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From: Andrew Roller <roller39@IDT.NET>
Subject: Love Child part 14 of 15 (NND)
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_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
LOVE CHILD
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Chapter Fourteen
The grandee’s son rose from the table. I saw that his pants
had a new visitor. Like some baby close to term, it presented itself in
a bulgingly obvious manner. Impertinent, Tiffany reached out and took
hold of his zipper.
“Tiffany!” Lisa snapped, slapping her hand. Tiffany withdrew
her hand contritely, looked up at Master.
“It will come out soon enough, Tiffany,” the grandee’s son
assured her. Machiavelli glinted from his eyes, calculating, giving her
lithe body a final inspection.
“It is the feast of flesh, Tiffany,” Lisa said to her quietly,
but just loud enough for us all to hear. In the background the grunts
and moans of the bride and groom had subsided. Sweaty, spent, they were
lifted off one another, separated. Their task was done. The peasants
had fertilized themselves. Now only the fertilization of the master
remained. If it went well, the crop would be good this year. Lisa
explained this to Tiffany, stroking her hair. She took one of Tiffany’s
breasts in her hand, weighed it, squeezed it firmly as if to express
milk through its stiffened nipple.
“To keep power, we must compromise a little,” the grandee’s son
said to Tiffany, knowing the rest of us were all ears. Slowly we began
to gather in around his table. Beyond, unnoticed by us, the “stage”
furniture was being replaced in the next room. In preparation for the
next act. The final act. “My father, once a year, presents himself to
his people and demonstrates his continuing potency by fucking a young
female. This earns him, if you will, the right to rule them. It is a
celebration of nature, and woman also, of the bounty both of them are
capable of bringing forth...MUST bring forth, if humans are to continue
on the planet.”
“You--you want ME to be the young female?” Tiffany asked. Lisa
took hold of her arms, drew them gently back. Tiffany, her back
straight, presented ripe bosoms to the son of the grandee. He reached
out and plucked each nipple with his fingers. Tiffany winced.
“You ARE the young female,” he replied. “You have no choice.
The people have seen you and expect you to be fucked--by me.”
“May I handcuff her now?” Lisa asked.
“Handcuff all of them,” the grandee’s son replied, indicating
the rest of us girls with a broad sweep of his arm.
Alas, we had little thought of escaping, save from our own
lust. The grandee’s son had played us well. On her own initiative
Cheryl followed Lisa over to the bar, watched her take handcuffs from a
drawer, asked that she be given ours! Cheryl came padding back to us
and ordered us to line up and put our hands behind our backs.
Strangely, Sylvia, who had howled so loudly in village courtyard,
presented her back to me, arms crossed above her thrusting bottom, and
asked me to “do her.” I marvelled at her courage. I took a pair of
cuffs from Cheryl’s hands and buckled them on Sylvia’s wrists. Lightly
I bent forward and kissed her on the cheek. She smiled, happy in her
captivity.
Cheryl caught both Amber’s arms. She was more wilful. A young
filly unsure of whether she wished to be broken or not. Firmly she
imprisoned the girl’s wrists behind her. And then Cheryl turned to me,
and I to her.
We giggled. Naked and free we stood, and we liked our
freedom. Our hair, our makeup was a mess, though a pretty mess. It had
a natural appeal to it, a carefree appeal. We were unencumbered by
civilized ways. We were little girls again, playing in our back yard.
I remembered a baby pool, and dashing around without my swimsuit on.
When we were little my friend and I would strip and dash about until
mommie came, warning of perverts.
With a complicitous smile I let Cheryl turn me around. We were
older now. We didn’t want to play with dollies any more. We wanted
babies...in our bellies, I realized. As she buckled me into the cuffs I
looked down at my bosoms. I wondered what they would feel like,
weighted with milk. My milk, for my baby.
I must find out! If not tonight, then soon, but perhaps
tonight?
Tiffany was standing beside Master. He would present himself
tonight, instead of his father. A passing of the baton. Or the
phallus, actually. He rubbed her bottom. She jerked as he explored too
deep between her cheeks.
Lisa cuffed Cheryl. Then she put us in a line, gradeschoolers
going to recess. Master brought out Tiffany and put her at our head.
At his command we marched out into the room where we’d flown Pretend
Air.
Our bare feet slapping the floor, we presented ourselves in
single file to the eyes of the gawking natives. We emerged from
Master’s den, from its woodpanelled safety, like babes from some
protecting womb. Our bosoms bounced springily, our step was lively.
Our flat bellies yearned to swell to the size of the Mexican ladies’,
though with young, not fat.
Before us stood four aristocratic ladies, drenched in sparkling
jewelry. They were Spanish. Their lovely dresses had been ripped open
in front to allow their bosoms to be seen. Each had a fine pair, and
the nipples were properly erected to welcome Master. Otherwise the
ladies were dressed as tastefully as one might for a formal reception;
at an ambassador’s residence, perhaps, in Mexico City, or a political
inaugural.
Their hands were sheathed in dainty black gloves, though, as if they’d
just stepped in from outside. And to my heartbeating surprise I saw
that they each held a belt. The long leather straps uncoiled towards
the floor, their ends twitching slightly.
Yet, as I kept one wary eye upon the belts, I saw that there
had been some thought at least for our comfort. Master pointed to soft
towels laid two thick upon the floor. Upon thin mattresses, I saw,
looking more closely. There were no pillows but the mattresses seemed
big enough to lie down on, if you curled up on them, anyway.
Master told us to kneel. Awkwardly we did. On our knees,
straight-backed, we had our handcuffs taken off. Lisa collected them as
Master himself unbuckled them.
“Get on your hands and knees,” Master told us. “Dip your
backs. More girls, more. Spread your legs. Apart, Barbi!” He slapped
my fanny. “Arch your backs toward the floor and lift your bottoms up
high, girls. You must be ridden. You WILL be ridden, and it will be
hard for you if you do not open yourselves up for it fully. Good,
good. You are doing all you can. Offer your pouting quims, let me see
them there between your thighs. My, how small and tight they are.
Nothing a baby could come out of, I think. Perhaps we can change that
tonight.”
His words mesmerized us. Unchained, we obeyed nonetheless. He
buckled collars around each of our necks. I flipped my hair over my
eyes, revealing all of myself to him. All except for my face, where my
overhanging blonde mane made me anonymous. But my pussy was not
anonymous. My breasts, swollen fruit hanging from the slim trunk of my
body, they were not anonymous. He gave each of us a leash, clipping it
into our collars, each one a different color. Tiffany’s was royal
purple, Cheryl’s was gold, mine was silver. Amber’s was green and
Sylvia’s bright red, a pair of Christmas ponies, perhaps; gifts from
Master to himself, six months early. He lifted our leashes to our
mouths and made us hold them between our teeth so they wouldn’t drag on
the floor.
Unable to bear the pressure of our spectacle, he had the
Spanish ladies loose just his cock from his clothing. He stood like a
little boy, penitent, while they suavely undid the confinement of his
manhood. Out it sprung, the Mexicans gasping, the girls and eye peeking
out of the corners of our eyes at it, knowing instinctively that we were
not to look. He rebuked us when he turned back to us.
“Horses do not lust after their master’s cock,” he said, but
not with excessive sternness. Then he told us he would “shoe” us. One
by one he fitted dainty lace gloves on our hands. Then he slipped knee
pads up our legs to our knees, pausing to inhale the feminine scent of
our cunnies, his face unbearably close to our privates, yet only
inspecting them as some voyeur might. We wished for a groom. A groom
and a marital bed. Yet there was only one of him, and five of us. No
man could do all five of us in one night. Would the Spanish ladies
substitute? I shivered. I hoped not. Perhaps I would be chosen, after
all, and the others would have to put up with the table scraps, not me.
With Queenly detachment I would gaze down on their plight. “Let them
fuck the cake.”
A band assembled amidst the onlookers. The people of the
village, happily getting out their hand-me-down and homemade
instruments. Merrily they began to play a Spanish dance number. Master
took Tiffany by her leash. The ladies with the straps each took one of
us. Together with Master they paraded us about the center of the room.
My big boobies hung down, swaying with carefree abandon.
Mommie would be angry. I was without my training bra. I remembered
back to when I was 12, how she accosted me if I went outside without my
bra on, my little nipples sticking up like thorns through my t-shirt
when the boys would come by to chat with me. She always said I must
wear the bra so my breasts would “grow properly.” But I guessed that
was just an old wives’ tale. Did Tarzan’s penis grow improperly in the
jungle without any jock strap? Did Cleopatra have a size A bra when she
was 12? I doubt it. Now my breasts were swinging to and fro, boldly
grown melons hanging ever so temptingly from my skinny ribbed torso.
And my bottom, oh how mommie would complain when it wasn’t properly
contained in my panties. I’d keep wearing my favorite undies even after
I’d outgrown them. They’d hold in less and less of me, and if I wore a
short skirt to talk to the boys in my bottom would almost surely bid
them goodbye when I spun about to go inside. They’d be back the next
day for sure then, their pants swelling promisingly. But I was still
too young to fuck. I just wanted to see them squirm, their cocks
bulging uncomfortably, their voices cracking as they tried to talk to me
calmly with my nipples risen and my skirt flapping sensuously in the
gentle breeze.
That’s how I felt now: sensuous. I felt lithe, alive, playing
pony girl before an audience that was absolutely in awe of me. Out of
the corner of my eye I could see the Mexican boys rubbing themselves,
furtively (you only had to look in their faces to know what they were
doing down below.) Poor lads! They wanted me but they could not have
me. I was reserved. For Master, hopefully, or someone he might
designate. But not for those poor 12 and 13 and 14 year-old-boys, no.
Their mothers, for one, would never allow it. They would have to wait,
to hope that some other girl like me might someday venture into their
deep jungle village, a girl with blonde tossing hair and white skin so
thin it barely covered my ribs. A girl with a soft wiggly bottom and
large, sweet-nippled breasts.
Around and around we pranced, on all fours but proud as young
mares might be, or young bulls in a new bullfighting ring. Would the
matador spear us? My cunny was tight. It would resist his spear. He
would have to push very hard. It would have to be driven up me
remorselessly, and I would expect him to soothe me inside with a
jettonising of his life fluid. A biologist lady on the T.V. had said
that sperm was expensive for men to produce. Well I would expect him to
spare me no expense. If he got even one inch inside me I expected full
payment. Deep long strokes, procured with difficulty, plumbing my
tightness. Only the strongest man would be able to get himself up me, I
told myself. Weaker men would be “squeezed out,” so to speak. But the
biggest cocked men, with tremendous loin power, they would break into me
and fill me. Not just my cunt but my womb also. They would flood it
with their life-giving sperm. I would bear their young for them. I
would suckle and nurse them at my nude, ripe-hanging breasts.
We were all so naked! I kept my eyes down but glanced about,
surreptitiously, admiring my nudie girlfriends. Once we’d been airline
stewardesses, smartly dressed and ultra-efficient, clattering through
airports in our high heels, always hurrying. Now we were stripped
absolutely bare, save for our “horseshoes.” Our hair was a shambles,
hanging down over our eyes. Our skin, deliciously white, seemed to glow
with a kind of innocent incandescence. There was no time here, only
feelings. Hot feelings, flashing through me, and them. Our hineys were
lifted high, saluting our hosts as we passed round in front of them,
shamelessly we offered them views we’d denied so many men. Sweet men,
gentle men, handsome men, capriciously denied by us as we flitted
through life, inconsiderate of anything but our own ever-changing whim.
Now, before strangers, before people we loathed, Master was making us
show ourselves. And in our love for him we did not mind. Even as the
ladies dropped our leashes, letting them drag between our legs on the
floor, we did not mind.
Behind us the ladies took up position. Ah! Flat and sharp a
belt comes down across my offered bottom. I give a little cry. My
breasts shake.
“Get into position on your stable mats!” a female yells. One
of the dominant females, armed with a strap. We return hastily to our
towels, spread lovingly upon the floor for us. Wiggly bottomed we kneel
as before, rotating our asses ever so sweetly. We want it now. Want
whatever is coming to us. We will accept it with equanimity. My mind a
cauldron of thoughts, I remember the other whipping. In the square. In
front of the church. Its steeple jutting upward, its spire threatening
to pierce the clouds. I remember the intense heat, the brownskinned
people, gawking, looking avidly at what should be covered, our indecent
bottoms. And I remembered nature’s gawkers too, the flies that buzzed
close to inspect our bottoms just before the rains came.
Shifting my weight from one knee to the other I wondered if
there would be any flies here, driven before a summer storm. And then I
saw the ladies take up many-thonged whips, cat o’ nine tails with tight
little knots at their tips. Alas! No, Master! Not a horde of bees on
my bottom! Curious whiskered flies in the square were bad enough.
Gently the ladies began swishing our asses with the cats, letting them
dangle down and just sweeping them slightly, back and forth, like palm
fronds on overhanging palm trees.
I gasped. I trembled. I bit my lip, feeling the soft
inquiring sweeping on my delicate fanny. I felt Amber shiver beside
me. She did not deserve a whipping, oh no, she told herself, but she
was too sensuous now, like me, to refuse. Hot breathed we watched now
as Master drew up Tiffany. Dreamy eyed she watched him. He stood her
upright on her feet as one might a nervous toddler. He told her to lift
her arms and she did, raising her hands up to the level of her nose on
either side of her face. She held them there quietly, submissively, as
rough Mexican ladies came and bound her wrists with ropes. All the
while she looked into Master’s eyes, and he into hers. I longed to be
in her place, to receive Master’s full undivided attention. I knew his
attention would soon divide her cunt lips, or perhaps her bottom
cheeks. Or maybe the lips of her mouth! Yes, I thought, almost rushing
forward and grabbing at his wonderful cock. Yes it would divide her
mouth and she would suck on it, lustily. He would scream for mercy, not
wanting to come, yet not wanting to withdraw from her either. She would
have to be careful with him up above if she wanted him down below. She
would have to succor him and yet preserve him.
Oh, Master, what awful games you play! You make sex so
long-drawn-out, worrying even slow-loving girls that the end will never
come. I watched as Tiffany was suddenly jerked upward, lifted right off
the floor! Her shock was reflected in all our faces. The crowd roared
with laughter and approval. Tiffany’s legs jerked and leapt in the air,
showing her cunny to any who cared to even glance in her direction.
Tiffany, our cool, sophisticated leader! Reduced to a strung up whore
in a meat shop! Come, Mexicans! Look at the cheesecake displayed for
you on the mats and the little bird we’ve hung up with ropes from the
ceiling. See how she twitters and pleads! See her proud titties. See
how they bobble helplessly as she twists, captive before you. Look at
her sleek legs. Yes, my Mexican women, my ever-suffering laborers, here
is your yearly prize. Here is your night of revenge and pleasure! The
tourist girls, their sunglasses torn off, their sun-shielding parasols
ripped away, their stylish clothing gone. See how white and vulnerable
they are under all that finery they like to wear. Their little panties,
their ever-so-concealing and revealing lacy bras. Their sheer blouses,
with the stiff modest-seeming collars, though all can be seen simply by
looking closely. The boobs, shifting beneath their nothing bras,
trimmed with lace but with cups of silk. Chiffon blouses with silk bras
beneath. Shaft sunlight though them and you can see the red-hued
nipples, risen perhaps, as they go down the promenade shopping, passing
the church.
Yes now the skirts and the bobby socks and the nothing bras and
blouses are gone, see how hopelessly naked they are now! Look at the
cats, their awful tips promising retribution as they caress their
bottoms. See them panting lustily. They love their Master, their
grandee, as you must love him also. They are willing to give him
everything, every part of their deliciously white bodies, as you have
already given yours for many years now.
All around me the sounds of men and women having sex began to
fill the room. Between my legs I looked, felt a sharper swish across my
bottom in response, warning me. Yet in my thigh-framed glimpse I saw
the natives finally loosing themselves from their clothing and their
restlessness. Down came the dresses of the Mexican ladies, their little
husbands eagerly disrobing beside them. Closer at hand the aristocratic
friends of the grandee had assembled, guests who ruled their own
villages and held their own festivals on separate nights, where no doubt
the grandee’s son would be in attendance soon, admiring their
showgirls. The aristocrats and their wives stood over us, admiring our
light-skinned beauty, our Anglo manes of hair softly sweeping the floor
before us, even as the cats swept our bottoms.
Gradually clothes came down around me. The aristocrats
stripped each other, each man taking another’s wife for the evening to
increase their pleasure. With gentle sighs the ladies touched their
substitute husbands and were touched in turn. Their fingers apprised
stiff-stemming cocks, sweetly indented dells. And ladies too touched
each other. “How nice to fondle your breasts and pussy again, my dear,
it has been months since we partied last.” “Yes and your bosoms are as
firm and resilient as ever my love, kiss me.”
Gently Tiffany was lowered to her feet. Mesmerized, her eyes
caught the grandee’s and she stared at him. ‘How awful you are, Sir!
Awful and ruthless and oh how I love you...’ I could almost hear her
thinking. Her lissome body, sleek limbed, trembled all over as she
regained her sense of composure, her feet once more solidly on the floor
but her arms still lofted high...she could be pulled up again any
minute. Tied, ANYTHING could happen to her! And from the look of lust
on the grandee’s face, as he returned her stare, anything just
might...almost surely would. She was nothing but his toy now, his pink
plaything. Her thighs quivering, she flexed her knees, offered her cunt
to him by pushing her crotch forward. Above her smooth belly rippled
softly, waiting to be filled.
“Naughty girl, have you no modesty?” Lisa reprimanded her. She
turned Tiffany toward the wall, walked her over to it as the rope ran
along a track above. With wobbling steps, her bottom cheeks jiggling as
she tread on tip-toe, Tiffany was led to her fate against the wall. A
soft carpet had been hung there to protect her breasts from the
roughness of the stone masonry. Lisa pressed Tiffany against the furry
wall hanging, a bear skin I think it was, imported from Alaska.
Tiffany shuddered. All of us did, watching her, all of us on
our knees. The twisting leathern thongs of the cat cascaded with light,
menacing sparkles over my upturned peach. Wrist twisting, flicking ever
so casually, the woman at my rear gave me a teasing taste of what I
feared would be much sterner stuff soon. Before me Tiffany stood, Lisa
pressing her fingers to the girl’s bare waist. She lifted Tiffany’s ass
with her slim-fingered hands gripping her waist.
“Offer your pumpkin,” I heard her murmur. Tiffany stuck out
her bare white hiney even as Master selected a whip from the wall. A
cat, its thongs braided into fearsome cords, its ends tipped with
sharp-pointed knots. The leather had been carefully cut and prepared by
master craftsmen, Lisa told Tiffany as the girl glanced back over her
shoulder and gasped. Master struck at the floor, practising. Lisa
brushed Tiffany’s hair with her hands and parted it. She pushed it over
the girl’s shoulder’s, baring her back. Tiffany shook her head and
replaced it over her back. Oh, if only it ran down farther and could
cover her bottom! I thought. At a word from Master, Lisa piled
Tiffany’s hair loosely atop her head. An aristocrat woman gave her a
clip and she secured it. Now all of Tiffany could be touched by the
whip, kissed with its handmade leather. Her white body shivered from
head to toe. Master spoke again. Lisa drew the girl out, away from the
wall, turned her so that she could be seen both front and back by us and
the crowd. Master strode to a new spot, behind her again, but with a
mirror on a far wall reflecting her front to him.
Tiffany bit her lip. Her breasts heaved as she prepared
herself for her erotic punishment. There was no crime, no charges to be
read. Yet I felt it my bones her whipping would be a severe one. And
mine too! Every stroke Master gave Tiffany would be repeated across my
fundament. Carefully, precisely. I glanced back at my Mistress and saw
the studiousness in her face. She would not spare me, nor give me more
than Tiffany got. With admiring eyes she watched Master, looked at me,
nudged me with her boot to make me turn around.
“Face forward, eyes down,” she reminded me. Then, at Master’s
command, she lay down her cat and assisted in my “buckling.” With
soothing words, false comforting words, she helped the Mexican ladies
manacle my wrists in steel cuffs and secure them with bolts to the
floor. The other girls were secured also, “helpfully,” my Mistress
said, to help us take what was coming. When I was bound she caressed my
hips, the flanks of my thighs, measuring me for her handiwork. Then she
stood and glanced at the other Mistresses. Master was ready.
Lisa put the finishing touches to Tiffany’s imprisonment. She
was trussed with her legs wide apart, her toes turned prettily inward.
Master seemed to marvel at her beauty even as he contemplated how he
would tarnish it. Secure in my metal bracelets I watched, my fanny
offered up to my Mistress. She shivered the thong tips over my bottom,
testing my mettle. I wanted to scream, to plead and beg to be let up.
But it would only earn me far worse treatment from her, I knew. At
Master’s direction, no less. He was in charge of us all. Would I act
up, just for his attention? Just to take his eyes off Tiffany?
Ritual-like, Master came over to each of us. He patted each of
us on our heads as we knelt, dog-like, in his presence. I kissed his
shoe. He patted my head again. Lastly he went to Tiffany. Deftly he
put a hand between her legs and fingered her cunny. She whimpered,
twisting in her bonds. She squirmed atop his seeking fingers, wishing.
He withdrew his hand, sniffed it, found the scent agreeable. Then he
strode back and took up position behind her to give her what she so
richly deserved.
Five white American girls, their unprotected bottoms wiggling
lewdly in a display of fine ass flesh. We were about to taste a really
severe whipping, I knew. We’d come for it. Not knowing, not
understanding, yet deep down, primally, wanting to be violated in some
significant way. Wanting to escape our cosseted suburban lives. Here,
in the jungle, we would joust with Nature herself, our soft round
bottoms verses her man-wielded thongs. And prongs. Hardness and
stiffness and sharpness against our pinkly swelling asses, our absorbing
little cunts and buttholes. But we were weary of sensitive 90’s men,
caged and castrated by laws on sexual harassment and statutory rape.
Here there were only Nature’s men, unrestrained by civilized “laws.”
Here we would match them blow for blow, and in the end win out, their
life juices drained away by our inviting holes. We would leave with
their juice in us and go back to our other lives, dainty stewardesses
guiding men on planes, saying “yes” and “no” and “maybe so, but right
now I must shampoo.” Come back when my hair is combed and set and then
I will contemplate your offer, if I haven’t become bored with it already
by then.
Oh, how my bottom would hurt tomorrow! It would require
endless attention, creams delicately applied, perfumes gently sprayed.
Just to sit would be a nightmare, yet here I was, my bottom untouched,
big and wide-spreading and able to do whatever I wished with it. I
could plop it down anywhere, save on nettles, without a care or a second
thought. I could go hiking with it, or skiing, or I could take it to a
NOW convention and sit with the ladies. But tomorrow! How delicate I
would be then, wincing and simpering, begging people not to touch it,
even to graze it with their fingertips, lest they hurt me. I would be a
Japanese doll then, fragile and delicate beyond measure. No longer a
“take charge” Western girl, but an Eastern girl, oh so sensitive,
deferential, knowing my place and sitting in it lest someone give my
poor bottom an unwanted touch. At my rear, so boldly offered now, the
cat tickled. It would transform me. I would become a Geisha girl. I
would live in a tall-standing Pagoda and study Confucius. He would be a
hard master, but I would obey willingly. Bravely I thrust up my bottom,
relishing my last moments of proud defiance. I saw Tiffany too,
sticking her ass right out at Master, taunting him with it. See how
lovely and white my bottom is, Mexican ladies. The pretty bottom of
Europa mooning the inferior, slavish races. See my Aryan ass and kiss
it.
“No!” Tiffany’s cry pierced the air, plaintive, unwilling. My
reverie broke and I saw that Master had accorded her her first
ass-stinging, butt reddening stroke. Inswirling knots had graced her
pale loveliness and left their prints behind.
And now me! With attentive eyes, my Mistress carefully copied
Master’s stroke and gave my bottom the same.
“Ooooh!” I lurched forward in my bonds, bound at the knees and
at the wrists, my legs fixed wide by a spreader bar that ran along
behind me, across my towel. And below my hanging face, gazing
floorward, a second spreader bar ran over my towel and held my wrists in
place.
“Offer your bottom properly,” Mistress warned me. I dipped my
back reluctantly, not so eager to show off my ass to the Mexican ladies
anymore. Tiffany too needed reminding, she curved her back inward,
pressing her belly toward the floor, angling it downward as she jutted
her ass out, shyly now, not wantonly as before.
HISSSS! No sooner had she offered her peach than Master gave
it its second rebuke, loving how she waggled it about ruefully. And he
told her to stick it out again for more, always she must stick it out
again for more. I wept as my own bee-stung bottom suffered the same
assault.
‘Please Master it is enough,’ I wanted to shout. ‘I’ve learned
my lesson now. I won’t think naughty thoughts about teasing the Mexican
ladies with my bottom.’
But again the ass-firing cords came in, scorching our fannies,
making us buck and rear and shake our bloated, gourd-like titties.
Fruit on slim vines so heavy it might drop off, might stick its
stiff-nippled thorns right into the carpet below us.
“Ah! Not again!” Tiffany yelped, feeling the bristling cords
strike her all over her offered peach. It was splotched in many places
now with pink, little splotches, each from one of the tiny wicked
knots. Again Master lashed her, again she shook and shivered and led
the way for us, quickly following with our own cries.
All around me now I heard the calls and moans of people having
sex. In close, the aristocrats, their copulations inspired by my
suffering. Farther out, the Mexican laborers, their grunts and
ululations summoning some jungle rutting ritual in my mind. Beasts and
monkeys must be there, amidst their coarse bodies, fucking with them.
It was the season of estrus and they were all exchanging their
interchangeable genes.
Ah, me! Again the cursed cords, scalding my superior stuck-up
thoughts, chasing them away. We poor white girls wouldn’t have anything
left of our hides tomorrow, I could tell, they could read our minds and
were beating us for our snootiness. Mall rats, brats from America, come
down south to ask forgiveness for leading sheltered, wealthy lives while
half the world starved.
“Eeek!” Amber yelled. A woman had slid under her and caught
one of her risen nipples in her mouth. It did not abate the whipping.
Down came the cords again on her fanny, and mine also, making us buck
and rear. The woman sucked vigorously on Amber’s tits, milking them
hard, and the poor girl could do nothing to stop her. At the woman’s
crotch her husband fed in her dell, inspiring her. Helplessly Amber
looked down at her soft hanging tits, now gripped and squeezed and
manhandled ruthlessly by the aristocratic woman beneath her. The woman
was used to using things up and throwing them away. Cars, men, the
luscious breasts (prettier than her own) of virgin American girls. New
girls in the jungle with too-white bodies and impossibly seductive
curves. Well, these were a pair of curves that would be thoroughly
worked over, yes indeed, they would spout babies’ milk when she was
through with them. No pregnancy was needed, just vigorous suckling and
squeezing.
The indriving knots scalded me again. Oooh! What a score of
stingers! Those wicked little knots could find me ANYWHERE, even within
my soft crevice. Like a frightened horse I tried to bolt from my stable
of chains. I dreaded the touch of the knots against my anus! It was so
sensitive, the tenderest flesh, tissue flesh, and every swathe of the
bitter knots opened me up back there. As my heinie squirmed madly, my
cheeks flexing open and closed, reacting to the pain, I knew I’d get hit
right on my rosehole before the night was through.
I looked up at Tiffany, tears wetting my face, to try to assess
the damage to my own bottom. Alas! She had stopped looking back over
her shoulder at Master. No longer was she playing the sweet, inviting
captive. She couldn’t afford to. All her attention was focused on her
bottom now, she was nothing but a burning bottom. Her eyes were
squinched shut, her chin uptilted. Squeezing her darling cheeks tightly
together, she tried to reduce the target area of her ass.
SPLAT! Another blow, echoed on my own fundament, sending me
forward in a gritting whine. As I reeled under the force of my own pain
I glimpsed Tiffany’s cheeks bounding wide, showing her little hole to
Master, offering it to him, a bullseye. He would find it irresistible
before the night was done, I knew. He was too cruel not to give her one
right up her fanny before it was over. Though she might leave him one
day, seeking out other friends, she would talk about it for years to
come. And when a woman asked her, in polite but intimate conversation,
perhaps over tea, “Have you ever gotten a bee up your bonnet, dear?”
Tiffany would know precisely what she meant.
“The horses must be watered,” Master said, dropping his cat to
his side for a moment. As we continued to rotate our bottoms
shamelessly, still in shock from the pain, a cup of brandy was brought
to each of our Mistresses, and to Master.
“poor darling, am I hurting you?” My mistress asked me. She
lowered the cup to my mouth and urged me to drink it. She stroked my
hair. I slurped up the offered liquor, which promised to serve as a
mild anesthetic. Or so I thought. Later I learned it was mostly hot
water, but I drank it greedily, praying it would get me through my
ordeal. Mistress seemed genuinely solicitous of me, kissing my hair
softly and whispering encouraging words to me. But of course she could
do nothing to lessen the blows. She must copy Master exactly.
“If you like I can clamp your nipples,” Mistress asked me.
“The pain in your teats might help to take your mind off your bottom.”
She pinched one of my nipples to demonstrate. I winced, new tears
welled in my eyes.
“No,” I breathed. “Just let me up. Let me go.”
“Shhh! You know that’s not possible!” Mistress said. “I won’t
report you, but don’t ask again. You have a lovely bottom and I don’t
want to see it harmed any more than it has to be.” She kissed me.
“Besides, I know you want to be a big girl. A grown woman. What do you
think this is like compared to the pain of childbirth? You must prepare
for it, darling. And anyway you have an absolutely adorable bottom.
You must expect all your boyfriends to want to give you a good spanking
on it. To see your little cheeks squeeze and pop apart, mmm,
delightful! You look so silly, waggling your ass around.” She kissed
me again. I let the tears run freely down my face. I was helpless. My
bottom glowed with pain and a kind of radiating pleasure. Please, God!
Help me get through this! Don’t let me be a big baby. Ah, how I wanted
to be laid on the smooth sheets that I knew waited for me upstairs. To
be complimented and told how good I’d been. How very good. The cool
lovely sheets with the misty morning air filtering through the window as
Mexican ladies prepared salves for me. For my ass flesh. My adolescent
puppy fat. What I had and they hadn’t had for years and years. And how
I held it so carelessly! I’d lain by the pool, sunning myself in new
bikinis bought by Master in the finest stores. He’d pick them out and
have them specially delivered for me. I’d string them on, barely
covering myself (not wanting to) and prance about all day like some
spoilt child. And yet I knew of his dark yearnings. I knew he was like
this, a sadist, yet I hadn’t run, hadn’t hidden myself away somewhere in
the jungle, or even within his giant house. Hadn’t even tried. Perhaps
he was waiting for that. Waiting to let me go if only I’d asked. But
instead I let him spoil me, fatten me for this wicked love fest.
And now, my bottom cheeks bulging, blushing red, he was cooking
my heinie right in front of the Mexicans. Basting my shameless ass just
as if it belonged to some Turkey! I looked at Tiffany. All of her was
pristine white, save her bottom, which glowed bright red. We’d lain
outdoors, “sunning” ourselves in the shade. We were decadent. Wearing
skimpy bikinis that served no purpose if you weren’t exposing yourself
to the sun. We may as well have lain on the chaise lounges in shorts
and t-shirts, modestly. But no, we wore little bikinis of delicate
cashmere. If you swam even a few laps in them they would fall apart.
This despite regulation swim suits that lay in our drawers, upstairs in
our bedroom. Master denied us nothing. If we wanted to swim laps, if
we wished not to display ourselves to the Mexican ladies, athletic
one-piece swim suits waited. But we always selected his “boudoir
bikinis,” as he liked to call them, though you could find them lately
even on American beaches. He disapproved of them, he said, but since we
were in the privacy of his home he would not deny them to us...he would
make sure we could dress as well here as we could in America. He
ignored the fact that I’d grown up in Buenos Aires. I’d gone to a
diplomat’s school for American children. That made me an American. And
he dismissed my “service” with the Argentine government out of hand. I
had been a toy for them just as I was now a toy for him, no more. It
certainly didn’t make me a Mexican lady! No, I was American, and
Tiffany too, even though she flew out of Columbia a lot. He wanted us
to be American girls, and we were as white and spoiled as any American
girls could be. So we were getting the stars and stripes laid across
our bottoms. Yes, he wanted bona fide American girls, and we would
confess to being true blue Americans, that we would--his cat would make
us do that very handily.
As refreshed as any slave girls might ever hope to be, we
watched as Master took up his cat again. Tiffany, gazing now over her
shoulder, but with her bottom cheeks desperately huddling, her crack a
fine line, begged him to let us off.
“I have already,” he replied, polite and gentlemanly in his
demeanor. “Normally we bring in five fine prison gaolers to administer
the flagellation. Hard men with a steely grip on the rod who delight in
flaying their victims alive. But this year I decided to show mercy, at
least for my first celebration. I brought in dommes, experts at sexual
torture rather than outright punishment. And I practised long hours on
horses’ rumps to perfect my stroke, so I would not needlessly injure
you. Ah, you should have seen those poor horses! We had to shoot three
of them to put them out of their misery. Fine racing horses, too. But
I convinced my father that you girls were worth the expense. You would
not have me disappoint him, would you? Wiggle your bottom, perform for
me a little.”
“But it HURTS!” Tiffany cried.
“Of course! We must have some enjoyment out here in the
jungle, far from the city’s pleasures. What better than half-a-dozen
stuck up white girls getting their heinies whipped? Stick out your
bottom, girl. Even the Mexican lasses we usually use show more courage
than you do.”
I was really afraid now. But Tiffany, hesitating, debating
within herself, finally arced her back inward and offered her bulbing
bottom. With her toes turned in it presented the most feminine
spectacle, already polished as bright as an apple, yet willing to suffer
more. She couldn’t keep it still, it hurt so much, yet she pushed it
out at Master with a rudeness I feared she might be scolded for!
“Please don’t mistreat it,” she said, glancing down at her
swollen cleft orb. “Please don’t hurt it too much. I-It’s the only one
I’ve got!”
“I will do what I must,” Master replied sternly. “It is the
feast of the flesh.”
With ever-rotating bottoms we watched, breathless and scared,
as Master swept in again, a long curving stroke that caught Tiffany on
the underside of her ass. With a curdling scream she leapt up to the
very tips of her toes, her feminine bottom clenching, releasing,
wobbling like jello. The Mexican ladies, even the aristocrats laughed
at her. We girls, kneeling, got our due seconds later.
Four high-pitched screams shattered the room. Our pussies!
We’d been caught right on our seductively offered pouches. Hoping to
inspire Master to lay down his whip and fuck us, we’d each gotten
instead a bee. It went zooming right up our pussy hive. It tasted our
sweet honey, robbed us of some of it. Master caught up the whip when it
returned to him and smelled the cords, finding the wet one.
The uncoiling had been swift and light. But the shock of the
violation, and the undeniable sting, left us sobbing openly. We were no
longer brave maidens anymore. We were babies. We had sore bottoms and
needed them powdered. We were submissive. We hung our heads and cried.
In came the awful tips again. Tiffany, struck, let her sobs
burst forth now, shaking her bosoms. Big heavy sobs, unrestrained,
humiliating. A big girl now, with big girl crying to do.
Casting aside the cat, Master could restrain himself no
longer. We had been broken, I saw, made to blubber, and that was going
to have to be enough for the Mexican ladies. Let them stage their own
entertainments. Let them find their own American girls to give bees up
the ass to. I sighed, relieved, and I heard Mistress sigh behind me.
As Master cupped Tiffany’s bottom in his insistent fingers she took hold
of mine. She attempted to control my squirmings.
“There, there, you have survived, darling,” Mistress cooed
behind me. “Your beauty has saved you. Now you must simply be fucked
and then it will be over.”
I froze. FUCKED? My ass was on fire. The last thing I wanted
now was the burr of some hairy man’s loins pressed up against my fanny.
“No, please!” I sobbed. But I was mistaken. Mistress herself
would do me, her silken belly to my silky bulb. With our pussies still
smarting from our bee bites we would have to be taken up the ass.
Oh, I did not want a woman forcing a fake cock up my poor,
swollen bottom! Over unintelligible sniffles I wept my protest.
Mistress had heard such before, in previous years, from other girls.
She understood without hearing. She’d known I’d complain about this
from the very first moment.
“Shhh, dear. The festival of flesh is, for you and the Master,
one of pleasure only. No children may come of it. Watch and you will
see Master fuck Tiffany up the ass.” She spoke softly, reassuringly.
And, kneeling behind me, she opened a pot of cream and began lubing a
big rubber dick. “Go ahead,” she urged. “I saw you stealing looks
before but did not give you harder cuts for it.”
With her encouragement I gazed straight at Tiffany, trying to
ignore what was happening behind me. My bottom blazed in the air,
untouched for the moment. Thankfully it was unscarred, I knew, seeing
the state of Tiffany’s. But it was a bright red rising sun big enough
to lead the Japanese army to victory. They would spear me with their
banzai charge.
The grandee reminded his son to let each of the aristocratic
women suck his cock prior to its insertion in Tiffany. He seemed
slightly miffed that we had not received our full due from the cats. He
would have seen us wealed and bruised.
I think all of us prayed to God then to get us out of this
place at the first possible moment. We had gone too far, risked too
much. Play had come too close to torture. We had chosen a Master in an
offhand way, letting a drug lord pamper us silly and treat us like
goddesses. We’d loved every minute of it but we’d been too oblivious.
Even the warning delivered to our bottoms in the square we’d let slide
by us. He’d spoiled us so deliciously afterward, we’d almost wanted to
be beaten again.
Yes, we’d wanted it. For itself and for what came afterward.
We would be beautiful dolls forever and ever, never growing old, always
the favorite pets of our Master. Always young and healthy, always
toying with pregnancy and never quite going all the way with it. But
now we knew only the chance slip of the grandee’s son coming to power
had saved us. He was still young and romantic, merciful. He could not
bear to spoil us. But the old man would have. He was old. He would be
like the king who had all his wives and mistresses buried with him when
he died.
Yes God, let us get through with this. Let us do our duty and
be gone. We would flit away in the night. I knew we could do it,
somehow. A good cock-sucking, applied to a guard, would get us a van.
By morning when they found him all tied up we’d be back
on...well...maybe not Dungeon Air again. No, I think we were all
through with letting arbitrarily chosen men be our masters. We were
just a little older now.
Vainly Tiffany thrust back her bottom, lifted the tight red
ball, offering the pouch of her dell. Despite her bee sting she did not
want to take him up the ass. She was too new, she said, and he was too
big. Master grinned at her, the Mexican ladies still licking his cock
into hugeness. Big globs of pre-cum anointed their noses.
“Next year I will give you girls much harder bee stings in your
pussies,” Master said. “You should not want anything going up your
pussy at all. You should beg to be taken in the ass, no matter how big
I am.”
“I told you, son!” the senior grandee called from the
sidelines.
“I will not let them get away with it next year,” the junior
assured his father.
“You value them too much,” the elder grandee replied.
Despite the offering of her fig, wet and seductive, the grandee
could not take her there. If she were to get pregnant it would make her
too practical, just another workhorse for the grandee. This the
Mistress explained quietly to me, buckling herself in and showing me
with relish the big cock I must somehow take up my ass. She knelt by my
face, told me to kiss the tip. Softly I extended my tongue, touched it
lightly. It was black and cold and covered with grease.
“You are special,” Mistress said. “You are like a sacrificial
lamb, you know. An exotic pet. Be proud that you’ve found a gentle
master and do not fear for next year’s plans. You’ll be a year older
then, and well trained. You will take it easily.” I gazed up at her,
down at the cock intended for my ass. For a moment I forgot Tiffany.
My own plight seemed worse.
“You know you cannot get that big thing of yours up my ass,” I
told Mistress frankly. We were communicating girl to girl. Surely she
knew my limitations. I was 15, for God’s sake.
“Don’t worry, I’m well trained in popping open young girls,”
she replied just as frankly. “Would you like some more brandy?” There
was a bottle nearby and she took it, poured some of its contents in a
glass. All this she did on her knees, never having to do anything more
than twist about to find what she wanted. There were discarded glasses
and half empty bottles everywhere. The orgy of the aristocrats had been
well provided for. Most of them now lay contentedly around us, watching
our fate proceed as they dallied with one another’s genitals. Even poor
Amber had finally had her breasts released, though a second woman now
sucked just the nipples very lightly. They were miraculously as young
and well-formed as ever, despite the rough handling, though I thought I
detected some light bruising. Amber hung her head passively, waiting,
as her own Mistress prepared to invade her. Amber was drunk with
brandy. I wanted to be too.
Mistress gave me the glass and I drank every drop, losing only
a little.
“There, that will help,” she said. She placed the glass on the
floor and waddled back behind me, going on her knees with her fake cock
leading the way. Gently she prised apart my bottom cheeks, making me
howl at her touch. “I’m sorry,” she smiled. “I’ll try to handle your
sensitive skin as little as possible.” She wedged the nose of the big
dick right up against my anus. We were waiting now, waiting for
Master. He still dallied with the ladies.
Teasingly Mistress jabbed me with the cock, stroking the
insides of my thighs but keeping her hands off my bottom. I felt like I
had a bolt stuck up against me back there, attached to some kind of
crossbow. Master would pull the trigger.
“Oh, how I would have loved to sting your little hole,”
Mistress said to me gaily. She bumped my nether opening with her
cockhead, eager to get inside me. “Master was too good to you girls.
But I don’t blame him. You are so lovely, so pretty.” She grasped my
hips with both her hands, sizing me up, ready to break into me at the
first hint of permission from Master.
The women finished laving Master’s cock. Glistening with the
saliva from all their mouths, he presented it to Tiffany’s rear. She
glanced back at it. Her eyes were wide with apprehension. Yet she
could not take her gaze off it. She was mesmerized.
Master approached to the point where Tiffany, strain her head
as she might, could no longer observe his manhood. It was too close
now. She would have to switch senses. Touch, right where she didn’t
want to feel anything...
IN her precious hole! It happened suddenly, brutally. Like
some stuck pig she squealed, and he showed her just as little mercy as
the farmer at christmas, providing for his family.
And then me! My cheeks split wide as Mistress forced her way
into me. Right up me she went, sparing me not. I whooshed out my
breath and bulged my eyes. I felt like I had no air in me. Deeper she
urged her thing, just like Master was doing to Tiffany. She copied him
in every respect. And Master was avaricious.
Tiffany must have thought her bottom was going to burst,
because she shrieked at the top of her lungs and writhed like a snake.
But then, amazingly, I saw her transformed.
Perhaps to lessen the discomfort, the pain, she decided to
absorb it. She began humping her bottom to the grandee madly. He
almost came to a dead stop in his own urgings, he was so surprised.
With quick, desperate thrusts Tiffany impaled herself on him, bumping
her bottom back against him, forcing his spike-like cock deeper and
deeper into herself.
Yes, she was tired of being so tight. She wanted to be able to
take men easily in her rectum. The time for girlish games of chastity
and abstinence had passed. She was a woman, 23-years-old, and she must
learn to take men as they wished to take her.
All of us felt a rush of inspiration, watching her. To
Mistress’ surprise I began forcing myself back on her, bouncing my ass
remorselessly against her thing. My hole screamed for pity but I gave
it none. Amber, too, began humping violently, and together with Tiffany
we split our cheeks wide upon the offered cocks.
Finally Master regained the initiative. Working with Tiffany,
helping her take him absolutely to the very last inch of his organ, he
fucked her. And when he came he gushed and flexed his hips and squeezed
his buns mightily, as if to propagate all his sons in her this one
night. Yes, her ass would bear his children! Cain and Abel and all of
his sons. There would be no need of a womb. The heat of her ass would
suffice, and the spewing ravenousness of his cock.
Mistress took me with a vengeance now, making me have every
inch of her. I burst into tears, wanting to accept her fully and yet
nearly exploding apart in my backside from all the indriving pressure
there. At last, gleefully, squeezing the pouch under her dildo, she
spurted hot cream into me. I did my best not to resist. We would make
a Pillsbury doughboy from it. Our own little baby, hers and mine.
Rutting like cows with steers we finished the course. Five
girls, all from America, raped in the Mexican jungle. Chained,
possessed, claimed by strangers we barely knew. Yet we had been
complicitous. We were like butterflies who flitted about a candle
flame, knowing well we might be burned. And our asses did burn,
woefully so, as we limpened in our captors’ grasp and finally fell into
complete exhaustion.
Master held himself into Tiffany. He did not want to let go of
her, ever. She shuddered limply against him. Her white body against
his sturdy brown one. Mistress held me firmly, her thing still up me,
rigid as ever. As last, utterly depleted, Master withdrew himself.
There was so much cum up Tiffany’s hole that it ran out. An aristocrat
lady, desperate that none of Master’s seed should be wasted, dashed up
to Tiffany. Eagerly she lapped the overflowing cum from Tiffany’s legs
and bottom.
30
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