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Subject: Fevered Fall part 20 of 22 (NND)
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_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
FEVERED FALL
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Chapter Twenty
It was a hot, dry afternoon outside. I could sense the heat
radiating outside my bedroom window, baking the flat sands far below,
pounding the low buildings that surrounded the castle like a hard,
thudding solar heartbeat.
In my bedroom, high in the castle, I was protected from the
sun. My bottom still hurt from the night’s “festivities”, as the maids
referred to them, but otherwise I was cool, even chilly. Still, because
my ass throbbed with the heat of the night’s whipping, I lay naked upon
the sheets and turned-down coverlet of my bed, letting all of my skin,
from my toes to my face, feel the caress of the air conditioning.
At home Rebecca would have chided me for leaving the window
open. Here, though, it hardly mattered; we weren’t responsible for the
electric bill. The maids said nothing; I guessed it was a privilege of
living in the castle. You could leave your window open if you liked,
letting the air conditioned air rush out, listening to the rustle of
palm trees that lined the street far below, when an occasional desert
breeze managed to overcome the downward beat of the sun’s heat to
flutter the trees’ long-stemmed fronds. I heard a car’s horn sound
below, weakly. I had studied the street for awhile, standing at the
window, watching the occasional donkey or camel or car that wound along
the street’s meandering course. There was no rush hour; just the
occasional traveller, who might be riding in anything from a Mercedes to
a beat-up old Nissan, or who might be using a beast of burden to convey
him. The castle loomed over them all, casting a long shadow over the
street in the morning, leaving it hot and unprotected in the afternoon,
save for the spindly shadows cast by the latticed fronds of the palms.
Now it was past noon, and the street had only the palms to keep
its asphalt from melting and running away to the distant sea. I
couldn’t see the Gulf from my window. It was some miles away and my
window faced in toward the desert. If I stood at my window I could
stare at long stretches of sand; there was sand around all the buildings
below the castle walls, sand banked in the street where the breeze had
blown it, sand stretching away from my window for miles until it became
lost in a haze of heat.
Though I could open or close a pair of shutters fitted to the
interior of my window, I could not climb out of it. Long steel bars,
running lengthwise, made me a prisoner in my bedroom, letting only the
cooled air of my room escape.
Though I liked thinking of it as my bedroom, high in the
prince’s castle, in fact I shared it with my aunt and Jim Rutland. My
aunt slept beside me; she was older than me and was still sleeping,
though I was awake. She lay on her side to keep her bottom off the
sheets. It had been so thoroughly whipped that even the touch of soft,
silken sheets could send spasms of pain through her. Once she rolled
absently on her back, in her sleep, and her eyes popped open and she
shrieked and rolled again onto her side, immediately falling back into
sleep.
Our bottoms had been the center of attention as soon as we had
been freed by the guards and carried upstairs. Maids had come, six or
seven of them, and they had put salve on my bottom and my aunt’s as we
lay on our bellies on the bed weeping. Their touch was firm,
deliberate. We were not the first girls they’d assuaged and we would
not be the last. They coated our bottoms with ointment, checked our
holes, rubbed us down and left us to cry ourselves to sleep on the bed,
which did not take long since both my aunt and I were exhausted.
Jim Rutland was placed on a separate bed beside our own. It
was King-sized. It had been wedged in next to our own bed and the
interior wall. The room was just large enough to accommodate it, though
a dresser had been taken away to make space for it. Jim lay on his
back, despite his sore bottom, for in his case it was his cock and balls
that the maids were most concerned with. There was nothing wrong with
them, they had not been injured, but his privates had been forced to
spend repeatedly and the maids rubbed lotion on his loins to stimulate
them and reawaken them. As my auntie and I had our bottoms rubbed I
glanced over at Jim Rutland and watched as they forced goat’s milk down
his throat, from a big jug, to cause him to make more sperm.
“Here is your milk, Jim dear,” a high-pitched voice sang out.
I was writing in crayon on a sheet of paper on my bed, and I looked up
to see who had come into the room. It was a young girl. She was no
older than me. I didn’t know her name but she saw me looking at her and
smiled, briefly, then turned to Jim and gave him a tall glass.
“God, not more of that!” Jim said, though perhaps relief showed
on his face because it was only a glassful and not a big jug.
“It’s your milk! So you can make more sperm!” the girl said.
She was dressed in a black maid’s outfit. The blouse served double
duty; it was both blouse and skirt. It covered her shoulders, and had
long sleeves that ran down to her wrists. Yet it did not cover her
bosoms. The front of her blouse was so decollete that it left the front
of her throat bare, though a high collar arched up along the sides and
back of her neck. Below her throat her skin showed white, right down to
the swell of her bosoms, which, left uncovered, spilled out of her
uniform and quivered pertly, their nipples uprisen.
Below, where the girl’s ribs were, the blouse fitted her
tightly. It covered her like a black skin. It was laced tightly across
her belly and I couldn’t see any part of her skin showing through the
lacings, the uniform fitted so tightly. It moulded itself to her pubis,
keeping her modest, then flared in a kind of skirt where it hung loosely
across the tops of her thighs. Her bare, suntanned legs stretched down
to prim shoes with big ‘foot stompin’ soles. Her shoes were shiny and
black, matching her uniform. White stockings were pulled up over her
legs, up to mid-thigh, where white garters, hanging down, met them and
clasped them tightly with small metal clips. The garters themselves
were thin and covered with pretty lace, it looked as if her stockings
were being held aloft by four lacy strands of spaghetti. Between the
tops of her stockings and her blouse her sun-kissed thighs showed. They
were like two sticks of cinnamon, long and thin. I guessed they had
been too thin as a child but now that she was 13 the maid’s legs had
filled out to a pretty width, still coltish in their appearance but
beckoning with the promise of womanly grace. She stepped across the
room primly and proudly, happy to have been selected to be the one to
bring Jim his milk. I felt jealousy boil deep in my veins, but said
nothing, only watched, like a spectator surreptitiously watching lovers.
“Here. You must drink all of it,” the girl told Jim. He lay
free upon the bed, on his back, his head resting on pillows. He lay on
the sheets, not under them. His cock stiffened and rose as the girl
approached him. She cast a wary eye upon it. Then she leaned in over
the bed and offered the glass to Jim’s hand. Her tits hung out of her
uniform, like sweet udders begging to be milked.
Jim reached for the glass. There was an iron collar fitted
around his neck, to keep him within the bed. A chain hooked to the
collar ran to the bed’s headboard, then passed through a space in it and
attached itself to the masonry of the wall. Jim could roll in his bed
or sit up. He could move to the edge of his bed and pee in a plastic
container. But he could not leave the bed, and my aunt and I could not
free him. My aunt had a smaller iron collar around her neck. A chain
ran from her collar through the headboard of her bed to the wall. There
was a basin beside her bed for her to pee in.
I also wore a collar, slimmer still than my aunt’s. But in my
case it did not have any chain on it, so that I could move freely around
the room, without any need to unlock myself first. Perhaps they had
simply forgotten to chain me, or perhaps they left me free because I was
only a child.
I watched as the maid, leaning in over Jim’s bed, offered him
the milk. Jim sighed and took it. Then, boldly, holding the glass in
his hand, he passed the rim of the glass under the girl’s right bosom.
He had not drunk from the glass yet. With a quick, upward jab, he
pressed the open-mouthed rim of the glass up round the girl’s right tit.
“Oh! Sir!” the girl cried.
Jim laughed. He drew the glass away. There was a white, milky
mark on the girl’s breast. Milk dripped off her excited nipple.
“It’s cold,” the girl said, gazing at her milk-stained bosom.
“I know, but now I find it easier to drink,” Jim said. He
lifted the glass to his lips and began swallowing it down.
“Sir, I shall get in trouble if I get milk on my uniform,” the
girl said. She held her breast as one might hold a damaged fruit,
staring at her skin, with its milky stain.
“Here, give it to me,” Jim said. With a quick motion he rolled
on his side. There was a night table next to his bed and he set the
half-drunk glass of milk upon it. Then, before the maid could retreat
from his grasping hands, he grabbed her and pulled her into the bed and
put his mouth to her tit.
“Oh! Oh! Oh!” the maid howled. “Let me go!” Jim sucked hard
on her milk-stained bosom and I felt boiling rage inside me. Jim was
mine! I had saved him from the executioner and who was she to come
prancing into the room, topless, teasing him with her big bosoms, which
I suspected were even bigger than my own? I had been writing with
crayons and I threw one of my crayons at the girl. It hit her bottom.
She was quite fetchingly dressed in her hindquarters; her blouse flared
over half her seat, leaving the lower part of her bottom completely
bare. My crayon hit her quivering asscheeks where the blouse didn’t
cover her. It bounced off her hiney, leaving a red mark where it had
struck.
“Mmmm! Such delicious titties you have!” Jim growled. He was
manhandling the girl, stuffing her right tit into his mouth as his other
hand squeezed vigorously on her other tit, as if to draw milk from it.
She squirmed in his arms yet I wondered how disapproving she really felt
about it, for he was hard and young and surely the feel of his sculpted
muscles was not unappealing. Perhaps her cries were due to the presence
of his cock, which stuck up threateningly along her belly, impressing
its hard tube of flesh into her and possibly was discharging pre-cum
onto her pretty uniform.
Jim let go of the girl, suddenly, for another maid walked into
the room, a middle-aged woman. She was dressed in a uniform similar to
the girl’s, but her blouse was higher, covering her breasts, and she
wore an actual skirt, stretching down below her knees. She didn’t have
to rely on her blouse to do double duty as both a blouse and a skirt.
“Angela!” the maid snapped. “Get up from that bed!” She
advanced quickly to where Angela now lay dazed in Jim Rutland’s arms.
He no longer held her down but she was still disoriented from being
grabbed. Either that, or she found the press of his hard bare flesh so
alluring that she didn’t want to get up off it. The older woman showed
no hesitation in leaning over the bed and giving Angela a hard slap of
her hand on the girl’s upturned bottom.
“Yeee-OUCH!” Angela cried. She leapt up off Jim. As she came
off him, Jim’s cock was liberated from the press of her body and stood
up in all its glory.
“Drink your milk, Mr. Rutland,” the older woman said. She saw
that his glass on the night stand was only half empty. As she gazed at
his glass she gripped Angela’s shoulders and drew her firmly off the
bed.
“Oh! I told him to drink it, Mrs. Hatami,” Angela told the
older woman.
“Look at your uniform, girl!” Mrs. Hatami answered. She tugged
at Angela’s blouse. She straightened it, drawing out the wrinkles, and
then gave Angela another, less vigorous, slap on her bottom.
“Ouch!” Angela said. Her hands flew back to her naked seat.
“Can’t I at least have panties to wear?” Angela asked.
“No, for then you would be impossible to discipline, with
panties to protect your ass from my hand,” Mrs. Hatami said. She gave
Angela yet another slap, quite lightly, as if to savor the way Angela’s
taut seat quivered.
Angela drew up on her toes and let out a plaintive howl. She
rubbed her seat. Then, perhaps fearing the woman would amuse herself
with another slap on her bottom, she scurried quickly out of the room.
I watched her go, glad to be rid of her but enjoying the way her tight
bottomcheeks pumped as she ran from the room.
“As for you,” Mrs. Hatami said, looking down at Jim with a
mixture of admiration and reproval in her eyes. “Lie on your stomach.
If you’re going to let your milk sit and assault the serving girls, I
must bind your wrists.”
“Good Lord, I’m getting quite sick of this,” Jim said. He
glowered up at the woman. He looked like Zeus, confronting Hera. As
with the myths, Hera won. At last he rolled on his belly, trapping his
big erect cock beneath him. I giggled at how he groaned when his cock
was forced to adapt itself to the harsh vertical position enforced by
the pressure of his stomach against the bed. Mrs. Hatami smiled
amusedly and opened a drawer in the night stand beside Jim’s bed. She
drew out a pair of handcuffs.
“They are lined with fur. Be grateful for that,”Mrs. Hatami
told Jim.
“I don’t care,” Jim answered. He let Mrs. Hatami pick up his
big arms and cross them over his back. She cuffed him, then ordered him
to roll on his stomach again, so the pressure of his body upon his penis
wouldn’t cause him to shoot.
“You must remain sexually ready at all times,” Mrs. Hatami
warned Jim. “You have a fine cock and Prince Havash will delight in
showing it to guests who visit his kingdom. Female guests, and male
guests too, for a work of art like your penis is something that can be
admired by all.” She spoke in an Arabic accent laced with British
English. “You will only spurt when Prince Havash commands it.
Otherwise, you are to be erect and vulnerable, your balls full, your
penis ready for admiration. Do not lose yourself as you enjoy lying
here in this bed. The girls beside you, little Chloe and her aunt
Rebecca, are for your stimulation only, to keep your cock tense and
excited. Look upon them, enjoy the effect the sight of their nude
bodies has upon your loins, but do not touch them or use them to relieve
your sexual tension.” She bent down and touched his cock, lightly,
ringing her fingers around its thick girth, which was too wide for her
to encompass entirely, though she tried, clutching at the center of his
big shaft. “Tonight there will be a party and you will display this
beautiful object to all the guests,” she said. “There will be other
male slaves too. Have you heard of dog shows? This will be like a dog
show, except you and the other men will be the dogs, and it is your
cocks that will be judged. I expect you to win the blue ribbon. Then
you will be permitted to spurt out your sperm in front of all of us,
including me. I have already placed bets with the other women as to who
is the best, and it is you that I have bet them will win. Do not cause
me to lose my money by losing your sperm before the contest. I know you
ache with desire. That’s why we keep feeding you goat’s milk, to make
you absolutely stiff with lust. Drink up, young man! Drink and enjoy
relieving yourself in this plastic container by your bed, but under no
circumstances are you to jack off into it. Your sperm is too valuable
to be wasted here beside your bed, in this plastic jug. And as for
those two...” she said. Her voice broke off.
“What are you doing there?” Mrs. Hatami asked, gazing across
Jim Rutland’s body at me, next to my aunt, with a sheet of paper before
me.
“I’m making a list,” I said. I kept my eyes on her chin,
afraid to look in her eyes. I didn’t want to upset her in any way if
she had a propensity to slap 13-year-old girls’ bottoms. Mine could
hardly stand any more blows.
“What? You are writing a note asking to be rescued?” Mrs.
Hatami asked.
“No! No!” I said. My eyes lifted and met hers then, I was so
scared by her accusation. I hadn’t even thought of doing that! “No,
I’m making a list of food I like, and things I need, in case we go
shopping,” I told her.
“Oh. Let me see,” Mrs. Hatami insisted. She walked over to
where I lay and snatched the piece of paper. I didn’t try to stop her.
She was an Arab woman, dour in nature and, due to her age, broad in
girth. I smelled fresh bread as she drew close. Perhaps she was in
charge of more than just us girls. “What does it say...” Mrs. Hatami
said. Her English wasn’t excellent but apparently she could read. In a
voice thickly laced with an Arabic accent, she spoke, reading from my
paper:
“Potato ships,” she announced. “You want a ship to come rescue
you?”
“Chips!” I blurted.
“Oh. Potato chips,” she said, suspiciously. I think she
really did think I was writing an escape note. “Gummi Bears. Fruit
Roll-Ups. Count Chocula,” she said. She looked past the note at me.
“You are writing a note to a Count?” she asked.
“It’s a cereal,” my aunt murmured. She had awoken now, and lay
sleepily on her side, gazing up at the woman with heavily-lidded eyes.
“A Count is a cereal?” Mrs. Hatami asked.
“She wants to eat him... I mean it!” my aunt explained.
“I shall have to show this to the Prince,” Mrs. Hatami said.
“Wait! Don’t get me in trouble!” I cried. But it was too
late. Mrs. Hatami bustled from the room, taking my note with her.
“Oh!” I gasped, when she was gone. I looked at my aunt. “He
will think I’m trying to escape,” I told her. There was a worried, and
slightly depressed, look in my aunt’s eyes. I think she had hoped to
find herself waking up in her own bed at home. My aunt lifted her head,
then became aware of the collar around her neck. She glanced at the
chain connecting her to the wall.
“Good grief,” she said. She looked at me. Her eyes were
heartfelt. “I’m sorry, Chloe,” she said.
“Don’t be sorry,” Jim said. I looked up and gasped. He had
risen from his bed and had his chain stretched taut. He was right at
the end of it, his arms bound behind him, but his cock quavering out in
front of him, lewd and very stiff. “Come closer,” he whispered. My
aunt looked back over her shoulder.
“I am... I am bound by the neck,” my aunt said.
“So am I,” Jim said. “Arch your back. Stick out your bottom.
We can reach each other if we try,” Jim urged.
My aunt looked over her shoulder at Jim, his big thing sticking
out, his hips pushed forward. “Not... not our lips,” my aunt said.
“Our lips cannot touch.”
“They don’t need to,” Jim said.
“Oh!” my aunt cried. “But you must keep yourself stiff and
erect...” Her protest died as, no doubt against her better judgement,
she tested the length of her chain by pushing her bottom back. Jim
stretched himself forth, arching his hips hard, squeezing his buns
together. His taut cock nudged against my aunt’s rearward-pressing
bottom. She gave a small “oh” and then offered herself more fully,
drawing herself up on her knees. Jim lunged at her. His chain
tightened and snapped his head back, but he kept his hips straining
forth and managed to draw a shriek from my aunt as his cock pushed into
her dell.
“No! We mustn’t!” my aunt said fearfully. But she left Jim to
exercise the restraint, if any, between them, for she lowered her head
and stuck out her bottom more, pushing herself back on his stiff,
quivering prong.
“Stop! Both of you!” I gasped. I stared at my aunt, her chain
now fully extended, lifting her bottom high to enclasp the head of Jim’s
cock in the folds of her cunt. For his part, Jim looked like he might
tear his neck from his shoulders as he strained to be captured more
fully by my aunt’s dell. He pushed. My aunt sighed. He drew back a
little and immediately she offered her bottom still more, hoping to keep
him within her.
“Damn! I can only get in the head!” Jim said. He was sweating
now, profusely, as his neck strained against the collar which held him
back.
“Oh, my love! My dear, sweet love! The head is enough!”
Rebecca said. “It is quite big,” she added, and moved her hips as if
with discomfort, though I guessed she enjoyed feeling his big knob
splitting her. But she wanted more, and he did too. They both grunted
as they tried again and again to make their love more complete.
“I- I want to feel your jism in me,” my aunt said at last, her
hair hanging down over her face, much tousled, from the twisting of her
neck against the collar which held her. She bit her lip and tried yet
again to get more of Jim’s penis in her.
“I... need some stimulation to shoot,” Jim said frankly. His
cock arched from my aunt’s pussy like a big sweaty banana, dying to be
held tight in her sheath but unable, due to the collar holding Jim back,
to thrust up inside her.
“I’ll do it!” I cried. I leapt up. I was too excited,
watching them, to worry what might happen to Jim if he shot himself off
in my aunt. I crawled around behind my aunt and grabbed the shaft of
Jim’s dick. He had just the head of himself in her. The rest of his
long penis arched through the air, rather like the St. Louis Arch. I
could feel his pulse in his big member. The skin of his dick was hot.
“Mmmm!” Jim groaned. I gripped his large shaft with my small,
nimble fingers and began rubbing him.
“Oh, Jim! I can hardly wait to feel you shooting up in me!” my
aunt said. She craned her neck back to watch my efforts. Gaily I
massaged Jim’s tense member. How strong it felt! How like a big, iron
re-bar, splitting my poor aunt’s behind!
“God! You have such delicate fingers,” Jim said. He looked
down at my hands.
“I’m only 13,” I told him.
“Why are your fingernails purple?” Jim asked.
“I painted them!” I told him. “I found a sheet of rub-on
daisies in our night stand and I want to put one on each of my
fingernails.”
“You’d actually look better if you didn’t do that,” Jim told
me. He gritted his teeth as my fingers squeezed his member like a big
tube of toothpaste.
“Really?” I asked.
“Yes,” Jim gasped. “Why do young girls like you always do
strange things like painting your fingernails purple and putting daisies
on them?”
“I dunno,” I said.
“Do you ever see girls in Playboy with purple fingers?” Jim
asked me.
“I don’t read Playboy,” I told him. “I’m too young.”
“Oh, yeah,” Jim grunted.
“I guess you’re fucking both me and my auntie,” since your
penis head is in her, and the shaft is in my hands,” I told Jim.
“Yeah,” Jim said. His face grew grim. I could see that he was
close to spending now and was concentrating on holding himself back a
bit longer, enjoying the feel of my hands and the pressure of Rebecca’s
cunt on his cock’s trapped head. He urged himself back and forth a
little, making my aunt gasp each time his dickhead plunged to its
farthest point in her pussy.
“I feel like I’m milking a cow,” I said to Jim. His chest
tautened and he let out a long groan.
“I feel like I’m fucking one,” he answered.
I heard footsteps at the door and flung my head in that
direction, my blonde hair swirling. With wide, frightened eyes I saw
Mrs. Hatami as she came bustling into our room.
“Oh! You naughty children!” she cried. She had a pail of
water in her hands but dropped it upon seeing us. I thought she would
yell for the guards, but perhaps her admiration for Jim prevented it.
Instead, quickly going to the dresser by the wall, she drew from it a
man’s belt. I found the belt earlier, lying in the drawer, wondered at
it and thought perhaps it was there for Jim to wear round pants they
might give him. I should have known better. Slaves never wore
clothes. We were chosen for our beauty in the nude.
SPLAT! Mrs. Hatami rushed over to Jim and let fly with the
belt. It struck him hard on his bottom, and he howled. I crouched
down, deathly frightened. Yet my hands continued to fondle Jim’s cock.
It felt too good in my hands, all hard and excited, to let go of it.
“Oh, please!” my aunt cried. She dipped her back more, as if
to bolt forward, but the posture only made her offer her cunt more fully
to Jim’s enquiring penis.
SPLAT! SPLAT! Mrs. Hatami struck again. I feared she might
hit me, but she confined all her blows to Jim’s bottom. Perhaps she
desired, deep down, to inflict such a punishment on him, and was
delighted to find him in a position that allowed her to do it.
“Stop! Damn woman! You’re making me cum!” Jim groaned.
“You should have thought of that before you stuck yourself into
that trollop!” Mrs. Hatami yelled. (Though indeed she did not yell as
loudly as she might have, perhaps to avoid drawing attention.)
“Ack!” Jim said. His face looked quite pained and I guessed it
was, with the blows of the belt striking his already well-whipped
bottom. He twisted his hips, but he did not try to dislodge himself
from my aunt. I kept up an invigorating massage of his penis.
“You haven’t even finished your milk!” Mrs. Hatami bellowed.
She struck Jim harder. Suddenly, I felt something in him give way, and
I began to feel a deep, throbbing pumping in his shaft.
“Oh! Oh!” my aunt said in great, heartfelt sighs.
“Omigod!” I cried. He was really doing it! I was holding
Jim’s penis as he shot himself into my aunt. I couldn’t believe it!
With my own hands, I was holding the very thing that was sperming her.
I held Jim’s prong as his sperm raced through his penis and into my
aunt’s cunny, coming in pulsating bursts that I couldn’t see but could
certainly feel!
“Yes!” Rebecca cried. She stretched her bottom out. Its
halves parted sweetly as she impaled herself on the object of her
desire. Jim groaned. He flooded her with his spunk and my aunt,
receiving it, wet the knob of his buried cock with her juices.
A quartet played on instruments in the ballroom. Overhead
chandeliers sparkled their light upon the guests. Prince Havash was
having his Grand Ball, to celebrate his ascension as the new ruler of
Quatar. It was rumored that the Sultan, our original master, had
insulted Prince Havash and was in fact to have his penis cut off this
night. I shivered to think of it, tried not to. I kept my mind
focussed on my task, greeting the male slaves as they walked one by one
into the ballroom.
To delight his guests, and to remind the male slaves of their
status, Prince Havash permitted each one to enter wearing a suit and
tie. Each slave walked past me, gazing quickly at the basin of warm
water I held, then made his rounds of the guests, greeting the ladies
and gentlemen. It was a most peculiar sight. Jim Rutland, who was the
second slave to enter, serves as a good example:
Jim entered. He grinned at me, and I could see he was rather
nervous. It owed nothing to the state of his groin. After whipping
him, Mrs. Hatami had seen to it that he drank boatloads of milk so that
he’d be ready to win the contest this evening. Jim looked smashing in a
coat and tie. His coat was open in front, by order of Prince Havash, so
that he could be admired all the way down his front. I spied at once a
thick bulge in the front of his pants. He was anxious about having to
show himself to strangers, yet he was also full of sperm and unable to
keep down his erection. He glanced at my bowl of warm water. It sat
atop a pedestal. It looked rather like something babies were baptized
in, but it had no religious purpose.
“Is that it?” Jim asked me.
“Yes,” I whispered.
“How many guys have come in?” Jim said.
“Only one,” I answered.
“Thank God,” Jim said. He walked past me. I understood his
concern. He didn’t like the idea of water that had been used on other
men being used on him too. But all the slaves, as a condition of their
service, were free of disease, so he had nothing really to worry about.
It was just an insult to his ego.
Prince Havash announced Jim’s name. The Prince sat on a
throne, the same throne the Sultan had sat in the night before. The
other guests stood collected in front of the the throne and Jim walked
around and greeted them all, blushing a little before the men, but
eyeing the women, all of whom were quite beautiful. When he had greeted
them all he was brought back to where I stood. Two of the female guests
escorted him. Slowly, with admiring eyes and hands, they disrobed him.
“Now we must wash your balls,” one of the women said to Jim.
She urged him forward, a hand upon his tight buns, so that his cock
dangled over my bowl and his balls splashed down into it. The bowl was
brimming with suds. Jim gaped as he felt the heat of the water, which
was quite warm, and felt the suds clinging to his testicles.
“Don’t shoot, Jim,” I whispered. I began rubbing his sperm
sac, carefully, so as not to make him any more excited than he already
was.
“Slave girls are to be seen and not heard,” one of the women,
the one with her hand on Jim’s bottom, told me.
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied immediately.
Unlike Jim, I had been forced to arrive at the party naked. I
had been posted at the pedestal by the door and the maids had brought me
my bowl, already filled with water. They had squirted Mr. Bubble into
it as I watched and made me stir the water with my fingers to make the
bubbles rise. Now there were lots of bubbles and, as I rubbed Jim’s
balls, “washing” them, his testicles became completely covered with
foam. It sparkled upon his skin.
“Very good,” one of the women said. She drew Jim back. His
balls slipped from my grasp. His penis arched out, still untouched,
with suds clinging to his testes.
“His scrotum has been washed, your highness,” one of the women
announced to Prince Havash.”
“Is it full?” the Prince asked, sitting on his throne. The two
women felt Jim, glad for the excuse, and replied,
“Yes, your highness. He feels quite full.”
“Good, then take him to the holding chamber until it is time
for our little contest,” Prince Havash answered. “And please return,
ladies. I desire your company here in my ballroom as we greet our other
guests.”
Both women nodded, submissively, and took Jim away. He walked
jauntily, his balls swinging, his cock drawing the eyes of every female,
and not a few males, in the room. He was taken back out through the
same door through which he entered. Two maids, serving the guests
drinks and canapes, put down their trays. They walked over to Jim’s
pile of discarded clothes and picked them up off the floor. Then they
left the ballroom, but by a different door than the one Jim had left
through. He would have no further need of his clothes this evening.
(And, indeed, the clothes had been specially bought for this night, and
were not his to keep.)
Each male slave entered in turn, one by one, and each greeted
the guests, was stripped, and then was forced to endure having his balls
washed. One spurted in my hands and was immediately taken from the
room, by a door nobody had left through until now, guards coming quickly
and taking him away. I shivered to think what punishments he had to
face for losing control of himself like that.
One slave in particular startled me. He was a boy, not a man.
He looked 19 but when I asked him his age he told me, in all honesty,
that he was only 15. He was white, like myself. Indeed, many of the
men were white, and I wondered what choices they had made in life to
wind up being male sex slaves to an Arabian Prince. In the boy’s case,
Robin, he was an orphan. He had been in a bar in London (with fake
I.D., of course) boasting how he would live when he got rich and
famous. He wasn’t quite sure how he would get rich and famous but
nonetheless he had it already all worked out how he would spend the
money when he did. A man looked him over and, as Robin told me later,
“He saw potential where I had not thought to find it.” Robin had a
“massive packet,” as they say in London. The man put him on a plane and
sent him to the Sultan of Quatar.
As I did my best to cup Robin’s balls in my hands (which were
quite substantial), I gazed at his dick. It stretched out like a big,
thick knockwurst sausage, and was as long as a ruler. He was
understandably proud of it and had no qualms about having it be seen.
He had a slender build, which made his penis stand out all the more
dramatically. His face was the mature-looking face of a boy who’d spent
his life living hand-to-mouth in the streets. But he had surprisingly
honest eyes, when he looked at me, and I found myself swooning for him.
“She likes it,” Robin said to the two female guests selected to
attend to him during his ceremonial washing. I blushed fiercely. I
wished to tell him that it was the honesty in his eyes that I liked as
much as his penis, but one of the women had already snapped at me for
asking his age, so I said nothing. When I was finished with the
ball-washing I watched him walk with cock-waggling sureness out the door
to the slaves’ “holding chamber.”
Ah, there was never a room more aptly named! When I had washed
the last man’s balls I was told by the Prince to report to the holding
room for duty. When I entered I felt a mixture of shock and delight.
All the male slaves were there, erect as could be, and they were helping
each other into small leather costumes.
You can imagine what part of their anatomy the leather costumes
was intended to emphasize. As I watched, Jim slipped a loop of thick
leather over the end of Robin’s penis. (Imagine! My two favorite men,
helping each other!) The loop was like a ring that fitted to the base
of Robin’s cock. Imagine a little plate with a hole cut in the center
of it, slipped over a man’s penis, and you will know what that leather
loop looked like. It pushed back Robin’s growth of pubic hair. This
allowed the entire stemming length of his cock to be admired, without
any bushiness of his pubic hair obscuring it in any way. Of course he
was quite long to begin with-- but how truly extravagant he looked now,
with his big cock stretching forth, the ring cuffing it at its base!
Another effect of the flat leather ring was to push back on the
forward-most part of a man’s balls. Robin was hugely full and he
remarked to Jim that the ring was making him feel quite swollen between
his legs, where the ring shoved back his testicles, jamming the whole
ballon-like girth of his testes between his thighs.
“Of course,” Jim replied. “You’ll walk awkwardly too, with
your scrotum pushed back and that flat leather ring digging into the
front of your thighs.” Jim seemed nonplussed by the ring he wore around
his own cock. I guess after sitting on the fake throne downstairs Jim
was about ready for anything. I realized, suddenly, that indeed our
initial night’s torment on the ‘thrones’ was having the same effect on
me. Things that would have unnerved me, like seeing poor Robin and Jim
forced to wear rings around their dicks, I now took in stride. Prince
Havash was making me more mature.
You might wonder how these decorative cock rings were made to
stay in place. Each had two slender strings attached. The strings were
drawn behind each man’s waist and tied in a bow. Then a third string
was attached to the bow and pulled between the man’s legs. It was
wrapped once around his balls, where they joined his crotch, and then
fastened to a small brass ring hanging down from the underside of his
leather cock ring. I watched as Jim knelt down in front of Robin and
attached the third string. It was quite erotic to see. Robin’s cock
dangled stiffly in front of Jim’s face, dripping pre-cum onto Jim’s nose
as Jim got under Robin’s groin and slipped the third string into the
brass ring.
“Damn! You dripped sperm in my eye,” Jim told Robin.
“Sorry,” Robin answered, gazing helplessly down at the man, too
excited to keep his erection from oozing out pre-cum.
A gorgeous woman entered. She was dressed in a smart leather
outfit. Immediately I felt jealous-- how sexy she looked, in her
revealing leather skirt and bodice, while I was forced to stand there
naked!
“Stroke yourselves, men,” she said. Her voice had an air of
authority and, though she was only about 5 and a half feet tall, perhaps
less, she obviously relished having a roomful of big male slaves to
command. Immediately she walked up to a man with a stiff,
well-displayed penis and took his cock in her fingers.
“Is this the best you can do?” she asked. The man was not
small in the cock department, nor was he unexcited. Staring at the
woman’s leather gloved fingers on his dick, stroking his length, he
stammered,
“I-- I’m told I have a fine one.”
“You are, eh?” the woman said. I couldn’t tell if she was
teasing or not. But her fingers, lightly stroking the man’s cock, had a
flirtatious air about them. Suddenly she reached into her costume and
pulled forth a pair of garden shears. The man’s eyes widened. I felt
totally spooked and would have run for the room, but my eyes,
mesmerized, insisted on seeing all that transpired.
The man did not move either, so enraptured was he as the woman
opened the scissors and placed them astride his dick. She held them
there, over his groin, the sharp edges of the blades on either side of
his manhood, almost touching his thick, pulsing manhood.
“I used these to cut some branches this afternoon in the
garden,” the woman said. “I’m sure they could prove useful in disposing
of your dick if it proves unsatisfactory.”
“N-No,” the man gasped. I swear he got bigger before my eyes,
as the woman alternately teased and threatened him, her other hand still
stroking his large erection even as she threatened to cut if off with
the shears.
“Then be on your best behavior,” the woman said. “And don’t
shoot.” She grabbed him, hard, and squeezed his penis with her small
hand.
“Y-Yes,” the man said in a choking stammer.
“Very good,” the woman said. And, at once, she withdrew the
scissors and let go of the man. His cock wobbled in the air, like a
torpedo uncertain of whether or not to explode, but pointing resolutely
toward the woman who had just manhandled him. Even though the woman was
no longer touching him, he was more excited now than ever. She was
quite close, and might return at any moment to touch him again. Her
fingers might fondle him, joyfully feeling his length. Or perhaps his
penis would give offense and she would slice it off with her scissors.
Poised between pleasure and pain, feeling neither but threatened by
both, the man could barely hold himself back. The other men, each of
them displaying a fine erection, watched with bated breath. I could see
worry on their faces. They were at the height of pleasure, showing
themselves off to such a beautiful woman. Each of them gleefully vied
with the next to attract her eyes. Yet, even as they pulsed with
delight, they were so eager that they feared losing control of their
excitement. This was no lovers’ bedroom, where a mate might simply
laugh with regret at a premature spending. Any man among these who shot
himself off early would spend the night not in the ballroom, in the
company of beautiful women, but with the male guards, downstairs, who
were instructed to show no mercy.
With a gritting of his teeth and showing considerable resolve
in his face, the molested man managed to avoid spurting. A sigh went up
from the others. No doubt they were in competition, each hoping to best
the others. Yet, each was so thoroughly aroused that any man who came
might serve as a forecast of the others’ fate. They were like an army,
if one broke they all might.
The woman in leather looked calmly over her shoulder at the man
she’d molested. As his cock throbbed less precipitously a relaxed look
suffused his face. He smiled. Triumph showed in his eyes. He had
managed to ‘cross the hump’. He still yearned to spew forth his sperm,
but now he had control of himself like never before. The women in the
ballroom could touch him freely, and he would survive. He would shoot
when ordered to, and not before. Confidence showed on his face.
We all watched as the leather-clad woman put another man’s cock
to the test. The first, despite looking relieved, remained hard and
stiff like a bottle. I yearned to sit upon him. It was a naughty
thought, but such a perfect example of manhood called to me in my
deepest, most private places. My uterus yearned for him. My tits
longed to squeeze themselves on him until his juice flooded my face.
“You there!” I heard, and realized the woman was talking to
me. “Why do you stare at the men like a little girl? Get to work!
Their penises must be lubricated, so they can more easily perform their
chores in the ballroom, after the competition.”
“Ye-Yes... mistress,” I said. I came out of my brief rapture,
where I had envisioned myself alone with all the men, doing with them
whatever I pleased. I looked around me. I spied a big bottle of
vaseline up on a shelf. I went to it, walking on tip toe, feeling awed
by being in a roomful of strong men, their dicks all showing. I could
just reach the shelf. My fingers scrabbled over the ledge of the shelf,
trying to reach the bottle. Suddenly I got it, but it slipped from my
grasp, and dropped past me to the floor. Cringing, lest it hit me, I
recovered and picked it up. The men laughed. The woman muttered
something, but I did not make out what she said. Still on tip toe, I
went to the first man she handled. I knelt before him and, without
meaning to, I licked my lips. He grinned down at me.
“Do your worst,” he said. I looked up at him blankly.
“Huh?” I asked. His penis pointed directly at my face, and he
arched his hips forward, bumping my nose with it. His slitted cockhead
put a dollop of pre-cum on the tip of my nose and I looked at it,
crosseyed.
“Go ahead. I’ve never felt more in control of myself in my
life,” the man said to me. “Work me as hard as you like. Make me
absolutely drip with that bottle of vaseline. I won’t come in your
face.” He leaned over a little and whispered, “but if I find you alone,
I’ll do much more than just shoot off in your face. Of that you can be
sure, little girl.”
“Y-Yes sir,” I said, and realized that, of all those assembled,
I was probably the most powerless. With gentle hands, fearful lest I
should get in trouble if he spurted, I began to coat him with vaseline.
I squirted it on him, starting at the base of his shaft where the
leather ring bound his penis. Then, gradually, I moved my fingers up
his manhood. I was liberal with the oil. When I was done he glistened
like a sunbather at the beach, except that only his cock was wet.
With the next man, I began at the tip of his cock, where his
precum was doing a good job of making the end of his dick oily. I
worked my way down him as, nearby, the woman, alternately threatening
and cajoling, was procuring from each man a truly massive, engorged
erection. The men were hard to begin with, but her fingers, and her
scissors, made them display themselves even more fiercely. I felt my
own nipples, at my breast tips, standing up with a perkiness that
alarmed me. Was I, too, excited by the dangerousness of the situation?
I had little control over myself. I was a nude slave. I did as I was
told, exactly. I could not even go to the bathroom without permission,
and I might be found to be committing a fault at any moment, and given
the severest punishment. Yet, despite my peril, my nipples were stiff,
and my womb yearned for fulfillment. I felt myself panting and tried to
relax.
“Omigod!” a man shouted, suddenly. My head darted round, just
in time to see him cum. A profusion of sperm fired itself upon the
woman in leather. She squeezed him and tried to stop him, but it was no
use. He just kept coming and coming, all of his jism spurting forth in
a grand display, like a white Fourth of July fireworks. His cum
splattered her face, shot into her eyes, and ran down her neck to coat
her bosoms.
“Guards! Guards!” she yelled at last, after his entire load
had spumed upon her, and I sensed a note of reluctance in the woman’s
voice. Nonetheless, the guards appeared and took him away. He was
dazed as he left us, his cock still turgid, his eyes a mixture of
pleasure and fear. He’d enjoyed the delight of loosing himself on our
beautiful mistress. Yet now he would have to pay for it. At the door
he struggled a little, but the guards were as strong as he was, and
there were more of them, and they overcame his resistance and led him
out.
Hearing the commotion of the ejaculation, I had feared that
Robin had cum. He was the youngest, after all. But he had not, and I
gazed at him with smiling eyes as he stood showing himself for all he
was worth. He was next, and the woman knelt before him and began
teasing him with her scissors. I held my breath. Robin endured; he
stuck himself proudly between the blades, daring her to cut him.
“My, but you are young,” the woman said in an affectionate
voice.
“I am ready to please you in whatever way is required,” Robin
said boldly. The woman looked up at him and dared his bravery by
closing her scissors so that the blades actually indented themselves
against his dick. Robin didn’t flinch. I almost fainted, though,
watching. My hands grew still as I lubed the penis of a man with
vaseline. He took offense, pushed his dick into one of my eyes.
“Ow,” I said. I blinked.
“Get to work!” the man bellowed, standing over me, his cock
thrusting at me.
“Yes sir,” I said, but I did nothing, for my eyes were fixed on
Robin, and my heart was in my throat.
The woman in leather looked over at me. “Is she being lazy?”
she asked the man I was supposed to be wetting down.
“Yes,” he answered, gruffly. I did not like him. He tried to
poke me in my eye with his penis again, but I drew my head back,
abruptly. Even as she looked at me, the woman kept her scissors firmly
clamped upon Robin’s dick.
“Oh, please mistress!” I cried. I could stand the torment no
longer, even if Robin could. “Don’t hurt him!” I pleaded.
“Ah, is he your favorite? Your sweetheart?” the leather-clad
woman asked me.
“Yes!” I blurted.
Her eyes narrowed. “You are not to have favorites, slave,” she
answered. “You are to receive whatever you are given, and be happy for
it. In the real world you may have favorites, but not here. Do you
understand?”
I gulped. “Yes,” I managed to say. I cast a quick glance at
Jim Rutland and thought I detected dismay in his face. Perhaps he had
thought I liked him best. I did, until I saw Robin!
“You and I will have an instructive session with a riding crop
later this evening, slave,” the leather-clad woman told me. I
blanched. My heart sank. I felt a shiver run through me. She
laughed. “You look like you just swallowed that big penis you’re
holding. Get to work! You are to please and enlarge the man you’ve got
in your hands, not disappoint him by hungering after another!”
“Yes, mistress,” I said, but I said it so softly I don’t think
she heard me. Immediately I returned to my task of lubing the rude man
before me. I rubbed him with relish. Not with affection, but, rather,
with a secret hope to make him spend. But the woman’s ministrations,
already applied, had taken him ‘over the hump’, so that he could
withhold himself with ease.
30
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