Message-ID: <1210eli$9706041413@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/Year97/1210>
Path: qz!news.accessus.net!not-for-mail
X-Path-Preload: news.accessus.net preloaded to thwart rogue canceller there
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam
Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
From: Andrew Roller <roller39@IDT.NET>
Subject: Private Places part 2 of 7 (NND)
---------------------------------------------------------------
PROBLEMS? Please try viewing this with Netscape Navigator.
---------------------------------------------------------------
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
PRIVATE PLACES
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Chapter Two
The rainstorm had passed when we went downstairs for brunch.
Barbi and I hung our bikinis out on the clotheslines. We found we were
the only ones in the house, save for master. The other girls, seeing
master was busy, his bedroom locked, had gone out shopping.
“More of my money going down the drain for females,” master
whined. He was dressed now, we’d helped him. Barbi and I strolled
about naked, wearing just heels. She’d found some that fit me. Master,
apparently, had gotten a pair for me yesterday, just in case I stopped
by again...
“Sell more drugs, dear. Then you can buy us nice things all
the time,” Barbi answered. Her eyes were careless. I think she knew a
little bit what we were getting ourselves into. I saw that she drank
more champagne at brunch, even offering me some, but I just sipped a
little. It didn’t taste very good to me, to be honest. Master insisted
it was the highest quality, which I’m sure it was. He seemed not to
mind that I didn’t drink more of it, though. Barbi, for her part,
seemed intent on getting downright drunk. “And don’t think our trip to
your lady friend’s is going to be inexpensive,” she told him. Master
frowned.
“I’m trying to cut back expenses,” he mused. “But for you,
there can be no curtailment, at least in respects to your training.”
“No gaoler from the central prison, for a few pesos an hour?”
she asked. She poured more champagne into her lips and tossed her hair,
as if trying to forget, or not speculate.
“Would you prefer that?” he asked. He glanced at her. They
were like a couple, having a spat.
“It would get it over with quicker,” she replied. I felt like
I should leave, and let them finish their little argument alone. Yet,
wherever Barbi was going, I was going too! It was downright scary, now
that I was thinking about it. I’d heard a story now and then at school,
of a woman who pampered and ‘trained’ young females. Of course, I’d
dismissed it out of hand, thinking it something the boys had dreamed up
in the locker room. But could such a place really exist? I was like
the Curious Cat, willing to court danger just to find out.
“I’ll go check on our bikinis,” I announced, rising from the
table. Master glanced up, nodded. Barbi drank again from her
champagne.
Out in the sunshine I let the bright rays fall upon my skin. I
felt warm, happy. I was free of my mother and (truth to tell) my father
too, and their endless watchfulness. For the first time in my life I
was experiencing the world on my own terms. And I had a man in my life,
self-selected, with whom I could tryst, or argue, as Barbi seemed to
sometimes do. We might dream together, or plan together, or he might
just Take me, and use me as his lust required.
I watched two birds, a male and female, flitting back and forth
from their nest. One leaving, the other staying awhile, then the second
leaving when the first returning. Yet, even apart, they were together
somehow, thinking of each other. I crept closer and saw a baby bird,
chirping madly, with two powder blue eggs nestled beside it, waiting to
hatch, slumbering still, waiting to meet mom and dad, not knowing yet
that their parents even existed, or that they would one day wish to be
free of them, no matter how religiously they were fed.
Tip-toeing back into the house I heard Barbi sobbing softly. I
entered the kitchenette and saw them sitting there, breakfast done, with
Barbi just regaining her seat as she served master and herself some
strawberry pie. There was a slap mark on her right cheek. Her hair was
tousled, but she brushed her fingers through it, straightening it.
“Are you okay?” I asked Barbi. She glanced up at me. It was
as if I was just her child, inquiring, half-ignored.
“Yes, dear,” she answered. “It’s all part of growing up,” she
said mysteriously. Master surveyed her with a newly acquired sense of
ownership. Sitting down now, with the pie in front of her, she
impulsively leaned over to him and kissed him. He seized her breast and
squeezed it. I felt uncomfortable, unwanted. I almost made a scene,
doing anything, to get the attention back on me, but I controlled
myself. At last they parted.
“Come, eat your pie,” Barbi told me. I saw there was a piece
for me as well as for the two of them.
“Are your bikinis dry?” master asked me.
“Almost!” I answered. My voice was high, sweet. Wriggling
delightedly now that I was back at the center of things, I sat down in
my chair and ate with feigned self-consciousness as master stared at my
jiggling breasts and my long, silky-soft mane of hair, so neatly combed,
so free and uninhibited, a girl’s hairstyle, falling down over the sides
of my breasts and threatening to cloak my nipples. I brushed my hair
back so master’s view wouldn’t be blocked. Barbi was as naked as I. I
preferred that, given a choice of breasts, he chose mine to admire.
We fetched our bikinis from the washline after breakfast. We
left the plates on the table; a maid would come in the afternoon to
clean them, tidy up, find panties behind chairs and (perhaps) a condom
or two on the floor.
Master made us tie on our bikinis with the greatest care. “You
must look your very best,” he told us. “This lady doesn’t just accept
any girls. Only the fairest are allowed. Do your hair and nails now
too, and see that her makeup is done, Barbi, not much, just enough to
highlight her features and let everyone know she’s an older girl now,
ready for love.”
I blushed. Barbi led me into a bathroom. There were always
makeup things in each of the bathrooms in master’s house, even his
rented homes, lest girls needed to tidy up to keep looking their best
for him. Of course, since he seemed to prefer only the finest girls (at
least in my opinion!) such things as makeup were little more than
frills, but who was to deny a pretty girl her indulgences? We did our
makeup in our bikinis, closing the door so we could tantalize him with
the enforced privacy. When we emerged, he beamed at us. Two girls in
nothing but bikinis, with their nails impeccable and their faces freshly
painted, their hair glossy and glowing, are a sight to behold! He
ushered us out front to his limo before he succumbed to the need to take
us right there, outside the bathroom door!
Master drove us himself. He had lost his chauffeur in the war
with Ms. Tuppence. We sat obediently up front with him, bouncing along
in our bikinis, causing a stir at every stoplight we passed. At last we
gained the countryside, where we could travel in peace amidst quiet
two-lane roads.
We came to a little village. Master drove in amidst its neat
streets and well-clipped lawns. “She’s moved since last I visited her,”
he mumbled, glancing around. At last he found her house. There was a
drive that allowed us to pull back behind it, so we wouldn’t be seen
going in.
I emerged from the limo and found myself amidst an apple
orchard. The big trees cast dappled patterns on my white skin. Barbi
got out behind me, took my hand, squeezed it.
“We’re here!” she said with feigned brightness.
“Have you been here before?” I asked her.
“No, silly! I got my training...elsewhere,” she answered. She
lifted her chest, seemed to walk with newfound poise. I did my best to
imitate her. The blush on her cheek from her slapping was almost gone.
Master, locking the limo, trailed behind us, caught up at last. We
walked some distance through a small forest of trees. I wanted to pick
an apple and eat it but master told me not to.
“From now on, don’t say anything, and try to keep your eyes
lowered,” Barbi said quietly to me. We followed a little path of glazed
rock, a kind of futura-stone walkway, through the hushed forest of
trees. At last, quite suddenly, the house emerged. Perhaps we’d walked
no more than a minute, but it had seemed much longer to me, with each
tree seeming to stand in warning against my treading further. Yet I’d
gone on, my master behind me.
There, sitting quietly at a table, reading a book by Emily
Post, was the proprietress of Abandon Gardens, as it was called.
Apparently some Spaniards had named it. They’d made a last stand here
against rebelling Indians. The Indians had won, the Spaniards, despite
all their finery, their guns and knowledge, had fled back to the sea in
the face of the naked Indian onslaught. I think the next day the
Spaniards returned, reinforced, and slaughtered all the Indians for
their insolence to their masters, but ever-after this place, as Barbi
had whispered to me in the car, was known as “Abandon Gardens,” as a
warning to those who would try to paper over their primal urges with
refinement and civility.
Lady Highbourne put down her book. She glanced up at master,
did not look at Barbi or myself at all. I found her imposing, yet I
wished perhaps to be like her someday. Master seemed almost a boy in
her presence.
“I hear your credit is not what it used to be,” Lady Highbourne
said calmly to master. She took a puff on a cigarette that she held in
a long ivory holder. Her hair was blonde as summer, with glorious
breasts set high on her chest, yet she wore a dark, severe dress, as if
about to embark on a funeral procession. Her neck, I saw, in contrast
to ours, was free of any collar or adornment.
“I’m good for this,” master answered. He fidgeted. Barbi and
I did the same, except we felt doubly naked under her steely eyes, for
we wore nothing but the tiniest, most alluring bikinis. Master at least
had his elegant business suit on. Her eyes looked him over, up and
down. Then she flitted her eyes across our tummies, our hips, our
breasts, as if examining meat, skipping our faces, as if to look at us
face-to-face would be like God deigning to greet Eve.
“Have them turn around,” Ms. Highbourne told master. With
flushing faces, perhaps even blushing right down to our bottoms, we
turned about and let her see our asses. They were covered by just the
flimsiest of seats. Panties aren’t what they used to be. But they
weren’t thong bikinis, instead they seemed naughtier, trying to hide our
tushies and failing miserably. Instinctively, after we’d turned to face
her with our behinds, we each reached back and checked on our panties,
pulling the material out of our buttcracks. Our little walk through the
woods had left us with bunched swimsuits.
“Hmmm, their manners could be better,” Ms. Highbourne
observed. I guess its not the most polite thing to be yanking your
panties out of your asscrack when you’re greeting a dignified lady!
“Have them turn back around,” she said. “Their derrieres are certainly
well-made, even if their owners can’t keep their panties on properly.”
Master indicated for us to turn back to face her. We did so
with a new sense of self-awareness, feeling her eyes as she fixed them
on our breasts. I lifted my hands and nervously straightened my bra,
though it didn’t need it.
“Come closer, girls,” Ms. Highbourne instructed. We approached
her. I felt like a supplicant before some Mother Goddess, except this
one was extraordinarily beautiful, perhaps even as beautiful as Barbi
and I. “Do you know what pain is, girls?” Ms. Highbourne asked.
“It’s,” I began. Barbi nudged me, as if I was not supposed to
speak, not ever, but simply to listen and obey. Still, I answered her
anyway, trying to catch her eyes as I spoke. “It’s being hurt,” I
said. She gazed resolutely right at my crotch, which was now just
inches from her face. I sensed her breath exhaling onto the little
pulpy mound between my legs, where my secret place lay, as yet all mine,
untested, untried.
“Pain is liberation,” Ms. Highbourne answered. Taking her
cigarette from her lips, holding it twixt her fingers, she reached
toward me with both her hands. She took hold of the drawstrings of my
bikini and, without untying them, gently lowered my panties down my
thighs. She pulled on them until even the little snatch of fabric
between my pussy lips gave way, springing down to join the rest of my
suit at mid-thigh. With the moist tip of her cigarette holder, the part
normally held by her mouth, she probed the pussy-mouth of labia lips. I
watched with anxious eyes as the burning tip of the cigarette came close
to my thigh, while with trembling knees I felt her open me where it
counted. She inquired gently, not prising me open much, and indeed I
kept my thighs as close together as I could, though not daring to press
them tightly together to exclude her.
From me Ms. Highbourne turned to Barbi. Her undies were
lowered too, and Ms. Highbourne pointed out to each of us the little
impression the drawstrings of our bikinis had made across our hips.
“You must not allow yourselves any disfigurement, however
slight, unless it is truly necessary, girls,” she told us. “Panties are
not needed in summer. Do you feel chilly with them around your knees?”
she asked us frankly.
“No, ma’am,” we chimed in reply, sensing an answer was wanted
in this particular instance. It seemed to serve her needs to have us
answer rhetorical questions, for which there could be only one answer.
“So let us have no more of panties while you are here, girls,”
Ms. Highbourne announced. “Take them right off. You will not wear
anything while you are here below the waistline, save boots, perhaps.
Your pussies and bottoms are to be kept utterly free, so my friends when
they visit can admire you. Here girls are admired for what really
counts, their wombs, and the entrances to them, not for silly things
like grades or poetry. We’ll practise the arts a little here, to keep
you alert, and teach you good manners, but your bodies come first
always.” As she spoke, with master looking on, Barbi and I freed
ourselves of the bikinis, pulling them the rest of the way down our legs
and over the spikes of our high heels. Ms. Highbourne directed us to a
nearby grill. We walked over to it and tossed our bikinis into the
coals, as requested. With our bare, hind cheeks twitching nervously we
watched as the hot coals burned our panties to a crisp, leaving nothing
but ash.
“Stir the coals,” Ms. Highbourne announced, still seated at
table behind us. “Make sure there is nothing left of such needless
attire.” Barbi unhooked a poker from the side of the grill and jabbed
at the coals. A breeze plucked at the ash of our suits and wafted it
up. A moment later there was nothing, just coals, bright and hot and
scary.
“Your tops too, girls,” Ms. Highbourne said. “Untie them and
toss them in. Then we shall go inside and begin our lessons.” With
trembling fingers, almost unable to get hers undone, Barbi loosed her
top, as I did mine. We chucked them into the grill, watched them
quickly burn, and then Barbi stirred the coals again to mark their
passing.
Ms. Highbourne stood and beckoned us to follow. Utterly nude,
feeling queasy in my stomach, as I know Barbi did, I let her escort us
into the dimness of her home, through a sliding glass door, into a
living room, then down a hall. She opened a door and led us down steps
into a chilly cellar. Master, when I turned, was nowhere to be seen. I
glanced back over my shoulder, was shocked he had not followed.
Mistress gained the floor of the cellar and turned. Barbi
descended the last few steps and mistress, as I sensed I should call her
now, took Barbi’s hand and lightly drew her from the last remaining
step. I followed, feeling like a bride as mistress offered me her hand
and I accepted it.
“We will begin with a simple caning,” mistress said. I
gulped. Barbi reached out, took my hand. Quickly mistress began
undressing herself. “Barbi, you have been caned before, but perhaps not
strictly,” mistress said. I watched as her clothes fell away, revealing
a figure Anna Nicole Smith would have been proud of. Tall, well-formed,
with sleek limbs and sumptuous breasts that men would die to pillow
their faces or their cocks in. She had few things on under her dress,
despite its Puritanical color and cut. In moments she was naked before
us. She drew back a curtain along the basement wall, just feet from
where the steps let out. There upon the wall, to my gasping surprise,
was a collection of whips and paddles and other implements of bodily
harm.
Mistress picked up a long, swishy cane and flexed it. Her
fingers were narrow, delicate. It seemed odd to see such a horrid thing
as a cane between her fine hands! I felt my bottom cheeks clenching. A
torrent of butterflies rose up in my tummy.
“Oh why?” I asked. Barbi squeezed my hand tighter.
“I can go first if you like,” Barbi whispered, still facing
mistress, but intending her words for me.
“Don’t worry, I won’t draw blood today,” mistress told us. She
smiled a possessive smile. “It is quite important that you both submit
to me in this way. We’ll do it on a daily basis. You know yourselves
how competitive we girls can be. Well, that won’t be tolerated here. I
am the mistress, and you shall call me such. Perhaps you already are,
internally, without even noticing it. Hmmm?” She directed her gaze at
Barbi, looking at her quite directly now, eye to eye, now that master
wasn’t amongst us. We were just girls, alone. Yet I had to believe
that master, somehow, was watching me, loving every intake of my breath
as it made my frightened titties jiggle. “We will be naked together a
lot,” mistress continued. “After all, I’m as beautiful as you are, just
a few years older, that’s all. I have no reason to loathe my
appearance. I relish the feel of my body in the cool air, with nothing
between me and whatever might happen! Of course, as mistress, I’ll be
clothed when we entertain guests, and I control everything that goes on
here. Now, who shall it be? Do you see that sawhorse there? Get a
pillow if you wish it for your tummy, and bend right over, for I don’t
intend to wait all day. I am being paid by the hour, girls!”
Nervously, obviously wishing this all could somehow be avoided,
but knowing it was her master’s wish, Barbi let go my hand and walked
slowly to an innocuous (to me, at least!) wooden trestle set near a
corner of the room. When she reached it she stooped and picked up a
leather pad that lay at an angle beside one of its legs. She put the
pad on top of the trestle and, after taking a moment to brush back her
hair, bent over so that her bottom mooned us.
I almost broke out giggling. A girl like Barbi, showing us her
ass like that! Then I watched as mistress approached Barbi with an
ominous, cat like prance in her step, stalking garden robbins and their
little nestling eggs. Mistress swished her cane once. Barbi spread out
her hands and took hold of a post that ran way down between the legs of
the trestle. I saw her hair touch the floor, then fall on it even more
completely as she bowed very low, her legs straight and her ass high.
“Open your legs, girl!” Mistress scolded. “I must see your
cupcake, and you must feel its total vulnerability. Pray that the tip
of the cane doesn’t catch you there!”
“Oh, please don’t!” Barbi begged, obediently opening her legs
so that all she had to show was exposed to us. A sweet fig, plump and
perhaps already juicy, hiding within the incurved cheeks of her lowest
bottom-parts. Had I a penis I would have leapt up to her and jammed
myself into her. As it was, my finger felt suddenly, mischievously
itchy. I had never felt such thoughts before! Is this what my master
meant by ‘training?’
“Fury, have you ever seen a girl caned before?” mistress asked
me, turning casually to face me, brushing her hair back and enjoying the
prominence of her naked, quivering breasts, her nipples totally hard
now.
“Noooo,” I answered softly.
“Well observe closely, my dear, because you are next,” mistress
said. “And don’t think of running up the steps. The door locks upon
being shut, and only I have the key. If I have to chase you around the
cellar and catch you when it’s your turn you will not sleep tonight from
the pain of it.”
Mistress turned to Barbi. “I do hope you’re old enough not to
require tying,” she said.
“I-I hope so too,” Barbi replied in a quavering voice. She was
clearly scared about what was about to happen. Her bottom was creamy
white, flawless. I sensed it might be a different color in a minute.
“I want you to think of all the bad things you’ve done,”
mistress said. Idly she whisked the cane close to Barbi’s bottom,
watching merrily as the girl flinched at every near-miss. “Think of how
naughty you were this morning, for instance, telling master you didn’t
want to come. How rude!”
Suddenly the cane swished right in against Barbi’s seat and the
girl yelped and jumped. A moment later she was standing, her hands at
her bottom, rubbing it protectively, feeling the newly injured flesh in
her hands.
“Hurt, didn’t it?” mistress asked her. “I thought you hadn’t
had a proper caning before. “You’ll note this switch is nice and thin,
to give long fiery marks that a girl can take back to her husband with
her when she’s done. You’re not married, of course, but you may as well
be, seeing how close you are to your master. Don’t you think you
deserve this, you spoiled little brat, making him work so hard for you,
to buy to jewels and treasures and things, even risking his life to save
you from your whoring ways?”
“I’m sorry,” Barbi sniffled. She lowered her eyes, but kept
her hands over her heinie.
“Of course you aren’t,” mistress answered. “Or you’d be back
over the bar already.” She advanced, took Barbi by the hair, and with a
yelp from the girl put her right over. “Grab the post, or I’ll tie you
to it,” she ordered. At last Barbi took hold of the crossways post that
was provided as a kind of handhold for girls, the trestle’s one
concession to them, besides the pillow for their tummies. How I wished
the pillow was for one’s bottom instead! “You are special,” mistress
said to Barbi. “We’ll be having a party in a few nights and I want you
to be ready for it. I’ll whip you harder then, for the pleasure of men,
who enjoy seeing a saucy, privileged girl’s hinds jump under the cane.
Yes, and there will be women too, who delight in seeing someone so young
be brought to heel, after having to put up with the likes of you
outdoing them at the beach, in your little nothing bikini.”
SWIIICK! In came the cane again. Barbi shouted, jumped up.
“Oooh, I really can’t do this!” she declared, her hands flying to her
hiney again, assuaging it with quick, brisk rubs. She kept her eyes
lowered, knowing she had failed.
“Very well, it’s handcuffs for you then,” mistress answered.
“I’m sorry that you’ve made me have to play the policewoman, but what is
to be cannot be helped.” Mistress walked with sedate, easy steps to the
wall, where she plucked a pair of handcuffs from a little dresser that
stood just in front of it. I saw the dresser for the first time now,
hardly noticing it before, with all the awful instruments of
flagellation hanging from it. Upon the dresser were such obviously
necessary items for a place such as this: ointments, suppositories, and
condoms in a flowered bouquet. It was quite a pretty arrangement, I
thought, given the dire purpose of such things. To penetrate girls, and
help them get over awful punishments on the trestle.
Mistress took a policewoman’s hat from the wall and set it atop
her head with a look of renewed determination. She walked back to
Barbi, her tits jiggling as she went, healthy and free. I wished to
bury myself in them and beg forgiveness, forestall my own promised fate
over the trestle.
“Perhaps your master is watching, waiting to see you properly
disciplined for all those trifling little things you’re always doing,
any female is always doing, to the man she loves,” mistress told Barbi.
“Insisting too much, whining, complaining. You’ll be better behaved
when you leave here. Much better!” Mistress made Barbi hold out her
hands, both palms up, wrists together. She buckled the handcuffs onto
them, then screwed them with a special key that ensured Barbi’s palms
remained facing up. She turned Barbi to the trestle once more, and put
her over again. Barbi did not resist, seemed to take the whole
procedure with a sense of resignation now, perhaps accepting at last
that her beloved master had ordered this for her. I heard a click, and
Barbi’s ability to move was no more. She might howl, or wriggle her
buns, or even kick back at mistress if she dared, with her spiked, still
unbound feet, but as for standing, it was quite impossible.
Mistress smiled to herself. She stepped back, measured off the
distance needed to begin. And then, without further ado, the cane
sliced in, and Barbi felt all her past naughtiness come stinging home.
When we finally came back up the steps, master was waiting for
us. We greeted him with our hands on our fannies, rubbing them, wincing
at their suffering. Both our cheeks were stained with tears. Our hair
was quite unkempt now, our wrists were marked where the handcuffs had
held us tight to the pole. I’d discovered its ingeniousness: the cuffs
had a little clip at one end which, stretching between the wrists, the
palms facing out, could be attached to a clip on the crosswise post
beneath the trestle. It was downright nasty. Your arms were wrenched
out and away from you; any jumping in this position, bound over the
trestle, threatened to dislocate your shoulders. How awful it had
been! I had thought I might at least fight my bonds, strain against
them, but even over the trestle I had to strive to exercise restraint,
for I could feel my shoulders wanting to separate from the rest of me,
and knew how terrible that would be. When I met master again, I burst
into tears, his punishment of me had been so wicked. My shoulders
almost dislocated, my wrists burning, and my ass on fire, my breasts
feeling like sacks of blubber that had been bounced all over the place,
without even a bra to contain and protect them! That at least I knew
now my mother was right about: a girl should wear a bra at all times,
lest her breasts sag. But, looking into master’s amused face, I knew
the chance of getting a bra for myself was about as remote as retrieving
my poor panties from the ashes of the grill.
“Some men just bring their wives for an afternoon whipping, a
quick one like you’ve had, girls, an hour, no more,” mistress said gaily
to us, knowing it would make us feel even more degraded. Before
bringing us upstairs she’d tucked a towel around herself, to discreetly
hide her nudity from master. I did not know if he’d had a chance to
watch us somehow, suffering in the cellar. Even if he had, mistress at
least was clothed again, her beautiful body only available to his eyes
when she was being paid to punish us. As for us, we were naked as
newborns, and I felt like one, my bottom smarting at my first
introduction to adult sex. I was still a virgin, though, both vaginally
and anally. How strange! My bottom burning, my legs quivering, my
bladder starting to feel the effects of my breakfast sips, yet I was as
pure as a nun as yet. Barbi, for her part, instantly asked master,
despite her tortured heinie, if she could relieve herself someplace.
“Why, you are just a female animal now,” mistress announced.
“Sobbing, crying, your bikini quite gone. Just crouch here in front of
me and pee. Your master will not mind.”
“Ohh, I can’t!!!” Barbi gritted. Her hands held tightly to her
ass as she stood wobbly-kneed before all of us.
“Kneel and pee,” master replied. “Do as your mistress tells
you. Why do you think I’m paying her? Look, here are some other people
coming up just now, through the trees, they will not mind. Anyone who
comes here knows girls are being trained, including potty training. But
you do not deserve a potty yet, just as you do not deserve to have your
neck go free, or Fury to wear your collar.”
Barbi knelt then, awkwardly, her hands trembling as they
touched the living room rug. Mistress, sensing the time was due (the
playing done) fetched a small empty flowerpot and shoved it under the
small space left by Barbi’s crouching derriere.
PISSS! I heard suddenly, as through the glass doors that led
into the living room came a pair of couples, each elegantly dressed, not
in bikinis as Barbi and I had been.
“See? It is for training, my love,” a man told his wife, or
perhaps she was just his mistress. “You will be well cared for here.
But reservations must be made. Ms. Highbourne is kept quite busy with
all the wayward wives in the city, and perhaps even here in this small
town, where she keeps house. I’m sure there are schoolgirls too, like
that one there, holding her bottom, who are brought to her. Girls who
have been expelled to often from school, or run up their parent’s phone
bill chatting on the Internet. All these females must be brought into
line, but a man can’t do it, not really. He’d just hit her, brutally,
like O.J., or worse, do nothing, and be henpecked all his life. It
takes a woman to properly train a woman, one who herself was broken in
by a husband, or lover, or father, when she was an undisciplined lass.
Is that not right, Ms. Highbourne?” our modern Hamlet wannabe asked,
interrupting his soliloquy to address us.
“Most certainly,” Ms. Highbourne answered. “Barbi here is just
learning that she pees at her master’s permission and request, and not
otherwise. She will learn to hold herself in when it is needed, so that
long trips across the continent can be accomplished without frequent
stopping. Or she will have a very red bottom, if she cannot learn to
train her peehole. Stand up, Barbi! I don’t hear any more pee coming
out. Do you think you are going to slip your whole self into the hole
in that pot? I think not! But your holes will have things slipped into
them! Stand and greet our new guests and tell them how grateful you are
to have been given a most necessary caning. There is no need to hold
back. Explain it to them and show them your once-fair ass, so these
wives can begin to think of their need for proper obedience to their
husbands, instead of just obeying when they are flattered by being taken
out, or being bought expensive trifles.
Hesitantly Barbi stood, walked forward, turned, neatly, on her
still perfect heels, strapped so nicely to her ankles. Slowly she drew
away her hands and offered them a view of her wiggly bottom.
“Ohhhh!” one of the wives gasped, her breath quick, indrawn,
her hand flying up to her mouth. There were welts on Barbi’s ass, deep
red, that would take time and patience to heal. A week, perhaps less,
no lasting damage, but certainly more than she’d ever had before. I was
much luckier, I’d been told by mistress, having just bright red marks.
My cane had been a thicker one, less severe. But it hurt just as much,
in my opinion! I did not even want to think about getting what Barbi
had gotten. She leaned forward a little at mistress’ instigation and
spread her hiney cheeks to show how the cane had been used insidiously,
brought down parallel to her ass crack, to leave burny red marks within
her parted cheeks. It had been my job, weeping as I did it, to clamber
onto and lean upon Barbi’s back, so that I could yank her ass open for
mistress’ “special cuts,” as she called them.
“I do not care to whip the bosoms, although, on girls as fine
as these, it is tempting,” mistress mused, tracing meanwhile the lines
within Barbi’s wide-apart cleft. Her finger traced each ass-stinging
line most delicately, as if the slightest touch would have somehow
harmed Barbi, which, from the looks of her trembling face, it would
have. “Men like bosoms being whipped sometimes, but asses are always
the favorite,” mistress said. “See how I place the cuts vertically, as
well as horizontally? That takes some technique, let me tell you. Most
whipmistresses simply strike there with the tip of the cane, which is
unbearable, and leaves unsightly marks afterwards, deeper than the
overall flagellatory pattern. I prefer everything perfect, each slice
equal in weight, so I avoid using the tip and instead have the girls
hold themselves open at the end, or let a friend do it, and I give them
several within their bunching bottomhalves to remind them that even
their most intimate, recessed parts are under my domination and
control.”
“How wonderful!” one of the husbands present exclaimed. “This
is my mistress. She has threatened to see other men if I don’t spend
more time with her! Certainly I needn’t spend more time with her if
she’s thinking of me every moment I’m gone, because I’ve had her marked
with hot stripes up her ass!”
“Exactly,” Ms. Highbourne answered with a smile. The man
peeked into her towel-top, excited at the prospect of getting to see her
nude, no doubt, were she to undress to punish his mistress.
“Sir, your eyes wander from your lovely lady,” Ms. Highbourne
teased him. “Has the necessary payment been made to my account, per our
earlier discussion?”
“Indeed, indeed,” the man replied. “I, David Jacobson, may not
be a man of honor, but I do keep all my accounts current!”
“I’m sure you do,” mistress said, with a glance at master. He
turned his eyes ceilingward, a prince down on his luck, but certain, I
was sure, to regain it, and to avoid death from my father too, if I
could keep him occupied with my ‘training.’ Dad would never find us
here. A little town, out amidst the veldt, shrouded in this spot by
innocent-looking apple trees. And Ms. Highbourne so proper, so
excellently refined, so impracticable a candidate for keeping little
girls locked up in a basement.
One of the women made to speak.
“Just a minute, Maria,” Ms. Highbourne interrupted. “Please
undress yourself first. You and your friend Sara are going to help
these two girls heal their bottoms. David, Jeffrey, fetch some towels
for our young ladies here, would you? Two for Barbi and Fury, who have
just been punished, and two for your own wives, who will need them after
they too are punished in turn!” Ms. Highbourne seemed to delight in
calling the men’s mistress’ wives, or, as I thought, Sara was in fact a
wife of the man who brought her, Jeffrey, for she wore a wedding band.
They undressed with nervous hands as Barbi and I stood wonderingly,
still rubbing our poor bottoms. Jeffrey and David gallantly got towels
for us and laid them out on two coffee tables for us. Two more were put
on sofas for their wives, whom they begged to be hit with a riding crop
so that they might be bruised. For this reason the men elected to give
the girls places on the couch.
“Well, if you’re going to give your wives the couches, then get
more towels for these two,” Ms. Highbourne ordered. “I’ll not have them
uncomfortable!” More towels were fetched, laid out on the tables, until
each had a thick pad of towels upon it. The men’s wives, not knowing
what to do with themselves when they’d finished undressing, laid down on
the towel-covered couches that had been prepared for them. Sara was a
brunette, with long, wavy hair, tied up neatly with ribbons into a pile
atop her head. Maria was dark-haired, but with porcelain-white skin,
her body light, her features frail. She lay down on her own towel with
a kind of resignation. I saw her shaking a little. She feared what was
ahead.
The two men’s wives or, if you wish, mistress and wife, had
barely lain down on their towels when Ms. Highbourne scolded them and
told them to get up. “We share everything here, girls, including our
necessary troubles,” she told them. “Please be kind enough to get some
cream and salve for these girls’ bottoms. You’ll be needing them to
repay you quite soon!” The two wives got up and scurried from the
room. Soon they returned, under the watchful eye of their husbands,
with creams taken from the nearest bathroom. Barbi and I stretched out
on our towels on the cocktail tables. We lay face down, still rubbing
our sore bottoms. With gentle hands the pair of wives, Sara and Maria,
sat lightly down beside us on the tables, Sara actually sitting, while
Maria contented herself with squatting beside me. They lifted our hands
from our bottoms and replaced them with squirts of cool, rich cream.
Then, to flinching squeaks from us, they began applying their own palms
to our butts. The cream was wonderful, but every fingertouch sent
shivers of reawakened pain up my spine, as if I were being whipped
again. It was different having someone else touch you. Their mind
controlled where the next touch would fall, and it felt uneasy, being so
scorched in back, and having someone else play her hands over my nether
cheeks. I whimpered. Barbi mewled like an unhappy kitten.
“Poor babies!” Sara, who wore a wedding band and seemed the
most confident, her hair all pinned up in preparation for her whipping,
said aloud. She rubbed her hands with girlish determination over
Barbi’s welted ass. Her boobs, hanging down most deliciously, wiggled
like ripe gourds, or fresh apples on the trees outside, big and plump
and ready to fall. I endured a bit more stoicly, I think, my bottom not
as badly punished. But Maria’s hands were much less confident. She
feared her husband-lover’s wishes. I could sense her fearfulness right
upon the skin of my creamed bottom, as her fingertips danced upon it,
lightly, uncertainly, her palms sometimes cupping my hinds as if to
protect them. At last she bent and kissed me right between my parted
thighs. She stuck out her tongue, teased my slit with a little flick.
“You are so sweet,” I heard her whisper, more to my bottom than
to me, I thought. “Please help me when I need it.”
“I will,” I answered. Then, impulsively, I arched my bottom up
a little, hoping she’d stab me with her tongue again. She did not. She
lifted her face, perhaps afraid she’d be punished more if our brief
intimacy were repeated, noticed by the others. She sat silently on her
heels, waiting for instructions. My bottom was done, all creamed. I
lay my face more comfily in my towel and sighed. At least my ordeal was
over, though hers had yet to begin. Men! They are so terrible, yet so
necessary I think, for otherwise bikinis and long well-brushed hair and
new shoes and short dresses would all be for nought. We’d all wear
one-piece swimsuits for the rest of our lives, and not care. We’d lie
on the beach in the morning and no one would come. No one save another
one of us, and what point was there in that, in the end, if there wasn’t
one of THEM, with his iron will and his iron schlong somewhere,
watching, waiting to pounce on a pretty young girl like me and make me
his own. Or at least THINK he’d made me his own. Men never really
owned women, I think. We girls just let them imagine they do, though
sometimes they can be quite intolerant, and demanding too.
“May we undress also?” Jeffrey, who was perhaps as vivacious as
his wife, asked mistress.
“No, dear,” mistress replied. “You men must stay properly
dressed at all times. We girls are never to see your genitals. What
you do with them is, of course, your own affair. There are silk
handkerchiefs and such there on the table. Use them freely as you wish,
but please do dispose of them afterward. I do not consider it polite
for my gentlemen guests to leave remembrances of themselves lying
about. I often clean up myself, after a little party like this.
Sometimes one must be discreet. Not all men wish to have it known that
they or their wives were here, seeing me. An embroidered pair of
panties might lead to dissolution of the government, if it fell into the
wrong hands. Such is life with politicians.”
“Well, we are on the other side of all that,” my master
answered.
“So you are indeed,” mistress said. “A failed drug lord, a
banker who does more laundry than even I do, with my impeccable
discretion, and a cop who crossed the line and can’t possibly go back,
hmmm, David?”
“Just hit her good and hard with a riding crop,” David
answered. “I felt like beating the shit out of her this morning when
she told me she wanted to see other guys. Some idiot at the bowling
alley who’s 20, big muscles, and she met a nerd too, the other day,
studying to be a doctor, whom she thinks will give her a gold-plated
future. So you see, I’m not so bad. Instead of beating her up like any
normal cop would have, being, as I am, above the law, I brought her to
you. I’m a gentleman-rogue, or crook, or whatever you want to call it.”
“A man,” mistress said dismissively, with a wave of her hand.
She sat down on the edge of a sofa and addressed us four girls. “Now I
don’t want you to hate me for what I’m about to do,” she said. “It’s to
train us, all of us, to love our men more completely. When you’ve been
trained you’ll not think the slightest thing about cleaning the bathroom
for him, or washing his clothes, or giving up your career. It will seem
as nothing compared to what you underwent here. Come, stand up! Let’s
begin while my wrist is still eager to do its work.”
Shuddering, their limbs stiff and hesitant, Sara and Maria were
led downstairs by Ms. Highbourne. Barbi and I dutifully followed, glad
that we had had our licks and weren’t due for any more. The men
disappeared, no doubt to watch from somewhere, or perhaps to simply play
cards round a table, waiting for our return to them, spoiled with the
crop for being spoiled little princesses at home. The basement door
shut, locking itself. We descended into the cool basement air and smelt
the waiting leather and wood.
Maria was dealt with first, for she was clearly uncomfortable.
I watched with awed eyes as mistress hastened her to the trestle,
strapped her down without asking, and gave her six heinie-splitting
whacks on her bottom after shedding her towel. Mistress still wore her
sexy police cap. David had admired it wordlessly upstairs, wishing he
could somehow make her his partner in his patrol car on long, lonely
nights. I wondered if he were peeping now, rubbing himself to
distraction as he watched mistress’ bouncing tits. Each inward stroke
of the crop sent them flying, for mistress used a vigorous approach to
discipline, not sparing, when she thought it appropriate. Maria,
clearly, had misbehaved and needed punishing so she’d be loyal to her
man. Sara, in front of her, kept kissing her face, her back, her long
hair that flew about with every blow. Sara tried to console her as best
she could, for she knew she was next, and would get it almost as bad,
though more for her husband’s entertainment than for punishment.
Gasping for breath, the girls were returned to their husbands.
Each kissed his wife, admired the welts, and then directed them to lie
down so that Barbi and I could attend to them. I noticed that the men’s
trousers, which had bulged perceptibly upon their arrival, were now
placid. Master, though, still held a stiffness, as if he’d been
enjoying torturing himself as much as watching us suffer. Mistress
noticed his bulge also.
“Lord Shaftsbury,” she said, her voice almost kind. “It is
time. She will be staying with me, and there will be a party tomorrow
evening. It must be done now. It cannot wait.”
“After dinner then,” master said. He cleared his throat. He
looked at me. His eyes fell to the juncture of my thighs.
“No. Now,” mistress said. “The girls and I will be dining
alone. The maids will be here. Tomorrow night, you may return, to
observe the party. I will not keep her in my house this way. And you
know it must be you. You would never tolerate another taking her
first.”
I glanced from my master to mistress. What were they talking
about? My hand fluttered at my throat. I tugged at my leather collar.
“It’s time for you to earn your dog collar,” Barbi said
meaningfully to me. She moved close, touched her finger to my throat.
“Get down, down on the rug, I want you from behind, so I can go
as deep as any other man will,” master told me. I gazed at him. I was
standing, my hands wet with cream. I’d been leaning right over to rub
Maria’s bottom, my legs straight, standing up, enjoying mooning the men
with my small, pert behind. Now my laughter, which had been free and
easy as I massaged Maria, watching her jerk as I had not long, under her
touch, slipped away. Mistress came, touched my arm.
“Have her on a towel at least,” she said. “I don’t want blood
on my rug.”
A towel was laid out for me, from the cocktail table. With
mistress and master and Barbi all at me, urging me down, I knelt, then
finally bent over, pressed my face to the towel, and presented my
bottom.
“Will it hurt?” I asked. My voice was meek.
“No more than your caning,” mistress answered. “It is good
that you had it.”
“mommie...?” I mewled to myself, deep in self-pity, as I felt
master descend behind me and unfurl himself. He would take me
vaginally, of course. That was my most precious prize. And with a
stab, and much work, he did. I felt like a butterfly, pinned down, him
over me, big, demanding. When it was done they helped me up and each of
them, even the men, kissed me, complimented me. Then the girls helped
me to the bathroom and took care of me.
We ate that night by candlelight. The trees rustled above us.
Maids came, the men being gone for the night, and served us a light
meal. We could eat no more than that. Our day had been too
exhausting. My cunny hurt. It was open at last, after 13 long years of
waiting. I would not return to my mom and dad the same as when I’d left
them.
“Girls, tomorrow evening, with your marks still showing from
your punishment, you will entertain men. Your husbands may be present,”
she said, using ‘husbands’ generically, to refer even to Lord
Shaftsbury. “Or they may not, you will never know.”
“Do you mean?” Maria gasped.
“You of the least should complain,” mistress snipped. “Other
men you wanted, other men you will get. Except, to prove your true love
to your husbands, these men will be quite ordinary. Nothing to write
home about.” She glanced at me. “Even for you, Cornslip,” she added.
‘Cornslip,’ that was my new slave name, bequeathed by her, for use in
her house. Because I was young, decidedly underage, and had long, silky
blonde hair. ‘Cornslip.’ I kind of liked it, kind of hated it, but it
was my new name, because, in her house, I was hers. “Yes, your husbands
do not want competition,” mistress continued. “They do not want to see
you dally with men whom you might actually like. But they do wish to
see you, shall I be discreet? Worked. How’s that? By other men.
Noncompetitive men. They want to see you in action, and they just
might, too, but you will be oblivious to it. They may not even see it
until later, on videotape, or there may be someplace special they can
watch from, in the house. I will not say, and you will not know. Now
eat up! You’ll need energy for your labors tomorrow night!” We ate in
silence then, gulping down our food. Afterwards mistress took us
upstairs to bed and tucked us each into a separate bed, in a separate
room, chaining us to the bed so we would stay there all night, and
giving each of us a pill, so we’d drop off to sleep and not spend all
night worrying.
30
----------------------- Dreamgirls! -----------------------
-Free e-mail subscriptions: No longer available due to mailbombing of
my Internet account(s) by right-wing Christians.
-Currently I am: roller39@mail.idt.net
-formerly I was andrewroller@sprintmail.com, roller66@inreach.com,
roller666@aol.com Read my complete works under these names by
going to: http://www.excite.com (Click on ‘newsgroups’ and search
under my various former screen names). (Also you can read irrelevant
bullshit posted by right-wing Christians.)
-Recent back issues at Usenet newsgroup: alt.sex.stories.moderated
-For all back issues, send e-mail to: file.request@backdrop.com
- Free plug: http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/
-Free minicomics: send a stamped, self-addressed envelope & age
statement to: Jim Corrigan, P.O. Box 3663, Phenix City, AL 36868
- JOIN the world’s greatest organization! Send $35.00 to The North
American Man/Boy Love Association for a one-year membership.
NAMBLA, P.O. Box 174, Midtown Station, New York, NY 10018.
-Naughty Naked Dreamgirls (Library of Congress ISSN: 1070-1427) is
copyright 1997 and a trademark of Andrew Roller. Work by others
copyright 1997 by the respective copyright holder.
-END OF 272 EMISSION
--
+--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+
| story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |
| Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ |
\ <URL:http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/> .../assm/faq.html> /