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From: Andrew Roller <roller666@earthlink.net>
Subject: Fevered Fall part 17 of 22 (NND)
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_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
FEVERED FALL
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Chapter Seventeen
Though all outside is chaos, within the crumbled remains of the
Sky Dwelling the Tamagotchi lies safe, glowing with the pleasure of its
cybernetic inhabitants. Chloe, a 13-year-old Palm Pet, has no idea her
world has been created by a nerdy programmer who’s never had a
girlfriend. She thinks she’s real. Thanks to her programmer, she’s
doomed to suffer in the most perverse ways. And the lifetime battery
pack in her Tamagotchi, though owned by no one now, is destined to pit
Chloe against sexual fiends for decades to come...
The Sultan chuckled. He waved forward one of the European
women. I later learned her name was Jessica. She was the one who’d
left a puddle on my auntie’s chair. She walked with a salacious gait,
rolling her naked hips, clearly aroused and eager for any man present,
apparently, to plumb her privates with his cock. She carried a small
black bag. I trembled, seeing it, gasping from my three orgasms and
wondering, in my gagged, speechless condition, what new horrors awaited
me.
Jessica put the bag down between my open legs, on my ‘throne’.
She pulled it open. She drew out a stethoscope. She slung it around
her neck. It fell, snakelike, between her breasts.
“Oh! It’s cold!” Jessica said, as the metal disk at the end of
it touched her skin. Her nipples, already taut, tightened further and
displayed their tips more prominently. They were like cherry stems, I
thought, in search of satisfaction in the mouth of anyone. Simply apply
your teeth and pull. She would not mind. She was lusty and free. She
was also apparently, a nurse, for she said: “I must listen to your
heart, both of you.” My auntie’s eyes widened. To be examined, in such
condition, bound and helpless on chairs designed to torture us!
Jessica lifted the stethoscope’s metal disk. She raised it
from her belly, touching it gently with her fingers. She placed it
against the warm contour of my left breast. The disk did feel cold. I
jerked, just a little, and Jessica sighed and told me to be still. The
feather touching my clit withdrew, so that I might be still for my exam.
Jessica listened to my heart. Her bosoms hung nakedly before
my eyes. Her bottom, bare and sexy, moved slowly from left to right,
displaying its spheric proportions to the two princes and the Sultan.
The remaining prince cast off his toga. His cock was a hardy piston,
ready for pneumatic glory, I thought, gazing at it with wide eyes. The
three females partying with him “oohed” and “aahed” at his cock. Then
they giggled, for all was teasing still. With the Sultan present, they
could not fuck, apparently, until the Sultan had first given his
permission by claiming one of the girls present for himself. He,
however, was still entranced by my aunt and me. He remained in his
robes. He told us, as Jessica reported our regular, rhythmic heartbeats
to him, that he was pleased with our “progress.”
“You have each experienced your first orgasms in my kingdom,
and will, I am sure, experience many more,” the Sultan said with gleeful
eyes. “Take their temperatures too,” the Sultan told Jessica.
Jessica smiled. “Sire, their bottoms would provide the most
accurate reading, but they are both sitting on them,” Jessica said to
the Sultan. I got the impression she would like my aunt and me lifted
up, that she might inquire into our holes! Jessica affected a bored
look, perhaps to cover for her devious designs, and added, “As for their
mouths, they are gagged.”
“Do we have no ear thermometers?” the Sultan asked.
“No, sire,” Jessica said. “You expressly forbade them.”
“Ah, yes,” the Sultan said. “Ungag our guests, then.”
Jessica looked disappointed. She did, truly, I think, wish to
see my auntie and me poked in our bottoms, though for what purpose,
other than evil delight, I do not know. She complained to the Sultan
that she could not undo my gag, or my aunt’s, for doing so might break
her long, lustrous nails.
“Guards!” the Sultan called. Jessica blanched. For a moment I
thought (indeed, hoped!) she’d gotten into trouble. The guards came in
from the hall, where they were standing watch. My heart jumped when I
saw them. Each one had a large protrusion in the front of his sarong.
“Ah, gentlemen, I see you have become aroused,” the Sultan
observed, gazing at his guards below their waists. Indeed, all of us
stared, for each man possessed a long, healthy banana-like stiffie over
which draped the front of his sarong.
“Sorry, sire,” a guard answered. “It is the sound of the girls
screaming that aroused us.” I blushed. It was my screams, and those of
my aunt, I realized, which had made these guards erect! The guard who
spoke to the Sultan was a burly man, with a hairy chest, yet he spoke to
the Sultan with careful deference. He wore his sword sheathed in a belt
at his waist. I thought him most handsome, in a rough sort of way. I
wondered if female captives of the Sultan were ever given to the guards
for a night of pleasure. The thought made me shiver. That set my bare
breasts quivering. The husky guard, approaching me, looked at my bosoms
with interest.
“If I may say so, you have a fine pair of tits,” the guard
murmured to me. He stepped behind my chair to remove my gag.
“Thank you,” I gasped, when his sturdy fingers had undone the
black cloth wedged between my lips.
“I should like to put something more substantial in your
mouth,” the guard whispered to me.
“Chloe, Rebecca! How are you two doing?” the Sultan asked both
my aunt and I, as if addressing guests at cocktail hour in a sedate
bar. My aunt and I gasped. I coughed a little; amazed that I could
breathe through my mouth again.
“Please, let us go!” my aunt said. Her voice was shrill.
“Nonsense, my dear,” the Sultan answered. “You sound like a
virgin, newly deflowered. Yet I suspect a probing of your cunt would
reveal you’ve tasted cock before. This will be a difficult ride, but
you can manage. You are both quite healthy. You can take it. You will
both have plenty of time to recuperate afterward, and servants to attend
to you, doctors to assist with any injuries you may receive.”
“Oh, God!” my aunt shouted.
“NO!” I cried.
The Sultan laughed. “Have I scared you? It was not my
purpose. Have some wine. Perhaps it will buoy your feelings a little.
Lightheadedness would not be altogether bad in such circumstances, eh?”
“Do not resist, darling. I must take your temp,” Jessica told
my aunt. She popped a glass thermometer in my aunt’s mouth and bade her
keep her lips compressed until it had registered. My aunt squirmed but
obeyed. In the meantime, the Sultan drifted to where I sat bound, and
gazed at me with affectionate eyes.
“I shall have you whipped in a bit, Chloe,” the Sultan told
me. “Do not hate me for it, eh? It will do you good to have a proper
lashing on your back.”
I stared up at him from my chair. At last I said, “Aren’t my
arms in the way?” I coughed again, perhaps from nervousness at speaking
to a man in such an odd way, with my legs splayed, my cunt all wet and
showing, my arms tightly fastened behind my back.
“Indeed,” the Sultan said. “You raise an excellent point,
Chloe,” the Sultan said. “I shall have your arms lifted first. You get
a star, my dear, for making such an observation. How pleasant it is to
have a girl participate in her own arrangements for torture.”
I gulped. “I didn’t mean to,” I said.
“Temp’s normal,” Jessica said, pulling the thermometer from my
aunt’s mouth. She lowered it. “Perhaps, dear Sultan, given the plans
you have for both these girls, I should also check their pussys’
temperatures?” Jessica asked.
“Of course!” the Sultan said. “Stick it right in. Neither one
can resist, anyhow.”
It was done. My aunt shuddered as the glass thermometer was
inserted in her cunt. It was wet from the saliva of her mouth. The
nurse, whom I was beginning to think was a make-believe nurse, warned my
aunt not to squeeze her cuntlips too tightly, lest she break the slim
glass rod.
“Oh! I’m trying not to squeeze!” my aunt said. Her body
trembled, making her pussy lips tighten. The nurse monitored her
carefully. She slipped the thermometer back and forth in her wet gash
to make sure my aunt wasn’t squeezing tighter than she should. There
was a small rubber ball at the finger-end of the thermometer, to keep
the nurse’s body heat from transferring itself to the glass.
“Temp’s normal again,” the nurse told the Sultan, withdrawing
the thermometer from my aunt’s cunt.
“Good,” the Sultan said. Then, to my utter surprise, as I
spoke to the Sultan again, asking for some lemonade that was being
poured, the nurse popped the thermometer, wet from my aunt’s cunny, into
my mouth.
“Ooook!” I said. I didn’t know what to do. I was tasting my
aunt! The thermometer tasted sweet, like honey. I gaped at the
Sultan. He knitted his brows, as if to warn me not to reject the
thermometer. I sucked upon it, liking the taste, but not the reason for
it. When the glass had registered the nurse removed it. She reported I
was normal. Then she poked the thermometer in my slit and took my
pussy’s temperature. I tensed against the intrusion. She warned me, as
she’d warned my aunt, not to break the thermometer with my pussy lips.
I shivered, as my aunt had shivered, hoping I wouldn’t. Jessica slid
the thermometer back and forth in me to test my tightness the entire
time my temp was being taken.
“She is like a small, delicate flower, tensely trying to close
at the approach of a bee,” Jessica laughed, slipping the stinger-like
thermometer in and out of me. “Don’t worry dear, I won’t sting you,”
Jessica told me.
“But I might,” the Sultan said. His eyes danced with glee.
My aunt was served wine. She tried to decline; the European
woman who’d sat in my chair forced open her lips and made her drink it
down. I turned my head and watched my aunt grimacing, trying, in a
half-hearted, feminine way, to resist. Her breasts bounced as she
twisted her head against the fingers at her lips.
“Still, Rebecca! Be still!” the European woman warned her. I
later learned the adamant lady was named Vicky. She was as naked as the
woman who was sticking the thermometer in my pussy. Her hips moved
salaciously even as she held my aunt’s teeth apart with her forefinger
and thumb. Both princes, rock hard, gazed with avid eyes at the two
women attending us, whilst admiring my aunt and I also. At the same
time they enjoyed fresh grapes, served to them by the two European women
attending them at the party table. One of the women polished each grape
on her bosoms before feeding them to a prince. The other prince,
apparently, preferred girls’ nether charms. His female attendant
polished grapes upon her heinie before feeding them to him.
“Slide them in and out of your butt crack. I do not mind,” the
prince instructed her.
“Oh, sire, you are so naughty!” the woman replied. But she did
as he asked. The Sultan, seeing it, laughed. So did the other women.
Even I giggled, a little, though I thought it quite obscene.
Jessica found my vaginal temp normal. She reported it to the
Sultan, who ordered that I be given wine. I was offered a glass. By
then a guard, working quickly, as if he’d done this to many girls before
me and was an expert at it, had freed my hands. I rubbed my wrists and
took the proferred glass of wine.
“Don’t worry, Chloe, it’s a very light wine,” the Sultan told
me. “You can drink it without becoming drunk, if you only have a glass
or two.” He smiled at me and I wondered at what sort of man he must be,
to sexually abuse young girls but, at the same time, worry that he might
make them drunk. Perhaps it was because, in the end, sex is a natural
act, while wine is unnatural to one’s constitution; a person can live
all their life without drinking wine, but it is a rare bird indeed who
can go without sex. (And even rarer still if one goes without sex, and
is not tormented by its absence.)
So, knowing I had a cunt, and boobs, and a slim waist and flat
tummy that left me looking like a wanted poster for male sperm, the
Sultan prised me apart sexually, and delighted in playing sexual games
with me, while at the same time worrying that I not be made drunk on a
cup of wine. He wanted, I knew, gazing at him over the rim of my glass
as I drank from it, for me to feel all he did to me. Other men, less
bold, more constricted by laws not of their making, might to devise to
get a girl drunk first, so that they could ‘cop a feel.’ Not the
Sultan. He ruled here, in his kingdom. He could do exactly as he
pleased. If he was going to go the trouble of challenging a girl
sexually, of teasing her, of dominating and filling her, he wanted her
to be aware of it all, and to take note of every thing he did to her.
He didn’t want to make love to a drunken rag doll, as some men in
America or Europe do. He wanted a living, breathing, gasping, shrieking
girl, who would forever remember how he labored over her to sexually
impress her. Yes, he might tease her about making her drunk, to
anesthetize her against all that he would force her to suffer, I
realized, but in the end, like it or not, I was doomed to remember every
last bit of it. The Sultan would have it no other way. He wanted me to
report to all the other girls what a monster he was, because he knew
that half of them who heard it would find a way to show up here, to feel
his torments themselves.
I sat with my legs apart. My cunt was wet with sexual
excitement that I had not willingly offered but which, having it wrested
from me, I did not complain of now. My bare tummy heaved, small and
flat and rippling as I drew in gulps of air between gulps of wine. My
naked tits shook. My arms bent forward freely, my elbows sticking out,
as I held my wine glass with both hands. But my legs were still
fastened, well beyond the latitude of ladyhood and showing all of myself
to whoever cared to look.
It was then I realized, sitting there all exposed, how
bizarrely wonderful it was to be in the hands of a man like the Sultan.
Of course, I would never tell him such a thing. Here, where a girl
could resist all she pleased and still not fail to achieve sexual
satisfaction, I was free to indulge in the word “NO”, knowing it would
save me from nothing. How peculiarly satisfying it is for a female to,
on occasion, be reduced to such a condition, my mind admitted. I
shivered at the realization. I understood, suddenly, that I never
wanted to interact with the Sultan on a ‘normal’ basis. He was not
meant for that, at least in my life. I didn’t want to tell him of my
hopes, my dreams, or my plans, or even of my complaints. Those were for
another man, perhaps a husband, or a school principal, or a counsellor.
The Sultan was only to interact with me sexually, I realized, even in my
own fantasies. I wanted a man who would view me solely as a sexual
creature. I wanted him to tell me, “Yes, your cunt is nice and tight,
Chloe, and how wet it is!” or “What lovely big bosoms you have Chloe,
and how the nipples stand up so perfectly!” I wanted him to compliment
even my bottom, I realized, shuddering as I sipped my wine. All of
myself I wished to have opened by him and admired by him and even filled
up by him.
And that was it. I did not wish to mix the utter degradation
of my self, the liberating degradation, with intellectual matters, or
even with other emotions. I wanted the Sultan, my mind told me, for
what he could do to me, sexually, and that was it. He was my God in the
realm of sex, and I was his princess. We would explore sexual depths
together, we would dive deep, and at the edge of the pool, when I
finally managed to climb free of his grasp, I wished to leave him there,
and not take him into my emotional or intellectual realms. Other men
could serve as husband, sharing household chores, and as father,
raising, with moral authority, my future children. But the Sultan was
just for sex and, sequestered here in his castle, I too could be as
sexual as I pleased, while still enjoying the pleasure of saying ‘no’
and ‘not now’ and ‘please don’t’ to all he offered me. I could be the
slut I really wanted to be, without feeling like one.
The Sultan drank wine offered to him by one of the European
women and gazed happily between my legs. I twisted in my chair. I
could move my arms about and squirm, moving my upper body, but I was
helpless to get my legs free. They were locked to my chair. I bent
forward once, drinking my wine, to try to free my legs with my hands.
It was quite impossible. Iron bands, fastened with locks, held them in
place. An older woman, sitting with her legs wide apart, on a chair
with no arms and legs, might have found her position impossible to
maintain. But I was young and barely thought of how awkward it was to
sit upright, with one’s legs completely open, and nothing to lean back
against. In any event, a guard stood always at my back, his burly
physique hovering over me, watching my every move and awaiting whatever
the Sultan commanded.
My aunt’s arms were freed and she was given more wine. This
time she drank voluntarily, sipping it and gazing about us with wide
eyes. Crackers were offered, spread with cream cheese. My aunt and I
looked quite silly, I thought, sitting there eating crackers and
drinking wine, trying hard to be dainty, while our legs, forcibly
opened, displayed our wettened slits.
There was no hurry. Except for the erections sported by Prince
Saul and Prince Havash, there was no sense of urgency. We were here for
the night, and the Sultan wished to prolong our sense of sexual tension
for as long as he could. He waited quietly while my aunt and I finished
our wine and crackers. I wondered what else he had planned but he kept
it a secret, admiring my aunt and I as if we were performers on a stage,
and not the complete and utterly debased victims of his will. When my
aunt and I had finished our crackers, Jessica took a wet cloth and wiped
both our mouths with it.
“Very good, girls,” Jessica said. The stethoscope still
dangled between her naked breasts. She teased our nipples after she had
wiped our mouths, so that we would remain excited for the Sultan. At
his word, two guards hoisted my arms up above my head, as well as my
aunt’s and secured them to overhead chains. I found myself sitting
with my wrists lifted high, bound over my head, my body naked and my
tummy pleasantly filled with wine and crackers. How odd to be treated
so deferentially, even to the point of being fed treats, while at the
same time being used sexually like common whores!
Bare-assed, his cock rampant, Mr. Jim Rutland was now put into
the same position as myself and my aunt. When I heard the creaking of
the chains beside me, my own arms and my aunt’s already uplifted, I
remembered him. Imagine, forgetting all about a guy as handsome as
him! That’s how overwhelming the Sultan could be, once he had you
firmly in his grip. I gasped as I saw Mr. Rutland allowing the
bare-chested guards to lift up his powerful arms. He did not resist.
He had been fed no crackers, and no wine, and was clearly in extremis
from being continually tortured, yet even now he permitted, as part of
his agreement with the Sultan, his body to be used. He might have
grabbed both guards and thrown them to the ground with his muscular
arms. Yet instead he was as free in his acceptance of his fate as they
were free in adjusting him to suit their pleasure. His wrists were
slung up high over his head. They were re-shackled. All the while, a
feather kept tickling the long length of his penis. The feather
extended from a hole in the chair. It wiggled about, caressing Jim’s
cock as a lover might, while the two male guards rudely bound his arms
over his head. I watched with wide eyes as Jim repeatedly grimaced,
resisting the temptations of the feather while permitting the guards to
lock his arms overhead. The feather whispered over his hard cock,
mechanically loving it; touching the pee-hole, wetting itself on the
juice there. It moved along the ridge of his cock’s helmet, feeling the
flange, drying itself by smearing the juice from the tip of Jim’s penis
over his helmet’s ridge. The feather slid along the full length of his
shaft. I watched as it traced the big veins pulsing along the sides of
his dick. Down by the root of his penis, in the encircling growth of
his pubic hair, the feather caressed Jim as if in preparation for
releasing a hidden knife and cutting his member off.
Once more a feather sprouted from between my own legs. It had
hidden itself while I was checked and refreshed. Now it appeared anew,
ready for more fun with my private.
“No!” my aunt gasped beside me.
“Oh, please!” I shouted to the Sultan. I didn’t fancy losing
myself in passion again, in front of these unknown guests. Our host
merely laughed. He watched with an interest as great as my own as the
feather reached out from its hole and found my pussy. It tickled me. I
giggled. Spittle flew from my lips. I flushed. I licked my lips as
the feather insinuated itself between the moistening lips of my cunt.
It found my spot and caressed it. I gasped.
“Ah!” my aunt groaned.
Lightly, ever so lightly, the well-pointed tip of the feather
brushed within the wettened folds of my sex. My jaw sagged. A guard
took advantage of my wide-apart mouth to fling a gag across it and jam
the canvas deep between my lips. My tongue struggled. A scream
strangled itself in my throat. Meanwhile, as my mouth lips were forced
wide, my cunt lips tightened against the intrusiveness of the feather.
I tried to expel the exploring tip by squeezing myself. The feather
rolled within the shivering grasp of my cunny. It twirled and burrowed
deeper. Then, abruptly, it drew back, nearly coming out of me, only to
jam itself into me again and fuck me with slow caresses.
The Sultan admired myself and my aunt and then turned to
Jessica and Vicky.
“Prepare yourselves,” he said. It was a simple command. I had
no idea what he meant by it but the two European women apparently did.
They both went to a small box in the corner of the room, a box with
jewels on it, and drew from the box a scarf for each of them. They did
not tie the scarves, made of fine silk, around their heads, however.
Instead they each tied a scarf around their neck, tying it in back, so
that the front of each scarf hung down like a bib.
“It’s to catch spills,” Jessica said to me, from across the
room, her eyes sparkling. I could only gape in reply, the canvas gag
tight against my mouth. When both girls had put on their bibs they
looked at each other, laughed, and opened their mouths wide. Then they
laughed again and walked with gay abandon over to the Sultan. Both
girls gave him a kiss on his cheek. He held them, briefly, savoring the
feel of their nude bodies pressed hard against him. Then the girls
dropped to their knees. I thought they were going to release the
Sultan’s manhood from his robes but instead, turning, they crawled on
their hands and knees over to Mr. Jim Rutland’s throne. Both girls,
kneeling in front of him, leaned forward, and presented their mouths at
the edge of his chair. Between his widely separated knees the girls
waited open-lipped, their eyes gazing at his cock.
“We’re thirsty,” Jessica said.
“Give us something to drink!” Vicky implored Jim.
How lovely they both looked! I felt envious. The girls’ long
hair wreathed their pretty faces. Their bibs hung neatly under their
chins, to catch whatever their mouths might miss. Their bare breasts,
twin pairs of lovely teats, hung suspended under them, looking ripe for
milking, juddering voluptuously with their every small movement. How
wicked it was, to see their bare bosoms, their nipples perfect for
squirting out milk, while at the same time they urged Jim to spurt rich
sperm-milk into their faces!
“Oh!” I cried. I ground my hips tightly against the feather as
it continued to intrude into me. I twisted my head toward my aunt and
saw tears in her eyes. Were they tears of passion? I could not tell.
I wanted to speak to her but she was now re-gagged, as I was, and all we
could do was gape at each other like two prisoners, already bound,
waiting to be hanged on a gallows. Indeed, we both hung now close to
the brink of orgasm, and I knew I would be pitched over into bliss in a
moment, bringing further crass pleasure to the guests who were observing
me.
At a word from Prince Saul, both European women sitting at the
festive table rose. They put down the food they’d been nibbling on and
walked with graceful steps over to myself and my aunt. One, whom I
later learned was named Susan, cupped my aunt’s fulsome bare breasts and
squeezed them. She seemed like a midwife, I thought, hoping to squeeze
fresh milk from a new mother’s breasts, to encourage the mother to
breastfeed. At the same time she lowered her mouth to my aunt’s gagged
lips and kissed her. Then, lowering one of her hands, she guided the
feather more deeply into my aunt’s snatch.
With a groan, my aunt heaved in her bonds. The feather, I saw,
was penetrating her deeply, bringing her to the absolute edge of a
belly-bursting orgasm. My aunt’s ribs heaved. Her stomach drew in taut
and tight and then, despite its flatness, curved outward as she arched
her back and felt the feather snake deep into the depths of of her
cunt. Susan was eager to penetrate my aunt in more than one place and
tried to force her tongue in past the gag over my aunt’s mouth. When
she found that she couldn’t, she ripped the gag down from my aunt’s
mouth, nearly dislocating her chin.
My aunt gasped. Her lips opened wide and she gulped in air.
Her hips writhed on the chair, an orgasm brimming in her belly. Susan
shoved her face against my aunt’s and stabbed her tongue deeply into my
aunt’s wide-open mouth. At the same time the other European woman, whom
I later was formally introduced to as Kelly, gripped my own breasts.
She kissed my gagged mouth but did not pull my gag off. Perhaps she
liked having me gagged, making my submission more complete, or perhaps
she feared incurring the Sultan’s wrath if she freed my mouth.
Unlike my mouth, my cunt had nothing covering it. Kelly was
free to violate me there. She caught at the feather teasing my slit and
urged it to press into me more fully. I felt the feather rise up
between my legs and penetrate my belly. I grunted, like an animal
giving birth. Suddenly an orgasm ripped through me and, despite my gag
and Kelly’s mouth pressed close, a scream escaped me. At the same time,
beside me, I heard my aunt’s ungagged mouth utter a much louder cry.
Togther, with Susan and Kelly urging us on, we orgasmed upon the
feathers. I surrendered myself to bliss and did not try to resist any
more. I spent, wetting the feather inside me, sprinkling sweet juices
upon Kelly’s probing fingers that played at my nest. My tongue fought
my gag. It tried to push outward and curl in loving surrender with
Kelly’s tongue. In the event, with the gag between us, all we could
each do was touch our tongue tips against each other through the fabric
of the gag. My gag became wet with spittle as my cunt, sucking hard on
the feather, wet the intruder thoroughly.
At last my aunt and I calmed down. The feathers each withdrew
from us and were again swallowed up by the seats of our chairs, where a
pin-sized hole received each of them. Kelly and Susan left us and
walked back to the dining table, where they rejoined the princes. I
sagged in my bonds. I gazed with half-lidded eyes at my aunt. She
smiled; slightly. We had suffered, but it had been a sweet suffering.
My breasts ached a little where Kelly had gripped me.
“Ughgh!” Jim cried beside me. I yanked my head back round
toward him and realized, with rising excitement, that he was finally at
the end of his (much longer) rope. He twisted his hips. His arms
yanked hard on the chains holding them up but he couldn’t free himself.
His thighs tried to close, fruitlessly, as the wicked feather between
his legs finally achieved its object. Jessica and Vicky, watching,
turned to each other briefly and kissed. Then they offered their mouths
to Jim again and, in a move I found unbelievably sexy, they each lifted
a hand and began masturbating themselves between their legs. Their
bosoms quavered as they diddled their cunts. Each girl offered up a
pretty gasp of pleasure.
Jim could take no more. Suddenly, with a mighty groan, his
cock released a spouting flood of sperm. It arced toward the girls and
both of them vied to catch the first drops of it in her mouth. Their
heads banged together, each girl cried “Ouch!” and Jim’s sperm landed
upon both their close-pressed faces, hitting them both in the eyes.
The feather worked itself excitedly along Jim’s shaft, forcing
him to spend in a long tribute upon the two European girls. First
Jessica managed to position her mouth, at last, where she could catch
some of Jim’s cascade. Then Vicky head-butted her aside and put her own
mouth where it could receive Jim’s sperm. No sooner had she gotten a
mouthful than Jessica shoved her away with her own butting face, and
offered her lips once more to Jim’s stream. He came and came, filling
both girls’ hungering mouths several times over, besides splattering
their bare, tanned shoulders and shooting his sperm into their lovely
hair. At last Jim’s geyser subsided. The girls both swallowed the
loads they’d received. Then, in an orgy of desire, each of them turned
to the other and began licking her companion’s face clean. At the same
time, having left off for a moment rubbing their cunnies, they now both
began masturbating themselves again. As they teased their wet slits
with their fingers they ran their wet tongues over each other’s cheeks
and along each other’s lips. Jim watched them. Despite losing his
whole load of sperm, something he’d sworn he would never permit, there
was a satisfied look on his face. I guessed that the spectacle of the
two girls fighting over his seed was so enthralling to him that he
didn’t mind having ‘given in’ to the Sultan and cumming.
“He has lost himself. Whip him hard for his lack of
self-control,” the Sultan ordered his guards. Jim looked up from his
loins. I saw shock in his eyes. The Sultan laughed. “Really, Mr.
Rutland, I expected you to hold out longer than that,” the Sultan said.
“First you claim you will defy me, and then you have the audacity to
shoot yourself all over the faces of my favorite girls? You may have
better self-control than most men, Jim, but I expect the best from you.
If you say, ‘I shall not cum,’ then I expect you to fulfill that
promise, however much you might be teased to do the contrary. Here you
will learn to exercise absolute control over your loins, Jim. Your cock
is a muscle just like your other muscles. You must learn to control it
just like you control your arms or your legs. Perhaps a lashing of your
back will help you to exercise finer control over your dick in the
future.”
I expected Jim to thrash beside me, to pull at his bonds, or to
yell some obscenity to the Sultan. Instead, his face haggard from
having withstood the agony of pleasure for so long, he only nodded. To
my surprise I felt myself to be a silent witness to some eerie
conversation, as if between a father and a son, even though both men
were roughly the same age. Jim bowed his head, gritted his teeth
slightly, and accepted the words of the Sultan that washed over him.
“Yes, I will help you, Jim,” the Sultan said in a sudden moment
of tenderness. “If you can withstand my training, if you do not beg me,
before it’s over, to cut off your member to spare you the workout I
intend for it... if I do not, on a whim, decide to deflower you of that
enviously long, magnificently thick pestle, you will leave my kingdom
with extraordinary control over your manhood. But I warn you: such a
trophy-like penis begs to be kept and displayed. It raises in me a
desire to see it mounted over my royal fireplace, where all who see it
can express amazement at its size, and congratulate me on finding such a
specimen. What a conversation piece it would make, eh, Jim? What an
inspiration to the ladies! To let you simply walk off with it, that I
am sorely tempted never to allow. Yet to permit you to keep it, that
too is a sore point with me, for then you can use it to thrill women who
might otherwise find me amply satisfactory.”
I gaped at the Sultan, standing before Jim in his royal robes.
The contrast between him and Jim was so stark! Jim was nude and
sweating. The Sultan was composed and debonair, his silken robes
rustling as he addressed us. He turned to me, then to my aunt, a proud
sense of possession in his eyes. I saw there a gaze like you see in a
man who has just purchased a fine sports car. We were new toys for
him. He was eager to push us to the limit; to see just how much we
could take. And if he broke us in the process, I guessed, it hardly
mattered. He could always get more like us.
The Sultan gazed down at Jessica and Vicky. The two naked
girls were rolling on the floor. Despite their pretty, coiffed hair,
the lovely earrings dangling from their ears, despite their carefully
painted nails and expertly applied makeup, they were now locked together
in a kind of wrestling match; each girl trying to lick all the sperm off
the other girl’s face.
“Hold still!” Jessica breathed into Vicky’s mouth, her tongue
running along the other girl’s lips.
“No! I want his sperm! Don’t lick it off me!” Vicky
protested. As she spoke, she tried to steal the sperm from Jessica’s
cheeks and lips, from her nose and eyelids, so that she could have even
more of what was already smeared so amply over her own face. The girls’
limbs thrashed. They clasped each other, yet tried at the same time to
push each other off; each trying to larcenously partake of the sperm on
the other without surrendering her own hard-won treasure from Jim’s
loins. The large man beside me grinned down at the girls. He gazed at
them between his wide-spread legs. His cock had softened now, but I
guessed, with such a spectacle rolling about at his feet, it would not
be long before his manhood found inspiration to rise anew. Jim’s chest
heaved. His large arms, caught up and raised over his head by chains,
pulled on the links of the chains and caused the beam overhead to
creak. I shuddered. Could Jim pull down the roof over our heads, if he
wished? Was he truly that strong? I wanted to cry out to him not to
kill me, no matter how rude he might find the Sultan’s treatment. I did
not want to die here. Jim, if he noticed the power of his arms, did not
show it in his face. Instead, still staring at the girls, he kept
smiling. He looked glad to see that the burden he’d showered on the
girls was so hotly appreciated. Both females sighed. Their nude
figures clashed. Despite being grown women, they rolled and tossed on
the floor like toddlers in a nursery, fighting over mouthfuls of
half-eaten candy. Their bosoms were flung to and fro by their
movement. Their tits were ripe gourds cut free from all restraint;
squashed together one minute, falling off the body the next, hanging
lusciously free, only to be fleshily distorted in shape in the next
minute as the other woman crushed herself close. I wondered what their
mothers would think, if they could see them; not only braless but
heaving their bosoms around with such carefree abandon! Just then one
girl pressed her pubis hard against the other girl’s. Both of them let
out long, screamy moans, sounding like twin cats in heat. Still licking
jealously at each other’s faces, they now began to grind their wet slits
together. It was difficult; each girl sloped away from the other right
at the juncture where they most wished to touch. Yet they pressed
tightly and warmly together now, both finding mutual pleasure in the
close connection of their bodies. Amidst their sighs, their tongues
greedily licking at each other’s mouths, breathing hotly into each
other’s faces, they strove to make their feminine loins join together.
Wet, juicy warm lips sought and managed to graze against an identical
pair of lips. Clitties buzzed, wishing for penetration, but finding
instead only the soft caress of a warm female slit.
“Oh!”
“Oh!” the two females cried. Each humped against the other.
Each showed frustration as her well-offered hips met only with the
well-offered hips of another girl. Yet valiantly they both tried to
find satisfaction against each other, while their tongues still fought
over Jim’s sperm. Grinding their hips, looking like two machines
desperately in need of a prong, they pressed their wet snatches tight
and did their best to deflower each other.
“Oh, turn around!” Jessica urged Vicky.
“No, you!” Vicky cried. Both wished for the other’s tongue in
her cunt, yet didn’t want to break the sweet contact of their
warm-brushing pussies for even a moment to attain it. At the same time,
each one kept assaulting the other’s face, licking away the spermy
residue Jim had showered over their heads.
The Sultan laughed. “You have put two of my girls in quite a
state, Mr. Rutland,” the Sultan said. He kicked at the girls with his
booted toe. He wore boots of the finest horse leather and I wondered
if, as the girls shouted at his blow, they weren’t graced by the touch
of such magnificent boots.
“Ow!” Jessica yelled. The Sultan’s toe caught Jessica on the
hip. She rolled away, taking Vicky with her. Vicky was lifted up, so
that she lay upon her side. Her legs were open to receive Jessica’s
close-pressed thighs between them. The Sultan’s second kick landed
between Vicky’s legs, from behind, and delivered a blow directly to her
swollen cunt.
“OWOOOOOO!” Vicky cried. Her hand flew off Jessica’s back and
tried to press down between her legs. It would not fit; Jessica’s body
was pressed too tightly against her own. So, awkwardly, Vicky reached
back behind herself. She yanked her legs farther apart and wedged her
hand between the backs of her thighs. Tears sprang to her eyes as she
massaged her wounded cunt. The Sultan laughed and kicked hard against
her hand. Vicky shrieked. Her hand flew up from protecting her cunt
and shook like a bird in the air, flapping its wings. Then, just when I
feared the Sultan would kick hard at Vicky’s exposed cunt, he instead
took sympathy upon her and merely ground the toe of his boot into her
sex. Vicky swooned. Despite uttering a frantic “NO!” she arched her
heinie backward and flung her legs wider apart to better receive the
intruding boot. She rubbed her fleshy cunt against it, savoring how the
polished toe of the Sultan’s boot wedged deep into her sex. At last she
had something upon which she might grind herself with satisfaction;
something that might stretch her apart with its hardness and burrow up
between her legs.
“Oh! Kick me!” Jessica pleaded. She arched forward her hips
so that the Sultan, removing his toe from Vicky, might jut his boot into
her own wet loins. At the same time, Jessica kept slurping at Vicky’s
face, licking up the last traces of Jim’s sperm from her features.
Vicky arched herself hard against the Sultan’s toe, not wanting to lose
him to her friend. She no longer licked at Jessica but, seemingly
half-fainted, merely savored the painful but wonderfully hard intrusion
of shoe leather into her sex.
“Oh! Is it good? Is it good?” Jessica asked her friend.
“Mmmmmm,” Vicky said in a throaty moan.
“Oh, I’ll bet it’s good,” Jessica said, sounding like a child
wishing for a favorite sweet which another had gotten instead.
“Stand up, you whores,” the Sultan said. He took his toe from
between Vicky’s legs. The European woman let out a frantic sigh at the
withdrawal of his foot and arched her bottom back more in an attempt to
catch him again in her slit. I looked at the Sultan’s boot. The
well-polished leather was now slick and wet at its point from the
contact of Vicky’s pussy. Rudely he booted Vicky in her fleshy bottom
and ordered her again to stand up.
“Oh!” Vicky sighed. She scrambled to her feet, Jessica doing
the same. They stared at the Sultan. Vicky’s hands flew to her ass and
rubbed where the Sultan had kicked her. At the same time both girls
arched their hips forward, offering their slits to him, perhaps hoping
he might favor them both with blows of his boot to their loins. Above
their pussies their bellies, flat and indrawn, compassed by narrow
waists, each offered the Sultan a sweetly indented navel. Above their
belly buttons were their arched ribs. Each rib could be seen on the
girls’ narrow, slim bodies. A kick there would surely shatter the
fragile architecture of the girls’ figures, yet the girls showed no
hesitation in offering their bodies to him. Above their ribs hung the
girls’ bosoms. Full and ripe, they wobbled fleshily on their chests,
pertly offering to nurture as many babies as his shoe could give them.
I stared at the silken, sperm-soaked scarf around each girl’s throat.
How delicate they both looked, and yet how wanton!
“Wipe off your pussies. Then gag Mr. Rutland with your
scarves,” the Sultan ordered Jessica and Vicky. “I must give him new
tests; I do not wish for him to say something that might throw me into a
rage.”
“Yes, Sire,” Vicky and Jessica said sheepishly. Standing
before him, they both reached up to the scarves binding their throats.
They unknotted the scarves and eagerly wiped themselves between their
legs. They were hungry, I saw, to smear Jim’s sperm upon their cunts.
At the same time their own sexual juices were rubbed into the scarves.
When this not entirely effective act of personal hygiene was finished,
the two girls pranced up to Jim and ordered him to open his mouth. He
complied. Merrily Vicky and Jessica gagged Jim with their scarves. He
tasted his own cum upon his tongue, as well as the mingled juices from
the girl’s slits. Although Jim groaned at having to accept the scarves
in his mouth, he did not refuse. I guessed he was worried he might
curse the Sultan if he were not gagged. He didn’t want to lose his
penis.
“Yes, you will not be making any intemperate remarks, Jim,” the
Sultan said. “It is best this way. I can do things I sometimes regret
later; as supreme ruler, there is no one to stop me.” He turned his
head from Jim’s face to mine. “You are well-gagged also, Chloe,” he
said. “Again, it is best. You are only 13. I cannot expect you to
hold your peace during the next phase of your training.” He looked at
my aunt. She sat with her arms bound over her head, like myself and
Jim, but her mouth was still free to speak.
“And then we have you, my pretty,” the Sultan said to Rebecca.
“Please, you may punish me twice over if you wish, but spare my
little niece!” my aunt begged. Her bosoms heaved and bounced as she
spoke. The Sultan, intending to look at her pretty, ungagged mouth,
found himself staring instead at her wobbling bare tits.
“Punished?” the Sultan answered. He addressed my aunt by way
of her bosoms, his eyes fixed on her twin lovely teats. “No, you are
not being punished, my dear,” the Sultan said. “Did I tell you earlier
that you were? Perhaps, I cannot remember now. It was only a ruse to
ensure your compliance. You are being trained, my dear woman. My aim
is not to hurt you for the sake of hurting you, but only because it is a
necessary, if unfortunate, byproduct of the training you must receive.
You are not naive in the arts of love, but you must be pushed further.
You must be taken to new levels that only a man like myself can help you
attain. You must be stretched, and spread, and filled, in ways that
will help you open yourself more fully to men when you leave here.
Imagine yourself entertaining twenty men in your bottom hole. Can you
do it? I see your sweet body trembling. Not rude men, no. Calm,
considerate men, who have your best interest at heart, but also a strong
desire to see you filled with their seed. Could you take twenty of them
in your ass if that was required? I will teach you such arts.”
The girls finished gagging Jim. They wandered over to the
Sultan and huddled close to him, like children seeking to play with
their daddy. They caressed the front of his body. Their hands slipped
down to where I guessed his penis hung and, in sympathy with their
caresses, he grew a protuberance in the front of his robes. Yet he kept
his eyes on my aunt’s cleavage, and continued speaking to her. “You are
very beautiful,” the Sultan told her. “A beauty such as yourself must
learn to accept men. Do not tease them. You women play too many
games! You were given tits and a cunt, pretty hands, a perfect mouth to
have them used. Men long to sperm you, to satisfy you, to bring joy to
your life! Do not deny them. When you leave here you will go back to
France a new woman. You will be eager to show men how well you can
accept their advances. You will open yourself to them. You will take
all they can give you.”
“Mmmmmm!” Vicky and Jessica hummed. Together they admired the
cock that had arisen under the Sultan’s robes. They reached within the
folds of his royal attire and stroked him.
“And if I do not wish to be trained?” my aunt, shivering but
trying to sound composed, asked the Sultan.
“That, my dear, is an option you long ago surrendered, when you
agreed to come here,” the Sultan said. “I admit the pain I cause you
will please me a little,” he said, as the two girls, apparently wishing
to tease him a little, pinched at the big pestle of his penis under his
robes. The front of his garb was lifted by his erection and he winced,
but didn’t scold the girls, who busily touched his cock. “It is always
a delight to see one tortured a little, to see how pain causes their
body to react. But the prime purpose is pleasure. Is it not, my little
minxes?” the Sultan asked Jessica and Vicky. One of them pinched him
anew and he arched his back slightly, his buttocks, I am sure,
tightening as he did so, causing me to wish I could see him naked, as
the girls tormented his dick.
“Yes,” Jessica answered.
“Oh, yes!” Vicky agreed.
“Prepare them to be whipped,” the Sultan ordered his guards,
speaking of myself, my aunt, and Jim. I trembled in my bonds.
“Oh, don’t!” my aunt implored.
“You shall learn to hold your tongue, woman,” the Sultan told
her. “The fairer sex speaks entirely too much. You will not be gagged
today because I expect you to learn to grin and bear it. Any screams,
any protests, and it will be worse for you. Do not tempt me to make
things harder on you than I must.”
“OH, give me a gag, then!” my aunt cried. The Sultan laughed.
He looked at Jim.
“You see?” the Sultan said. “Already I am being begged for
extraordinary things. The day will come, Jim Rutland, when you will beg
me to cut off your dick, just as now Rebecca is asking to be gagged.”
“Oh, my!” my aunt gasped. The guards began cranking a large
wheel. It was connected to the beam overhead, to which we were tied,
and I saw that the beam I thought held up the ceiling was really only
there to hold our hands aloft. The beam moved forward. As it moved it
drew me forward, causing me to lean out over my widespread legs. My
only consolation, as I saw one of the princes take a long whip from
under the dining table, was that I was sitting on my bottom, it at least
was safe from their plans.
My bosoms hung nearly perpendicularly off my chest as the beam
slid forward some more, taking me with it. At the same time my arms,
lifted high but not pulled absolutely tight when they were first bound,
now became stiff and straight.
“Oh, stop!” my aunt cried, and I might have done the same, for
my arms felt like they were about to be yanked out of my shoulders. The
Sultan raised a hand. The guards ceased cranking the wheel. I hung
motionless, my legs splayed, my back bared, my tits beautiful twin
mounds hanging succulently from my drawn-forward body. I turned my head
and looked at my aunt. She stared at me, her own perfect breasts now
temptingly perpendicular to her form, as if hungry mouths waited below
us, eager to rise from hidden cribs to partake of a late-night feeding.
“What fine mothers you will both make!” the Sultan exulted,
seeing us both bent forward and straining, our tits perfect cones of
flesh, hanging so fully-formed and well-fleshed and heavy with promise.
As if that were not enough to please him, our nipples offered risen
stems where his tongue might play. The Sultan opened his robe and, to
the delight of Jessica and Vicky, began freely massaging his cock with
his hand. Their fingers still pinched at him, drawing small bits of his
skin in their fingers, teasing his balls with small pinches when they
couldn’t manage to find any loose flesh on the stem of his cock. As the
Sultan stared at us his balls also tightened, so that, finally, he was
so tightly drawn up and proferred that the girls lamented at not finding
any place on his loins where he was soft enough to be pinched.
“Oh, stop, darling! They are to be whipped!” a European woman
sitting on the lap of one of the princes proclaimed. She looked at my
aunt and Jim and I with eager eyes. Her paramour, his hands still
running over her body with hard, greedy fingers, lessened his
explorations of her a little.
Two guards stepped behind me. They reached down along the
sides of my chair. I heard something being unbuckled. I looked down.
The guards’ fingers unbuckled latches on the sides of my chair and I
realized, suddenly, that my chair was not one solid piece, but two
pieces joined together. I gasped. I felt the back of my chair pulled
away, like a drawer being removed from a cabinet. The next thing I
knew, I was sitting in empty air, with only my legs still pressed to the
chair beneath me. The entire back of my chair had been removed!
“Oh!” I said, my gag muffling my cry. I felt the cool air of
the room wash over my ass, so tightly pressed, a moment before, to bare
wood. Now my bottom hung free. Unsupported, my heinie sank lower,
bulging freely into the open air behind me, where my chair no longer
was.
I discovered, to my surprise, that the Sultan had bevelled the
end of my chair, which now pressed up against the underside of my
thighs. Had it not been bevelled, the wooden end of the chair would
have been sharp against the underside of my legs. Yet despite intending
to whip me, the Sultan had made sure that I was not discomfited by the
abrupt edge of the chair. I looked over at my auntie. She too now sat
with her chair cut in half, the back of it completely removed, so that
her ass hung nakedly in the air. Some inches below the huddling cheeks
of her bottom was a mass of strange looking equipment. It had once been
safely under the chair’s seat but now that the seat of the chair was
gone, in back, the equipment was revealed in all its evil glory. I saw
odd-looking tubes and metal cylinders and something sharp, like a
pungie-stick, down under my aunt’s hanging bottom. She looked at me and
I realized from the fear that showed in her eyes that similar equipment
must be on display under my own ass. I tried rising up. The chains on
my legs held me. I twisted my head round to look at Jim Rutland and
saw, to my horror, that an identical mass of equipment now lay revealed
under his own small, manly buns.
We squirmed in our chairs, all three of us, trying with
desperate movements of our limbs to break free. The beam overhead
creaked as Jim Rutland tried to prise his arms free of it. The Sultan
laughed. Jessica and Vicky gazed at us with attentive eyes. There were
smiles on their faces, as well as on the faces of the other guests; we
were but pieces of a game in their eyes, I realized, forced to suffer
for their entertainment.
Prince Havash walked forward with the whip that he’d taken from
under the table. There was a sardonic grin on his face. I shivered,
looking at him, and wished to scream, but could not, because of my gag.
“Oh, NO!” my auntie shouted, beside me.
“Quiet, woman!” the Sultan ordered her.
I looked over at Jim Rutland, wondering if he could somehow
save us, and realized, to my horror, that his seat no longer supported
his balls. They hung down between his powerful thighs, empty, yet
completely exposed to the whip. Also between his wide-apart legs, held
tightly open by chains round his legs, was his penis. It was flaccid
now, no longer rising safely up along his belly but dangling down
between his legs, where the whip, curling under his ass, might find it.
I realized, looking at Jim, that my cunt was similarly exposed. Prince
Havash might sweep his whip under the curve of my bottom and sting me
there. My aunt, too, was just as vulnerable, her own sex sweetly
offered like mine.
“Oh, pray do not whip us!” my aunt implored the Sultan. But
her protest, fearfully offered, was spoken in a hushed voice, lest in
speaking she earn extra stripes for herself alone. Prince Havash
sauntered behind us. I heard him draw the whip sharply and quickly
across his palm. Then he struck, lashing the air, and all three of us
shook on our chairs.
“Yum, they’re going to GET it!” Vicky giggled to Jessica.
“Yes!” Jessica agreed. Both girls reached behind themselves
and rubbed their bare bottoms. The Sultan, amused, put a hand upon each
girl’s slender shoulders.
“Perhaps you girls would like to sit on my thrones after our
guests have had their turn?” the Sultan asked.
“No way!” Vicky said.
Jessica, though, hesitated before answering. Finally, gazing
at me and massaging her bottom, she said, in a meek voice, “Perhaps only
for a few minutes.”
“Yes! That’s what I like to hear!” the Sultan said. Vicky
looked quizzically at her friend, her own hands still palpitating her
rear, spreading her cheeks and then squeezing them together, nervously.
I could see what she was doing by way of a mirror.
“You WANT to sit in the Sultan’s throne?” Vicky asked.
“Mmmm,” Jessica hummed, still rubbing her own bottom. “I
learned a saying once: ‘Whatever I fear most, that’s what I do.’”
“Ooooh!” Vicky said. “That scares me. What if you fear
jumping off a cliff?”
“Perhaps not jumping off one, but just sitting at the edge,”
Jessica, looking directly at me, so vulnerably perched on my half-seat,
intoned. Her friend shivered.
“You shall both enjoy the pleasures of my throne before the
night’s over,” the Sultan told the two young European women.
“Oh, I DON’T want to!” Vicky said. But she stared at me,
enthralled. Though she kept her hands firmly over her bottom, she said
nothing more, and let the Sultan casually graze his hand down over her
breasts and to the wet place between her legs.
30
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