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From: Andrew Roller <roller39@IDT.NET>
Subject: Love Child part 3 of 15 (NND)
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_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
LOVE CHILD
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Chapter Three
I knelt upon the deep pile carpet. It was soft. My legs were
spread, not excessively, but too wide for a girl who wore no panties.
My hips were thrust forward. I offered a luring view of my pussy. I
was unconscious, though, of my display. Mesmerized, I stared with
astonished eyes at the scene before me. Mandy was totally nude, as I
was. She was bent over a padded leather trestle. Her wrists and ankles
were bound to its legs. A gag restrained her cries, but her eyes stared
out, tears welling, the eyes of one suffering harm.
My hands were clapped to my asscheeks, gripping them, as I
watched Mandy suffer so exquisitely. Behind her stood mistress. I
still did not know her name. We’d met last night, explored each other’s
bodies, experienced the most intense emotions together. Yet I still
knew her only as “mistress.” Names did not matter. Beauty mattered.
Perseverance mattered. Love mattered. But not names. She knew me as
Barbi, and she knew Mandy by her first name. All else was irrelevant.
All that mattered in the outside world did not matter here.
Mistress wore riding boots, plus blue jeans, but was naked from
the waist up. Her clothing below seemed only to accentuate the raw
charm of her upper body. Her buoyant breasts were free and without
restraint. She held a cane, and with every singing stroke of it upon
Mandy's butt her sumptuous breasts jiggled marvelously. Beyond stood
Arthur. A new player. He had spent his seed in Mandy's mouth but
already his cock was becoming elongated. Breathlessly I watched it.
Clutching my hiney, I knew what made him grow so quickly, so excitedly.
It was the sight of Mandy getting her poor bottom whacked. It
stimulated him. I knew that he would want to see me put over the
trestle next.
We were all volunteers here, though. Within this room, this
confining space. Arthur had been introduced to us at Senator Exon’s.
We were there no longer. We were in another chateau. It was some
distance from the Senator’s. The general’s, I should call it, for
Senator Exon was never there. It was the wine at dinner last night that
had made me think it was him. He, the Senator, that is, was in
Washington. Meeting with Donna Rice Hughes on how to “protect” me.
Donna Rice, formerly mistress to Senator Gary Hart. She’d had Enough
now, but I hadn’t. She wanted to protect me from the “little
compromises” she’d been allowed to make in her life. I’d make my own
“little compromises,” I thought. I did not need her to tell me what to
compromise and what not to. She would compromise Liberty to keep me
from having fun.
"Is it wise?" I had asked mistress, watching Arthur put his
penis to Mandy's mouth. He had done it just before she was gagged. I
had wanted to stop him, but mistress insisted. Mandy had squirmed upon
the trestle. She did not want that big sausage rammed down her throat.
Mistress did, though, and her will held sway.
Watching, I had seen Mandy take Arthur’s big cock. I felt
sophisticated, watching it. I was in a coffeehouse, in my mind. I
brushed a strand of hair from my eyes, felt the wetness of my own lips.
There was a hunger upon them. We were discussing the male appendage.
In my mind I sipped coffee. It was hot, musky. The steam from the cup
tickled my nose. Yes, I at 15 was commenting upon the male penis, and
asking questions, but as an equal, not a supplicant. Mistress
answered. She demonstrated. Mandy was stretched over a table, a
trestle. We were elegant, cultured. She was naked, helpless. She
would suffer for science. We would use her as our guinea pig. I admit,
though, I was a little jealous of Mandy. She was about to get what I
longed for. I glanced at Donna Rice, she glanced at me. I watched as
Arthur’s gorgeous penis slid into Mandy’s moistly opened mouth. She
took it with wide eyes, fearing to gag on it. He thrust it in, guided
by mistress, me watching. “Is it wise?” I repeated.
"Don’t worry," she replied. "He’s renowned for the prodigious
amount of sperm he makes. We will all be well provided for." She spoke
of him as a pet. A male animal. “Of course, he will have to be
properly stimulated,” mistress added. She whisked her cane lightly
across Mandy’s bottom. The girl flinched, eyes popping. Her breath
whooshed out the corners of her mouth as Arthur stuffed himself into
her. “More,” mistress told Mandy. She pinched the girl’s nostrils shut
to encourage her compliance. “Take more.” Mandy whimpered. She tried
to speak but her words gagged on Arthur’s cock. He pushed himself
within her small mouth, speared her. She became a sword swallower.
“Now shaft her,” mistress told Arthur. “Back and forth. Do it
until you spill.” Grimly, knowing he could not last long if he obeyed,
Arthur set about his task. Mandy squeaked. She looked like a little
mouse to me, stretched tight over the trestle. She was a baby mouse,
being force-fed warm, nourishing milk. Mistress patted Arthur’s
bottom. She looked up at me. “He can get out of control if you don’t
cool him down a little. He’s like Hercules, and if you leave him randy
he’ll go wild.” She turned her eyes back to Arthur. “Spurt, big boy.
Let it come out. I won’t have you rampaging around in here like some
bull. We girls are delicate.” She looked at me again. “Arthur and I
have played together before. Whenever you have a big man like him it’s
necessary to do this. Our boys last night were young gentlemen. You
can tease those types to your heart’s content. But Arthur is a sex
slave. A boy toy. He played football once, never made it to the pros.
He was more valuable for other things, hmmm Arthur?” He did not
respond. In and out he jerked his shaft, all swollen, the veins
pulsing, throbbing. It was slick and wet with Mandy’s sweet saliva.
She looked like some hapless sausage machine, expelling the newest
knockwurst, only to have it rammed back in again. “Go on, get it out of
yourself, Arthur!” mistress scolded. “Come in her mouth. Suck, girl!”
she told Mandy. She traced a finger up Mandy’s throat, stung her bottom
with the cane.
Suddenly, losing control of his prodigious member, Arthur
groaned. For a moment there was nothing, he hung at the edge, just
over, knowing he would lose his load, yet valiantly trying to prolong
his possession. Mistress glared at him. She would not tolerate leaving
his seed in his balls. “Into her mouth, boy!” she admonished. She
slapped his cleft ass. He surged forward. Mandy squawked, her cry
muffled. Arthur’s last reserve of will gave way. Sperm jetted into
Mandy’s mouth, down her throat. Bulging-eyed she gargled on it. The
stuff ran from her lips, backing up, she could not swallow it fast
enough. Mistress singed her ass with the cane to give her
encouragement.
“Ahhh,” Arthur gritted. He let his loins have full play now.
Freely he injected his sperm into Mandy. She looked like she was hooked
up to some giant syringe, a cow getting her daily dose of fertilizer.
Sperm bubbled from her mouth. Her lovely breasts swung beneath her.
Arthur withdrew at last. Mandy gasped for air. Her tongue lolled out,
sperm-coated, dripping. Immediately mistress gagged her with a cloth,
to prevent her screaming. Not that anyone would hear. We were in a
soundproofed room. But it would be an annoyance, I guessed, Mandy
squawking and protesting. The female must be given freedom, but only up
to a point. This much I had learned already. After that she must be
encouraged by other, brisker means. Mandy, who had only had a few
little stingers of the cane to get her going, now turned her head and
looked frantically back at mistress. She raised the cane with a
determined look.
“Now that Arthur’s been ‘topped off’, he must be brought up
again,” mistress told Mandy. I guessed that she meant he’d been
neutered a little, made a little less frantic, but now we girls wanted
his cock big and strong again for the night’s festivities. The cock we
needed, but too much sperm might set him off. Yes, that was about how
one might explain it, I thought. Mistress wanted him under our
control. Hard, but not so full of sperm that he was uncontrollable. We
were, after all, just girls. He was a man. He could dominate us at
will. So trickery was needed, and a little planning.
One might say that Arthur was our nominal master now, with
mistress his able lieutenant. Yet really her presence dominated us
all. He would not have denied her any wish, or disobeyed any of her
commands. It was because of her that we were here now, in this room.
Myself, clutching my ass. Mandy over the trestle, receiving the cane.
And Arthur, our new playmate, his cock leaping at every stroke of the
cane on Mandy’s peach.
After "opening night" at the general’s, as mistress now gaily
referred to it, Mandy and I had spent the night cuddled in her arms.
I'd lain beside her, pressed up against her glorious figure, sucking my
thumb like the spoiled little baby she wanted me to be. Next morning
she'd gotten us up, bathed us, and dressed us in bikinis and fur coats.
"Would you like to go on an adventure?" she'd asked us. There
was a note of breathlessness in her voice. She herself drew on blue
jeans, a thin blouse, a thick fur coat. We donned leather gloves,
boots. We nodded at her. "I mean," she said, "a sexual adventure."
Mandy and I looked puzzled. We'd just dressed, albeit
fetchingly, looked cute beneath our wraps, wearing our little bikinis.
"Come," she'd said, and had taken Mandy by the hand. The
matter had been settled by our hesitancy. A nun would have blanched, a
tot would have affrighted, but we had merely gazed back at her,
inquiringly, not speaking. Our silence was, with her, our consent.
The men were gone. The general and his two studly pals had
left us. Perhaps he’d taken them out hunting, or skiing. We’d been
used, they were finished with us. I glanced down at my tummy. It was
smooth. Would I bulge with their seed in a few months? Would they
remember me? I felt a swaying in my hips. I did not care that they’d
departed. We were with mistress now. She would find new boyfriends for
us. She turned her head back to me. Tightly she held Mandy’s hand. We
walked on a wooden floor down a long hallway. “Don’t fall behind,
dear,” mistress told me. “You’re open now, fair game for any man. If
you linger you’ll be caught alone. Everyone knows by now you spent the
night in the general’s bed. And he is absent, as you can see. They’ll
pile on you and fuck you with abandon, every man taking his share. He
paid for you to come here. He expects you to provide entertainment now,
with your cunt. Hurry, or I won’t be able to save you!” I quickened my
pace. She took us to the basement, down the long flight of steps Mandy
and I had so dreaded descending the day before. “We must have a
protector. There’s a little time to fetch him,” mistress told us. “I
just hope he’s here!” We peered into the deep stone chamber.
“Arthur!” mistress called. She cupped her hand to her mouth.
“Arthur!” We walked across the stone floor. I saw the cages Mandy and
I had crouched in, rabbit-like. They were open now, but had fresh
pillows in them, with fresh rose petals sprinkled atop them. I sensed
new girls would be brought soon, entrapped in them. No matter. I had
met the test, passed through. They would have to manage on their own.
I lifted my chin, felt a little pride shiver down my spine. I had done
well, hadn’t I? And Mandy too. I felt my breasts, high on my chest,
contained within my little bra. They moved easily, bouncing lightly. I
did not know where I was going, or who I would meet. But whoever he
was, I felt a little more confident than yesterday.
We passed into another room. And then another. The basement
ran all underneath the mansion, I guessed, as big as the house itself.
There were rooms within rooms. I wondered if we’d meet a troll. Would
he wield an axe and hack us up? I shivered. In my fretfulness I felt a
little thrill. It ran down my spine to my tailbone, and up through my
newly opened cunt. A balloon of anxious pleasure welled somewhere deep
within me. I was aware of my little bikini, so stringy, no protection
at all for whatever might befall me. And in my fur wrap I looked
valuable, precious. He would want to steal me, whoever he was. I would
be his bauble, his ornament. I would adorn his secret cave and bear him
children by the river Styx. He would keep me with his treasure, guard
me like Smaug. Little hobbits would try to rescue me but I would be
doomed, captive. I would be a womb, nothing more, with twin teats for
giving milk. Trembling, I smoothed my hands across my new fur coat. I
heard a sound of dripping water. Cum-dripping, it sounded to me, as if
there was a man in here who could cum and cum, never ceasing, always
ready to give more. Indeed, if there were such a man here he would be
as valuable as me. A stud, fertile, kept for fucking girls and wayward
women. And then, emerging from the shadows, he stepped into my vision.
He was holding an axe, but was much taller than a dwarf, six feet at
least.
I stopped dead in my tracks. He looked like Hercules. Mandy
too came to a halt, startled, awestruck. He wiped his brow. He looked
as if he’d just been chopping wood. He set aside his axe, leaned it up
against the wall.
“Hi, Arthur!” mistress greeted him. Her voice was light,
airy. There was a note of expectation in it.
“Good morning, or is it evening?” Arthur replied. His voice
was thick with a German accent. Not German, no. Austrian. His muscles
rippled. He wore no clothes. Instead, a kind of uniform. I marvelled
at it. For a moment I swooned, I think. Then I regained my senses.
When I did, mistress was telling Arthur that it mattered not what time
of day it was. He agreed, said he rarely knew the day or date. The
general kept him busy. There were always new virgins to be deflowered,
or women to be entertained. I gazed at him lovingly. He certainly
worked for his money here.
He was deliciously accoutered for sex fun. Arthur was not his
real name, but his slave name, down here in the basement. I don’t know
if he even remembered his real name anymore. Mistress herself did not
seem to know it. Names did not matter, anyway.
He was a large man, muscular, tall, with genitalia that stole
your breath away. His hair was slicked back, he wore a leather collar,
gloves and boots. Otherwise he was naked, save for his balls, which
were bulging inside a pouch of leather from which his magnificent cock
extruded. He was not fully erect when we came upon him.
“Well girls, can’t you at least show Arthur what you’d look
like if he met you on the beach?” mistress chided us. I heard her voice
only dreamily, as if from a distance. I was still enthralled with
Arthur, but scared of him a little, too. He was so obviously made for
one purpose, and one purpose only. Fucking. Making girls get
pregnant. Unless they were very, very careful, and swallowed their
pills religiously. Which, of course, I hadn’t been doing. I hadn’t
even fucked until last night. I would have to talk to mistress about
that. I was too young to have a baby. And who’s baby would it be,
anyway? Gazing at Arthur, I guessed he’d be the sort of guy who got you
pregnant, regardless. He was the one with the cock so huge it split the
condom open, or overwhelmed all the pills and precautions you might
take. Yes, that was his function in life. He was a walking cock. And,
trembling, in my little bikini, I knew what I was. Had I not been
purchased too, paid for? The cunt was meeting the cock. The tart had
found the gigolo. Me, an ‘almost’ virgin now, and him, so experienced.
He probably wrote the manual on fucking girls. If he could write, that
is. Perhaps he dictated it.
Mandy, finding her courage, introduced herself, then me.
Sensing it was required, we smilingly flashed him a look at our bikinied
bodies beneath our coats. Instantly he responded. His cock went
stretching out to a point that seemed much too far from his body. It
was incredibly long and proportionally as thick as its length. Mandy
and I stared at it wide-eyed, not speaking, wanting it yet afraid of
it. Mistress giggled and assured us that we would not be safe from it
as long as we were with her.
Arthur was quiet. His cock spoke for him. I suppose a man of
his beauty need not say much in life. Women throw themselves at a guy
like him and he dutifully fucks them. Men who hunger for power, for
money, in the end all they want is to be loved. To be admired. To be
told what big cocks they have. Arthur already had, no doubt to excess,
what many men spend their entire lives trying to get. He was beset by
admiring mares at every turn. And little fillies like us. Girls, no
doubt, went out of their way to tell him what a big cock he had. Just
by their eyes they could tell him. Obediently, politely, he would greet
them. “Oh sir, please come upstairs with me, I can’t turn my oven on!”
they might say. Or, “dear me, I just locked myself out of my car!”
Then, snaring him, they’d keep him for days on end, begging for more.
Begging to be filled and filled by him until they were drunk with his
sperm. And now the general had him. For women, or even gay games
perhaps. For children, or animals, whatever the general desired to see
properly fucked. Wherever Arthur went in the world, I guessed someone
was always at his heels, a woman most likely, hoping to trap him. He
would live his whole life this way. Chopping wood, lifting weights,
being fed fine food so that he could exercise himself upon his latest
mistress all night long. He was a stallion too beautiful to race, put
out to stud from the day his cock first began growing. At 12 or 13, I
guessed, he’d had his first cunt, and he’d been ‘at work’ ever since.
Mandy and I shivered in his presence, despite our warm coats.
"Come, eager beavers, there is a chateau not far from here
where we can explore our new friend in private," mistress said. She led
us back upstairs, Arthur in tow. She got Arthur a coat, to hide his
nakedness. A trench coat. He would be 007. He had a secret weapon.
If a Russian agent met him, she was doomed.
Mistress took us out to a horse-drawn carriage. The coachman
nodded, was in collusion with her. We were escaping from the general.
We would labor no longer for him. We would attend no more of his
parties. I would play no longer with his guests. And I would not be
imprisoned in the basement, either. I would have sex on my own terms,
not for pay for his guests. He’d seen me lose my cherry, at both ends.
And Mandy too. That was enough. And Arthur, poor Arthur, he had
sweated for the general long enough. Yes, the general would miss us.
He would regret leaving us alone in his bedroom, abandoning us. He
would throw a fit when he returned, finding that his rented wombs had
slipped away. He would rave. He would want us much, now that we were
no longer his to have. He would look for us but not find us. We would
hide down in a rabbit-hole somewhere, breeding. He would range across
the snow but never see us.
I sat in the coach looking out at the snow, wondering at our
new destination. The horses galloped briskly. Arthur got an early
start on Mandy. He knew his role, had played it so many times he
performed it unthinkingly. He teased her.
“You are too small to fuck, don’t you think?” he asked her.
His voice was smooth, German. He was a Nazi inspector about to ‘turn’ a
French maiden. She would divulge the resistance to him. She would not
resist. She would try, but he was an expert in such things. He seemed
to like her petite frame. She was a little shorter than me, with
orphan-like eyes. I had no idea how she’d wound up at the general’s.
Perhaps she was a street urchin from Rio, suddenly noticed for her
beauty, suddenly kidnapped. Now she was about to meet her unmaker.
“I’m not small!” Mandy replied. She was piqued. Foolishly,
she drew back her coat so that he could admire her. Proudly she showed
him her bust. “They’re big as any you’ve seen!” she said testily. Her
bosoms were gloriously large for such a young girl. Rightly, she was
proud of them. But he had never been referring to her bust size, as he
well knew. He’d only been kidding, teasing her about her age, not her
tits.
With the aplomb of a plumber, come to fix a leak, he drew open
the front of her panties. He ignored her tits, but he peered at her
pussy approvingly. “You are wet, my dear,” he said. Whether she really
was or not I did not know, but she giggled shyly. She ran her tongue
across her lips.
"Come dear, do not hold your coat so tightly. It is for warmth
only, not privacy," mistress said to me. I let mine fall open, Arthur
surveyed me.
"Where do you find such awesome girls?" he asked mistress.
"Here and there," mistress replied with an elegant toss of her
head. "They just had their grand opening last night. You will have to
be gentle with them for they are still very tight." Arthur nodded. I
felt a nervousness in the pit of my stomach, yet a craving too. I could
not believe that Arthur, with all his experience, with so many girls in
his past, actually liked us. After all, I was just a high school girl,
and Mandy, I did not know from whence she came, but she had no more
training in love than I. How could he possibly be interested in us?
Were we not just children? Was he really excited by us, or just
pretending to be, to please mistress? Had he played the role of Atlas
Amore so often that he just conned girls naturally into opening their
bikinis for him, without even thinking? Was he even really seeing us,
or just responding, stiffening on command, as it were. ‘Up, Arthur.
I’ve brought you new babies to fuck,’ mistress would say. ‘Entertain me
by spearing them with your massive rod. Make them weep upon it.’ ‘Yes,
mistress, I harden on command. It is no big thing to me, though I have
a big thing.’ My thoughts swirled within me, resurfaced.
"I will want them warmed for it," Arthur said to mistress. I
knew not what he meant. Was I not warm? I closed my coat back over
me. Perhaps that’s what he meant, warmed in my coat, or by a fire or
something.
"Of course," mistress replied, deftly. She ran her fingers
web-like over the front of his coat, spider-like, seeking. She did not
have to search far. Within his coat there was a bulge, obvious even to
the coachman. She sleeked her fingertips down over it and squeezed.
"Do I not always warm them for you?" she asked him. He nodded. He
smiled a pleasant smile. But was he truly into this, or just an
obedient steed? Mistress would take him for a little trot, and
introduce him to new young fillies. They would neigh politely and he
would mount them. After they were ‘warmed,’ of course.
And now that was just what I was seeing as I knelt on the
carpet. I was neither tied nor gagged. I could get up, walk out,
though mistress had locked the door and I would have to find the key
first. Instead I stayed, watching, holding my bottom cheeks
apprehensively. Could I bear to see poor Mandy treated this way? I
could not tear my eyes away. Down came the cane again.
“YEEEOCH!” Mandy cried. I glanced at the sperm-tracks running
from the corners of her mouth. Beneath her face, on the carpet, there
was a pool of sperm, Arthur’s sperm, slowly sinking into the rug.
Before her, wiggling, his cock grew anew, ready for more action, ready
to spurt again. She wriggled madly on the trestle. She wanted up, but
the gag kept her from asking. Again the cane whizzed down. Again Mandy
wrenched, her hair shaking, wreathing her lovely, haunted face. She
tried to kick her slender legs but the restraints held her ankles fast.
Her boobies were free, though, and they shook madly, temptingly. Her
nipples were stiff. I knew her clit ached too, hard beyond reckoning,
tiny in its stiffness, but taunting her, telling her she loved this even
as she hated it.
I bit my lip. I was as naked as Mandy. I knew I could not
watch without being made to take my own turn under mistress’ hand.
Mistress relished the caning, yet her look was not vicious. She gazed
at Mandy tenderly. She seemed to feel for the girl, suffer with her,
yet she was unrelenting in her punishment. It was as if she were
saying, ‘You must have this, darling. It is necessary. It is a rite of
passage, part of growing up. You are sprouting nicely and your time has
come. Someday you will be old, haggard, forgotten in suburbia, with
only a pension and an old folks’ home to look forward to. With a young
daughter strutting her stuff out on the street, embarrassing you with
her newly-formed beauty, drawing all the men’s attention away from
you...forever. But now you are the young strumpet, the daughter. This
is your moment in the sun. It is your bottom that is sought, your
little mouth that begs to be spermed, and spermed again. It is your
waggling, wiggling titties that charm men’s eyes, and women’s too. You
ARE the center of attention. You are not like me, a helper, a
mistress. You are better. You are the ONE to whom all others look. It
is you that their eyes rest on. It is you who draws their attention and
fixes it. Someday you will be gracefully matured, a mistress, but then
some new girl will lie wiggling over the trestle. Your breasts will
still be lovely, they will still shake sweetly, freely, but then it will
be the new girl whose breasts finally pin the men’s eyes and hold them.
It will be her ass they watch with the greatest ardor, and seek to
fuck. But never mind about tomorrow. Today is your hour, your moment
in the sun. Enjoy it.’
Watching Mandy, I knew she did not hear the immortal
soliloquy. She would have given ANYTHING to get up. She would have
paid any price to be allowed to shoot from this room, feet flying,
scuttling, to run upstairs and hide somewhere and nurse her stinging
bottom. That a beauty like her would one day DELIVER the stinging cuts
was impossible for her to understand. I knew, though, and it scared me
stiff. I watched, my eyes rolling, saw each whizzing strike of the cane
sweep down, saw the result. I held my ass. I felt its whiteness, its
purity, its tender softness. I felt my breasts, too, not jostling
around like Mandy’s, but simply rising, falling, up and down with my
breathless breaths. How strange we all were, naked here, within this
room from which no sound could escape. Yet our arrival had been
unremarkable, a picture of perfect domesticity.
The chateau was conservative, precisely built, almost
resembling a salt-box house in its design. The wooden planks seemed to
hide no secrets. A pastor might have lived within its walls, preparing
his sermons. The roof, neatly decked with snow, shimmered in the
morning sunlight. Perhaps a bit of heaven dwelt there. Angels,
liberated from a pinhead, danced in uncounted numbers in the twinkling
glare.
We disembarked from the coach and were let into the chateau by
a husband and wife. They were bright, cheerful, by all appearances an
ordinary couple. They had known we were coming. All had been arranged,
apparently, between themselves and mistress, privately. They were
friends of mistress, though not of the general. The husband was a
political rival of his of some sort. The politics of the place eluded
me.
Despite the conservative appearance of the house, no time was
wasted. Our coats were taken at once. The wife did not ask if she
could, she simply assumed, and unwrapped us. Mandy first, then me.
Mistress shed her own coat and gave it to the man of the house. They
exchanged smiles. His eyes admired her figure, then drifted to mine,
Mandy’s. Our bikinis were duly admired. The husband was young,
handsome. The wife showed as much interest in me as he did.
I felt naked under their eyes and, thinking back, I suppose we
could have arrived naked. Just from their glances I could tell we would
be sharing some secret with them, perhaps ourselves, perhaps something
about ourselves. Something you didn’t just let anyone in on. But they
would know. They would know all. Manners, I guess, dictated some
little show of modesty at first. Even if that modesty was no more than
a pair of trifling bikinis. One must not be too obvious, though in our
circumstances the mannerly part was not destined to last long.
“Come,” the wife smiled. Her hair was pretty, I thought. Her
hands, beckoning, were graceful. I might have been at the beach, in my
bikini, Mandy too, except there was snow outside. I tossed my head. I
tried to be casual. Perhaps we would go swimming together in a heated
swimming pool. The couple would slip out of their clothes, be found to
have swimsuits beneath. We would play innocent games in the pool and
shower afterward. We would spend the evening reciting prayers to
Jesus. Chastely, we would retire to separate beds. Then, watching the
wife open what looked to be a closet door, I gulped. Closets did not
lead to swimming pools. Closets led to hidden places, and forbidden
games. Mistress, following, pushed me forward. Her hands rested on my
bare waist. The husband squeezed into the closet with her and they
shared a kiss, I think, even as the wife led the way deeper into the
closet. The floor gave way to stairs and we descended. Mandy almost
tripped; reaching out, I caught her, even as mistress kept hold of my
waist. It was that quick, our arrival, and our immediate descent into
the sort of place Dante might have liked, all flesh and curdling screams
and bared desires. An opened door, a rustle of clothing pushed back, a
forward moving of my feet, Mandy’s, urged by mistress.
The wife led us downstairs. She and her husband had a private
dungeon of their own. There was no preliminary chit-chat, no tour of
their home. Just a nod, an exchange of glances with mistress. And a
moment later we were downstairs, in a little rec room, at the doorway to
their dungeon. Beside us was a pool table, a t.v., as if the couple
kept them handy as a useful facade. As a last attempt to keep out
unwanted intruders. ‘Oh,’ a building inspector might say, ‘I see this
is nothing but a little game room, down here. I wondered, you know...’
And then he would sign the permit. Never knowing, never guessing. But
I knew. For the door just beyond was open, and I was gazing into the
hidden chamber beyond. A dungeon, carpeted, with pastel-colored walls,
innocent looking, just like the rec room. Except it was furnished with
a trestle, with restraints lying about the legs, loose, waiting for
wrists and ankles. Not a medieval dungeon, this, but still unmistakable
in its purpose. Gazing in at the trestle, and other things besides, I
was not fooled. We wouldn’t be going swimming. We might make water,
but we wouldn’t be in water. I sleeked my hands over the front of my
lycra panties. I let my eyes glance down, around. There was myself,
Mandy, mistress and Arthur. We would be the ones in the dungeon, I
guessed. Just us, not the couple. Us in our bikinis. Arthur stripped
down to his Italian Stallion costume, wearing nothing but his gloves and
his testicle pouch, plus his very necessary boots and collar.
For the moment, Arthur still wore his trench coat. Mistress
still wore her shirt and jeans. The husband and wife were clothed. The
couple would not be playing with us, though, they said. They spoke
matter-of-factly, as if there were no dispute as to what we were here
for.
“You’re welcome to the use of our room,” the wife told
mistress. She meant their dungeon, of course. They were giving us the
use of it as a favor.
"My, this is all new since I last visited!" mistress said.
Mandy and I stood mesmerized. There was no bed in the dungeon but
plenty of strange looking "furniture," if it could be called that. I
did not want to go inside but could not help myself, so strange and
fascinating did it all appear. I found Mandy’s hand, squeezed it
tight. She squeezed mine back, reassuringly. With hesitant steps we
stepped into the dungeon. The others followed.
"It's specially designed for sexual activity, with complete
privacy," the young wife told us. "Bob and I built much of it
ourselves."
"Quite a job," mistress replied.
"You should have seen me," the wife laughed. "I was naked
except for my work belt, hammering and sawing and sweating away down
here. I could hardly ever get anything done, Bob kept saying how
absolutely sexy I looked and insisting we take a break." She clasped
her husband's hand and they exchanged loving glances. "Anyway, it’s
totally soundproofed, so you needn't worry about bothering us. There's
plenty of food in the little fridge, so you can stay down here for
several days if you like. There's a real bathroom in here too in case
you get tired of washing each other with buckets and peeing into
chamberpots."
"You seem to have thought of everything," mistress replied,
admiring the place, sizing it up.
"Well, there's no bed," the wife replied. "When you get really
tired you'll have to come upstairs to sleep. But then, I've known
people who've stayed down here for over 40 hours before even thinking of
sleeping."
"Then they're so worn out they sleep for days," her husband
laughed.
"Not exactly the perfect guests, I suppose," mistress observed.
"Oh, they're quite delightful when they finally do come round,"
the wife said. "You find them topless at the breakfast table,
absolutely glowing, wolfing down food and chatting merrily. Of course
they sometimes have a few extra cushions under their tushies."
"Everything has a price," mistress said philosophically.
"Well, you need not worry about paying one here," the wife
said. "Save that which you extract from each other for your mutual
pleasure. Use the room as long as you like. There's a key in the
dresser so you can lock the door for absolute privacy." She departed
then, hand in hand with her husband, leaving us to ourselves. Mistress
got the key and shut the door, locked it. She turned and looked at us.
By her eyes I could see there would not be any waiting, any interval in
which one might weigh possibilities. Did I wish for there to be? I did
not know.
Arthur put his hands to his hips. He surveyed the room, us,
letting his coat fall open. He looked like a general sizing up the
battlefield, the soldiers, just before commencement of the war. He
tried no longer to hide his beauty. His hairy chest showed, his hairy
legs. He was erect, his balls achingly, bulgingly full. I squeezed
Mandy’s hand hard, seeing him expose himself so casually. I realized
that my nipples were stiff, stiffer than they’d ever felt in my life.
They protruded noticeably into my bra. Mandy’s too, stood upright, as
did mistress’, tenting her blouse.
"Take all your things off," mistress said to Mandy and I. We
looked at each other. There was no going back now, was there? We were
too hot, too excited. We stood unsteadily, still holding hands, Mandy a
bit fearful, me scared. And then I let go of her hand. She seemed even
more frightened as she saw my hand slip away, leaving her own her own,
bereft. She would have to make her own decisions now. She would have
to be a big girl. And then, she smiled. Just like that. She accepted
the challenge, as did I. My gloved fingers slid along the waistband of
my panties, testing them, reproving them for being there. Mandy reached
up, behind herself, caught the back of her bra with her hands. She
pulled at the bow that held her bra tight. It loosened. Her tits
sticking out, she watched as they shuddered free of her bra. I bit my
lip and lowered my panties. My pussy showed. I did not stop, but kept
on pushing my undies down, letting all be seen. And then they were
somewhere around my ankles, and I was stepping out of them, gracefully
as I could.
We slipped out of our bikinis, sat down and yanked off our
boots. Then, reluctantly, we untied the little laces at the back of our
gloves. I slipped mine off, ladylike. I placed them on the bench
beside me. It was hard wood, polished. All the floor was soft,
carpeted, but this bench, the only chair of worth that I could see, was
made of oak. Not the most comfy place for a girl to rest her bare
bottom. No bed, no chairs, how curious this place was! What were
people to do in here? I gulped, glancing at the trestle. Mandy plopped
her gloves beside me. Mistress took hers off too, dropped them atop
Mandy’s. I smiled up at her, she gazed at me with a superior look.
Arthur shed his coat. He wanted to take off his testicle pouch, but
mistress told him ‘no.’ Just like that. Like one might instruct a
dog. “No, Arthur,” she said. And in his strength, his chest rippling,
his biceps flexing, he relented. He let go of the little leather tie
back between his legs that would have unbound his balls. But he frowned
at her, unhappy. She smiled. She checked his pouch to see that it was
not squeezing his balls too tightly.
“Poor thing,” she chided. “Are you too full?”
“You know this damn thing kills me,” he answered. “It’s okay
when I’m empty, I guess, but I’m not empty now.”
“I can see that, dear,” mistress answered. She stroked the
underside of his ball pouch. “That’s what we’re here for. You’ve got
three cunts to fill, three mouths, three tiny little buttholes, and a
dumb blonde like me can’t even count how many hands you’ve got. Not
including your own, of course,” she smirked. “You’d best be able to
fulfill your duties.”
“I’m not called a one-man gang bang for nothing,” Arthur
answered. He was clearly annoyed at her teasing, though he still let
her fondle him as freely as she might. “I killed a girl once, fucking
her too hard.”
“Ah, so that’s why you must hide out in dreary dungeons,”
mistress smiled. “I learn a little more about you each time we meet.”
She took his cock and yanked it way down, then let go. TWANNNG! I
heard in my mind, as I watched Arthur’s cock spring up and down like
some elongated yo-yo. Mistress burst out laughing. I giggled too, as
did Mandy, clapping a hand to her mouth for fear of offending Arthur.
He did not look amused. But, interestingly, mistress was the one
wearing pants. He had to content himself with a ball pouch. I smiled
at him, trying to soften the sense of abuse he must have felt. He was
truly a rare and wonderful animal. I felt like some maiden must have,
just before being kidnapped and taken away by Zeus. Except here Hera
ruled, and perhaps us also, if she permitted it. I let my eyes soak in
his form, wondering if I’d ever sit before such a glorious man again.
Slowly, knowing where my eyes really wanted to fixate, to salivate, I
trained my vision on his groin. I looked unabashedly and, reaching out
again for Mandy’s hand, I think she did too. He gazed back at us,
taking us in as freely and unashamedly as we took in him. I let my legs
remain open. I did not try to close or cross them. My pussy showed
between, I was naked, as bare as a newborn now. Mandy too did not
bother closing her legs. All the lessons mommies and teachers had
taught us were forgotten, sitting before Arthur. He did not want us to
close our legs, I could see, and we complied. Our little cunts lay bare
before him, soft and inviting. 15-year-old cunts, “children’s cunts,”
as the feminists would certainly insist, but Arthur drank them in as
willingly as if they’d been the cunts of women, Oprah Winfrey’s,
perhaps, or Andrea Dworkin’s. Unembarrassedly we stared at him, and I
sized up his equipment.
His cock stuck out like a prong. There was no other way to
explain it. Out it came at you, like something from Aliens, all fat and
fleshy, with only one purpose in the world. As for his balls, he looked
like he was just about bursting, so wonderfully full was he with seed.
His balls, constrained in the tight leather, nonetheless hung with
visible weight between his thighs, looking like some brown-clad wrecking
ball hanging there. He was with seed and we would be with child if
precautions weren’t taken, I knew. Which is why mistress' next step,
after removing her blouse, still leaving her pants on, was to get us
each a glass of water and a birth control pill. I watched her walking
to the bathroom, her back naked, slim, her hair swaying mane-like across
it. I listened as she filled glasses for Mandy and I. Arthur smiled,
smugly. He knew he held the very thing we had to guard against. It was
in his body, and it would soon be in ours. I shivered. I guessed the
“grand opening” night had to be done without pills, for purity. I was
kind of glad I’d done it naturally, though I feared being pregnant.
Hopefully a good girl like me didn’t get pregnant with her first fuck.
Hopefully. Now, though, I wished to be more careful. I was glad for
the pills, and I could see little Mandy was too. Fortunately our hosts
had thought to supply such. I glanced around at the “furniture” again.
The trestle, a nightstand busy with lubricants, a flower vase stuffed
with condoms. The room had indeed been designed exclusively for sexual
labors. But not to any productive end. The Pope would be most
displeased. All our exertions would be for pleasure only.
“Hurry up, bitch! Or I’ll break your arm again!” Arthur
yelled. He was growing impatient. I felt my throat constrict.
“Ohhh, don’t I know it!” mistress answered, running out from
the bathroom. She held a glass of water for myself and Mandy. Its
contents sloshed about. Above the tightness of her jeans her lovely
breasts bounced lewdly. Her nipples were sharp peaks.
“He broke your arm?” Mandy asked mistress.
“Shhh, dear, swallow your pill,” mistress answered. Her words
seemed reassuring. I dismissed Arthur’s threat as manly hubris. Mandy
took a pale pink pill from mistress’ open palm, took a second, offered
it to me. I accepted. A third remained, for mistress. Even with her
sexy jeans on, she was still female, a womb. She might wear the pants
here, but an emission from Arthur would make her five sizes too big for
them, perhaps forever. Mistress popped her own pill in her mouth and
swallowed it down with a swish from her glass. Her lipstick stained the
side of the glass, I did not mind. Mandy seemed not to either. We were
all together in this. We would share more intimacies than a glass of
water, I knew, even as we had the night before.
Mandy and I dutifully swallowed our pills. We trembled a
little, still obviously unsure of ourselves. It seemed so sinful, yet
so tempting, to be here. A part of me wanted to flee, but my devilish
side kept winning round after round with my guardian angel.
And now Mandy looked like she was bereft of her angel's
protection entirely. She gritted her teeth over her gag, whining, eyes
weeping.
Swick! Mistress' cane zinged her awful tormented bottom once
more, making the girl flinch and Arthur grow. I watched it all with my
heart pounding beneath my frail ribs. Could I go through with it?
Would I? I longed for the woman of the house and her husband to come
back down and interrupt us, to take the decision from me. Perhaps they
could evict us for not paying our rent. Surely such a room should be
rented, not merely given away for free, even to friends. I prayed, but
they did not knock, did not play Landlord. Instead, Arthur stood calmly
greasing his cock. He held a jar of vaseline, applied its contents with
smooth strokes. He’d found it on the nighttable. There were all sorts
of exotic lubricants there, but he’d settled on old reliable. ‘Grease
‘em up, boys, we’re going in. Nothing fancy,’ I heard a drill-sergeant
bark into my imagination. I saw platoons of Marines dropping their
pants, lubing their dongs. They would parachute in without pants and
fuck maidens like me behind enemy lines. Milkmaids, and flower girls at
corner stalls, and the girl in the candy store, wondering at the length
of the candy canes until the soldiers burst in and showed her sweeter
treats. ‘Oh, sir!’ she would protest. ‘The sausage store is down the
street! You need to make your deliveries there!’ They would hold her
then, and make her take their big things. Up her cunt, in her ass, all
greased and lubed and ready to go, no introductions necessary. She
would squeal and find that sausages in a candy store were not so bad
after all.
Earlier Arthur had asked Mandy and me to suck his dick, to get
things started. I suppose you had to start a party somehow in a room
like this, and to Arthur, at least, bluntly asking two girls to suck him
was just about the best way you could do it. I'd coyly declined. Mandy
wished to also, but mistress would not let her. She taught Mandy how to
suck properly then, me watching, the two of them down on their knees
taking turns with his member. I'd stood just off to the side, watching
intently, a little girl afraid to go meet Santa.
Arthur had ignored me since then, perhaps thinking me silly and
immature. I'd watched as he'd almost come in Mandy's mouth, drooling
pre-cum over her licking tongue. Then I’d watched as he and mistress
had lovingly strapped her over the trestle. She did not look to be so
well loved now, getting her bottom stung. She began bawling.
"Shush, darling, you can take a few more," mistress
admonished. "You would not want me to cut short your training, would
you?" Mandy, sobbing loudly, finally shook her head no. I was amazed.
Despite her pain, despite the awful hurting in her bottom, she had
shaken her head ‘no’ to the prospect of being released. Why, after such
antics? She’d been straining mightily at her bonds, pleading through
her gag. Yet, when finally asked, she somehow found the courage to say
‘no.’ I admired her bravery, even as my hands clung to my own silken
asscheeks, wondering if I would be so brave. Perhaps it was the
imminent prospect of Arthur’s dick going up her that emboldened her. It
was fully greased now, gleaming like hard steel before her. Perhaps she
feared that I would be put over the trestle and receive him instead.
The girl understood now, didn’t she? She was the center of attention,
not me. Were we to trade places, she would be left in a corner,
sobbing, without her reward, while Arthur loved me instead. No, she
would go the full course. She would remain over the trestle for however
long mistress wished, provided she got that big cock as her prize in the
end. Ah, sex was strange, I thought. Girls with pussies thought of
nothing but cocks, boys with cocks thought of nothing but pussies. How
could God have created such a world? I still believed in him, I did,
even if I didn’t obey him too well. Someday I’d become a mom and reform
myself. Then I’d join the PTA and worry about the virtue of little
girls, and demand more police to protect them. But now, here, such
matters were ‘outside the scope,’ as one might say. Not irrelevant, no,
just beyond where my mind was at the moment. I was going to get mine,
and Mandy hers, and she was going to make damn sure she was first. I
should not have refused to suck. I should have knelt and laved Arthur’s
cock with my tongue, told him how big it was, how much I loved it. And
I truly loved it. As much as my poor teddy bear, more, I guess, since
I’d left teddy at the general’s. Perhaps some other girl was hugging
teddy now, telling him she’d never give in, she’d remain a virgin
forever. ‘I’ll be Mother Theresa,’ she’d assure her teddy, once my
teddy. ‘Yes, Mother Theresa! No Missionary Position for me!’ Teddy
would smile his inimitable smile. His coal black eyes would twinkle.
And then some boyfriend would knock at the door, and she’d toss teddy
down, forgetting him instantly. Not meaning to, you know, just doing
it, unthinkingly. He’d wait, and eventually another girl would find
him. Another wannabe for the nunnery, except she’d wind up leaving
teddy behind, just as I had. I opened my ass with my fingers. I felt
the air caress it, cool my little sphincter. Why, oh why was I being
such a bad, bad girl? I squished my bottomcheeks shut. Naughty! And
then I realized what a naughty girl like me needed. Alas, Mandy was
already getting it. A good spanking.
"Good, then, for I know you are a big girl and you have a nice
big bottom which was made just for this,” mistress was saying to Mandy.
She patted Mandy’s bottom, a welcome relief from the stinging cane.
Mandy jerked just the same, not expecting a light pat, an admiring pat.
She shuddered in her bonds, letting her tears flow freely down her
cheeks. They blushed, her bottom blushed even more, all cut up now with
pink and red stripes. “Wait until Arthur gets himself into you, which I
hope he isn't too enormous to do,” mistress teased Mandy. “For you will
truly bloom from the warmth of the cane and his hot seed.” She laughed,
a pretty laugh, not one you’d expect to find in a horrid dungeon like
this. She was strange, mistress, haughty one minute, kind the next.
Yet she was always firm. There was no escaping her wishes. She would
make you want what she wanted. She would make you nod the way she
wished for you to nod. Mistress stroked along the sides of Mandy’s
belly, pressed as it was to the leather pad, as if to prevent
pregnancy. “You would bless us with quintuplets nine months from now
were it not for the pill,” mistress concluded, with a glance at Arthur’s
tool. He was such a Man, cock-ready, his ass flexing with each strike
of the cane, as if he himself knew its bite. Perhaps he did. We all
would, I feared, before the night was through. Mistress seemed to be
enjoying herself most excellently with it.
Swoosh! and Swish! came the cane again, making Mandy's
beleaguered bottom lurch uncontrollably. Only her bonds kept her from
flying off the trestle. Her cheeks clenched, squeezed tight, like
living things hunched against some acid rain, then bounded out, as if to
throw off the burning pain. Of course it was at this opportune moment
that mistress laid in her next stroke, claiming that the bottom was
offering itself up for more. Sometimes she waited though, to be
unpredictable. There was no need to hurry. Only the bottom and the
cane were important, the cane and the bottom, their interaction, nothing
else. Each stroke could be savored, its effects left to linger for
minutes afterward. The pain, so biting and severe (though it could have
been worse, mistress wished to go relatively easy on a newcomer like
Mandy); the tensing of sexual desire within us all at the sight of so
helpless a figure, naked and quivering, her breasts drooping in their
fullness, jaggling about at every bite, stiff nippled, the legs so long,
sleek, wide-spread, her fig displayed neatly, tightly beneath her wobbly
bottom.
Mistress stopped, relishing her handiwork on Mandy's backside.
She traced several freshly sewn weals with her fingertip, making Mandy
shudder uncontrollably. The girl's face, so pretty, was a mask of agony
now, eyes clouded with tears, lips pouting and sad. Yet despite her
newly damaged bottom and grief stricken face, Mandy seemed more
beautiful than ever, some erotic girl-goddess laid out for inspection
before Zeus. Arthur indeed strode forward at this moment, his cock
ready, his face openly admiring the girl's sleek form. Only the
immodest cheeks of her bottom were defiled, all else was as sleek and
smooth and flawless as ever. At the beach no one would have noticed her
hurt in ordinary panties.
Arthur grasped her thighs; holding them manfully he pulled her
even higher, her bonds straining, stretching, he spread her yet wider.
For a moment his cock shimmered on the air, then he thrust his hips
forward and lodged himself in her ass.
"Aaaack!" Mandy cried at the sudden invasion. She was so tight
he could barely get the plum of his cockhead inside. He gave another
thrust, another, finally lodging just the head fully within. The rest
stuck startlingly out of her. It was like some fleshy post connected
them, one end in her ass and the other connected, ingrown, just above
his balls. Mistress squeezed his pouch, putting yet more pressure on
his already constricted balls.
"Sperm her, darling," mistress cooed. Perhaps she wished to
protect Mandy from being utterly impaled upon him. Indeed it looked as
if he would split her ass right apart if he tried to get himself up her
more.
Arthur was an old hand at fucking, though, born to the sport
and not easily induced to cum. He seemed almost bored as he wriggled
his hips to gain a better purchase in little Mandy's hole. I'd thought
of how he'd looked when she'd sucked him off. He'd been casual,
impressed with her beauty (which was extraordinary), but nonplussed all
the same. It was almost, in a sense, as if he'd been going to the
bathroom in her mouth. He made sperm in his testicles and girls drew it
out from him, just like that, a sort of regular thing, like milking a
cow. Now poor Mandy was enduring the most extreme and intense moment of
her entire young life, yet to him she was just another girl, another
beautiful female upon which he performed his daily chores.
Mandy, popeyed and snorting, seemed to beg through her gag for
him not to go any deeper. But her head was far from her bottom and
mistress ignored her, preferring instead to helpfully pry her bottom
cheeks wider. I gulped, realizing she had given up sperming him, would
let him stick that awful living tree of a cock right up Mandy’s butt!
“Noooo!” I cried, softly. Surprised at myself, I blushed.
Mistress glanced up at me. She said nothing, but I could see it all in
her eyes. ‘You’re next, darling. You’re next. That’s why you’re
here. And I’m going to enjoy every minute of it.’ There was a smile
posted on her lips. She was my chaperone. My chaperone into the world
of love. Oh sure, I might have met a boy on my own, let him get my
panties down in the backseat of a car. But would I ever have wound up
in such a place as this, without her? No, I would not have. Even at my
school there were not stallions like Arthur. I loved every rippling
movement of his body, and yet I so desperately feared him. Especially
now, watching Mandy.
Arthur thrust his hips in quick jerks. Mistress used her hands
to helpfully spread Mandy’s asscheeks. They must be as far apart as
possible, mustn’t they? Hands still on my own butt, I watched, mouth
agape, horrified yet fascinated at how animalistic it all seemed. A
stallion rutting in a stable, an unwilling filly, a helpful midwife
assisting not at the birth but at the insemination.
"In, in!" I found myself urging, silently at first, then
audibly. The pressure must have been too much for me. I cracked. I
wanted Mandy to have it now. It must be done. It must be finished.
The tension must be relieved. Mistress, eyes on Mandy’s butt, biting
her lip, prying, heard me. She smiled, glanced up at me, then back at
Mandy's bottom. I moved my hips back and forth even as I watched Arthur
do so to get himself up her. I wanted to bring my hands round to my
front, touch myself, but knew it was forbidden. My loins, my nipples
were for them to touch, and theirs for me. A party where one gets naked
is a party for the mutual stimulation of each other. Only by
stimulating others are you permitted to enjoy stimulation yourself.
Arthur drove himself in, almost ruthlessly, as Mandy’s head
flew up, aghast at this new violation. She squawked in horror. Her
lips compressed themselves over her gag, opened, mewling a furious
dissent. She was shaking her head vigorously "no" now, but everyone,
including myself, ignored her. We were mesmerized by the sight of her
bottom being pillaged. How deep would Arthur go? How much of him could
she take? Outside the snow I knew must still be falling, but in here we
were raw and steaming. I was naked, yet almost on the brink of sweating
profusely, though I knew the room's thermometer was set at a cool 72
degrees.
"A little more, perhaps," mistress advised Arthur, and he gave
another shove. That seemed about as far as he could go, though a
quarter at least of his cock still remained without. He held himself
then, and mistress released Mandy's cheeks so that she might squeeze
him. She did just that, hoping to expel him. Any ordinary male would
have lost himself within such sweet clenchings. Arthur held fast
though, began stroking her thighs, letting them close as much as her
bonds would allow (which was very little). When he had savored his
predicament to the full he looked over at mistress.
"In and out now," she said. "But gently. She is very new and
tender." In gentlemanly fashion he withdrew himself partway, then
ploughed up her again, Mandy bleating anew at the new invasion. Back
again he went, then up her, each stroke sending me shivering into a near
dreamworld of desperate bliss as I watched. I moved my hips in time
with his. We fucked Mandy together, he and I, him with his big penis
and me with my little clitoris, his comfortably embedded in her rear,
mine woefully buzzing unattended.
Mistress walked over to me, knelt down beside me, put a hand on
my shoulder and stroked my inner thighs. Yet she did not touch me where
I wanted her to. She had bigger plans.
"You will be next," she smiled at me. I sensed her heat, her
own growing need. I gazed at her with pale eyes and suddenly pressed my
mouth to hers. We kissed wildly then, swooning, our hands feverishly
rubbing each other everywhere but where we needed it most. Arthur saw
us, grunted his approval, then turned his eyes back to Mandy's butt and
gave her twelve of his finest strokes with his cock. At last he spurted
anew, up her ass this time instead of in her mouth, one selfish little
girl getting all of his sperm.
When he was spent, Arthur walked away. It was just like a male
for him to do that, I thought, watching, with mistress by my side.
There was no parting kiss for Mandy, no thank you for accepting his
seed. Indeed he probably thought she owed him thanks. So he just
walked away, his erection dissipating, as casual now as he’d been
before, nonchalant, uncaring. He looked like a football hero walking
away from the tackle, leaving the injured behind, lying in a heap.
“Come,” mistress said. She lifted me to my feet. Elegant,
naked, we walked over to our little rape victim, our sister in love.
Mistress wore her jeans still, but I guessed they would soon be shed.
There was a wiggle in her walk I’d never seen before. It spoke of need,
unfulfilled desires. I know I myself could barely keep from waggling my
butt all over the place as I stepped along. Not just wiggling it, mind
you, not just swinging my hips, but walking like some cheap whore who
needed it bad and might not even charge admission.
I brushed my locks from my eyes. I mouthed a silent testimony
as I gazed at Mandy’s fanny up close, saw all the marks the cane left.
And, right in between those darling wounded cheeks, her little asshole.
Sperm oozed out of it. I guessed it might not ever close quite so
tightly ever again, though indeed it looked quite tiny and inaccessible
even now. How had Arthur gotten himself within that little hole? I
touched it. I could not resist. Mandy flinched, but her spirit seemed
gone.
“Don’t worry, I won’t fuck you with my finger,” I whispered.
Mistress laughed.
“We must get her undone,” she said. She knelt to untie the
wristlets, the anklets.
“She is undone already,” I replied.
“Nonsense. She has had what she needed, that’s all. It was
high time a girl like her got it, too. When the breasts are plump, the
bottom sweetly widened, no longer narrow as her waist, then she must be
introduced to these things. Waiting will only screw her up, make her
crazy. She might try to kill herself, or tattoo herself, or pierce
herself. This is the only piercing she needs. The organ of the male up
her butt, and a little tattooing of the cane across her bottom. How
silly you Americans are, screwing up your girls, when all they need is
screwing?!” mistress scolded me. She gazed up at me as her slender
fingers undid Mandy’s legs and arms.
“Well, I don’t live there,” I replied.
“No, but your people dominate our entire planet with their
perverted beliefs!” mistress answered. Imagine! Her scolding me, after
what she’d gotten poor Mandy into. “Get down and undo her with me,
these knots are tighter than I thought,” mistress ordered me. I obeyed,
kneeling. My breasts jiggled as I knelt. I was conscious of them, too
conscious.
“You tie tight knots,” I said.
“Don’t break your nails,” mistress warned me. “Work slowly.
The knots will come eventually, sooner than you think if you don’t try
to rush it.”
“I won’t,” I replied. I shot her a glance, as if to say,
‘because I know what’s coming next.’ She shook her head, like some
preacher marvelling at the inability of one to be saved. But she would
give me my salvation, I knew, whether I wanted it or not. I worked on
the knots as slowly as I could.
When mistress and I had untied Mandy she just lay there, bent
over the trestle, trembling.
"Oh, do you want more?" mistress laughed.
"Nooo," came from Mandy's still-gagged mouth. It sounded as if
she were mooing. A cow at the milking station.
"Get up, darling," mistress said, lifting the girl by her arm.
Bodily we hefted her up and helped her over to Arthur, who had retreated
to a pile of cushions on the floor. Mandy gaped at him as a cat does at
water. Yet we put her down upon him, and she resisted not. He enfolded
her in his arms. His hand brushed her bottom.
"Yeek!" she squeaked, for her hiney was most tender now, wealed
everywhere (though lightly) from the cane.
"Get some cream for her bottom," mistress ordered me,
indicating a nearby dresser. It had proven already to hold pills and
such. I went and found some balm, returned, knelt down and began gently
applying it to Mandy's seat. The girl squirmed under my touch, not sure
if I was helping. But Arthur held her fast and soon my hands did not
feel so harsh upon her. Her skin felt hot. I rubbed, massaged, felt
her bottom respond with quiverings and clenchings. My breasts shook
freely as I worked. I was a shopgirl, kneeling in a shop in London,
doing my duties. I knew my own seat spread out adorably behind me.
Mistress watched, seemed to be sizing up my bottom. I glanced over my
shoulder once, to check if she’d armed herself with anything. No, it
was just her, without any cane or whip. I gulped, turned my head back
to Mandy. I heard mistress laugh behind me. Her chuckle was menacing.
It made me shiver and I know she enjoyed seeing me shivering. I willed
myself to concentrate on my work. I must not think of myself, only of
Mandy. She needed my wholehearted attention, and I intended to give it
to her, if only to forget.
Eventually Mandy’s whole pumpkin seemed suffused with some kind
of ethereal warmth, a glow, and I watched in envy as sperm dribbled out
of her well-fucked little hole. She was woman. Cosseted, fucked,
loved. I wanted what she had. I gripped her cheeks, lightly, envious.
She mewled, pressed herself into Arthur. Casually he stroked her.
There was a sheen across her wounded cheeks from the cream. I wanted to
shower her bottom with kisses, but mistress drew me up. My task was
done. Standing, I looked at her, she at me. It was my turn now.
“Do you have any hangups?” she asked, smiling.
“N-no,” I replied.
“Good,” she said, and her eyes went over to hooks in the
ceiling, with straps hanging from them.
“Oh, please!” I begged. I seemed to wilt on my feet.
“You cannot just watch,” mistress replied. “You are not
5-years-old.”
“I know, I know, I’m 15,” I replied.
“With the breasts of a woman,” she answered. Her finger
circled one of my nipples. She flicked it.
“ooch,” I said, very quietly, just her hearing.
“You have beautiful tits, dear, you should show them off,”
mistress urged.
“They embarrass me,” I replied.
“At 15?”
“No, but when I was 10, they were growing already,” I said
softly.
“Mine were too, though probably not as big as yours,” she
answered.
“No, not as big as mine,” I replied. “I was the only one in
fifth grade with hooters, still little, you know, but bigger than any
the other girls had.”
“Which is why you’re not at home now, mooning over Love
Connection and Singled Out,” she consoled me.
“No, but I’d like to be,” I begged.
“Arthur doesn’t appear on Love Connection,” she answered. No,
a stud like him did not, did he? He was too busy. He would have had to
put pants on, wouldn’t he? That was unthinkable, letting a stallion
like him waste time with his pants on. Mistress put a finger to my
lips. I swallowed hard.
Our breath fogging the air, shivering despite our furs, we had
entered the house rosy-cheeked and eager. Our eyes had been bright, too
bright, betraying our wanton plans to our hosts. They'd smiled,
knowingly, demurely, led us quickly downstairs to their adult playroom.
Now I felt a sinking sense of dread as my turn came to
contribute to the festivities. Mistress' deep, dazzling eyes gazed at
me with fiery passion. I looked from her blonde-maned face to the
suspension hooks which waited silently just beyond. She put her arm
around my waist.
"Come, dear," mistress said, ever so politely. Her fingers
were feather light upon my hip. Behind me Arthur and even the
tear-stained Mandy gazed up expectantly. It didn't take a genius to
figure out that my bottom was going to be the center of attention for
the next few hours.
Is that how long it would take? I wondered. Mistress had
seemed smitten with my ass ever since we met. Now I would offer it to
her, unprotected, my wrists bound helplessly high above me. She would
do awful things to it, erotic things, and it would delight Arthur's cock
and he would fuck me with it.
Who was I to complain? Had not I cropped their smarting
bottoms in the snow? And I'd enjoyed it too, whacking their plump
quivering hineys, listening to them moan and whimper.
My long walk, only a few steps really, ended with us beneath
the overhanging cuffs. They were leather, each lined with soft fur.
Twin cuffs clipped to twin hooks hanging from the ceiling. Daintily
mistress took my wrists and lofted them above my head. She wrapped one,
then the other in a cuff and buckled it tightly. Then I watched, arms
akimbo, as she stepped to the wall. She pressed a button. A humming
was heard and my arms, casually bent, were forced to straighten as the
cuffs which held my hands drew skyward.
"Please!" I said, frightened, as my arms were fully stretched
and I was drawn up on tip toes, struggling to keep from being pulled
into the air. She stopped it just short of taking my feet off the
ground. I stood gasping, my toes barely touching the floor. My ribs
felt like they were being pulled apart for a barbecue. Set atop them,
my boobs ballooned out before me, wobbling and stiff nippled. I'd never
seen them so dramatically displayed before. They seemed things apart
from me, yet could not be, for I felt the tingling in my hardened nipple
tips. Sexy, delicious, yet so daring, so obscene.
Below my stomach was a concavity, hollowed out, my hips
spreading out beneath my thin waist. The vee of my legs left the
alluring notch between them pleasantly visible. I could do nothing to
hide my pussy. It was on view for my captors to admire as they wished,
to study, to touch.
Gazing at me, satisfied, mistress slowly undid the buttons of
her jeans. How strange it was! I had never seen a boy undo himself
like this in front of me, so confident, so self-assured. Always they
had been naked already, or desperate, amazed that they might have me,
though none ever did, except our gentlemen friends last night, now a
distant memory. But with mistress, there was a sense of possession. I
was hers, and no one else’s. Yet I was not really hers, was I? She was
preparing me for Arthur. But he didn’t really care, did he? I was just
a momentary pleasure. Tomorrow he would be rutting in other girls, and
I would be...elsewhere. Who was I doing this for? Mandy? She lay
shivering and tear-stained atop Arthur, captive-like. I barely knew
her. We’d met as prisoners in cages, racehorses who’d won by losing.
Was I doing it for Kimberly? Where was Kimberly? She had slipped away,
leaving me on my own, to test me perhaps. Or she had simply forgotten
to come looking for me. Perhaps she was tied to a bed at the general’s,
or suspended like this, worrying about me even as she worried at her own
fate.
“A hanging concentrates the mind wonderfully,” mistress smirked
at me. She slipped her jeans down her legs. She shed them like a snake
might shed her skin, so tight were they, Brooke Shields being separated
at last from her precious Calvins. A pull on one pantsleg, then the
other, and she was free of them completely. They lay in a pile on the
floor. She did not bother to pick them up. She was manly in that way,
leaving her clothes lying about. Perhaps she expected me to pick them
up when we were done, wash them for her. Her eyes took on a kindly
look. Kindly but determined. She turned. Her fanny presented itself
to me. It was white, white as mine. I wanted for all the world then
not to suffer under her hand.
“Please let me go,” I begged. She tossed her head, did not
look back. There was no need to. She had me. We had played and
teased, and now she had me.
Mistress touched the wooden cabinet door of an armorie set
against the wall. She drew it open. Astonished, I saw the big cupboard
held inside it a display of flagellation instruments. Each looked
expertly made, some with finely carved ivory handles, their whip cords
cut and woven from the best leather. I saw two paddles of burnished
hardwood, one with holes to make it pass through the air faster.
Mistress' hand skimmed the implements, judging them by the
lightest touch of her fingertips. Finally she chose a penis shaped
handle with an inch-wide strap attached. She took it down, weighed it
in her hands.
"Perfect for starters," mistress said, turning. She looked
ravishing in her nudity. Her hair partly hid her eyes. She did not
bother to brush it away. Her big breasts bulbed out beneath the strands
of her blonde lion's mane of hair. Her pussy was as naked as mine, the
springy curls inviting. She ran her tongue over her upper lip. She
walked round behind me. She struck my flank with the palm of her hand.
I flinched, danced on my toes.
"You are well made for it," she said. "Don't worry, I won't
give you more than you can take. But no less, either. Men are far too
easy on us girls. They don't know how much a female can endure." I
shuddered, thinking of Mandy's poor hiney. I was going to get worse
than her? The girl had practically been flayed alive! At least it
seemed that way to me then, novice that I was. Arthur's cock rose at
mistress' teasing words. He was hard again! There was no need! My
bottom could be spared!
"No! Let me down!" I begged. "Arthur is hard now. I can take
my turn upon him WITHOUT being spanked." My voice was pleading. In
truth he was no more than half-hard, but given his size when fully erect
he looked more than big enough for me.
"Sweet darling," mistress chimed. She touched my shoulder,
breathed upon my ear, kissed my cheek. Momentarily the strap came
between us, flapping ever so softly across the bulging cheeks of my ass,
resting upon their upper curvature. "You must be made to suffer."
"Please no," I breathed. Of the four of us, one had already
had her bottom defiled. Now it was to be my turn, and I didn’t want
it. Would mistress be next? Arthur? Or were just Mandy and I the
victims? Why did my tutor insist on playing such awful games?
“What else might one do, hmmm?” she asked. Her finger found
one of my nipples again, tweaked it. I gasped at the pain. She pinched
the other in turn. “What else?”
“I don’t know, we could play monopoly,” I guessed, desperate.
“This is more fun,” she assured me.
“For whom?” I cried.
She stroked my belly. “For you,” she answered.
“It is not! Let me down!” I insisted.
“Well, for me then,” she said with aplomb. And it was
settled. I asked again to be let go, but she ignored me, stepped behind
me. I heard the strap slither back across the carpet. It was long.
Sinuous. Like a snake in the grass, it would bite me, and I would have
no defense.
“This is your first real whipping, isn’t it?” she asked. I bit
my lip, nodded. My nod was hasty, like a child agreeing in hopes of
departing quickly. “Well, I have all the honors then,” mistress said.
She laughed. I heard a swish.
“Oh, why? Oh, why?” I cried. A last, desperate plea. It was
cut short.
WHAP! Full up beneath my bottom the strap came, my first slap,
cupping me, lifting me harshly. It burned deep into my cheeks. I had
my answer then. I gaped at my breasts, set to wobbling by the blow,
vigorously, nipples rigid. No one could deny the eroticism of my
bosoms, forcibly displayed, bouncing freely. And my ass! I danced
about, frantic, my buttcheeks shaking, immodest. Anywhere else the ass,
the tits, would have been covered up. Here they were displayed like
roast mutton (or mutton about to be roasted)! Here all MUST be seen,
the girls as well as the boys, and made to perform too, most lewdly. I
shook my hind cheeks like a stripper in some cheap saloon, though I’d
much rather have been in church then, saying my prayers, taking
communion. ‘This is my blood, feel it pulse through me, alarmed,
afraid. This is my body, naked, my fanny swaying wildly.’ The priest
would like me.
"Your bottom will be so sensitive soon," mistress cooed. She
made me shiver as she traced the burning red line left by the strap.
She traced it across my bottom, her fingertip impressing itself
painfully, or so it felt. In truth she barely touched me, merely
skimmed the flesh. The strap had done its work.
I heard the whisper of the strap being drawn back once more. I
braced myself. Mandy gazed up at me, snuggled in Arthur's arms. She
had paid her dues. Languidly her legs lay open. He stroked her round
her spot. With a shiver of desire she lifted a small camcorder, trained
it on me.
"Yes, something for our hosts to remember us by," Arthur
instructed. "Show them what good use we made of their equipment."
Horrified I cried into the camera as the strap provided by our
hosts connected with my ass. I lunged forward, leapt about, mortified,
my flaming hiney making me a most immodest dancer. The opening twixt my
legs was never so splendidly displayed as now, my legs hopping hither
and yon, all on tiptoe. A frantic ballerina.
Mistress waited until I finally settled down.
"Men in strip bars don't know what they're missing, hmmm?"
Mistress laughed. "Arthur, did you ever pay to see young girls dance
naked?" Guiltily Arthur cleared his throat, said nothing. "To skip
about? Showing only what they PLEASED?” mistress asked. “Here we teach
a girl how to dance properly. And it is much sexier, no?" I stood with
huddling bottom cheeks, listening. There was a method to her madness,
undeniably. Never had I looked so ravishing, so stunning. My arms up,
my breasts out, my legs tripping madly over themselves as I hung in
place, my pussy showing. My hosts would be most proud of me, I
guessed. Would we eat popcorn in their living room, watching my
torment? Would they save me, show me to others on their T.V., make
copies for friends? ‘Here is a wonderful little miss, getting it for
the first time, you know, and how bravely she takes it! No gag, no
blindfold, just strung up by her thumbs, as it were, and not protesting
too much, just a little, just enough.’ Yes, I was something of an
Amazon, I thought to myself, just by coming here. All wrapped in my
fur, with my naughty bikini underneath. Wearing boots, gloves, and
nothing else. Yet oh how I wished we could skip these preliminaries.
Arthur's cock stood rock hard now, a Washington monument of love. But
it was too big now, I told myself. Much too big for my little cunt.
God forbid he should ever want to put it up my ass.
WHACK!
"Yeech!" I gritted, snorting through my nostrils. That was a
hard one indeed, catching me full force right across my hiney, sending
me skittering into a new ballerina's dance upon the carpet. Or, worse,
a stripper’s dance, exaggerated, dancing for greasy dollar bills from
men who would die soon of lung cancer.
"Ooch! Ooch! Ooch!" I huffed and puffed my way through three
more strokes, all delivered forcefully, mistress stopping after each to
stroke my flanks with her fingers. To quiet me down. My legs were
long, high as the sky. She would wait till I stopped kicking and then
console me with little admiring caresses, lightly, oh so lightly, just
her fingertips. As if she meant me no harm in the world. I would
shiver, sob a little. Upon recovering myself I would wait with pounding
heart, plump hiney quivering, squeezing and clenching my cheeks.
Waiting for the next one. My bra-less breasts juddered quietly, their
tips pantingly erect. I longed to see my reddened ass in a mirror, to
inspect the damage. Mistress could see it quite well and judged it
still fit to take more punishment.
WHAP! Searing me, the strap fell once more, and gaping-legged
I displayed myself shamelessly to the camera, to eyes unknown who might
view me for decades to come. Men, women, laughing at my predicament,
commenting clinically on the size, the shape of my breasts, the hardness
of my nipples. Even my cunt would not be beyond the ‘scope’ of their
discourse. They would take it in at leisure, freeze-frame it, inspect
it, philosophize upon it as compared with other girls'.
Daintily mistress padded back to the armorie then, replaced the
strap and returned to me with a little whip. Open mouthed I stared at
her, tears welling in my eyes. I couldn't stand still anymore, my
bottom hurt so.
"You--you mustn't," I gasped.
"Oh, there isn't any hurry," she replied. "We can take as long
as you like to train your bottom. I intend to try a variety of
implements on your sweet little ass. If you need time to compose
yourself I can wait. Would you like some wine to anesthetize you?"
"No!," I said. "I want it to stop! I want to be let down!"
She felt my arms then, palpitated them, made sure they still had
circulation.
"Nonsense! You are doing quite well. Of course it hurts,
darling. You would not dance for us if it did not, at least not so
prettily. Since this is your first time I'll get you some wine. It
will help. You will not be quite so much on edge. A bit of drowsiness
will let the time slip by more smoothly." Saying these soothing words
she stepped over to the dungeon's wet bar. The dungeon proper had no
bathroom. The adjoining room, where a toilet was available, was
locked. She had locked it when she got our water. It was still
technically part of the dungeon, our toilet. It was not out in the game
room. But it was kept separate, in case toilet privileges should be
denied. A master might not let his slave have those right away. Only
if she was very good. After all, he controlled the rest of her. Why
not her peehole too? Suavely mistress had locked the bathroom, I not
even noticing at the time, but remembering now. Where HAD she placed
that key? Oh, God, was I to pee on the carpet? I didn’t have to go
yet, but I would soon, I was sure of it. Mistress alone knew the
location of the key. Yet the wet bar was readily accessible, and
lavish. Fresh limes, lemons, all stored neatly in a little fridge. A
small freezer held frosted glasses. And within a cupboard stood row
upon row of angled wine bottles, at least two dozen of them, from
France's finest estates. Brie and other cheeses could be had also, as
well as crackers. All was neatly contained in a corner of the room.
Everything to fill you up and make you go, but nothing into which you
might relieve yourself, when you were done. I hadn’t seen the wet bar
until now, given all the unusual furnishings in the room, but there it
stood, ready to serve, a quiet reminder of the elegance with which we
were to proceed in our games.
"I'm hungry," I said, bottom flinching, as mistress returned
with the wine she'd poured for me. She lifted the brimming glass to my
lips. It was sweet.
"We shall eat later," mistress, my substitute mommy, replied.
"You must work up a proper appetite first." I let the wine run down my
throat. I had no choice, unless I wanted to spill it. Mistress tipped
it into my mouth, I drank as fast as I could to keep up with her. I
knew she would not be pleased if I spilt any. I smacked my lips as she
set down the glass and took up her whip. Like a runner stretching,
preparing for the race, I lifted one of my legs, then the other.
WHICK! The whip sliced across me then, scoring my hiney. I
yelped, pranced, tears streamed down my cheeks. Twice more the whip
found me, burning itself into my private hemispheres. I'd shown my
bottom to mommie's parlor guests once and she'd spanked me. 'No mooning
the guests,' I'd learned that day. A girl was not to expose her hiney
to public view. Yet now here I stood, showing all that and more,
wantonly, and being filmed for eyes who would not mind at all seeing
what I showed them.
Snick! Whick! Flick! Remorselessly the whip bit into my soft
hindquarters again and again. I had arrived in a bikini. Had I not
chosen to take it off? I longed now to cover myself, to obey my
mommie. But here mistress was my mommy, and she was as adamant about my
bottom being seen as my mother was about it being unseen.
I cried then, soon found myself bawling, yet mistress kept up
her depredations on my poor hiney. She traded her whip for a flexible
bamboo switch, frayed at one end from over-use. Some other girl must
have worn it down to its present state. Perhaps our hostess herself? I
bit my lower lip and wept openly as the switch went to work on my fanny.
I lost all sense of time. Through bleared eyes I suffered
quietly, choking back my sobs at last and letting myself dance, respond,
unthinkingly. The switch would strike, I would dance, the camera would
whir, recording all. My bottom was afire, a burning ball, yet the rest
of me was deliciously, tantalizingly naked, unhurt, aroused, my clit and
titties burning with their own erotic fire. I looked extremely
beautiful in my agony and I knew it. I felt proud, knowing no man could
watch the film of my travail without becoming painfully erect himself.
My torture would torture him. If he was alone, he might watch
wide-eyed, and curse himself afterward for cumming.
Some time later, as I swung, exhausted, head bowed, hair
flowing from my head down over my shoulders in golden disarray, I felt
my wrists being unbuckled. I did not even lift my face to see who my
savior was. Hot bottomed I was enclasped in arms, felt breasts then,
pressing against my own, mistress' voice whispered in my ear as I rested
my head upon her shoulder.
"There, darling, there, you did very well," she said, patting
my head. She dragged me over to the pillows and plopped me down amongst
Arthur and Mandy. Like vampires then they got their mouths upon me,
kissing me and tonguing me, opening my every orifice with lapping,
probing kisses. Someone spread cream over my bottom and I was grateful,
though it made me wince awfully and I cried out for them to stop. At
last I felt myself being turned over, shouting as my ass came to rest
upon a silken pillow. A hard cock entered me then, straight into my
cunt. It pummeled me into a swooning orgasm and I blacked out in a wave
of intense pleasure.
***
Three figures, tromping through the snow. Short, heavy-set.
Fireplugs on patrol. For the general.
“How did we get stuck with this fucking job, looking for those
two teenage whores?” one griped at the other. “Two 15-year-olds...” He
kicked at the snow. I named him Tweedle-dee.
“They should be back home with their parents, where they
belong,” Tweedle-dumb answered.
“Yeah, back home with their parents, like Susan Smith said,”
Tweedle-dumber agreed.
“It’s all the fault of the WJO!” Tweedle-dumb opined.
“The what?” dumber asked.
“The World Jewish Organization,” dumb answered. “Did you ever
count up how many Jews there are in Hollywood? That’s why your movie
script’s never sold. You’re not a Jew.”
“Maybe if I changed my name to Simon Wiesenthal,” dumber
offered.
“Well, if you do that, you must like to fuck underage minor
children,” dumb answered. “Particularly if they are Jap children.”
“Like Swoon Yee?”
“Or whatever her name was.”
“Okay, so I change my name to Simon Wiesenthal,” dumber
answered. “Then I can sell my movie script? I mean, if it would get me
out of this fucking snow...”
“You are failing to consider the WNO,” Tweedle-dee announced.
“The what?”
“The World Negro Organization!”
Tweedle-dumb and Tweedle-dumber laughed.
“There is no fucking World Negro Organization,” Tweedle-dumb
replied. “The niggers can’t even run Africa!”
“That is because of oppression by the white man,” Tweedle-dee
said, waving an uplifted finger.
“Oh, yeah, sure!” Tweedle-dumb guffawed. “The only reason
there’s a single flush toilet in Africa is because of the white man!”
“That’s right! We need more white men down here! I gotta take
a leak!” Tweedle-dumber proclaimed. He unzipped himself and aimed at a
snowbank. “Here’s to the World Jewish Organization!” Lustily he
urinated into the snow.
I shifted, my dream changed, it rippled into darkness. I slept
on.
***
I awoke amidst a tangle of limbs. For a moment I thought I was
in my own bed, at home, with my teddy bear beside me. Then I realized
my teddy, however fuzzy he might be, wasn’t HAIRY. And he didn’t have,
didn’t have, THAT! Omigod! I came awake then, fully, and rubbed my
eyes and looked around me. Twin pairs of naked bosoms lolled atop
gently moving ribs. And, ensconced between, lordly in his nakedness,
lay Arthur. A lion with his twin lionesses, and me a third. I pushed
my blonde hair from my face. It was tangled. I needed a brush. I
needed the bathroom!
Slowly I got up. I was lissome, free, my boobies swaying, my
cuntlips sticky. My joints ached. “Owww,” I moaned, flexing my hind
cheeks as I lifted my body from the others. My ass hurt! What had
happened to it? I clapped my hands to my behind. It felt hot, burny.
Like I’d sat down in nettles to sleep. I rubbed myself, gently.
“I have to go pee,” a small voice whined beneath me. I looked
down to see Mandy blinking up at me. “Who are you?” she asked.
“Shhh, I’m Barbi,” I told her. A finger snaked over Mandy’s
cheeks and mistress, her eyes still closed, stuck her finger in Mandy’s
mouth.
“Ooopth!” Mandy gurgled. The O of her lips closed
unwillingly. The finger surged deeper within them.
“Suck, little one! Pretend it’s Arthur’s cock!” mistress urged
Mandy. Perhaps mistress had awakened before me, but had lain with eyes
shut, savoring the closeness, the warmth of our bodies.
“What? Time to get up already?” Arthur asked. His eyes
opened.
“You’re up, sir,” I said ruefully. His cock stuck up like a
post, hard and quivering with some newfound need.
“So I am,” he answered. “Care for a seat, Barbi?”
“What? A free log for my ass?” I enquired.
“Do you have to poop, dear?” mistress asked me. Her eyes had a
wanton look.
“No, I just have to pee. And I have to do it very badly!” I
blurted. I hated being so frank, but my bladder would not allow any
dancing around on the issue. I guessed that in my excitement last night
I’d forgotten about my peehole. Now it was reminding me quite
distinctly.
“Alright,” mistress said. “But we’re going to take our first
group pee together in a special way, on an old-fashioned chamber pot.”
She brushed her own hair from her eyes and got up. She adjusted a few
of the pins in her hair. It was drawn back; she arranged them anew so
she could pile her hair neatly atop her head. She was casual,
graceful. I wished she would hurry. What did she mean, a group pee?
No matter. I had to go, and the sooner the better. Beggars can’t be
choosers. I looked at Mandy and saw she wasn’t about to quarrel either.
“Please hurry!” Mandy pleaded. She stood beside me now,
expectant. She bit her lip and I saw that her thighs were squeezed
together quite tightly. Arthur lay still in regal splendor, admiring
our tushies. I clenched my bottomcheeks, involuntarily, with my need.
“Ooch!” I murmured. Sharply I drew in my breath. It was not a
wise idea to squeeze a scorched bottom.
The culprit of my harm, mistress, walked with the slothful
stroll of a Parisian model over to the armorie. She had a perfectly
white hiney, and seemed to swing it with sweet abandon, as if taunting
us. Perhaps that’s what determined the pecking order in a dungeon. Who
had a white ass and who didn’t. Stepping lightly, easily in her
spike-heeled boots, she paused before the armorie and bent down. She
mooned us with her fanny. It was bold, creamy, chic, her cuntlips
peeping between the smooth, incurving whiteness of her ass. She held
her legs apart, easily, utterly unconcerned that her most intimate parts
were now on full display. Her breasts hung beyond the graceful vee of
her legs, tremulous, with risen nipples, ripe and ready for love.
Arthur groaned and put his hand to his cock and fisted it.
“You’re bad,” Mandy said, turning her face briefly about.
“Don’t play with your penis. And don’t stare at my butt!”
“Who put your fat little ass in charge?” Arthur asked bluntly.
“I don’t have a fat ass,” Mandy breathed through clenched
teeth, but she was already facing forward again, praying for an
opportunity to relieve herself.
Mistress opened a bottom door in the armorie. Strands of her
hair fell down around her face and she brushed them back over her ears.
She reached into the cabinet. Grunting, she pulled out a big heavy old
pot from the previous century. It was made of cast iron. Perhaps to
belie its purpose, it had been moulded with an elaborate frieze. She
picked it up with some difficulty, her thin arms straining, and lugged
it across the room. She plopped it down in front of us. Arthur rose
up, a great bear rising to paw his way to the head of the line.
“Me first,” Arthur insisted. “Make way, honeypots!”
“No, no!” mistress scolded him. “Barbi, you woke up first.
You go. Then Mandy, then me. You can be last, Arthur, since you’re a
big boy with a big cock to hold all your pee. We girls just have our
little clits.”
“The dick has nothing to do with holding pee...” Arthur
protested, but I used the opportunity to rush to the pot, beating out
Mandy, who clearly wanted to be first if she could. She was forced to
hold her cunny with both her hands, squeezing it, as she watched me go.
“Oh, hurry,” she simpered. She bounced on the balls of her
feet, amusing Arthur. Mistress absently stroked her hair.
Long-legged, waif-like, my bosoms bouncing as I settled with
obvious urgency on the big potty, I put my fingers to my cunt. I spread
my lips and, aiming for the depths, I let go of my bladder.
PISSSS! Was heard as the first quick stream of urine sprayed
into the metal bowl.
“Just do half,” mistress urged me.
“Huh?” I asked. I looked up from my belly. My eyes were wide,
unknowing.
“Save half your pee for later,” she said. “Just a little
while. When each of us has gone some we can enjoy the rest more fully.
It’s quite fun, peeing in front of company, and watching others.”
“Okay,” I replied, not really caring, just glad I was first and
able to let go of some of the awful feeling of need within me.
“That’s enough!” Mandy called out, eager to go herself.
“A little more,” I answered, and went more than halfway, just
to make her wait.
“Come on, dear, that’s more than enough for your first turn,”
mistress said finally. She grabbed my arm and yanked me up as I tried
to let more of my pee out. A little squirted onto the rug. “Now see
what you’ve done?” she slapped my ass.
“OWWW!” I whined.
“Me next!” Mandy announced, and quickly seated herself in
turn. She let out a big whoosh of air with her mouth, obviously
relieved, as her pee began spritzing. I could hear it splashing into my
own. Mistress unseated her next, for she was as greedy as I and would
have emptied herself completely if she’d been left to sit unattended.
Arthur went next, cutting ahead of mistress, and then she went.
“Alright! Now we can have some fun doing this!” mistress
announced, rising from the well-filled potty. “Barbi, you’re next, and
just let out what you wish. We can play quite awhile at this if we
like.”
“Mmm, okay,” I said. I sat back down again. The pot was
getting dangerously full. I knew I’d get a little baptism on my bottom
this time, the pee splashing up on me as I added more. No matter, I
still had to go. We were all in this together now.
We each took several more turns peeing in the chamber pot.
True to mistress’ prediction, it proved quite sensuous. I felt
immensely bad, doing it in front of the others, watching them do it in
front of me. Never in my life had I experienced the heady pleasure of
taking my turn upon a toilet while others watched. I felt like a
naughty little girl, spreading my cunt lips with my fingers while Arthur
and Mandy and mistress stared, sinfully fascinated. And each of them
too did the same for me, in turn. Even watching the girls was special
for me. They had a fey look on their face, as if sure that mommie would
enter any minute and scold us, perhaps beat us. Arthur, standing
proudly, was a sight to behold. He looked like a living statue, all
marble right down to his cock and balls, spurting out dandelion wine for
us girls. Perhaps for us to lap up when he was done. He suggested it,
we declined. When we were done the pot was sloshing right at its brim
with our pee. I think we bonded with each other in some new way, doing
that.
After we’d peed, eighteenth century style, mistress unlocked
the bathroom. It was more than a toilet, actually. There was an entire
storeroom here, with a pantry containing lots of food, a stove to cook
it on, and a big refrigerator, just in case the world ended and we’d
need to fuck for the rest of our lives, never going out again. I
imagined what it would be like, Three Eves and an Adam, no funerals
please. Least of all a funeral for Adam. He would have to be the last
to die, unless I wanted to violate my own son. God, I could not do
that, even if the world did end. Then again, if we were the last
humans, and pregnant, without pills, and we each had a son, then there
would be Three Eves and Four Adams, including Arthur. Mandy’s son, for
instance, he would need to be trained. He would need a womb of his own
to sperm. And I would be the youngest, save for his mother. Surely
mistress would be too old for him by the time he was ‘of age’ to fuck.
Yes, life after a holocaust might not be so bad, I mused. How
many ladies in the world today HAD to, as a matter of principle, lie
with a young boy? And be his ONLY lover? Mandy’s son would love only
me. And mistress’ too. She could have mine. He would be so handsome
that Mandy and her would tear each other to bits over him, while I had
their two sons to entertain me in my old age. ‘Thank God for the Bomb,’
I’d say to that. And it wouldn’t be incest. Even if it was, sort of,
there’d be no one to arrest us. Such odd thoughts I had down in the
dungeon, where so much of what usually remained private was now on
fierce display.
His muscles straining, Arthur hefted the big chamber pot. He
emptied it in the bathroom’s toilet and flushed our pee away. It took
several pourings and several flushes before the pot was totally empty.
Girlishly, we cheered him when it was done. He walked the pot back out
to the dungeon’s entryway. He parked it just inside the front door. We
were finished with it. He dumped some Lysol into it and tossed a towel
over it to kill any rude smells. Then we regrouped in the bathroom.
“Let’s wash,” mistress said. She turned on the tap in the
bathroom. There was no tub, no shower. Just a sink, and the four of
us. We all needed a bath, and we girls needed to douche too, except for
mistress, who had abstained so far from Arthur’s cock, preferring
instead to let me and Mandy have him. It was sweet of her, I realized.
Here I had hated her for belting me, and caning Mandy, but in fact she’d
deprived herself of Arthur to do it. I looked at her with renewed
appreciation.
“You’re special, you know that?” I asked her.
“Specially perverted,” she laughed.
“No, I like you!” I said. I leaned forward, let my nipples
perk to hers. I kissed her mouth.
“You will go far, darling,” she replied. She returned my
kiss. Then she and I parted and I waited with tingling skin for her
next move. Arthur ran his finger down my spine. I turned, my hair
falling into my eyes. It was beautiful in its unkemptness.
“Be good, Arthur,” I said. He dropped his hand. I patted the
rock hard protuberance of his organ, like one might pet a dog. But
there was nothing more yet, not yet. He must wait. We must all wait.
Even orgies have their moments of modesty.
Mistress considered plugging and filling the bowl, sharing the
water, but there were simply too many of us. Our communal bath would
have to be with the tap on, continually supplying fresh water into the
sink. She took a washcloth (there appeared to be only one) and wet it.
She reached out and ran it over my belly.
“Oooh, you feel pregnant,” she teased.
“Stop it!” I cried. I knew I hadn’t any protection that first
night. I prayed she was just joking. I didn’t feel pregnant. But then
some girls never knew, especially fat ones, until they were many months
along. But then, I wasn’t fat.
“If she is I’ll beat it out of her,” Arthur warned.
“Quiet, Arthur,” mistress replied. “I’ll wash your cock in a
minute.”
“Just trying to be helpful,” Arthur grumbled.
Slowly, luxuriously, we laved the washcloth over each other.
It was a kind of dreamlike existence, the water hot, the air a tad
chilly. We explored the roundness of each other’s breasts, were careful
of wounded bottoms, bathed cunts with delighted pokes and douching
squirts of a handy syringe. Lastly we did Arthur, savoring every inch
of his massive frame, rubbing him until he was sparkling like a
freshly-licked cub.
“Oh, my! I’m afraid I have to poop!” mistress said when we’d
finished bathing.
“You don’t expect privacy for that?” I laughed.
“Let’s see you do it!” Mandy, bug-eyed with the decadence of it
all, insisted.
“Alright, but hold your noses, I think it’s going to be a
stinky one,” mistress said. At Arthur’s suggestion she sat down
backwards on the flush toilet. We quickly found we had to pinch our
nostrils and we watched, sinfully, as long turds oozed out of her back
hole and plopped into the water beneath.
“You can wipe in private,” I said when she was done, disgusted
with myself.
“Yes, please!” Mandy added, making every effort to embarrass
her by holding her nose theatrically. Together we trooped from the
room, out into the kitchen area. Arthur turned on the bathroom fan for
her.
“Would you like me to clean you up?” I heard him ask her.
“No thanks, Arthur. See that the girls don’t make a mess out
there, would you? Fifteen-year-old girls are not generally prized for
their cooking,” she replied.
“No indeed! I shall have to chaperone,” Arthur replied. “To
protect the food!”
With stinging bottoms Mandy and I inspected the pantry. We did
not know what time it was, morning perhaps? There was no window down in
this dungeon which lay beneath the snow-laden earth. Perhaps the world
had been destroyed in a nuclear war and we were its last survivors, I
thought again. From the promising erection standing up stiffly between
us I had no doubt we would repopulate the planet quickly. Never mind
one son each, we would be more likely to rival the wives of Abraham with
our progeny. Arthur caressed our legs, the backs of our thighs. He
placed his warm palms on our bottoms.
“Arthur! Keep your hands to yourself!” Mandy chirped.
“Yes!” I said, wincing. “Keep your hands off our fannies,
sir. We are not just dolls for you to fondle whenever you please.
Whenever you are...inflated.” I cast a glance down at his cock. It was
gorgeous in its hugeness, stiff as wood for him in his first moments of
wakefulness. And still stiff now, as yet unsatisfied. He jabbed it
between our close-standing bodies, to Mandy’s renewed
annoyance.
“Arthur, we girls are not endlessly interested in men,” she
reproved him. She continued rummaging about in the pantry.
“We like eating, too,” I smiled at him.
“Yes! Especially skinny girls like me and Barbi. We have a
fast metab-- metab-- metabotulism!” Mandy declared.
Mistress soon appeared. She found flour in the fridge, the big
refrigerator that stood before us now in the storeroom, with its
makeshift kitchen and shelves, and offered to cook us strawberry
flapjacks. We agreed that would be a delicious way to start our new day
in the dungeon.
“But I cannot have flapjacks without a sausage to go with it,”
Mandy insisted. I nudged her. Mandy and Beavis. She did not catch my
meaning. “Mommie always browns me a sausage with my flapjacks,” she
continued. She was feeling protected and infantile this morning, I
think, being the littlest amongst us, demanding her breakfast.
“Otherwise they are too gooey and syrupy, plus meat is good for you.”
“Alright,” mistress said, with a wink at me. “Let me see if I
can find some sausages in the fridge, dear. Did you see any in here?”
“I just looked in the pantry,” Mandy answered. “I can’t cook
flapjacks. I was looking for Lucky Charms.” She had them now, the box
pressed to her belly. She was sticking her hand into the box and
drawing out handfuls of cereal and munching on them. Wetly her tongue
drew in more cereal from her sprinkling hand. Her bosoms rolled atop
the box, big and juicy, with red tips like the little marshmallow hearts
in the cereal.
“Don’t eat too much of that junk,” mistress said. “Or you
won’t be able to eat the breakfast I fix you.”
“I always have room for a nice big sausage,” Mandy answered,
her eyes uplifted, watching as she dumped another handful of the
Leprechaun’s cereal into her mouth.
“Oh! Here’s some,” mistress announced, looking again in the
fridge. “Nice big long ones, straight from Bavaria.” She examined the
plastic packaging. “Made in Munich!”
“The capital of dicks,” I laughed.
“Are these good enough for you, little one?” mistress asked
Mandy.
“Good!” Mandy chirped in reply. She munched loudly on her
Lucky Charms, her cheeks stuffed with them.
“Then give me that!” mistress answered. She took the box from
Mandy and set it on a shelf above the fridge, where the girl could not
reach it.
“Oooh! Give me back my Lucky Charms!” Mandy whined.
“I’m going to cook you a nice big breakfast, and I expect you
to eat every bite,” mistress replied. She picked up an apron on the
counter and, unfolding it, tied it around her waist. Her breasts
jiggled their heaviness, ripe as summer gourds, as she leaned forward a
little to tie the apron upon herself. Then she took a chef’s hat and
plopped it atop her head, first pinning up her hair a little more, for
it was falling in many loose strands around her eyes. Mandy stood
watching her, rubbing her soft belly like some little teddy bear
watching its mother.
“Okay,” Mandy said at last. She was content. She walked over
to Arthur, her saucy bottom cheeks rolling like firm mounds of jiggly
jello, with the crack between them tight as a girl’s legs on her first
date. Mandy struck Arthur’s cock with the flat of her hand. “Play with
me!” she commanded. She looked up at him expectantly. Arthur gazed
down at her, like some old dog roused by a puppy. I think he was
growing weary of Mandy and her childish ways. One minute she berated
his lust, the next she seemed to demand it, piquant, moody, expecting
the entire universe to revolve around and respond to her ever-changing
whims.
“I could play with you in such a way that you would never get
up again,” Arthur said with casual menace.
“Do it!” Mandy replied, smugly. He was the bull, but in her
mind at least, she was the bullfighter.
“You are a silly little bitch,” Arthur replied. He seemed glad
suddenly to have Mandy asking him for attention, and decided to lure her
on a bit, not give her what she wished. I saw that I was forgotten and
eased up next to the girl.
“I’m a silly little bitch too,” I smiled at him. I ran my
finger up the length of his cock and toyed with its tip with my
fingernail. I stuck it into his peehole. “Does this provoke you, sir?”
I asked. Manfully he just stood and watched. Mistress giggled. On a
stove next to the fridge she began preparing our meal, decked out in her
little waist apron and chef's hat, still wearing her elegant riding
boots, as if she might mount a horse at any moment and decide to ride
through the city bare. She would bring eggs and a muffin to all the
men, to rouse them for their day’s labor. Arthur, entranced by her
graceful maturity, watched her with renewed passion, while Mandy and I
teased his cock. We batted it about with our hands, watching it wiggle
to and fro. He ignored us. He let us play with him as an adult dog
entertains puppies, its eyes fixed on its master, waiting for dinner.
Our chef smiled at her flapjacks, aware of Arthur’s eyes. Her teeth
were white, her lips lustrous. She had a newlywed wife look to her,
classy yet vulnerable. Her divine breasts wiggled their rubicund tips
over the steaming food. Her bottom swayed easily, naked beneath the big
bow of her apron. The sleekness of the backs of her thighs was
enchanting, stretching down to her improbable boots. They had spiked
heels, as stiff and implacable as the cock Arthur absently presented us
with as he watched our winsome cook. Someday she would be old, flabby,
irate at her husband, her hair pinned up in curlers, perhaps wearing the
remnants of a mudpack, a flannel robe girding her ever-expanding
middle. She would be a feminist pin-up then, wrinkled, demanding, aware
of her husband’s every fault and certain to enumerate them at every
morning meal. But now she was still fetching and young, nonchalant in
her nudity yet aware of its effect on her hubby’s eyes. He turned away
finally, unable to bear the dreamy sight. He would cum too soon if he
didn’t watch himself.
“Hey, come back with that penis!” Mandy admonished.
“I, uh, need to do some chin-ups,” Arthur croaked. He walked
as one might who had just barely averted an accident, trembling a bit,
his hugely swollen cock quavering deliciously. To clear his mind of
mistress he bent and touched his toes a few times. Mandy and I watched
his balls as they slowly descended from a height of excitement to swing
again in relative calm under his ass.
“You have a hairy butt crack,” Mandy told Arthur. She walked
up behind him and tugged at some hair in his ass. “Yuck!” she said.
“How disgusting!” Then, obviously not disgusted in the least, she poked
her finger into his hole.
“OWWW!” Arthur growled. He stood erect, forgetting his
toe-touches, and glared behind himself at Mandy. It was incredible, all
of us naked, fiddling with each other’s intimate parts, watching as
passion coursed through one or the other, climaxes surging, retreating.
Mistress, usually a paragon of restraint, rubbed herself a little
between her legs, so hot was the mood in our little kitchen, the
sausages sizzling on the grill as we waited to fill our hungry bellies.
I touched myself too, watching Arthur do his toe touches.
“Mandy, try not to stick your finger up Arthur’s ass, however
inviting it might appear,” mistress told her. She worked over the
stove, her cheeks rosy, her breath quickening as she toyed with her
clit.
“It’s totally disgusting,” Mandy exclaimed. She walked round
in front of him and took hold of his cock instead. He shuddered anew,
but seemed to find some new strength and did not cum. I watched as his
balls tightened again, the sac drawing up until it seemed to be
painfully taut. Glad that Arthur would not keep us away, I quickly
joined Mandy at his front. Still diddling with my own private, I played
my fingers over his as well. We exchanged glances. Mandy, seeing
masturbation would not be discouraged, found her own sweet spot and
hunnied it up a bit with her fingers.
There was a chinning bar in the storeroom. It was, no doubt,
for exercising, so a male staying long days down here would not lose his
muscles. Arthur took hold of it and hoisted himself up and down on it,
biceps bulging, while Mandy and I continued to entertain ourselves with
his penis. All the while we kept fondling ourselves. Our breath became
increasingly fast-paced, even as Arthur huffed and puffed on the bar.
Mistress watched us playing out of the corner of her eye. Her own
breath was more rapid, her fingers strumming over her little private bud
while she cooked us breakfast. Happily, if breathily, she hummed a
tune, plotting new perversions for us. All our inhibitions were gone.
We were bare-ass naked, and very randy. Our tits wobbled, tender teats
erect as Arthur. Our bottoms wiggled with pent-up desire. Our legs
squeezed together and then flexed apart, like little girls waiting
outside a restroom that was locked and in use. Yet peeing was hardly on
our minds. We were already wet there, and wished to be wetter still.
“Come, kids,” mistress said gaily. She laughed, took her hand
away from her own nest. “I mean, come, as in it’s time for breakfast!”
Savoring my own arousal, I desisted in frigging myself, and batted
Mandy’s hand away from her own cunt.
“Don’t!” Mandy reproved me. She returned her hand to herself,
eager to have her orgasm. With gentlemanly care Arthur took her wrist
and lifted her fingers from her cunny. They were wet with her dew. He
kissed her hand and then cleaned her little digits with his tongue, one
by one, as a father might kiss each of his baby’s toes. Mandy watched,
intrigued, and did not try to pleasure herself with her other hand.
“Tickle me,” she commanded at last. She was eager to continue
the game.
Arthur slapped her soft belly. “Into the living room, tummy
girl!” he told her. “Let’s see if we can get something into that belly
of yours besides Lucky Charms!”
“Oh, okay,” Mandy relented. But, walking ahead of him, she was
visibly agitated, her legs jittery and her bottom wriggling with her
pent-up need. I followed, my own hips swaying like some mare in heat,
inviting the stallion none-too-subtly to mount me. Arthur, himself
fighting down a surging of his lively sperm, walked behind me
stiff-legged, awkward in his gait. Mistress got us plates and napkins
and arranged us for our meal. She served us steaming cups of hot cocoa
along with our food. Then she took off her chef’s hat and her apron and
joined us. Arthur eyed her bush. He seemed glad that it was hidden no
longer.
We sat on the dungeon's soft carpeting to eat. Cross-legged,
pussies open and displayed, we sat round Arthur like Indian maidens,
worshipping the Pilgrim Father who’d come to teach us to mend our
primitive ways. Arthur, his cock large and looming, sat with his own
legs apart. His dong stuck up, fixing our eyes, a Pilgrim spear, a
Spanish lance. He was a Conquistador, I thought, come to conquer us,
not save us. We were enslaved by his lance. Hotly we desired to give
our honey-golden cunnies to it. Shivering, we ate with our fingers.
Syrup dribbled down my wrist, lacing my arm with sweetness and dripping
off my elbow. I cared not. Others would clean the rug when we were
gone. Our job was only to play, carefree in our bondage, naked and
unfettered by any responsibilities. Yet, in our nudity, our freedom, we
were bound by our own desire. I did not feel comfortable. I felt
agitated. I popped a sausage in my mouth. I bit off the end of it,
vengefully. I should be sitting primly in my seat at school, my loins
quiet, not restive, not hungrier than my belly, which gnawed at me. I’d
skipped dinner to feed my pussy, yet it hungered still. I pushed more
of the sausage into my mouth. Mandy played with her food, too full of
Lucky Charms. She took her longed-for sausage and prodded her cuntlips
with it.
“Don’t play with your food, dear,” mistress cautioned her.
“It’s not polite.” I giggled, put my hand over my face, laughed
harder. My food in my mouth wound up in my palm. We were wicked,
decadent.
“Oooh, I can’t help it, I need it more here than in my tummy!”
Mandy said frankly. She nosed the big sausage into her tightly
proffered lips. Mistress thought to slap her, then relented. We were
too far gone. Modesty had fled, never to return. “Oooh! Oooh! Oooh!”
Mandy cried. Her face tilted up in a swoon as she stuffed the sausage
into herself and then brought it out again, wet with her need, only to
ram it back up. I tried to ignore her. I wanted to do the same, but I
was eating mine. Arthur watched bemused, knowing his cock was pledged
to mistress’ plans, not to the unseemly display of a little girl who
could not control herself.
“She needs tutoring,” I said to mistress, trying to distance
myself from Mandy and her antics. I brushed my hair back from my face
with my sticky fingers. I lifted my own sausage to my lips and bit
delicately into it, chewed properly, swallowed discreetly.
“Yes, she needs to be pussy-trained,” mistress replied. Mandy
screamed, bucking upon the sausage as if it were a live male penis
filling her. “But you are my favorite,” mistress continued, turning her
face toward mine. “You are not just some little beaver, like Mandy, all
untrained desires and appetites. You at least try to be lady-like, and
often succeed, I might add, which is more than I can say for myself,
when I was your age. You intrigue me, dear. With Mandy it is all just
untrained passion. She needs a belt, nothing more. You, though, have a
newlywed’s charm about you.”
“And you,” I answered.
“Yes, but I am ‘of age’ for it, darling. It is nothing in my
case. In yours, though, you could still be brattish, yet you are not.
And your reservations are now just for show, as they should be. You
enter into the sport as eagerly as any woman. It is good that you do
not fight it, but come to it with lowered lashes, moistened lips, and
sweetly opened legs. I watched you upon Arthur last night, and it was a
marriage-fuck, I tell you, a bride with her groom, both of you earnest.
I wish to see more trysts like that, and we are well equipped for it.
Your pussy is well-opened now, yet still tight as a virgin’s; Arthur is
huge and seems to renew himself as often as we require. And this room,
ah...” She surveyed it with sparkling eyes as Mandy, kneeling now,
bounced on her sausage, ignored by us even as she keened into the the
highest reaches of orgasm.
I squirmed as I thought of what lay ahead. Mistress ceased
talking, but hinted that much was still in store for me, for all of us,
but me especially, and much of it decadently inventive, as if the sex
act alone would not satisfy her, but must be embroidered with the most
outrageous perversions. I gazed around me, examining the
possibilities. They were scary. Yet, like a rabbit caught before
headlights, they burned into me with their awful intentions. There was
a pillory, where the hands and head of a wayward Puritan might be
imprisoned. I would play the part, I guessed, drafted out of my
Indian-maiden status and into that of a Puritan girl, her dress and
petticoat torn away, her bare bottom on view to all who might see, her
bosoms sweetly offered, though her neck and hands were clamped securely
within the wood. There was a rape rack, where I might be left for days,
to be fucked again and again at Arthur’s leisure, or even at the leisure
of other men who might be invited downstairs. There was a whipping
post, silent and ready for my discipline, where I could be bound for the
slightest infraction of made-up rules that, in fact, were impossible to
obey. And there was a wooden ladder, standing upright against the
wall. It led nowhere, but left the ass of any “climber” wonderfully
exposed. I felt a kind of lightheadedness. Clouds flitted before my
eyes. I looked down at my flapjacks. It was too much for me, this
room, yet I could not escape it. My own burning between my legs told me
I could not escape it.
Mandy, her passion spent at last, quietened and replaced the
sausage on her plate, guilty-eyed.
“I’m full,” she announced.
“I guess you are,” mistress answered. Mistress ate her
flapjacks with refined grace, as if at a formal dinner, though still
with her fingers. They were long, delicate. Her nails were glossy and
perfectly polished. She opened her lips and popped in small pieces of
dough as she tore them from her flapjacks. Her earrings glittered. She
looked up at Arthur. “Do you ever read, dear?” she asked politely. She
wished he had a Ph.D. now, that he might entertain her with his mind.
All women wanted that, I guessed, a truck driver...with a Ph.D.
“Sure,” Arthur answered. “I read about sports, when I’m not,
you know, busy...”
“Oh,” mistress replied. She wanted more. I giggled. I did
not say anything, but the word ‘watersports’ glided through my mind. I
did not wish to spoil mistress’ discreet conversation. I put my cup of
hot cocoa to my lips and sipped upon it.
“I like Jane Austen, myself,” mistress offered. “And the
Bronte sisters.”
“I didn’t ever see them writing about sports,” Arthur mused.
Mistress waved her hand dismissively. Arthur had many assets, but they
were all before us now. There was nothing else, nothing more. I
thought of talking about my impression of Hamlet. I’d been forced to
read it in high school, but had skipped a lot of it. I guessed mistress
wouldn’t find my observations to be quite on the level she was looking
for. Too bad. I wanted to help her, but could not. Perhaps we’d read
together, she and I, sometime. We’d lie on our tummies in bed and read
aloud from Wuthering Heights. We’d take college classes together. We’d
go to university dinners, dressed in ravishing gowns, and chat with Al
Gore about the information superhighway. Afterwards we’d pop by Bill
Gates’ house, and marvel at his technicolor walls, each different, while
he gazed at us, prettier still than anything his money could buy.
Living flesh, in shimmering evening wear, with long, glossy hair. He’d
court us with jewels and precious gifts, hoping to buy the electronic
rights to us. We’d succumb at last. A hundred years later, dead in our
graves, we’d stalk across his walls still, lovely and fresh. He would
even create new images using our video selves, and place us in films
with Clint Eastwood and J.F.K., men we’d never met. We’d have sex
together, mistress with Elvis, me with Luke Skywalker. C-3PO would
bring us drinks to refresh us. Spock would observe us, fascinated.
Senator Exon would vow to ban us.
Mandy gazed about the room, looking for new pleasures. Her
wandering eyes fell upon a hanging chair swing. It was made of
leather. It hung from slender chains. The chair had a hole in its
seat, through which any bottom, seated upon it, would necessarily
protrude.
"Why doesn't that chair have a proper seat?" Mandy asked with
feigned innocence. She pointed to the chair. Her breasts trembled as
she pointed. I’m sure she knew what it was for, didn’t she? I could
guess, just looking at it. It was suspended about a foot off the floor,
just enough for a man to lie beneath it, though without any room for his
erect penis. That would have to jut up through the hole in the chair,
through which the seated female's bottom descended. I think my arousal
made my mind work quickly. I saw possibilities that, absent my heat, I
might miss. Maybe Mandy did not see the obvious use of the chair, as I
did. Or maybe she just pretended not to, so she’d be the first to try
it. Arthur, looking over his shoulder, observed the chair with hungry
eyes. His huge swollen member throbbed desperately.
"A girl sits in the chair," Mistress explained happily. Jane
Austen had failed. Boccaccio triumphed again. "Her lover lies beneath
her and gets his cock up her. Then someone twists the chair round and
round, winding together the chains that hold the chair suspended. After
this the person lets go. The chair spins wildly, unwinding, while the
poor girl finds herself impaled on a 'spinning' prick." Mandy's breath
caught in her throat. She put a sticky hand to her breasts, so taken
was she with the full explanation of the chair's purpose. Even Arthur
seemed smitten. His cock seemed to tremble with even greater, more
enhanced excitement, though that hardly seemed possible, given how hard
he already was. Mistress reached between Arthur’s legs. Like a bird,
her hand fluttered down to his penis. She touched a syrupy finger to
its throbbing tip. "Yes, Arthur, the male finds his member tested in an
exquisite new way. Imagine Mandy’s near-virgin cunt rotating upon your
cock. So tight, so newly opened. You'll be as ravaged as she when it’s
over."
We finished breakfast quickly. We gulped down the last of our
hot cocoa. Arthur ate Mandy’s flapjacks for her. We were inspired at
this new opportunity for depravity. Mistress rose. She repinned her
hair atop her head to give her a dignified look. I stood up and brushed
my hair back with both hands. I felt free. My mane of hair tumbled
down my back, lustrous and beautiful. Would I be mistress’ assistant?
I guessed I would. She bent, clasped Mandy by the hand. The girl
looked up at her, knowing, shy now that she had been chosen. She gulped
quietly. I admired her for her newfound decorum. Mistress lifted her
to her feet. She patted the girl’s belly. Arthur stood and stretched.
His strength would be needed soon. It would be tested in a unique new
way. Was he up to the job? I apprised his cock.
“You, sir, are going to have a lot less sperm in a few
minutes,” I teased him.
“I’ll make more,” he replied, but I could see a rictus of
anxiety flit across his face. No man likes to know that the source of
his strength will soon be gone.
“You’ll spurt in her like never before,” mistress said to him.
She grinned like death greets a sinner.
“Well, I’ve never actually tried one of these before, believe
it or not,” Arthur answered. He turned and looked at the chair. He
viewed it as a boy might look upon some test of strength, unsure. His
cock stuck out in front of him. ‘Yes, Arthur, I thought, it will go
right up through that hole, your greatest fantasy, and your worst
nightmare. Complete loss of control. A spinning chair, a
virgin-gripping cunt. Can you handle the job, Arthur? I hope so,
because you’ve got no choice.’
“We could send out for pizza,” Arthur offered suddenly.
“And a cock?” Mistress asked. She crooked a finger under his
chin, his jutting chin. So certain, yet with a kind of unsteadiness to
it. “No, I don’t think so, Arthur. I don’t want some pimply pizza
delivery boy’s cock under the chair. I want your big thing down there,
Arthur. With little Mandy here on top!” Mandy straightened her back at
that. The Lucky Charms girl liked the idea of being in charge.
“Oooh, goody! I get to be on top...” Mandy said, contemplating
the chair. Her steps were still hesitant, though, as mistress led her
to it. Together their breasts bounced as they walked to it, me
following, Arthur beside us, the rooster leading his hens to his own
chopping block.
The chair was a sling. It would make the gripping on the male
member all the tighter. Mistress took one side, I took the other.
Together we opened the chair. Mandy, standing before it, got a very
good look at the hole in its seat.
“Come and sit down, dear,” Mistress smiled. Mandy stood a
moment, her finger cocked to her lips, her mouth open. I could see her
tongue sitting within. “It’s best if you go voluntarily girl,” mistress
said at last, a touch of menace in her voice. Mandy turned, plopped her
bottom down.
“Oh! There is no seat!” she cried, like a prisoner suddenly
discovering the electric chair actually really does pass an electrical
current, with the greatest of ease. She squirmed to try to keep her
bottom up, but inexorably it passed out through the bottom of the
sling. Mistress and I let go of the sides of the chair so they would
hold her legs snugly. “It’s not very comfortable,” Mandy announced.
“Comfort is not its intended purpose, darling,” mistress
replied with the eyes of a siamese cat. All knowing, all seeing. Never
telling til its too late.
“I want up...I can’t get out!” Mandy yelped.
“The time has come, the Walrus said, to sit on a big thing...”
Mistress intoned.
“Up with your hands!” I said, at a nod from mistress. I took
Mandy’s wrists within my fingers. She seemed to wilt as I touched
them. “Such a limp-wristed heroine!” I teased, but lifted her hands
quickly before she might grow restive again. A pair of handcuffs waited
along the rearmost chain, the one that held up the back of the seat. It
was pinioned there, waiting, its two cuffs hanging down, conveniently
left open by the previous players. Who had the key? I wondered. No
matter. They were not my wrists. I clipped Mandy’s hands into the
cuffs and closed them shut.
“Not too tight,” mistress cautioned. I closed them with care
until they were snug upon her. When I looked down, the spectacle of her
twin breasts, sticking out obscenely, greeted my eyes. “You look like
you’re in a meat-packing plant!” I laughed. A tear came to Mandy’s
eye.
“It’s not funny!” she whined. Arthur stared at her with
renewed passion. She looked so silly, yet so delightful, sitting there,
her tits sticking out, her ass hanging down precariously through the
hole.
Mistress took a handkerchief and wiped away Mandy’s tear.
“It’s better to be a prisoner in the chair,” mistress said. “There must
not be any chance to stop the drilling of your cunt once it has begun.
Girls have gotten hurt trying to leap off the chair in mid-spin, so
shocking is the sensation of the 'spinning' cock!” She patted Mandy on
the head, as one might a child at church. “You see? I’m looking out
for your welfare.” I suppressed a giggle.
“Thanks a lot,” Mandy groused. She tested her bonds. They
would not let her out, gripped her well. The chains rustled, tense.
“The first time I was put in a chair like this they pinched off
my nipples with clamps, and peed in my face,” mistress said. I gasped.
Mandy looked dumbfounded. “So don’t be a crybaby. I’m going easy on
you, little dear.” She turned to me. “Now her legs must be lifted and
spread. The chair will still grip her thighs, at least what remains of
them within the sling, but I want her cunt nicely presented for Arthur.
Are you coming along there, dear?” she asked. She turned a bit, arched
her shoulder.
“I’m getting as much fucking grease on my cock as I possibly
can!” Arthur admitted. He held a nearly empty jar of vaseline in his
hand. His penis looked like it had been coated with a pound of wax.
Its girth was even more huge now, with so much vaseline smoothed over
it.
“Sissy,” mistress laughed. He gave her an angry look. “Ah,
such an ERECTION!” she continued. “I’ll bet it doesn’t stick out like
that when I’m through with it! Or, rather, when wee little Mandy’s cunt
here is done with it.” Silently I took each of Mandy’s heels and lifted
it up. She did not try to fight me. I think mistress had put the fear
of God into her with her story of her own first experience in the
chair. For each ankle, a chain waited, with another handcuff hung from
it. These chains supported the front part of the chair, one on each
side. And their handcuffs were each lined with felt, to ease the plight
of the foot so nastily bound within. I buckled Mandy into her chair. I
stepped back. She looked even more fantastic now, her legs arched up,
knees bent back, the undersides of her thighs and calves showing.
“Here,” mistress said. She handed me two slim leather bands.
“Put them around her legs, one just above each knee.”
“What are THOSE for?” Mandy asked, dismayed.
Mistress picked up a round wooden cylinder that was about two
feet long. “It’s for this,” she replied, smiling.
I buckled the leather straps above each of Mandy’s knees. Then
mistress took the post and used it to brace Mandy’s legs wide open. She
set it between the girl’s widely-separated knees and fastened each end
of it to one of the straps I’d provided.
“There we are, I think that’s best,” mistress replied. “Her
cunt’s going to be tight enough without pressing her legs together. I
don’t want anyone to get hurt.” She glanced back at Arthur. “You might
be ground to the width of a pencil if we had her really squeeze you,
hmmm, dear?”
“Fine with me,” Arthur said. “I know how tight a virgin can
be. She hasn’t been de-virginated very long.” His huge pole looked
like a giant wax candle now, there was so much grease upon it. “And as
for you, little one,” mistress said, turning her face back to her.
“Just be glad I don’t ram him up your ass instead of your cunny. That
would indeed be an unforgettable ride!”
“Oh, boo hoo,” Mandy snuffled. She looked abject, ridiculous,
but somehow still quite feminine, hung up like that with her legs spread
and her arms made useless.
“Be quiet or I’ll stuff a ball gag into that pretty mouth of
yours,” mistress cautioned. “It was done to me!”
“What HASN’T been done to you?” Mandy asked, wide-eyed.
“I’m just 20, dear. I’ve not done that much. Do I look like
one of those old whores who’s been tromping through dungeons for half a
lifetime, like you see in Paradise magazine?”
“You will, someday!” Mandy observed, from her position beneath
us, gazing up at us with her legs spread. “Repent!”
“After this honey, I promise,” mistress answered. I bent down
and tickled Mandy’s clit.
“Don’t look so glum,” I said. “His cock beats a sausage any
day.”
“Don’t touch me!” Mandy answered, watching as I diddled her.
“Oh, don’t touch me! Don’t touch me! This isn’t ‘good touch,
bad touch, silly!” I tickled her some more, vengefully, right where it
counted.
“My, you’re acquiring a bit of spirit,” mistress observed. My
titties wiggled as I made Mandy’s own wiggle more.
“Oh, I’m just kooky!” I replied. Somewhat bashfully I took my
finger away, straightened and placed it on my own clit. I shivered.
The passion in the room was incredible. It seemed to pulse through it,
rising, receding, ever-present. I’d never been so horny in my life. It
made me uncomfortable. ‘Comfort is not the intended purpose,’ echoed
through my head.
“Well, at least that will feel very good when it’s over,” Mandy
consoled herself, looking down at her tiny swollen bud.
“Your clit? Ah no, sweetie. With Arthur invading you from
behind, as it were, with his head out beyond the back of your chair, he
won’t quite get to touch your sweetspot. You’ll be desperate when the
game is done, even if you cum from the pressure in your vagina. Your
little bud there will be begging for attention. Another reason I wanted
to force your legs apart. Nothing will touch you where you want it
most. You are at my mercy, now, little huggabear.”
I smiled. How utterly wicked! I was very, very glad my ass
wasn’t in that awful seat. I slapped mistress’ behind. She flinched.
She looked at my hand, as if to scold it.
“Ah, you make me wish I’d tied you, instead!” she said.
Genghis-Khan grinning at a vassal.
“There’s still time!” Mandy offered. Briefly she struggled in
her bonds.
“What, and spoil such a child, who filled up her tummy on Lucky
Charms, when mommie cooked such a nice breakfast?” mistress teased.
Lightly she touched a finger to Mandy’s jaw. “Chin up, little one!”
Then she turned, and I with her, and together we proceeded to
Arthur.
“Time to get your rocks off!” she said to him.
“This is the first time in my life I’ve dreaded that saying,”
he answered. I looked at his cock, his balls, the very picture of
hardness and virility. ‘Such a pity to spoil such a nice display,’ I
thought, but couldn’t resist seeing it done. Mistress touched a finger
to Arthur’s broad shoulder, soft as a butterfly.
“Come, Hercules,” she said. “Time for your labors.” We guided
him to where Mandy lay. He got down on the rug for us. Mistress rolled
him onto his side and handcuffed his hands behind him. Then she put him
on his back again. He was compliant. He knew the hour had come, and he
must be manly. The heaviness of Mandy’s bottom pressed down upon his
dick, forcing it against his belly.
“Only your cock will be needed, Arthur, and I don’t want you
having any second thoughts in mid-spin,” mistress advised him. She
spread his legs wide apart. After admiring his balls a moment, she fit
a spreader bar between his ankles. “Yes, that should do it,” she said.
“Now for the really fun part!” She turned Arthur on his side again.
His cock quivered like a tuning fork as it came out from under Mandy’s
sagging tush. “Spin the chair up, Barbi,” mistress told me. We had to
get Mandy’s ass high enough that we could slip Arthur into her.
“Oh, please don’t!” Mandy begged me. She looked quite
frightened as I spun the chair about. It was quite easy, once I got it
going.
“Up, up, up you go, and where you’ll come down we all do know!”
I laughed. She shivered as she realized there was no escape. I admired
her titties, so big for her age. Traitorously her nipples stood out
like living coral. Or, rather, like coral after its dead and solid, but
revived somehow in the tips of her pointed breasts.
“Yes, that will be just about right,” mistress said, when I’d
gotten Mandy up as far as the chains would allow. Then, to my amazement
and Mandy’s dismay, she pushed two pillows under Arthur’s ass to raise
his cock higher still.
Mistress introduced Arthur’s penis to Mandy's cunt. The girl had to
raise her bottom momentarily to give him room to get himself up her.
Finally it was done. A pillow was put beneath Arthur's ass and his
loins pressed up against Mandy's jutting bottom, his cock wedged inside
her, twisted back, a rather uncomfortable way to enter a girl, I would
think, though Arthur was so hard he wouldn’t have felt the pain of it, I
imagined, even if it hurt. Seeing his penis bent back like that, I
thought of twisted iron re-bar. Poor Mandy! She had the thing stuck up
inside her! She whimpered, I think it might have hurt her virginal cunt
a little. I shuddered at what she’d feel when we let the chair go!
Mandy wriggled in the chair. She could not lift herself up. She could
do little except wait for it to be released, to have Arthur sent
spinning up inside her. Yet now, it was already hurting her, from the
look on her face. A big gnarly Man’s cock, stuffed up into her little
childish twat. I gazed at her tummy to see if I could see it bulging
within her, but I could not. She trembled. Her breasts heaved with her
intake of breath, shivered when she let her breath back out again. Her
flat belly quavered.
"If you want that cock out of you, you'll have to bring it
off," mistress smiled at Mandy. The girl looked scared as we wound up
the chair for her. Arthur's cock was big and she'd practically had an
orgasm just having it put up her. The fleshy thing was greasily
revealed as we wound Mandy upward. What had been shoved up her now came
slowly out, as her cunt was lifted off him by the twirling-up of the
chair’s chains. His hairy, bulging balls were no longer squashed up
against her bottom now. Yet they still brimmed with his hot sperm.
Mandy would give herself quite a douche when she spun back down on him
and brought him off.
"Lucky for you that mistress gave you a pill yesterday," I
said. "You'd be a mother of quintuplets."
"I can feel him," Mandy gasped. "His cockhead is sliding back
down now, though it was right in my womb a moment ago!"
"You may get fertilized yet, despite the pill," mistress
teased. “He looks like he’s got a LOT of sperm in those balls.” She
smiled at Mandy. She meant no harm to the girl. She knew Mandy could
take it, though she might be a little sore afterward. It was necessary
for Mandy to become more experienced, to be opened up to cock. To learn
to take a big male member in her without compalint.
"Are you ready?" mistress asked the girl.
Mandy, legs akimbo, eyes wide, gazed up at us. She dared not
say yes. Finally, wet lipped, she managed a nod. A hesitant,
frightened nod, but a nod all the same. We let go.
"Wheeeeyaaaaah!" Mandy screamed like a small girl at some
obscene carnival as she whirled about, breasts flying, hair streaming.
We heard an immense groan below her, and then guessed Arthur had lost
control and was shooting himself up her. Wildly they meshed together,
involuntarily, and sounded like the damned in Hell as their connected
privates did what nature so wilfully intended. Gravity had never been
put to a more perverse purpose.
Mandy, I guessed, tried clamping down on Arthur’s rod to keep him from
being rammed up her. Her squeezing only served to excite him. He
thrust into her, pulsing, jetting. She clenched more, hoping somehow to
stop his dagger-like rise. They screamed and cried, drenching each
other with their love juices.
Finally the chair came to rest. It was all over in a moment, yet it
seemed an eternity while I watched, so immensely moving was it. LIke
the final minute of life for a man condemned, waiting for the firing
squad. So long in happening, yet so short in reality. Arthur’s gun
fired within her nest and they both climaxed together.
A minute later the chair hung almost motionless. Mandy’s shivers sent
it rocking slightly back and forth, but otherwise it was harmless. It
could drop no further. Arthur's cock was harmless too, now that he’d
been emptied. Snakelike, his cock began slipping down from Mandy's
purse. Arthur gave a triumphant sigh. Mandy, wet with him, looked
thankful as she felt him wither and drop down out of her. Like a
deflated worm his thing came oozily out of her, not wanting to go at the
last, the head still stuck in her. Mistress leaned forward and flicked
Arthur’s cock to free Mandy from it. With a plop his cock dropped back
down between his legs.
Mandy was too dazed to speak, as was Arthur. Lovingly we unbuckled
Mandy and lifted her bodily from the chair. Mistress and I carried her
to the sanctuary of the pillows and cast her down there. We left her to
whimper over her wounded cunt while going back to help Arthur with his
equally ravaged penis. Soon they lay in each other's arms upon the
pillows. They touched each other's genitals. They had a newfound
respect for the power of each other's privates.
Mistress and I stood and looked at one another. We were left
to our own devices once more. Naked, bodies humming, breasts soft and
full, hips flaring, lips moist. Our eyes met. There was a shared
passion in them.
"You are such a delightful pupil," mistress said admiringly.
"I don't think I've ever had one so fine as you, so obedient, yet so
daring. I'll give you your choice this time. Pick your poison, and I
will administer it with loving care."
"I should find out what's become of Kimber, of Debbi," I said
by way of protest. She did not believe me. Gracefully she took me
round the waist and led me on a little tour, pointing out the finer
aspects of each of the room's wicked furnishings. There was a chair to
splay the legs and expose the cunt as fully as possible, a prie-dieu for
displaying the bottom, a large wooden X, canted, to which one might be
tied spread-eagle.
"Would you have me play the prisoner?" she asked.
"Yes!" I gushed, with excitement and relief. "Let me be
mistress now!"
"I shall do to you whatever you do to me," she warned.
"I don't care," I said, foolishly, in thrall at the idea of
getting to play the dominant.
No sooner had we made our sinful compact than mistress was
bound helplessly on the big tilted X, nipples upthrust, her big bosoms
rising and falling with her breathing, her cunt open and available to
whatever depredations I wished for it. I strutted before her, my own
mane of blonde hair neatly combed, my makeup freshened and impeccable.
I held a riding crop twixt my breasts, upright, and licked its loop with
my tongue, considering. What delicious torments could I force this
woman to submit to? Should I don a dildo, pinch off her nipples with
clamps? She had whispered secret perversions to me while we'd lain in
bed at the general's, taunted me with all that could be done to the
female body. I'd shuddered, listening sleepily, unwillingly, yet
fascinated. Now I was boss, as I'd been briefly with the crop at the
general's, and I had a wealth of new knowledge to draw on.
Finally I chose a pair of clamps. Mistress winced and let out
a little yowl as I fastened each of them to her sprouting teats. I
tickled her. She grimaced, laughed. I diddled her clitty for awhile,
my fingers nastily inquiring of her most intimate feature, bringing her
gaspingly close to orgasm but not letting her come. After all, we had
plenty of time. Arthur and Mandy watched, languidly, their own loins
becoming pleasantly aroused at the sight of mistress' torment.
Our only purpose in being here was to stimulate each other,
again and again. Nothing interrupted, nothing intruded. We could keep
at it for as long as we liked. Perhaps eventually we would grow tired,
want the comforts of a real bed. Perhaps someday our food would run
out, or we'd become bored. But not yet. I strapped on a dildo, admired
its length, its girth. I'd never worn such before. There was a little
pouch and I filled it with cream and slung it beneath my fake cock. A
tube sticking up from the pouch fitted within a hollow passage inside
the dildo I wore. I squeezed the pouch. A shot of hot cum leapt forth,
spattered mistress' thigh.
"No, let Arthur do me," she said, arms, legs pinioned.
"I will fuck you, I am the man now," I said. My loins girded,
I strode menacingly before her, considering. Then I took my riding crop
and lashed her twice across the breasts. Her big bosoms shuddered.
"No! Not there!" mistress begged.
"Your tits will be sore tomorrow," I replied. "Be glad you
don't have to sit on them." Again I struck her, watching wild eyed as
her twin mounds bounced under the blow. They were just like the bottom,
fatty tissue, and just as lovely to see tortured. I knew I must not
strike them too hard, and played them with a certain gentleness, loving
their jiggly response to my crop. Mistress moaned and begged, looking
down occasionally, mesmerized, at her hurting titties. I plied them
with the crop for half an hour, unclamping her nipples for awhile so I
could watch them quiver. Finally, sensing she'd had enough, I pinned
the clamps back on and set about greasing myself for my entry.
Mandy, meantime, knelt on the rug with Arthur positioned behind
her. They'd agreed to fuck while I pillaged mistress with my new cock.
They waited, temptingly arranged, watching me oil my member. At last I
unclamped mistress, for my breasts would soon be against hers. She
gasped gratefully as the blood returned to her teats. I leaned forward
and kissed one, then the other. She cried out joyfully, so sensitive
had her nipples become from being imprisoned. It was amazing to me how
pain produced pleasure.
Lustily I eased myself forward. I was a toddler, unsure,
embarking on a new adventure in the world. I fitted myself within her
snatch. It resisted me at first. Behind me Mandy resisted the first
thrust of Arthur. We were all so young and tight, even mistress, she
being no more than twenty, perhaps nineteen. Only Arthur could claim to
be fully legal, a manly twenty-two, still at his sexual peak while we
toiled somewhere short of ours, though we knew it not, orgasming as
often and intensely as he.
We indulged ourselves then, in the quiet of our soundproofed
dungeon, mating obscenely, I upon mistress, Arthur sodomizing Mandy. I
worked as diligently as any male, my clitty rubbing against the strap
that came up through my legs and split my backside like a thong. Our
love seemed to last for hours. We were relaxed, unhurried. At last
Arthur shouted that he was coming and I gave mistress my own load,
artificially, squeezing my fake balls twixt my compressed thighs,
bringing my legs together to give her my all.
Casually I unbound mistress afterward, and helped her up.
"You are as good as any man," she complimented.
"Thank you," I replied. She walked stiff legged over to where
Mandy was recovering from Arthur's assault. Crumpling down, she was
welcomed by the girl, who kissed her lovingly upon the mouth. I dropped
to the floor and settled into Arthur's arms. It was a long time before
we bothered to get up again.
30
----------------------- Dreamgirls! -----------------------
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-END OF 272 EMISSION
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