my chin, I walked into the shower room and turned
on the hot water.
I was dressed in black panties. I wore shiny silver heels on my feet.
Their heels were spiky, but modest. Trish walked beside me. She still
wore her black panties, though she’d told me she’d gotten a wet spot in
them, reading that paperback novel. She had on heels that glittered
like gold. They had tall heels, as if she’d earned them, deserved
them.
“This is the hot house,” Trish told me. We stopped in front of a glass
door. Within I saw flowers. Most of them were roses, though I spied
carnations, and two large sunflowers pointing skyward toward the winter
sun. We were at the back of the house, in an enclosed porch. It was
protected only by a mesh of screening and I was eager to depart from
it. At our backs, the house itself lay, warm and cozy. A brisk winter
wind ruffled my hair. I shivered. My teats stood up on the tips of my
breasts. I glanced at the Alpine peaks beyond the screen. They looked
jagged and sharp and forbidding.
“Open the door, silly,” Trish told me. She patted my bottom. I
squeaked, still fearing a slap from her. She told me she longed to put
me over her knee and spank me, but wasn’t allowed to, unless I
disobeyed. Quickly I stepped forward and pulled open the door to the
hot house.
I stepped inside. It was hot, but pleasantly so. The glass of the
house was moist with steam. Beyond I could see the Alps. They looked
threatening, but we were obviously safe in here, where even roses could
find refuge.
Trish followed me in. Quietly she closed the door behind me. I heard
cameras whir, click, buzz. I looked up, startled. I saw a camera in a
corner, up near the ceiling. I guessed there must be others.
“Are we being filmed?” I asked.
“Visibly filmed, yes,” Trish answered complacently. “Cameras are
present everywhere in the house. They make them quite small nowadays,
you know. But here it’s important that you *know* you’re being filmed.
You’ll know why in a moment. Here, have another drink of water.
There’s a whole water cooler of it in here. See? Doesn’t the heat make
you thirsty?” She picked up a paper cup. She filled it under the tap
of the cooler.
“Yes,” I said. “But there was a cooler in the locker room too, and we
already drank plenty there, thank you.”
“Nonetheless, you must drink more,” Trish told me. When I resisted,
she quit trying to hand me the cup and stepped right beside me. She
placed her palm on my bottom. “Tilt your head back,” she told me. She
let her palm massage my bottom, but I knew the signal she was trying to
send me. She’s slap me if I failed to obey. Maybe even put me over her
knee. Right here, in front of all these cameras.
I leaned my head back.
“Open,” Trish said in an expectant voice. Reluctantly I parted my
lips. She placed the edge of the paper cup against my lower lip.
Slowly she titled it upward. The cool water from the cup began pouring
into my mouth. “Swallow,” Trish reminded me. I needed no reminding.
Her palm on my fanny was already plenty of reminding. I gulped. She
paused, waited, then poured more into my mouth. I gulped again. “Take
all of it,” she insisted. I lifted my hands to resist, but instead,
thanks to her hand softly brushing the bare cheeks of my ass, I would up
taking the cup in my hands. I held it with both my hands, childlike.
“Yes, drink,” Trish told me. “Drink it all.” She stepped away from
me. She let me drink by myself. She took another paper cup and,
filling it, fed herself a glass of water. “We must both drink all we
can,” Trish told me.
We stood drinking for a few minutes. I got another cupful of water and
drank it, under her watchful eye. The room was hot. She took another
cupful, drank it down.
“Now, remember,” she said. “In here, we must always be naked below the
waist. So, please dear, doing it gracefully, sexily even, take off your
little black panties.”
“But it’s all I have on!” I protested. It was one thing to be observed
in panties, but topless. That was like going to a European beach. Even
little girls did that. But naked? In front of all these inquisitive
cameras? I didn’t feel I could do it.
“There is a cane, here in the corner, for me to help you with. Would
you like some assistance?” Trish asked me, stepping toward the cane.
“No!” I cried. “I’ll- I’ll take off my panties.”
“Yes, and I will too,” Trish told me. She loosened the bows at her
hips. “Off they come!” she said, taking them off with a flourish. I
stood with my fingers poised at my own bows. “No you,” Trish said.
Reluctantly I loosed my drawstrings. My panties skittered down my legs,
pooled at my feet. “Bend over. Pick them up. Don’t leave them lying
on the floor,” Trish told me. “That’s what this hook is for.” She
walked to a hook on the wall, next to the cooler, and hung up her
undies. They looked very small, perched over the hook, their
drawstrings dangling down like lost threads. I picked up my panties. I
walked over to where she was standing and carefully placed my own over
hers. “Very good,” Trish told me.
I looked at my panties. They looked orphaned. I put my hand over my
bush, lest the cameras see it.
“No,” Trish said. Lightly she took my hand and made me remove it. The
cameras aimed, recorded. My bush was immortalized, there among the
roses. I was Venus, freshly scrubbed from the shower, blooming in the
hot house.
Trish led me to a flight of wooden steps. I found it curious. It led
upward to a wood platform that stretched across the hot house. The
roses, in pots, sat beneath the platform. Their bushy stems, laden with
open and budding flowers, rose up toward the platform. Some of the
bushes had actually grown through the platform, for above each plant, as
if to let it grow, there was a hole.
“These are rose bushes purposely kept small, so that they always are
able to flower toward the platform, but only to breach it a little, at
most. Then they must be trimmed back,” Trish told me.
“But why have the platform at all?” I asked her.
“You’ll see,” she replied. She put a hand to my bottom and patted it.
“Mount,” she said. Quickly, fearing her hand or, worse, that awful cane
poised in the corner, I hurried up the short flight of wooden steps that
led to the platform. I stepped onto it gingerly. It held. It was
quite a solid platform. Trish came up behind me and pushed me toward
the first hole that had been cut into it.
“This is like a floor,” I said.
“Yes, it will support your weight quite easily,” Trish assured me.
“And me too.” She patted my bottom again, as if to keep me attentive.
Then she said, quite casually, “Please squat.”
“What?” I asked. I turned, looking over my shoulder at her. Squat?
What for?
“Squat down over this hole,” Trish told me. “We have a lot of work to
do, and we’d better get going.” She smiled. “We can always pause to
refresh ourselves, of course.”
Not understanding, I stepped to the nearest hole. She pushed on my
shoulders, taking them firmly between her slim fingers, and made me
stoop down. “Squat, dear,” Trish said. I obeyed, guided by her hands,
until I was squatting. The hole was beneath me, under my bottom. I
felt a rosebud, poking up through the hole, brush the underside of my
ass. “Be careful of the thorns,” Trish told me.
I looked up at her, wide-eyed. So? I was squatting. The cameras were
watching, obviously pleased as they focussed in on me. I looked down.
Under me was the hole, the stemming rose bush, reaching up at my
bottom. I gasped. Through the leaves of the bush I saw another camera,
quieter, gazing with its lens up at my twat.
“Oh!” I said. Instinctively I thrust my hand down between my legs and
covered my nether lips.
“That’s it, spread the lips of your pussy,” Trish told me.
“Why?” I asked, again looking up at her, dumbly, but obeying, though I
cringed doing it, for I was mindful of the cane. With my other hand I
joined the first, spreading myself.
“Now piss!” Trish told me.
“WAHT?!” I asked, startled.
“Do you want more to drink first?” she asked.
“No! I’ve had enough to drink!” I gasped. “I feel like a balloon
inside. Really, Trish, don’t you think we better leave and go find a
toilet?”
Trish smiled. It was a suave, knowing smile. “This isn’t just a hot
house,” Trish told me. “For girls, its also an out house. That’s what
the men call it, despite all the roses, though they aren’t permitted to
relieve themselves here. Pee, darling. It’s such a treat, to piss on
roses! We must make water on all of them, for that’s how they’re made
to grow!”
“Nooooo,” I gasped. But with my lips spread, and my bladder full, and
the warm heat of the room, and the cane in the corner, I suddenly, in my
nervousness, peed. “Eeek!” I cried. I looked down at myself, but I
couldn’t stop. Nature, helped by too many cups of water, had called.
Trish laughed. The cameras worked overtime. My pee spilled out and I
watered the roses freely.
“Good, good,” Trish said. “Don’t give them all, though, or you’ll have
to drink lots more. We still have a lot of plants to water after this
one.”
I stared up at her. “We have to water all of them?!” I asked,
astonished.
“As many as we can,” Trish said. “As many as we honestly can. One is
hardly enough, dear. That’s why there’s a water cooler here, so we can
drink lots more, until we’ve done a good job.”
“Noooo,” I said, but I continued peeing. The leaves and rosebuds and
flowers beneath me received my water. I rained upon them, a kind of
goddess, making water from above. At last, I was finished. Trish
picked up a box of kleenex nearby and handed it to me. “Wipe,” she told
me. “It’s important always to wipe. Someone else will pick up the
kleenex, dont’ worry. Just drop it through the hole when you’re done.”
I felt wicked. I felt awful. But I wiped myself and, when I was done,
I dropped the kleenex through the hole. It caught on the thorns of the
bush.
“See? Now anyone can see that we’ve done our job,” Trish told me.
“Before they had cameras, they used to come in after a girl, and count
the number of kleenex. And, rest assured, she got a walloping on her
bottom if she was found to have dropped dry kleenex through the holes,
trying to trick them.” Trish rubbed her fanny. “I know. I tried that
once, when I was new, and wilful.” She smiled. She let me stand.
“You’re lucky,” she told me. “You have me. I can show you the ropes,
so you’re only punished when you need to be trained, not because you’ve
been bad.”
“Yes,” I agreed. That was a good bargain.
“And if you have milk, one day,” Trish told me, pushing on one of my
nipples, indenting it into my breast with her finger, “If you have milk,
you may lie on the floor and squirt your milk down through the holes,”
she said. “Always being careful of the thorns, of course. You don’t
want to get your breasts pierced unless your master requires it.”
We pissed. Over each hole we pissed, and whenever we needed ‘to be
watered,’ as Trish called it, we paid another visit to the corner water
cooler. It waited patiently, the cane beside it, burbling its big
bubbles up whenever it had been emptied a little. I liked seeing the
bubbles. They rose full and round, reminding me a little of semen, and
men’s sperm sacks. I wondered if men with full balls were watching us.
Were they excited, seeing me pee? Did they have trouble keeping their
sperm in, when they saw my lips open and release water? Did they like
seeing my wetness? I limned my lips with my tongue. I liked being
watched, just a little, if it made men have trouble holding on to their
wicked sperm.
At nightfall I was served for dessert. I was told by that I made a
wonderful dessert. I had no choice in the matter. Trish made sure,
with warning pats on my bottom, that I let myself be squirted with cream
and taken, on a big silver platter, out to the table. My nipples, my
pubis, these were covered by cream, but the rest of me was left bare,
save for a strawberry placed in my mouth, and a cherry in my navel. My
toes held stalks of cheese-laden celery between them. A carrot, its tip
in my ass, made my bottom uncomfortable. It was coated with vaseline.
A cushion supported the small of my back, lifting my bottom, giving the
carrot room to wedge under my cheeks. There was a big, seedless grape
holding open the lips of my cunt.
The guests who had seen me earlier in the evening were the people I was
served to. The women gorged themselves on my tits. The men went
straight for my private, one licking eagerly at my nest, another
swallowing the grape, a third seeing how much deeper he could push the
carrot into my ass. I squeezed hard, trying to keep it out, but the
carrot probed me, deeply. It made me scream with its roughness and
ridges.
After my labors upon the table, fed upon, devoured, I was taken to
bed. It was a real bed, with covers and pillows. It was in a room by
itself, with a toilet next door. I smiled, my eyes bleared with sleep
and with tears. I had earned a bed. I was moving up. I would graduate
someday, if I did well. With my hands I held my bottom, and assured
myself that, if I endured, it would all somehow be worth it.
“Bend over,” Trish told me. “I must cane you before I tuck you in.”
“No!” I cried.
“It is required,” she answered. “There is a cane here, see?” She
reached, pulled a cane away from the wall. I shrank. I had not seen
it. Were there canes waiting in every part of the house?
“Bend,” Trish told me. “There are much worse things that can happen to
a girl here than to be caned. Bend over, present your bottom. You must
learn to present. You must willingly give your bottom to the cane,
whenever its wished. Unthinkingly, obediently.” She kissed my cheek,
holding that awful cane, and I hated her for it. “Bend. As soon as you
here that, you must bend over. On command. Perhaps it is to be
fucked. Perhaps to be whipped. You are not to question. Not here.
Bend, and wait for your master’s decision. Perhaps you will be lucky,
or unlucky, depending on your preference. Perhaps he is just teasing.
Testing. But you must bend unhesitatingly, or you will be punished, for
sure, for your disobedience.” She kissed me again, then said softly.
“Already you have earned three extra strokes for stalling. Don’t make
me be any more severe on you than I must.”
I went to bed that night with a very sore bottom.
The days passed. I was fucked frequently. Often it was in my bottom,
but sometimes in my cunt. I never knew which, though I knew Dave had
expressed a preference to them for having things up my bottom. I tried
hard to accept, as the days passed. Wickedly, they used bigger objects
on me as the days went by. I was punished when I refused, or proved, in
another favorite word of theirs, “inadequate.”
Trish stood trying pajama pants round my waist. I watched her
fingers. They were practised, nubile. I breathed in. She tied the
pants tighter.
“There,” Trish said. “All set. And look, you have a little flap in
back. Sorry, but I’ve got to undo it, dear, so it hangs down and shows
your fanny.”
Where’s the top?” I asked, looking about the room. My hair was tied
off in pigtails with big pink bows. I was in a bedroom decorated for a
little girl. It had a small bed. There were stuffed animals, quite
cute ones, piled in the corner. I held a teddy bear in my hand. I
liked its fuzzy feeling.
“The top?” Trish laughed. She undid my flap in my pants, in back, and
I felt cool air suddenly touch my bottom. “There is no top, dear. A
real little girl would have a top, of course, unless she has a lusty
daddy. No, you’re a big girl, even though you’re to play a little one.
No top for you. But you do get these cute footed pants, with the flap
in back. That’s something, isn’t it?”
“I guess so,” I answered.
“Now get in bed,” Trish told me. Reluctantly I got into the bed. I
pulled the covers over me. Right up to my chin.
“Oh, you are a naughty one,” Trish teased me. “But I’ll let you keep
your covers up, tonight. After all, you’re a scared little girl, aren’t
you?”
“MmmmHMMM!” I agreed, nodding my head vigorously. I hoped she might
take the larger point. Trish laughed.
“No, darling, even scared little girls are required to stay here and
complete their education. No going home for you, much as you might wish
it.” She put a finger to my lips, to silence an incipient protest, and
kissed me on my nose.
Trish stood up. “Do you want the night light on?” she asked me. I
looked at it. It was in the shape of a pumpkin. It had a happy face on
it. It glowed, warmly.
“On,” I said firmly.
“Very good,” Trish said. “I’d read you a story, but I’m needed
downstairs. Your door will be locked, but men have a key, don’t worry.
Visit the toilet as you wish. In the morning someone will come and get
you, if someone hasn’t already, during the night. Try to sleep until
then.”
“What will happen to me?” I asked. Trish laughed again.
“No sense giving it away,” she said. “Something special. That you can
take back to your lover with you.”
I tossed and turned after she left. What could it be? What? What
could I possibly take back to Dave, except my education? At last sleep
crept into me and I slept.
In the wee hours of the night someone awoke me. It was a woman, but I
didn’t know her name. She was new. She was a brunette, with dark
hair. She was pretty, like a model, but her eyes seemed hard.
“Get up,” she told me.
“Where’s Trish?” I asked.
“She’s downstairs, in the basement, serving a new girl,” the woman
replied.
“Who’re you?” I asked impudently. I didn’t like her pulling down my
covers. It was cold in the room. The night air made my breasts chilly.
“I’m your new mistress,” she said. “I watched you being trained. She
always went easy on you, didn’t she? Well, I am not so easy. You will
find me more demanding. Roll over.”
I did nothing. I was frightened.
“NOW!” she insisted.
Shivering from the cold, blinking, I rolled over. I felt my breasts
against the warm sheet and was grateful for that, but now my bottom,
sticking up through the flap in my pants, was exposed.
SLAP! The woman’s hand came down very hard.
“Yeeeech!” I cried.
SLAP! SLAP! Twice again the hand came down, striking both my cheeks,
as if to ensure they both suffered equally. It was a hard hand,
implacable. I screamed very loudly.
The woman, my new, harsh mistress, took me downstairs. I walked
mincingly. She had to pull hard on my hand to make me take bigger
steps. She led me into the living room. I saw the fire flickering in
the hearth. It looked warm. I wanted to run to it, to find comfort in
it. Facing it, at least. My bottom was already warm enough. The
woman, Circe, my mistress, had spanked it until it was bright red. On
both its cheeks.
Suddenly I stopped dead in my tracks. In front of the fire, there was
a small brazier. It stood on the carpeted floor. I saw, even from this
distance, a long metal thing lying across it. My heart skipped a beat.
Several beats. I was from Iowa. I knew what a brazier meant, and a
long thing, too. It was a brand.
“Yes, see? You’re to be branded,” Circe told me, pointing. With her
other hand she gripped me hard, by my bare shoulder. There was a woman
sitting near the brazier. With a long stick, she was stirring the
coals.
“Ohhhh!” I cried. I fainted. It was the worst possible thing to do.
When I came to, I was tied. My arms were around a post. They were
tied on the opposite side, very tightly. A rope crossed around behind
the small of my back and held me firmly to the pole. It felt scratchy
against my back. It was a bristly rope, the kind used to lasso cows.
My feet were spread, and the same kind of rope that bound my wrists, my
waist, also bound my feet. They, at least, were still in my footed
stocking bottoms, and did not have to feel the awful rope. But I
couldn’t budge them. They were fixed in place on either side of the
pole, near its back, making my bottom hang out of my P.J.’s. The flap
in the seat of my P.J.’s was still unbuttoned. My reddened asscheeks
stuck out of it, and despite my spanking I could feel the flame of the
fire, behind me, warming it, making it sweat.
I did not have a gag in my mouth. I had a bit. But it wasn’t a rubber
bit. Someone, perhaps that wicked woman Circe, had pushed a pacifier
into my mouth. I felt it between my teeth. It was big, and hard. It
filled my mouth and forced my jaws apart, so I couldn’t grind my teeth.
It shoved my tongue back into the rear of my mouth. I gagged, once,
feeling it. I tried to gag again but couldn’t. It had been pushed back
just enough, no more, to serve its purpose. To keep me quiet while I
was.... branded.
“NOOOOO!” I screamed at the very thought of the word. The pacifier
silenced my scream. Behind me, I heard preparations being made. I
tried to spit out the pacifier. It was tied to my head. A scratchy
rope passed behind it, through its looped handle, and then over both my
cheeks. It was tied in a knot at the back of my head.
My hair was tied off in pigtails, exposing my back. I was bare all
down my back. I felt the fire burnishing my back with its heat. Behind
me, I heard preparations. Someone was stirring the coals. Someone else
was whispering, quietly.
Suddenly Circe appeared beside me. “There has been a delay,” she
said. Her voice was angry. She looked at me harshly. “No, you are not
getting off,” she assured me. “But the Head Master wishes to see it,
and he’s off right now, off with Trish.” My eyes widened hopefully. I
felt my breath caught in my chest. My breasts, splayed by the big pole,
seemed to spring forth at their tips at the excitement of being
released. “I’m keeping you downstairs,” Circe told me. “No more sweet
little girl bedrooms for you. Downstairs, in a proper cell. And as
soon as I get the word, or convince the Head Master to change his mind,
it’ll be back to this post for you. And you’ll feel that brand going
right between the cheeks of your bottom. Where it belongs.”
“NOOOOOO!” I screamed. Circe laughed. She laughed at my scream. She
seemed to enjoy it. I screamed again, and kept screaming, until she’d
locked me away in my cell. It took three women, including her, to
muscle me into it.
A day passed. The dwarf brought me bread and a jug of wine. Circe had
cut my rations. She wished me to have only bread, the dwarf said,
because I didn’t deserve better. She wished the wine to make me drunk,
so I couldn’t refuse... next time. The dwarf warned me that ‘next time’
was any time, any time the Head Master changed his mind. He was in
Zurich, with Trish. They were due back, at the latest, in one week.
They were drumming up new business for the school.
“More men to have their way with me,” I said, frowning.
“Yes,” the dwarf agreed. He nodded. His eyes were bright, happy.
I was taken from my cell and fucked whenever someone asked for me.
Circe dealt with me angrily. But she was allowed only to spank me. The
Head Master feared arming her with a cane. I heard her once, in another
room, pleading with him on the telephone, as a man and two women
decorated me for dessert.
“But she is so WILFUL!” Circe shouted. I could not hear the reply.
“It is always less fun when the Head Master’s away,” one of the women,
sprinkling bits of chocolate across my tummy, sighed. “So little can be
done.”
“He fears leaving us in charge,” the man said.
“We are the help,” the woman agreed.
“This one, she thinks she’s so precious,” the other woman said.
“Circe will change that,” the first woman said. She looked into my
eyes. “Wait ‘til you feel the brand going between the cheeks of your
ass,” she told me. I shivered.
“We only have six guests right now,” the second woman said. “See the
effect? Less happens, and less people stay.”
“We don’t get the best tips when nothing is happening,” the first woman
agreed. “But people will pay to see this one branded. I’ll bet that’s
why the Head Master’s putting it off. He’s showing her picture around,
trying to drum up the maximum crowd. What’s the use of branding a girl
if you can’t make a profit off it?” She looked at the other woman.
“Extra income,” she said, and nodded meaningfully, seeking agreement.
“Yes, extra income,” the second woman agreed. “And extra tips too.”
“I haven’t been tipped,” I said.
“Quiet. Open your mouth,” the second woman told me. She pulled at my
lips. She presented an apple, and I was forced to accept it. It was a
big apple. It spread my mouth wide. It made my jaw ache. Saliva ran
out of the corners of my mouth. I felt like a pig, served for dinner.
“They tip when they leave,” the man said to me. He was slightly
solicitious, though he made me open my legs so he could insert the de
rigeur carrot into my ass. Just the tip. The guests would take care of
the rest. I prayed it had a good coat of vaseline on it.
“Of course they tip when they leave,” the first woman said to the man.
“Why, haven’t you gotten a tip lately?”
“I was telling her,” the man said.
“OUCH!” I cried. He stuck the end of the carrot into my bottom.
“Oh, her!” the second woman scoffed. She leaned over me. My eyes
looked up at her, frantically, hoping for relief from the carrot. “Yes,
dearie,” she said with feigned sweetness. “They tip when they leave.
No money is permitted during their stay. They have to lock it away.
This is supposed to be a paradise, don’cha know.” She pinched my
breast. I screamed.
“Don’t leave marks on her breasts like that,” the man warned her. “You
know the Head Master wants her unblemished for her branding.”
“Yes, poor child. She’ll be plenty blemished then. For life,” the
second woman said. She pressed her sharp fingertips against my breast
again, but didn’t pinch me this time. Both woman laughed. Even the man
laughed, and I felt forlorn. Hopeless.
I lay upon my mattress. I was well-fucked. Again. The guests had
enjoyed their dessert. The women had let them take me to the Mat Room
afterward. It contained just mats. That’s all that was needed, for
fucking. The men had their way with me. The women watched, kissed me
when I needed it, encouraged me, but offered no relief. I was an
object. To be used. To test the men. My tightness verses their
cocks. They spent in me. In my bottom. In my cunt. My tightness won,
but the price was high. I dripped with their seed, and I was sore.
I gazed out the door to my cell. Why did they always leave it open?
Weren’t cameras enough? Was the humiliation of always being on view,
even when chained in my cell, so very needed? Anyone could come down
and look at me. Anyone.
I called for the dwarf. He came. He unlocked me so I could go to the
potty. He put cheese and meat on my plate, beside my uneated loaf of
bread. He liked feeding me, nowadays. He liked doing it to defeat
Circe. He didn’t like Circe.
I went to the toilet. The dwarf led me, bringing his lamp. He watched
me pee. He liked watching me pee. I didn’t like that, but I could do
nothing to stop him. He led me back to my cell.
“Don’t pee on the mattress,” he said. “I much prefer just changing the
sheet.”
“You could put plastic under the sheet,” I told him.
“Not allowed,” he said. “Thank God there aren’t more girls down here.
Sometimes there’s dozens, all peeing away, because they’re all new and
too bashful to call for me.” He paused. “By name.”
“It took me a lesson,” I admitted. I liked the dwarf, a little. He
brought me food, water. I liked the water much better than the wine
Circe insisted I have. The water didn’t make me drunk. I could fake
drunkenness, if I had to. But if I knew I was to be fucked, then I
always drank the wine. It made it easier.
I don’t know when I discovered it. What hour of the night, that is.
There was no clock down in my cell. But I remember distinctly the
moment, all the same. I was lying on my side, against my ladder. My
fingers were idly toying with the edge of my mattress. The sheet had
come undone from it. Sticking my fingers down, feeling the wedge of the
wall and the mattress, and my finger between, I found that hard,
wonderful object. The keyring. The man’s keyring, from long ago. The
man who had been interrupted, because he needed to go to the airport.
In the days that followed I made very sure I never peed in my bed. I
kept the keys hidden behind my mattress, where I’d found them, where the
dwarf, strugging with the mattress, had missed them when he’d had to
swap it out. I didn’t want to take any extra chances. He’d see them
for sure, if he had to swap out my mattress again.
I hatched plans. I liked hatching plans, there in the dark, when the
room outside was pitch black and I had only a small, guttering lamp in
my cell, so people could come by and look at me sleeping. I kept my
face pressed to the ladder. I let them see my bottom, when they came,
but very few came. We were down to just the help, mostly, and a
half-dozen guests.
All my plans involved fire. I would brand them, much better than they
could ever hope to brand me. Yes. I was wicked. They’d taught me to
be a good little bad girl, and I’d learned my lessons
well.
30
----------------------- Dreamgirls -----------------------
-Free e-mail subscriptions: No longer available due to mailbombing of
my Internet account(s) by right-wing Christians.
-Currently I am: roller39@mail.idt.net
-formerly I was andrewroller@sprintmail.com, roller66@inreach.com,
roller666@aol.com Read my complete works under these names by
going to: http://www.excite.com (Click on ‘newsgroups’ and search
under my various former screen names). (Also you can read irrelevant
bullshit posted by right-wing Christians.)
-Recent back issues at Usenet newsgroup: alt.sex.stories.moderated
-For all back issues, send e-mail to: file.request@backdrop.com
- Free plug: http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/
-Free minicomics: send a stamped, self-addressed envelope & age
statement to: Jim Corrigan, P.O. Box 3663, Phenix City, AL 36868
- JOIN the world’s greatest organization! Send $35.00 to The North
American Man/Boy Love Association for a one-year membership.
NAMBLA, P.O. Box 174, Midtown Station, New York, NY 10018.
-Naughty Naked Dreamgirls (Library of Congress ISSN: 1070-1427) is
copyright 1997 and a trademark of Andrew Roller. Work by others
copyright 1997 by the respective copyright holder.
-END OF 272 EMISSION
--
+--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+
| story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |
| Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ |
\ <URL:http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/> .../assm/faq.html> /