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From: Andrew Roller <roller39@IDT.NET>
Subject: Private Places part 4 of 7 (NND)
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_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
PRIVATE PLACES
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Chapter Four
My new apartment was located in downtown Rio, far from the
‘madding crowd’ of Buenos Aires, or even Montevideo. After sleeping for
a whole day to refresh myself, I called the bank and checked on the
status of my account. There was not a lot, but there was enough.
Somebody loved me. I think mistress might have contributed a little,
just to get me started on the right foot. I called an interior
decorator and had my apartment decorated to suit my tastes. It had been
furnished, but I changed a few things, just to make it mine.
I met a woman and her husband, who lived in the building. One
day she and I lounged by the pool at our complex while her husband swam
laps. Gradually I found the courage to tell her of my experiences at
Abandon Gardens. We lay tied into our teensy bikinis, her husband doing
powerful strokes in the pool, us teasingly afraid to get our bikinis
wet. My new friend listened attentively as I told her how mistress had
whipped me, and stuffed me with a hot dog up my hole, and finally taken
me herself.
“Well, you don’t seem any the worse for it,” Jill said at last,
gazing at me with soothing eyes as I concluded my story in a breathless
voice, very shy about telling her all of it, but feeling I had to. She
seemed interested, and I could not deny her. No, I had to tell
somebody, and once I’d hinted at my tale I felt to not tell her would
somehow be a violation of our new friendship.
“Sure you girls don’t want to get wet?” Jill’s husband asked,
rising from the pool. He strode over to us, large and powerful, with a
chest like Conan’s, and flicked water on us by shaking his hairy arms at
us.
“Eeek!” Jill and I both screamed. “No, please,” she added.
“Here, take a towel, dear, and dry off. Flurrie here is telling me all
about a little trip she took out to the country, down south, where she
got her first introduction to sex.” Jill insisted on calling me
Flurrie. She said Fury was too masculine. She preferred the more
feminine version of my name. I’d protested a little, but she’d not
given in, so I was Flurrie to her, and that was, I guess, okay with me.
Jill stirred her cocktail with a swizzle stick. I sipped mine. We
gazed up at her husband, nude except for his Speedos, as he toweled
off. I saw that the bulge in the front of his suit increased as Jill
mentioned the topic of our conversation to him.
“Well, that’s something I wouldn’t know anything about,” Sam
laughed.
“Yeah, sure,” Jill said. “Turn around, honey. Face away from
the building,” she urged. She drew him between our chairs, where we lay
stretched out in the summer sun. I found myself staring up at his
flexing buttocks, encased in his swimsuit, as Jill positioned him so
that he stood with his front looking out over the trees of a park. We
were elevated six stories off the ground, on a kind of veranda,
overlooking the canopy of the trees. Here and there, if I sat up, I
could see tiny people walking their dogs, or sitting on park benches
amongst the shady leaves.
“Why?” Jill’s husband was just asking, when the answer became
obvious. If someone had been watching us from a window of our building,
they did not see what happened next. Jill pulled open the front of her
husband’s trunks and poured her drink right into them. Sam’s buns
flexed, hard, squeezing tight. He arched his back toward me. He
shouted, surprised, then happily accepted the drink on his cock, lemon
rind and all. Jill let go of his suit. It snapped shut.
“We’re going out tonight, aren’t we?” she asked. There was an
innocent look on her face, as if nothing at all had happened.
“I guess we are, now,” he replied. He regained his composure
as I watched, with fascination, his butt cheeks aimlessly flex and his
cock grow huge inside his oh-so brief trunks. “But you know what
happens then, when the dinner’s concluded. You know the price of it.”
“Oh, I don’t want a tattoo!” Jill whined. “I just like all the
great food they’re having! Rio’s most expensive restaurant! I’ve been
starving myself all day, dear, can’t you see?” Jill caressed her
luxuriating form with her hand, showing off her model-slim body. Her
husband bent forward, casually, leaned over her and picked up a
champagne glass. It held jello, brought out by a waiter, compliments of
the house. We were well cared for here.
The jello was untouched. Jill had not eaten it, despite how
good it looked, for she didn’t want to spoil her appetite for dinner, as
she’d told me. Sam opened the front of Jill’s paper-thin bikini
briefs. He tipped the champagne glass and emptied the jello straight
onto Jill’s mons. She almost cried out, sticking her finger at the last
moment between her lips and biting it hard. Sam closed her briefs.
There was a bulge where the jello lay, making her look manly, as if she
might have equipment of her own there, within the briefs, though in fact
she was utterly feminine, a models’ model, who could make thousands of
dollars a day when she bothered to work. Jill stared at the unsightly
bulge, and I leaned round the hairy leg of her husband to look too, and
laughed.
“Jill, you’re a man now!” I giggled with glee.
“Yes, and she’d better keep it in right up to our apartment,”
Sam advised. “You’re lucky you’ve eaten yours, Flurrie, or I’d do the
same to you!”
“You wouldn’t!” Jill replied. “She’s only a 13-year-old girl,
dear.”
“Almost 14,” I advised them. My titties had grown even bigger,
too, as if to prove it, and I thrust them proudly at them, and gave them
a quick wiggle just to be naughty. I liked my new breasts. Everywhere
I went men seemed drawn to them, and Sam was no exception. He gazed
down at my tits, my bra doing less than a perfect job of holding them,
having been bought when I was a size smaller.
Sam noticed that my long hair might just block any perverts
watching from the building’s windows and, taking a chance with me, he
placed a finger where the cups of my bra met and pulled it open.
“Sam!” I cried, quite surprised, slapping a hand to my cheek as
he examined my quivering teats.
“You have nice breasts,” he said finally, and let go of my
bra. It stung a little as it reconnected with my flesh. Then, taking
me by the hair, without even asking my permission, he pulled me up from
my lounge chair. He stood me in front of him, so that nobody but us
could see.
“Flurrie,” Jill said to me, a knowing look in her eyes. I
think she knew what her husband intended, and welcomed it. “I’ve got
too much jello in my panties. Would you please take half of it in
yours, so I don’t look totally foolish if we are seen going upstairs?”
I felt Sam’s hands firmly grasping my small, tanned shoulders.
I was warm, I wanted to swim but I didn’t want to get my bikini wet.
“Okay,” I mouthed, not knowing why, feeling silly. With
delicate fingers Jill opened me in front and gently scooped a portion of
the jello out of her bikini panties and into my own. I felt the cold,
jiggly slide of the stuff as it plopped within my opened panties and
adhered to the curls of my pussy, making me bulge just like Jill did.
She let go of my waistline.
“Come, let’s go up,” she said, finding a napkin where the jello
had sat, on a table beside her, and wiping her fingers. She rose, Sam
let go of me.
On the elevator up a middle-aged couple rode with us, glancing
curiously at our bikinis. Jill and I, having left our skirts upstairs
that we might have used to cover ourselves, rode with blushing faces,
unable to cover ourselves in front because Sam stood behind us. He held
our wrists pinned to our backs, and used our bodies to hide his own
enormous erection, which actually protruded out the top of his trunks.
I accompanied them to their apartment, though mine was a floor
below theirs. Jill took me inside, thanked me for carrying half of her
load. She took me to their kitchen sink and carefully scooped out, with
her fingers, what she’d put in my panties. It was dumped in the sink,
and rinsed away, while Sam watched. His suit bound his balls tightly,
which seemed to have expanded. They bloated within his trunks, which
struggled to keep his hard-on concealed but, failing, permitted the head
to stick up, snake-like, the rest coiled within his trunks, practically
ripping them apart with the force of its arousal.
I in my turn emptied Jill’s new bikini of what Sam had put into
it.
“That was a very naughty thing you did, Sam, putting jello in
my swimsuit!” Jill scolded him when we were as clean as we could be, the
residue of the jello still clinging to the curls of our deltas. She
wagged her finger at him. “Would you like to go out to dinner with us
tonight, dear?” Jill asked me.
“Okay,” I answered. It was becoming my favorite word. It got
me into trouble, though, sometimes, I guessed.
“Alright, let’s take off your bikini then, and we’ll both clean
up and get dressed for it,” Jill told me. “Sam, naughty guy that he is,
actually bought some things for you this morning to wear, hoping you’d
go. Actually, I helped him, ‘cause I wanted somebody to go with me. I
won’t know anyone else there, but Sam will, because some of the girls
he’s photographed before,” she cast a glance at him. Jill was a model,
and Sam was a photographer. From the look that passed between their
eyes I saw her question him, wondered if he’d laid any of the girls he’d
taken pictures of. Sam merely grinned, boyishly, a ‘boys will be boys’
look in his eyes.
Jill helped me out of my suit. She filled the kitchen sink
with water, a few bubbles, and put our suits in to soak so they’d be
ready to go for our next swim. A trip through the washing machine would
have ripped them to shreds, they were too delicate for that. It was one
of the reasons we just sunbathed in them. Swimming in the pool too
vigorously might have stressed them, and chlorine was supposed to be bad
for them. They were more fashion than practical, made of opaque silk,
with elastic run through at the edges to help them stay on, but tied
with drawstrings, as if we were gift-wrapped in them.
Naked, with Sam drooling over us, we casually tossed our long
manes of hair and trooped off to the shower. Sam watched our rolling
bottoms. Jill’s was full-grown, she was 19, a bride for three months
now. Mine, of course, was underaged in size, still childish in its
shape, but with nice violin curves to my hips, not yet as wide as they
might be, but pretty, with girlish cheeks behind that I swayed
purposefully to catch Sam’s eye. It was thrilling to be seen by him!
I’d not been naked since Abandon Gardens, and I felt a kind of sweet
relish possess me as I traipsed through the cool air of their apartment
to the shower.
Jill insisted on locking the bathroom door, so Sam would stay
out. It was just she and I, and we took turns showering. It was all
quite discreet, two girls washing up after P.E., it seemed to me. I was
glad for it. The night beckoned with enough mysteries, I don’t think I
could have handled an afternoon threesome. It would have been too much,
too soon. I needed to get to know my new friends just a little better
first, I thought, and they respected my wishes, sensing them even before
I did. Still, as I sat in the bathroom, making up my face after my
shower, while Jill took her turn, I couldn’t help but squeeze my thighs
together and wish, you know, that somehow Sam might insist on breaking
down our bathroom door. But he was the perfect gentleman. When we
exited at last, he took his turn, though he did not lock the door behind
him.
Jill and I dressed together. The first thing I put on, her
helping me, were black lace gloves that tied at my wrists. She undid
the rawhide collar around my neck, cutting it off, saying that was my
past life and it was over now. She did not put any new collar on me,
though. I was to be free, my own girl. Together she and I put on long
sheer black stockings. We fastened them with the straps, which dangled
down from our bellies, which we ringed with slim black garter belts.
The belts were fringed with lace. The straps had little pink bows on
them where they attached to our stockings.
I slipped on a g-string. Jill said I’d be grateful for it
later, and put one on herself. Lastly we both shimmied into the most
liquid of dresses, with spaghetti straps, open backs, and decollete
fronts that barely rose above the level of our breasts. Obviously we
were a little too “showy” to be seen like this on the street, so Jill
fetched a cape and tossed it over my bare shoulders. It was just long
enough to cover the tips of my breasts, which wiggled freely in my
gown. She tied the cape neatly in front. It was black like my dress,
and my stockings. The cape had a hood on it and she pulled it up over
my long golden hair, tucking it inside.
“There! A picture of innocence!” Jill said admiringly. I
gazed at myself in a mirror. Indeed, I looked like a little schoolgirl
off to some formal party which, of course, is exactly what I was headed
off too, though not one where the grownups would ignore me. Jill put on
a red satin jacket, with long sleeves, over her sleeveless gown. Her
gown was dark blue, while mine was midnight black. My arms were bare
under the cape, and stuck out all white and frail where the cape
stopped, looking like porcelain limbs.
Sam, who must have dressed himself in the bathroom, or just
outside of it, stepped into their bedroom and greeted Jill and I. He
was ready to go! He wore an elegant suit, looking absolutely smashing,
and I saw he still had the bulge in his trousers.
Sam gazed at me in a friendly way, but then turned his
attention to his wife. “Now you know what you’ll come home with,” he
said to her seriously.
“Oh dear,” she replied, looking taken aback. “Can’t you, you
know, reason with them?”
“A tattoo,” he said firmly. “All the girls will be getting
one.”
I shot a gaze toward Jill. I wasn’t about to get myself
tattooed!
“Don’t worry,” Sam said to me, dismissively. “You’re only 13.
I won’t have trouble talking them out of tattooing you. But Jill here
is a married woman.”
“Where will it be done?” Jill asked. Her eyes were
apprehensive.
“On the inside of your vulva, on the inner lip, a little
heart,” Sam replied. “Nobody will be able to see it but me. And any
other man you go to bed with... It will show him that you’re mine, that
you belong to me. And maybe then he won’t fuck you.”
“Like you don’t fuck those girls you photograph?” she asked
coldly.
Sam said nothing. Slowly he moved closer to us. Jill a tear
forming in her eye, daubed it at last with her finger.
“Okay,” she said simply. I stood shivering, frightened yet
excited at the prospect of going out, to Rio’s best restaurant! But
under such queer circumstances, no? Sam was such a stud. He kissed
Jill, then me. He offered to fix her a drink to calm her. She agreed.
We both found chairs for ourselves, primly crossed our legs, and waited
while our Man of the Hour made drinks for both of us. She gulped hers
down, when it was brought. I just sipped mine. I didn’t like liquor
too much, yet. It made me dizzy.
Jill seemed ready when at last she stood. She took my hand and
I stood up beside her. Sam gazed out past the closed curtain of their
bedroom and told Jill to bring her umbrella, there was a light rain
outside, mingling with the rays of the setting sun.
Jill put her arm protectively around me when we exited the
building, and lofted her umbrella over me, to keep me from getting wet.
It mostly shielded her too, but me more, as if I was worth more,
special, a loved and protected pet. Sam strode behind, oblivious to the
rain, though I had no doubt he’d have held their umbrella and shielded
Jill with it if they’d been alone together. But she wanted company, on
a momentous night like this, even if it was just a junior girl like
myself. They were ‘on assignment,’ both from New York, in unfamiliar
waters, though Sam had made the acquaintance of a few of the local gals
he was going to take Jill to eat with tonight. Not all of them were
from Brazil, some were in from Russia, or France, a collection of
females and their boyfriends, or managers, I was told, all intermingling
as they worked to get the photos necessary for the upcoming fashion
season.
“Two girls are here for Sports Illustrated,” Jill told me
brightly on the way over, as we rode in the limo, the rain spattering
the smoked glass of our windows. “You might try that someday. Already
you have the figure for it!” I smiled sheepishly. She liked
complimenting my figure. I sat between her and Sam. Jill seemed happy
to have me separating her from him, considering what he’d have done to
her tonight, after dinner.
The restaurant was opulent. Swans grazed on the front lawn,
unattended. Nobody seemed to fear that they’d run off. They looked
well fed. They stalked across the lawn, free of their pool, which
wrapped itself around the restaurant like a small lagoon. A valet
helped us out of the limo, Sam saw to the tip. We crossed a little
drawbridge into the restaurant. Passing through the crowd of ordinary
diners, we were led to a private room in back. Upon entering, I saw a
host of models, all young females like Jill, and assorted men. The men
were almost uniformly handsome, all dressed in sharp suits, with suave
faces and a “bad boy” look about them that tantalized me even as it made
me fearful. The females, just slipping out of their vests or jackets or
capes, wore dresses as fetching as Jill and myself, their titties
jiggling braless within the scooped-out necklines of their gowns.
I was led to a chair. Jill untied my cape for me as Sam drew
back the chair at my place round the dinner table. It was a big,
mahogany table, with no table cloth, just perfect place settings of
china cups and plates, with elegantly folded linen napkins and golden
silverware. Candles were lit, my untied cape was draped over the back
of my chair in case I needed it later, for a quick trip through the
restaurant to the bathroom. I slipped my short dress under my thighs
and sat down on my chair. It had a velvet cushion. Sam scooted me in,
then seated Jill beside me. A model named Gwen, sitting down on my
other side, introduced herself and did her best to make small talk.
Two maids appeared, lighting our candles as we sat down and
taking orders from us for drinks. I admired their attire. They wore
ruffled neck collars, made of white lace, tied in back with a little
black bow. Each had on a bodice, tightly laced all the way up in front,
but the bodice stopped too soon, for it left each girls’ bosoms bare on
top, with their nipples sticking out like strawberries atop mounded
creampuffs. The bodices gripped the undersides of their perfect bosoms,
distorting them, pushing the flesh up and out where it could escape,
making each girl look utterly provocative, though each comported herself
with utter decorum, as if it was nothing that their breasts should show
like this, and the guests, politely, took little notice, though the men
eyed them more than the women did.
The maids each wore a white satin apron, short, tied in back,
to protect their panties, I guess, for they seemed to have forgotten
their skirts. In back their bottoms jiggled freely, their bodices
stopping at their waists to leave all below bare, save for the stockings
which sleeked up their legs, held in place by straps connected to their
corset-like bodices. They wore thong panties. Visually, they were
helped in back by the big bows that kept their aprons on, so that, with
the swishing bows, and the little thongs, they at least had some
trifling protection for their heinies. I saw that each guest at table
had been given a single small birch switch, placed delicately next to
the knife. I wondered if the switch might be used on a maid’s bottom to
urge her along, if she proved slow, and guessed it might.
Fingerless white lace gloves completed the maid’s outfits.
They flitted amongst us, filling our glasses, complimenting our gowns
with shy comments, and fiddling with the table decorations to make sure
they were just right. Vases of roses stood three abreast between us and
the men who sat across from us. Each thorned rose stem was loosely
wrapped with one or more colored condoms. The roses were fresh, still
glistening with drops of water.
“Girls, before we start, would you please show your acceptance
of tonight’s activities by removing your panties?” a woman sitting at
the head of the table announced. I glanced at Jill, she at me.
“Do it,” she told me quietly. “It must be done. This is no
ordinary dinner, as I’m sure you can tell from the decorations and the
way the maids are dressed.”
“Uh huh,” I answered. My voice was uncertain. I watched as
Jill reached beneath her dress, lifted her bottom, and pulled off her
panties. She laid them beside her plate. Sam watched approvingly,
fingering his birch switch, just in case, I guessed, she failed to obey.
I took my own panties off, laid them next to my silverware,
feeling very funny and wishing I didn’t have my underwear right next to
my eating utensils!
A maid appeared beside me. “Oh, I see you’re trying to cheat!
Naughty, naughty!” she said. She had a can of compressed whipped cream
in her hand. She lifted up my panties, dangling them over my empty
dinner plate. “I can still manage to get some cream into these,” she
winked at me. She was about 14, as was the other maid. I wondered how
many parties like this she’d served at.
I watched open-mouthed as the maid squirted whipped cream into
my g-string panties. I had a little pouch where my pussy lips and delta
might fit, and she zestily squirted as much cream into the pouch as she
could. Then she gave me my panties, and told me to put them back on! I
looked at Jill. She nodded. I saw another maid filling up her panties
which, nearly cut like a g-string, still had a little pouch where cream
might be put.
I accepted my panties back from the maid. The men sitting
across from me, like monks in a peep show booth, watched with eager
eyes. Carefully, so as not to get cream on my dress, I lowered my
panties under the table. Now I knew why the table did not have a
tablecloth. Bending low, feeling very embarrassed, I got my heeled feet
back through the legholes of my panties, and pulled them up my legs. I
stopped at mid-thigh, letting them hang there while I slipped up my
dress for the endgame. Before hiking up my dress I wiped my fingers on
my napkin that lay underneath my silverware. I didn’t want to get cream
on my dress! Then, returning my hands to my panties, I pulled them up
the rest of the way. I lifted my bottom so the cream wouldn’t smudge
onto the velvet cushion of my chair. I don’t know if I quite
succeeded. I was afraid to look down. Finally I restored my dress. I
felt utterly awful, cream sticking to the lips of my pussy, making me
all wet there, through no fault of my own. I squirmed in my seat,
watched as Jill did the same. Each girl round the table was forced to
watch as a maid squirted her panties full of cream and then made her put
them back on. When we were done, soup was brought. I ate mine with
little self-conscious gulps, feeling quite bad.
Salad followed the soup, and we were offered chilled salad
forks, as if none of us were sitting there with cream-filled panties,
but instead were dining in perfect modesty, at a church-sponsored dinner
or some Republican gala. When I’d eaten my salad I told Jill I had to
go to the bathroom, for the liquor I’d sipped in their apartment,
together with some celebratory champagne we’d opened in the limo to pass
the time, had gone right through me.
“Okay, but don’t be long,” she answered, not telling me what
the penalty would be if I dallied. “It’s number one, I hope, isn’t it?”
she asked.
“Yes,” I answered. She called over a maid, who pulled back my
chair for me and let me get up. She saw there was a little cream on my
stockings and she wet my napkin in a glass of water beside my plate and
wiped them down. I stepped quickly from the room, feeling that all eyes
were upon me as I strove to walk normally in my cream-filled panties.
The maid offered me my cape from the back of my chair, running
to catch up with me, her bottom bounding nude and free behind her,
heart-shaped and firm as a polished apple. Nobody had used the switches
yet. The maids had been on their best behavior.
“Have her go without it,” the woman who was our hostess snapped
suddenly. She leaned from her chair and took her switch and struck the
helpful maid right across her fanny.
“YEEEOW!” the maid cried, alarmed.
“But I want it!” I begged. My hair was pinned up and I knew,
somehow, it would not do for me to take it down. What was there to keep
everyone from seeing my boobies wiggling around in my painted-on gown?
I tugged at the straps of the gown, twin cords of nothingness that
seemed to me like they might rip at any moment, especially with my
bosoms jostling the front of my dress so. It was the lightest, most
delicate fabric, silk that had been stone-washed to make it utterly,
completely soft, like wearing cotton. I feared for it. There seemed to
be nothing at all keeping the dress itself and my straps which held it
up together; a bit of thread, perhaps, nothing more.
“Walk to the toilet and do your business and then come back
quickly, girl!” our hostess said to me sternly. Somebody had told me
that she ran her own modeling agency with an iron hand, allowing no
disobedience on the part of her girls. Well, I wasn’t one of her girls,
was I? Sam nodded to me, slightly amused. I tugged at the hem of my
dress. Alright, for him I would obey, if it pleased him. I had a crush
on Sam and I knew it, finally admitting as much to myself as I stood
there. Did Jill know? I gazed at her. She smiled, her eyes
half-lidded, enjoying her obedience to her husband’s wishes at this most
elegant of restaurants.
With a little gulp I left the room. I felt eyes staring at me
as I crossed through the restaurant, past the ordinary guests, to the
ladies’ room. Inside a maitre d' nodded politely, a man, whose function
was to serve us girls hot steaming towels from a silver tray when we
were done with our business. He was a small man, dressed in a trim
uniform, with fringed epaulets, almost like a monkey that might
accompany an organ grinder on the street.
I could hear girls talking as they sat in the stalls which ran
along one wall of the restroom. It was large, with cushiony benches
opposite the stalls, where girls might talk, with only the monkey-man
hearing. I heard a girl fart. Another complained aloud that her
husband had whipped her before dinner and her bottom hurt. Doing my
best to suppress my surprise at being in the ladies’ room with a man, I
passed him and found an empty stall. I slipped inside. Carefully I
papered the toilet seat with toilet paper. Then I sat, hiking up my
dress and lowering my panties. I wanted to clean the cream out of them
but a vision of Sam flashed in my mind, and somehow, I felt I would get
in trouble if I tampered with my panties. I peed, hearing a girl pull
toilet paper from the roll in her stall as she finished, then flushing,
and leaving, and speaking politely to the towel-man on her way out, as
if it were the most natural thing for there to be a male attendant in a
ladies’ bathroom!
When I was done peeing I wiped, taking as much cream off as I
could. Then I pulled my cream-filled panties back up, not touching
them, not wiping the cream out of them as I had from myself after my
peeing was done. I exited my stall, accepted a towel from the uniformed
man, and returned to our party.
The main course was just beginning. It was mongolian barbeque,
a fresh tasty sampling of oriental veggies, topped with a heap of
steaming pasta in the form of spaghetti-shaped noodles.
Playfully, as I sat down prepared to eat, Jill plucked a noodle
from her plate. With her gloved fingers she gently draped it around my
throat. “Here’s a little collar for you!” she announced. I started,
sitting erect, watching wide-eyed as she gave me a collar of food. It
was a single strand of spaghetti, nothing more, feeling a little greasy,
making me the momentary center of attention at the dinnertable. I
glanced to my right and saw that Gwen already had a similar collar.
What was going on here?
I decided to strike back, to forestall any further mischief to
my body, and because I suddenly felt a primal urge to do so. I picked
up a handful of my own spaghetti, untouched so far by my lips, and
opened the front of Jill’s gown. Into her lovely top, heedless of the
fact that I might singe her nipples with the hot noodles, I dropped my
spaghetti. The gloves I wore protected my fingers. Jill shouted.
Those noodles were hot! Not too hot to actually burn her, I think, but
the hottest at our table, for I hadn’t been served until I’d returned
from the toilet.
Gwen laughed. “Serves you right for assaulting her,” Gwen
teased Jill.
“Eat, girls! Quit playing with your food!” our hostess
announced. We dug into our spaghetti then, eating each strand by
itself, slurping it up between pursed lips to tantalize the men. I wore
my little spaghetti collar proudly, as did the other girls who had them,
while several, including Jill, who’d gotten spaghetti dumped down the
front of their gowns had to eat with the sliding, slimy strands slipping
lower and lower, finally wiggling down within their dresses to their
laps. How icky it must feel! I thought, to have spaghetti inside your
dress.
I was happily enjoying my meal when Gwen, a blonde from Sweden,
opened the front of my dress between mouthfuls of my inslurping
spaghetti. I watched dumbfounded as she poured her drink right down the
front of my dress, inside it though, coating my bosoms with the liquid
as if they were needing to be bathed.
“Oh! Here I am washing you down and you haven’t even gotten
spaghetti inside your dress yet!” Gwen apologized. “Somehow I guess I
thought Jill must have...”
“I have now,” Jill offered, and before I could stop her she
took hold of the front of my dress, taking possession of it from Gwen,
and dumped a big handful of spaghetti right over my boobies!
“Very well,” Gwen said. She picked up a glass of sherry that
belonged to the girl beside her, and, with the girl squealing in
protest, used it to rinse off my breasts. “It’s for a good cause,” Gwen
told her seatmate. I watched as the sherry was poured over my bosoms,
into my expensive gown. When Gwen let go of my gown she returned to her
meal, as if nothing had happened.
“Well, I don’t like this!” I said. I reached over and yanked
down the straps of Gwen’s gown. She screeched as her bosoms were bared
to the entire table. Her gown settled at her waist, showing all she had
in the cleavage department, and I picked up spaghetti from my plate and
threw it onto her bosoms. It hit, slithered down, hung on her nipples,
fell to her lap.
“She will have her nipples tattooed,” a man across from us said
to Sam.
“What? They are perfect!” Sam protested.
“I want them darker,” the man replied. “I do not like pink
nipples. I want them to look as if they’ve been rouged, permanently.”
“Get your cocks out, you two,” our headmistress declared from
her post at the head of our table. “I’ll decide who gets tattooed, and
where. Maids! Pour some cold champagne on these men’s penises to cool
them down. They seem to have lost their manners, discussing such things
as girl’s nipples when I am still trying to eat! Girls, do behave
yourselves, don’t just play with your food, try to eat it!”
Doing our best to settle down, we returned to our healthy
veggie mongolian meals. They really were quite tasty! I poked through
my spaghetti and found slices of celery, artichokes, water chestnuts,
and bits of spinach, everything a real model would expect to eat if she
were to stay slim.
One of the maids, blushing a little, drawing in her bottom
cheeks, approached our hostess at the head of the table and asked to be
excused.
“Why, whatever for?” our hostess replied.
The maid, despite her nude tushy, leaned forward and whispered
something confidentially in our hostess’ ear.
“To pee?” our hostess asked. “I’m tired of having you girls
run to the toilet. First one, now another. Take off your panties,
miss! You’ll pee right here, where you can get back to work the instant
you’re done!” The maid looked at her woefully. Perhaps it was her
first meal, I realized. She did seem shy, after all, though she managed
to move with a gracefulness, while serving us, that had fooled me, at
least, into thinking she was used to all this.
“No, you won’t wet your stockings, not if you keep your legs
spread,” our hostess told my favorite of the two maids. She was a
blonde, like me, with her hair tied up in a pink ribbon. She tugged at
her collar and then, seeing hostess reach for the switch, she nervously
began pulling her panties down. A moment later and they were off. At
hostess’ insistence she handed them to the woman. “Quit being so shy!”
hostess scolded the maid, whom I later learned was named Candi. “Just
to show you how necessary it is not to be shy I’m going to pass your
panties around the table. I hope you didn’t wet them or anything, out
of excitement at seeing all these men, hmmm?”
To the utter mortification of Candi, hostess passed her panties
to the nearest male and urged him to sniff them. “To see if she meets
your approval, sir,” mistress encouraged.
“Mmmm, smell fine to me,” the man answered. “What about you,
Jake? What do you think of our maid? Has she kept her panties in
proper order?”
“Thong panties, my favorite,” Jake said, taking them. He
sniffed them and passed them around. Even we girls had to pass Candi’s
panties under our nose, smelling her feminine odor. What an odd dinner
this was!
Hostess made Candi stand before the nearest man and put her
foot up on the arm of his chair. At hostess’ instruction, she was
required to lift the bib of her apron. Trembling with her need to pee,
she waited whilst her companion maid brought the man “a pee pot,” as
hostess called it (actually an empty sugar bowl). To our amazed
surprise, with mistress threatening her bare bottom with a birch, Candi
was made to pee, her leg uplifted onto the chair arm, into the sugar
bowl. She missed a little, but did her best, hitting the man’s suit
with her squirting pee and making him laugh at her. Candi herself was
not amused, but she could not refuse, lest her bare bottom be warmed
with hostess’ handy switch.
When Candi was done she quickly retreated from both the man and
hostess, biting her lip, certain that her wiggly bottom would be struck
with a switch. We were each armed with one. I felt a sizzling
somewhere within me. To strut around, so pretty, yet so obviously
naked, and to fear... yes to FEAR that a very tender, vulnerable part
of me, (yet not one that could truly be hurt, absent some real
brutality) might be zinged right across its bouncy hemispheres at any
moment. Did I want that? To be admired, as I strutted about, so bare,
trying so hard to be poised and perfect, yet with my pretty ass on
display and switches all about me? I did not know. I did not... Yet
despite our beauty, all of us models (well, me maybe in the future, I
was sure I could do it), the eyes of every man watched precious Candi as
she skipped away from her peeing at the table, sure she’d be hit yet
somehow escaping it.
“Candi,” hostess intoned. I felt a strange desire...to see her
smacked. To see her cry out and blurt protestations. Would hostess do
it? “Candi, please bring forth the tomatoes. The girls are ready now,”
hostess instructed.
“Yes,m,” Candi said neatly, primly, as if at church, instructed
to go light the candles. She scurried away. I fingered my birch.
Could I whack her? Little me? I suppose anyone could. We had all been
given them. But did I need hostess’ permission first? Oh, I was a
naughty girl. I should have been home, watching Barney, or learning my
algebraic counting, or my Greek letters, but instead I was here, my
undies creamy, spaghetti and sherry in my ever-so flimsy gown.
Candi, her confidence returned, pranced round the table laying
out little squares of gold foil, which she carried upon a large silver
tray. Within each square of foil was a cherry tomato. Before actually
setting the tomato down before someone, she would briefly remove it from
its foil patch and dip it in vaseline, then offer it upon the foil to
its intended recipient. I gazed down at my oddly glossy tomato. It
looked specially polished, thanks to the vaseline, as if it were about
to be featured in some T.V. commercial. Each of us girls received one.
None of the men did.
“What is this for?” I asked.
“You must stick it up your butt,” Gwen replied. Her fine
Swedish cheeks smiled at me as she plucked her own tomato from its foil
and elevated her bottom slightly off her chair. She squished up her
face a moment, uncertain, reaching within her panties to locate her
hole, and suddenly there was a pursing of lips, a kind of little “oh!”
expression, and the act was done. The tomato was within her. She sat
back down, gingerly. “Now you do it,” she told me.
“I- What?!” I turned wildly to Jill.
“It’s why we all have switches, dear,” Jill said warningly,
even as I saw her place her hand under her own butt and gulpingly
receive a tomato. Her own fingers did it, popping the thing within
herself. She settled back into her chair. “Don’t disobey, or we’ll cut
you to ribbons, or any of us who doesn’t do it.”
“My husband’s a surgeon,” Gwen said, casting a meaningful
glance at the hubby of hers who would have her tattooed. “He has his
instruments with him, in a little bag, beside his chair. He’s very
good. Don’t worry, he can get it back out of you if it gets stuck.”
She reached over, lifted my tomato with her perfect, long-nailed
fingertips. “Would you like me to do it? I know it can be hard, the
first time.”
“No!” I said. Possessively I reached out and grabbed my tomato
back from her. The last thing I wanted at this moment was to be upended
in front of all these strange women and men, with their strange table
manners, and be made to receive a tomato while they all watched. If the
thing was to be done, I’d do it myself, however awful it might be.
“I’ll do it,” I assured her.
“Right up,” Gwen warned. “The punishment is worse for those
who cheat and just leave it in their panties.
I swallowed hard. Alright. I put my hand, armed with the
tomato, down behind myself. I lifted my dress a little, in back. The
whole table watched as I bit my lip, scared, feeling within my ass
cheeks. I tightened my hole even as I sought to intrude within it.
“That’s it, right in,” Gwen said. She leaned over my backside,
watching. Lightly she placed a hand on my trembling shoulder. Her
mittened hand on my bare shoulder. There was something wrong in that, I
was sure, feeling my bare flesh against her softly caressing hand. Her
hand should be bare, and my shoulder clothed!
I felt the tomato graze my anus. I worked it in a little,
fighting my clenching cheeks. “Don’t be afraid,” Gwen said soothingly.
“We all must obey. It is hostess’ wish. Let your cheeks relax. It
will go in easier that way. Just get it right where it should be and
then bear down, it should go right in!”
And it did. Just like that. One moment it was touching my
hole, then next it was halfway in, like a turd unable to come out. And
then, greasy with its sheen of vaseline, my fingers gripping it
delicately but with some difficulty, afraid I might lose it to the
floor, I did lose it... but right up my rectum!
“OoooWhoooo!” I blurted, my breath whooshing out of me. I’d
just goosed myself! I could feel that terrible tomato urging itself up
me. My hole closed over it and it was gone, gone, bulging up inside me
but gone from my poking fingers, perhaps never to come out again! For a
moment I almost fainted. Gwen stroked my hair, whispering, “It’s
alright, it’s alright, dear. Don’t be afraid.” At last I regained
control of myself. I returned my mittened hand to the table. There was
no tomato any more. It was somewhere up my butthole. I sat at table
with both my hands placed neatly at my table setting, contemplating my
fate. Everyone watched me. No eyes were on Candi anymore, despite her
proud shimmying bottom, so rudely displayed. They watched as I gulped
and sat introspectively, feeling my new condition.
“There. In a little while you’ll give birth to a baby tomato,”
Jill smiled. She kissed me consolingly, as did Gwen. I was one of them
now, a tomato girl. We would run naked in fields of daisies and poop
out our tomatoes, while male hawks circled overhead, hoping for a meal.
“Candi, you seem to have forgotten something,” hostess said to
our nubile maid. The other one attended silently to our more mundane
needs, refilling glasses, taking away dishes as they were reduced to
platefuls of crumbs. She was forgotten, for the moment. But not Candi,
who, perhaps, was our ‘main maid’ tonight, ‘on display’ as one might
say, or in charge of our more bodily needs and aspirations. I trembled
at what I had gotten myself into. This was so inexorably decadent.
Abandon Gardens had been secluded, as if a separate place. But now I
was in downtown Rio, with the city humming all around, secretaries going
home from work, or staying late, mothers cooking dinner for their
children, or even bringing them to eat here, in the main dining room,
while we partied in this private room.
“Ma’am?” Candi answered, putting a finger to her lips. Feigned
innocence, or real, I could not tell.
“You brought out no tomato for yourself,” hostess said simply,
as if reminding a little girl to do her lessons for school.
“For me?” Candi asked, her eyes as wide as she could make them,
but I sensed she’d known she must not exclude herself. “But I’m the
maid!”
“Bring the tea, Candi. We must have fresh lemon clove tea for
dessert. And a tomato, young lady. I am not going to have full grown
society ladies endure such a sweet torment and not a little ruffian like
yourself. You must participate too, just as you will have your tattoo
at the end of the evening. Let the needles be seen upon the table, so
that there are no misunderstandings here with regard to what we are
about. I should have had them brought out sooner, I think, judging from
the looks on some faces that I see now.” She cast her eyes down the row
of females who sat across from their husbands and boyfriends, squirming
slightly in our seats, our bottoms well-plugged by the insidious
tomatoes that were stuffed into our a-holes. “Yes, my doves, you are
here to make a commitment to your lovers. This is such a disposable
society. Well, you will not easily dispose of what is given to you here
tonight. You will be well gagged, do not fear. I know some of you are
quite prominent in the society, despite your youth. Models, cover
girls, starlets, or young attorneys, or doctors just starting your
practise. After so many years of hitting the books, Alesha, won’t it be
nice to make a firm commitment by doing something physical for a
change?” She looked at a woman near me, with shoulder-length brown
hair, cut that way perhaps for efficiency’s sake, who now sat with
spaghetti down the front of her dress and a collar of spaghetti around
her neck. Alesha said nothing, looked across the table at her
boyfriend. He nodded, suavely. He was her supervisor at work, where
she was beginning to see her first patients as a dermatologist. Boy’s
with problems their penises had picked up out on the street, crabs and
herpes and whatnot, finding her hands cured them in more ways than one.
“Please discharge into this little cup,” I could hear her say, as part
of her inspection of their organs. And they would stand there ramrod
stiff, knowing they must masturbate themselves when this lovely young
woman left the room. Ah, to feel such ignominity, knowing Dr. Alesha
was just outside, chatting casually with her handsome supervisor, while
her patient was in the room whacking himself off. When she returned he
would be flaccid, unmanly, though he’d been so very hard just minutes
earlier. He would sheepishly hand her the product of his solitary
labor, in a little disposable cup. So utterly insignificant it would
look then, just a little pile of white goo. Up a woman’s belly it might
change her life, but in this small paper cup it was just waste material,
no better than shit or pee. Glumly he would leave the building, yet
somehow excited also, if he was not accustomed to being in such lovely
female company. To think, his sperm was now being examined by beautiful
Dr. Alesha! No matter that she might not date him, right now she was
dutifully studying the very essence of his manhood, however nerdy he
might be, or unlovable. Yes, she would give him the very best service,
because she did really care about her patients. And her lover cared
about her. Cared to have her know that, however successful she might
be, she was his pet all the same. She glanced at her lover, lowered her
lashes obediently. As a dermatologist, she knew how difficult it would
be to remove the tattoo. And the worst of it was, she had no idea where
her lover would want it placed.
Candi trundled out a low tea cart. She was rudely naked from
the waist down, clad in only her stockings, having surrendered her
panties to the men. Yet the trolley she pushed held the most finely
crafted tea set, of sterling silver, and ancient lineage, we were told,
by hostess, as the tea arrived. It was Darjeeling, the first tea of the
season, brought over on trim cutter ships, plowing the seas with their
powerful prows, I imagined, with a fishtailed mermaid pinned to the
front of each for good luck, her firm pink-swelling breasts showing
naked even as Candi’s wobbly, nervous bottom showed now. Her bib had
been altered by someone in the kitchen, who’d lifted it up and tucked it
in (perhaps fastening it with something discreet) so that her pussy lips
showed.
“Now girls, this tea is to help you relax,” hostess advised
us. “Drink it slowly and enjoy it. There’s no need to rush. Drink
plenty. I want you to take a good healthy pee before you’re tattooed,
to make you in touch with your body, and understanding your proper place
in life.” The other maid, perhaps having guessed it would be needed,
lugged out a big chamber pot and plopped it down near the table, but
just far enough back so that everyone could see if a girl had to use
it. Candi, meanwhile, picked up the pot of tea and began pouring a cup
for each of us in turn. We had fine china cups by our place settings to
receive the warm tea. It left a curlicue of rising steam in its wake.
I lifted my cup, drank, savored the delicate taste. The tea was just
right, smoothly hot without being too hot, though I burned my tongue
just a little, but did not mind.
“Careful not to spill any on their breasts, Candi,” hostess
advised. “We don’t want any of them scalded.” With her own fine bosoms
displayed, quiveringly, over the top of her too-tight bodice, lifting
and proferring her boobs like they were fruit displayed in a market,
Candi poured carefully, and each girl received her tea with a quiet,
heartfelt “thankyou.” It was delicious tea. Fully blossomed, having
brewed for hours in back, prepared specially for us.
The second maid, dressed as Candi was but still retaining her
panties (though her apron too had now been tucked up), offered us cream
and sugar. I asked for two cubes. She lifted them with an elegant,
slim pair of tongs. When she was done she offered me a slice of lemon
to go with my tea, studded with cloves. I accepted, she dropped it in.
I watched it float upon my tea and then sipped carefully, lest I swallow
it.
“Would you like milk also?” the maid asked me. I nodded. I
was the first to request it.
“Tilt back your head and open your mouth,” the maid told me. I
gazed at her inquiringly.
“The milk goes directly into the mouth, dear,” Jill explained.
“Open wide,” the maid insisted, and made to pour whether I
complied or not. Quickly I parted my lips, gazed upward. The milk was
poured too fast. Its coldness hit my teeth, my chin, splashed onto my
bosom. My dress was held aloft still, the milk washed my teats within
the confines of my ‘barely-there’ dress as the maid directed the flow
from my face to my tits.
“Oh!” I cried, putting my head straight again. I clasped my
bosoms from beneath, afraid to block the pouring milk lest I be
punished, but not wanting it all the same. It was so very cold, as if
preserved at just a degree above freezing. A startling contrast to the
tea.
The maid, as if to complete her conquest of me, dropped two
lemon slices straight onto my bosoms. I watched as they slid down over
my dress and dropped into my lap. Everyone had a good laugh, gazing at
my surprised face. Gwen wisely declined the milk when it was offered to
her, as did the other girls.
Ignoring the mischievous maid who’d nearly ripped open my dress
with the fast-pouring milk, hostess turned to Candi when she’d finished
serving tea and returned to the head of the table.
“You are not the least bit messy, Candi,” hostess said to her.
“Aren’t you a bit embarrassed to be so fresh and clean while women who
are far superior to you sit with their dresses all ruined and their
bosoms plastered with spaghetti?”
“No,” Candi answered truthfully.
“Well, I am,” hostess answered. “We must somehow preserve the
dignity of all these fine young women here. Come, show me your bust.
Let us decorate it with a little milk and lemon juice.” Candi,
squeamishly, leaned forward and let hostess take hold of her young
tits. “How long have you worked here, Candi?” hostess asked.
“One month, ma’am,” Candi replied. “Do you enjoy sashaying
around with your bottom bare, or in just your undies, catering to men at
sports parties or to women at bridal showers?” hostess asked.
“A little,” Candi replied. She watched nervously as hostess
picked up a wedge of lemon. Candi screeched softly between
close-pressed teeth as hostess squished the wedge and squirted fresh
lemon juice onto Candi’s stiff nipples.
“Stings, doesn’t it?” hostess asked her.
“Yes, please don’t dooo it,” Candi answered, but mistress
firmly held each titty in turn, lifting it up by grasping it from above,
plucking the young flesh up out of the gripping bodice, and squirted
each nipple again with a second wedge.
“What is your primary purpose here, Candi?” hostess asked.
“To please the customer,” Candi answered.
“Your breasts please me. What do you think of that?” hostess
asked her.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Candi shuddered. She watched as hostess
lifted a pitcher of milk. It had been replaced upon the trolley by the
other maid. It was still glazed with moisture, it was so cold.
“This should feel good on your stingy nipples,” hostess said
soothingly. She poured the ice-cold milk onto Candi’s teats. The girl
rose up on her toes, quavered right on her toe-tips as hostess washed
each nipple with milk. I pitied her. She was nearly as young as me,
and Gwen whispered in my ear that she was from the slums of Rio, plucked
out to serve here, in this elegant retreat, away from the anarchy and
chaos of Rio’s poorer districts, because of her extraordinary beauty.
Yet she was being used, I thought, and Gwen confirmed it, saying new
girls were brought here each year, the old ones discarded, unless they
were specially favored, in which case they were allowed to stay on.
“This will be her first truly naughty party,” Gwen told me.
“She’s been permitted to just tease for a month, in preparation for
tonight, entertaining businessmen or ladies who cannot afford to pay
what we are paying tonight. After this she will be moved up to more
rigorous service. Each function will see her soundly thrashed, or
balled by all the men up her pretty ass, more than she can take, until
she screams for mercy. She will be tested beyond the limits of her
endurance, wearing her out in just one year.” Gwen stroked my thigh as
she spoke, advancing it boldly up within my too-short dress. I did not
know whether she was speaking the truth or not. It seemed to me this
was a perfectly wholesome restaurant, although the occasional bridal
shower or private men’s romp was not hard to imagine in this room, if
the men kept the noise down to a reasonable level, or played a
largescreen t.v. loud enough to drown out the party’s more intimate
moments. ‘More difficult moments,’ a maid might call them, finding her
pretty bottom stung by boisterous women with birches, Oprah declaiming
to an applauding audience in the background, drowning out her cries. Or
the men, ostensibly ‘watching the game,’ but actually using the maid’s
bottom to relieve their tension, her heartstopping cries extinguished by
a roaring football stadium crowd. Truly, I did not know what to think,
about the maids and their fate, and it mattered less to me now as I felt
Gwen assault my pussy directly, her fingers teasingly inserting
themselves, questing for my button.
“Please don’t,” I gasped. But Jill took my hand and lifted her
own skirt up, decorously, as if attending to some necessity that need
not be apologized for. She stuck my own limp fingers into her pussy and
made me frig her even as Jill finger-fucked me. With her free hand Gwen
rubbed herself, frankly, the men watching, other girls gazing at us and
nodding approvingly.
“Now for that tomato up your bottom, Candi,” I heard hostess
say through dimming ears as I began to swoon under Gwen’s attention.
Candi turned, her breasts and bodice now coated with milk, and offered
her peach to hostess. Despite the look of apprehension on her young
face she parted the cheeks of her behind and waited as hostess lifted
the from the trolley a single tomato. There was a fresh jar of vaseline
beside the tomato and hostess took the tomato, which she held with the
tea-service tongs, and glided it gently across the surface of the new
vaseline. In a moment the tomato was properly prepared. As Candi
waited, venting the hinds of her bottom for hostess, the older woman
stuck her fingers into Candi’s rear and pulled apart the ring of her
anus.
“Oooo, please don’t,” Candi objected. Yet she did not do more
than flinch as hostess pressed the tongs to her resolutely. I watched,
Gwen fondling me, having found my special spot, as the tomato was
inserted. Candi’s eyes popped open, wider than I’d ever seen them. Her
lips pursed into a small O as the O of her anus was forced to receive in
back. In went the little vegetable, and hostess prodded Candi’s anus
with the now-empty tongs to make sure it didn’t come back out. Candi
shuddered as she felt the tomato worm its way up her butt. The rectum
is like a vacuum, I read once, and anything inserted into it will travel
upward with ease. (Though the journey back down might take awhile.)
Candi’s knees wobbled like jello, her breasts shivered over the cups of
her too-tight bodice. Hostess, done at last, gave her an admonitory
slap upon her buttcrack and told her to quit showing off her bottom and
stand up straight.
As Candi received her tomato the second maid came round and
exposed all of our bosoms. She did not ask permission, she simply
approached a woman from behind, lifted her straps neatly off her slim
shoulders, and then dipped her hands into her falling gown and hefted up
her gourds. White-fleshed they came into view, firm and swelling and
capped with lovely risen nipples. My own were lifted as I continued to
fuck and be fucked my Gwen and Jill. We paused a moment to let the maid
to her work, then went back to our own, lustily.
“Please! I shall come soon!” I protested, more for politeness’
sake, I think, for I was finding the fingers very intrusive and
wonderful at the moment, watching Candi get fucked up her butt by
mistress and her tongs. Candi’s tomatoing proceeded, as did my
finger-fuck, and by the time Candi stood erect again I’d just drenched
my panties in a lip-biting orgasm.
We tidied ourselves. We pushed our dresses back down our
thighs and looked guiltily at hostess.
“Well, well, three little piggies seem to have gone to market,”
hostess laughed. The men all watched me with desiring eyes. “You have
such big bosoms for a 13-year-old,” hostess complimented me.
“I’m almost 14,” I answered.
“She’s the same age as me!” Candi squeaked.
“You are both fine young ladies, and very daring too, I might
add, though Candi here came out of financial necessity. Do you send
your pay packet home to mommie every week, like you’re supposed to, to
feed your little sisters and brothers?” hostess asked Candi.
“Mostly,” Candi gulped. I saw she wore an expensive diamond
ring on one of her fingers. The white fingerless glove which sheathed
her wrist complimented it most excellently.
“Candi, three of these young ladies might need their makeup
repaired,” hostess suggested. “Please fetch a makeup kit and check
their lipstick for them, would you? Such activities at the
dinnertable! Really, girls! But you men enjoyed it, didn’t you?”
The gentlemen nodded, all in a row, across from us. Gwen
wagged her finger at them.
“You men just love seeing us girls get off, don’t you?” she
teased them. Abruptly she reached beneath her dress. I saw that she
was going to take her panties off and watched, mesmerized, as she had to
press her face close to the table to do it. Getting panties off over
one’s spiked heels at a table was a problem, as I’d discovered taking
off my own to receive the donation of cream. Now Gwen lifted her cream
coated and juice coated panties aloft, straightening up in her chair.
She dangled them before the men’s amazed eyes. They wanted to fuck her
so badly, I could tell, and they were all big, strapping men, yet they
did not dare act without hostess’ permission. All of them, I learned
later, had visited hostess in the days leading up the party. She’d read
them the rules and then made them drop their pants and receiving a
butt-cracking strapping. I envisioned the highly athletic Sam, bending
over, receiving, howling as hostess showed him in no uncertain terms who
would be boss on party night. As Jill told me later, he’d eaten dinner
for the next three days sitting on a cushion she’d sewn specially for
the occasion. “All bare from the waist down,” she confided in me. “It
hurt too much for him to put his pants on. I enjoyed three solid days
of him staying home from work, catering to my every need, with his poor
bottom a wreck but his cock undamaged, and perpetually hard, it seemed,
from the memories his bottom gave him every time he bent over or sat
down!”
Gwen drew back the rear of her panties, sling-shot like, and
then let go. Her panties snapped from her hands and hit Sam directly in
the face. Jill, laughing, removed her own and shot them off at Gwen’s
husband, but they went sailing over his head and fell uselessly on the
floor behind him.
“Let me try with yours,” Jill urged me.
“No, let her shoot her own herself,” Gwen replied, neither of
them considering that I might simply want to keep my panties on.
In the next several minutes all of us females took off our
creamy panties and fired them at our boyfriends. As Gwen insisted, I
got to shoot my own, which I used to score a direct hit on Sam’s nose!
“Hey, you were supposed to shoot at Gwen’s husband!” Jill
scolded me.
“They’re my panties, and I’ll shoot them at whoever I please,”
I answered. It had been so fun I wanted to get up and retrieve them and
shoot them again. Hostess sensed my need, saw the other girls shared
it.
“Alright, men, get those cocks out,” hostess declared, suddenly
changing our party a bit, allowing us to be more frolicsome. “Scoot
your chairs back and let us see how many of you girls can ring a pecker
with your panties. Be warned, though, missing will cost you a spanking
and succeeding will mean that you have to sit on the pole you’ve scored
with. I’ll keep notes up here. Don’t be shy, go get your panties and
fire away! Ring as many cocks as you like. We can have you take all of
them in the weeks ahead. You need not sit on each one tonight!”
Laughingly we rose from our chairs. The men prepared
themselves. They watched with shocked eyes as hostess’ game caused
female panties to be sent shivering down their poles, or shooting past
them. We played for several minutes, all of us females dancing around
freely, shooting any panties we could find now, not caring whose they
were. At last hostess had us retake our seats.
“There! Wasn’t that fun?” she declared as we sat huffing and
puffing from our frolic, our cheeks red-flushed, our naked boobies
heaving. We’d all lost our dresses in the melee. There was nothing to
hold them up with the straps taken down. Losing our dresses, we’d
draped them over the men’s heads, and the males all sat now with gowns
on their heads, lifted from their eyes so they could see, and with
female undies ringing their stemming cocks.
“Take good care of those dresses, men,” hostess advised them.
“The girls will need to put them back on when we leave. Set them aside
on the table when you get tired of wearing them.” The men grinned.
They did not mind having such sheer, inconsequential gowns draped over
their heads. All day they had to work at their business, sweating and
toiling to make money for us. Now they seemed delighted just to sit and
savor their status as rugged guests at a female-centered party, hosted
by our purebred, elegant hostess, whom later I was to learn was the wife
of the governor of a Brazilian province, a Mrs. Lalique by name, from
one of Brazil’s top families.
The needles for tattooing were presented, which sobered all of
us. Hostess knew how to quickly settle down a bunch of giggly girls, I
had to credit her with that. Candi brought the needles out and laid
them solemnly on the table, laying them out on a red velvet cloth which
she’d brought with her, from the kitchen. The needles were long, almost
sensuous. Gwen whispered to me that they were used solely for erotic
tattooing. No little buzzy short-needled tattooing machines would be
permitted here. These long, finely honed needles would be used to
gently poke and stab bit by bit into the female flesh, prolonging the
process for hours, perhaps, the dye applied to the skin at last to
complete the design, and make it permanent.
“I see some of you blanching at these long needles,” hostess
smilingly said to us. We sat huddled on our velvet-cushioned chairs,
all naked now, trembling in the cool air of the room, our nipples tipped
with coral, each as hard as our clitty that tingled within us. “How
silly most girls are, to visit some ‘tattoo guru’ with their boyfriend
in a seedy part of town, where Candi grew up, and get herself tattooed
in a few minutes. Here, we can take our time. Gwen’s husband, a
licensed surgeon, will apply the needles to your bodies. And we shall
ink the design after it’s finished, so until that fateful moment you can
feel just the needle, poking away, and debate how you feel about it
all.” Gwen looked down at her nipples. They were so wonderfully pink,
I thought, and delicate. How cruel it would be to tattoo them! Yet her
husband sat across from her, grim-faced, as if he would not be
deterred. But I hoped his grimness was due less to his determination
and more to his hard-on, which must have afflicted him quite painfully
by now, being ringed with luscious female panties, all wet with cream
and her dew. All the men, I observed, seemed slightly haggard. Yet
their newly healed buns prevented them from attacking us, raping us,
which I knew they longed to do, or from fisting themselves, as the
little boy part of their minds must have been urgently urging.
Suddenly a young man leapt to his feet. “Ah, I cannot stand
it!” he bellowed, and he began to rub and squeeze his hard cock as we
all watched, open-mouthed, amazed that he would disobey mistress. He
had a wonderfully long and thick penis and I wished to God he would sit
back down and behave. That such a fine tool should be wasted, him
jerking it off as if he were but ten years old, home alone with Playboy.
Silently hostess watched him, sitting primly, still fully
dressed, the only one of us who yet preserved her dignity. She looked a
bit school-marmish, I thought, her hair neatly pinned up and her dress
not the least revealing; a little daring, perhaps, showing off the bosom
just slightly, but not enough to get her into trouble with the PTA. Yet
our studly hero, perhaps enflamed even by hostess, a love icon of old
from his schoolboy days, stood and saluted us by fisting himself until
he came. He discharged right onto the tablecloth, not taking the least
care to shoot onto his plate or a napkin. When he was done, ejaculating
to our silent eyes, he glance guiltily at hostess.
“James, you are dismissed,” hostess said simply.
Candi, as if escorting some despicable child molester or rapist
from our presence, marched up to him and took his arm and led him from
the room. She ushered him out, him frantically trying to close himself
up before she pushed him out into the ‘normal’ crowd, the diners in the
room beyond. She herself kept back just enough from the door that she
would not be seen. James was pushed out, and Candi closed and re-locked
the door behind him.
“Come and clean up this mess, Candi,” hostess said.
“Oh, not me! Let her do it!” Candi begged. She pointed to the
second maid, who stood demurely by mistress, her panties on, her bodice
unsullied, her bottom tomato-free.
“No, I want you to do it, Candi,” hostess replied. “Come and
lick up his sperm. He is a studmuffin, no doubt about it, and his sperm
shouldn’t be wasted. He will see me in the weeks ahead, in my office
downtown, next to the governor’s, and I’ll whip his heinie into shape so
that he does not embarrass me at my next party. In the meantime, we
must not let his sperm go to waste. Lick it right up, Candi! You are
but a girl from the slums, and he is the son of an aristocrat. We do
not allow aristocratic semen to go to waste at my parties! As for the
rest of you men, keep your sperm properly in your balls, please. The
time will come soon enough for you to serve the women present, and I
want you all nice and full for the task.” She surveyed them with
demeaning eyes. “Can’t you boys sit in front of nice, well-behaved
girls without jacking yourselves off? Really! Let’s have no more of
this penis nonsense. Girls should be able to enjoy your organs freely
once in a while, making you wait until they’re good and ready.” Indeed,
though, I thought, most of us girls would have gladly given up the rest
of the party to sit on those stallions across from us. But that could
be done anywhere, without such an expensive meal. Here things must be a
little different, and anyways this was a most special party, at which
we’d commit to the men in our lives irretrievably.
Bending over awkwardly, clearly disgusted at the task, Candi
lapped up the sperm from the tablecloth.
“Ewww, yuck!” the second maid declared, watching. Hostess gave
her bottom a slap and she said no more.
“Now we must have a cream shooting contest,” hostess said
happily, when Candi returned with lip-smacking displeasure to her side,
waiting for her new orders. “Candi, please fetch the cannisters of
icing from the kitchen. I want the girls here to get a chance to shoot
white stuff at their boyfriends and hubbies, instead of just having it
shot up their cunts.”
Candi flounced off to the kitchen, all of us admiring her
bottom, which rolled impishly, still showing her disgust at having to
lick up semen. She returned, a dollop of cum still on her nose,
unnoticed by her, with two big handfuls of cannisters. They were slim,
and had nozzle-shaped tips. I saw they each had a pump handle at the
rear. I felt excited at the prospect of holding one of the slim tubes
in my hands and ‘jacking off’ at Sam with it! Candi distributed the
tubes, one to each of us girls. Then, to my surprise, hostess ordered
her to fetch more, for the men.
“Shoot now, girls! The men will have their revenge sooner than
you care to wish!” We fired at once, a volley of white icing descending
on the men as they sat helplessly across from us. I bent briefly under
the table to see where one shot in particular of mine had gone, aimed at
Sam. It had fallen short of his face, but, bending down, I saw that it
had made a direct hit on his peehole! I laughed, fired more shots at
him, sitting up again, and deliberately made them fall short of his
handsome face and into his lap.
A moment later and the men were armed too. The combat
proceeded with both sides splattering the other in what looked, for all
the world, like flying sperm. I was hit on my nose, on my breasts (a
well-aimed for target, being the youngest there), and some fell down and
decorated my pussy. At last hostess called a halt to the affair.
“That should have relieved some tension, I hope,” the
governor’s wife said. “The girls, about being tattooed, and you men, by
having to sport such stiff erections in such enticing company. At least
now your icing has fallen where your penises would LIKE to be,” she
added merrily. Most of us, I think, had wound up with our pussies
getting decorated, or at least our tummies, where our wombs lay. Our
bosoms were streaked with the stuff. We might have each had a pair of
edible creampuffs, so well shot-at were our mammaries. You’d think they
were being iced to be eaten! I looked down at my own. One nipple was
covered, the other wiggled bare and pinkly, still wishing to be
attacked. Alas, our icing-shooters were empty now. Leaning forward I
surveyed all the other girls, up and down the line. Most of them had
wound up with both nipples covered. I toyed with my exposed nipple and
considered wiping icing on it. Gwen took my hand, silently, placed it
in my lap. She leaned into me and slowly licked my other nipple until
it was as clean as my other one. “There,” she said smilingly.
“Candi, did you bring out that makeup kit as I asked you to?”
hostess queried.
“Yes’m,” Candi answered. She had lain it on the tea service.
It was small, covered with a pearl shell on its outside, looking like a
glossy oyster.
“These girls have all been so ACTIVE,” hostess told her.
“Please fix their hair and makeup for them. I want them looking their
very best for our next little treat.” Candi nodded silently. She took
the makeup kit and proceeded to the first of us, sitting straight in our
chairs with our nipples standing to attention, eyeing the long needles
which promised to stick us in most unpleasant places before the night
was through, marking us forever as our masters’ property. Jill’s
husband had promised that I’d escape a tattooing but, glancing around, I
saw that many of the females were little older than myself (or maybe I
just looked as grown-up as them, I thought with an excited shiver). If
they could be tattooed, couldn’t I? Who would spare me at the final
moment, when all the other girls were weeping at their sacrifice, their
master’s gloating over such a lovely treasure now marked as theirs.
Hostess plucked open the front of the second maid’s panties,
the one who still had suffered nothing but a single slap upon her
bottom, which did not even bear the mark of it. Nervously the maid
watched as hostess gazed with deprecatory eyes at her fleecy bush. It
was, I could imagine, so pure and virginal, untouched, warm and perhaps
a little moist. And her lovely lips below must snuggle together
reassuringly inside those protective little undies, so safe from men’s
eyes, I thought. Wickedly hostess placed a delicate finger underneath
the maid’s cunny and stroked it, while still glancing within her
panties, holding them open with her other hand. The maid shivered.
“Karen, you are so jittery!” hostess said to her. “Don’t you
like having your pussy played upon?”
“N-Nooo,” Karen answered. Her young bottom cheeks jostled
together in behind, tight and straining, their bulging hemispheres
showing her stress. Her legs wiggled upon her nervous knees.
“Well, your panties are a kind of pouch, aren’t they?” hostess
inquired. “And you have no penis. Don’t you think it would be useful
to carry around stuff in your panties, since there’s nothing in there
now except your little hole?”
Karen gulped audibly, her childlike throat tense at what she
guessed hostess must be about to do. Hostess reached for a can of
Redi-Whip that had stood stolidly on the tea service, unused, in a
bucket of slowly melting ice. It was for coffee, I guessed, or hot
chocolate. Someone had placed it there accidentally, thinking we might
be drinking that, or perhaps intentionally, knowing hostess would surely
have a use for it. Hostess ceased her sly questings underneath Karen’s
pantied cunny. Still holding open the front of her undies, she picked
up the Redi-Whip and aimed it squarely into Karen’s little gusset pouch.
“You seem so heated, you skin so hot inside your undies,
Karen,” Hostess said with predatory eyes. “Your mommie would not
approve, I think. Would you like me to cool you down a little with some
ice-cold cream?”
“No, I mean, yes, please,” Karen stumbled in her reply, her
words so uncertain. She did not want to displease hostess. She’d
already gotten her fanny slapped once and knew, with a glance at the
birch rod beside hostess’ plate, that her governess could do much
worse. Ah, I pitied her! Why must this wife of the governor, a woman
of such strength of purpose and will, pick on such a little girl as
Karen? How cute and naughty she looked in her little maid’s outfit. I
did not wish to see her purity tampered with. I found myself drawing up
my courage to protest as I watched the can of Redi-Whip hovering
menacingly over Candi’s opened pouch.
“No,” I began to say, but a hand grabbed my face just then,
seizing both my cheeks. It was Candi, of all people, businesslike,
quick, knowing hostess would be displeased if she dallied. Candi yanked
my face to one side and instantly began applying lipstick to my lips.
Jill watched approvingly, her own face newly decorated. We were all
slaves here, I guessed, slaves in a harem run by a governess. We were
each other’s own worst enemies, in a way, all of us wanting to make sure
that the other participated just as much as we did, lest she claim
afterward that she had not lowered herself to the decadent level of the
rest of us.
“Ready?” I heard hostess say in the distance. There was no
audible answer from Karen. Then, as blush was applied to my cheeks, I
heard a squirting sound, lusty, full-throated, shooting from a nozzle.
Karen shrieked as whipped cream, cold as ice, shot into her winsome
panties. She’d been so safe and protected inside them. Now they were
being used to apply and hold icy cream against her sex.
I wriggled free of Candi and watched as Karen received the
tribute of cream inside her panties. She stood wobbly-kneed, her
asscheeks grinding together apprehensively, as hostess finished and let
her panties snap shut.
“There,” hostess said consolingly, but pressed a hand firmly
against Karen’s cunt so as to fully impress the cream into her
privates. Karen mumbled something but nobody cared. The men sat
enthralled, the women too, all of them desperate with arousal, the women
all nude, the men still politely suited but with their flies open and
their organs standing stiffly up like toadstools. Precum glistened in
rivulets down the sides of their cocks. They were excellent in their
stiffness, all of them naturally wet, more precum bubbling from their
peetips as time passed. Now and then a woman would glance under the
table, for it had no tablecloth to block her view, and check on the
status of her lover’s cock. There it would rear, across from her, all
ready to ream her at the first sign of permission from hostess. And
beside it, on either side, would be other cocks, equally ready, equally
eager. The night promised to be a full one for our cunts if hostess
would ever let the men get at us. All of them could surely have stayed
home and enjoyed each other, but instead they’d chosen to let hostess
guide them on this evening. And I wondered, too, if she’d put the
females to their own hubbies, or insist that opportunity must be made of
the diversity, putting each female to someone other than the male who
had so gallantly escorted her to this feast. I sleeked my hands up my
own thighs, feeling the creaminess of them along the inside. How fleshy
and soft I felt within the confines of my thighs. How many men, sitting
across from me, were plotting to spread them wide before the night was
through and plant himself within them? Candi took my face into her
hands again, finished my makeup. She proceeded next to Gwen, who
insisted on sharing a long, probing kiss with her before letting her
start. Seeing them so engaged, I reached over and pinched Candi’s
rubbery bottom.
“Ouch!” Candi squawked.
“That’s what you get for making me look like a million
dollars,” I giggled. She put a hand behind herself and rubbed her hiney
ruefully as Gwen, undeterred, held her fast in a kiss that I knew was
making her tongue go down Candi’s throat.
Jill passed me a silver mirror. “You look lovely, dear,” Jill
complimented.
“I don’t feel lovely,” I replied. I shifted tensely in my
seat, upon the velvet cushion which felt so, so arousing now... making
me want it even worse than I already did.
“Take a moment and admire yourself. You really do look
lovely,” Jill answered. She held the mirror up for me, since I refused
to take it. Uncertainly I glanced at myself. Ah! A catch of longing
in my throat. Was that me? I looked like a lovely woman seated at the
City Opera, my hair so perfect, despite streaks of icing in it, my eyes
bright, my lashes long and fuller even than they naturally were. My
cheeks blushed brightly, my lips were glossy. Indeed, I would have
thought myself at some State Banquet, but for the fact that my shoulders
in the mirror were bare, and my bosoms, the nipples just out of view,
loomed so nakedly. Where was my pretty gown to go with my lovely
made-up face? I was so nude, buck-naked. How decadent this was!
Hostess, ever one to make us yet more agitated, now focussed
her attention on the men. She ordered little Karen to take an
eye-dropper and squirt wine into the men’s pee holes. “Get your pants
down off your hips, gentlemen,” hostess ordered. “That’s right, just
shuck them down. You can sit your buns right on the velvet cushions
just like the girls are doing. Fair’s fair here. Take your pants right
down, sir! Down to your ankles! Well, I know you won’t be able to just
get up and walk over to the toilet if you need to pee. That’s the
point. Let’s see those pants around your ankles, imprisoning your feet
in your own trousers and underpants! It’ll keep us females safer, I
think, knowing you men can’t just leap up and rape us!”
Under hostess’ implacable, otherworldly stare, as if she were
Persephone herself, come to strip the men of their souls, our hubbies
and boyfriends pushed their trousers down their legs to the floor.
Karen danced up to the first one, clearly intrigued by her assignment.
Delicately she took hold of the gnarly knob of the first man’s penis,
the one closest to hostess. Was it her husband, I wondered. No, it
must not be, I decided. He seemed younger than her. Perhaps ten years
younger. He was her boyfriend. It was not just her husband, the
governor, who kept lovers. She kept them too, having perhaps one male
one month, and another the next. He looked like a young college
graduate, just going out into the world. No doubt he’d gotten a job
with the state in the governor’s province and, to his surprise, found
himself meeting the governor’s wife also. She would take him for a ride
he never guessed possible, I thought, draining him of his life and
finally leaving him.
The young man gazed down with amazed eyes as Karen, his junior
by at least a decade, took firm hold of his most precious asset. With
aplomb I would have thought possible only in an older girl, she pressed
the tip of the eye-dropper into the man’s peehole and squirted forth its
contents. Red wine, which made his penis look like it was bleeding. I
learned later from her that she’d found his balls the most exciting.
They seemed to churn under the assault on the nearby cock, desperate not
to shoot, yet so very excited at having this wicked, awful deed done to
their brother the penis. She said those proud balls looked like ripe
coconuts, after they’ve been shelled but before the husk has been broken
open to reveal the milk.
With gasping mouth and wide eyes the young man received his
punishment in his peehole. Certainly it must have felt uncomfortable,
to say the least, to have alcohol squirted into such a sensitive organ.
The very peehole, that which we all try to keep soap out of when we
bathe, lest it sting. His cock wiggling, the man strove to contain
himself as he felt the stinging within his hole. If only he could shoot
out his sperm! That would soothe it, coat it, protect it. But no, he
must hold, hold, hold, perhaps for hours still, until mistress was ready
for his performance.
Karen went to the next man, sitting bare-assed on the velvet
cushion. I could see he wanted to say ‘no,’ to deter her, to stop her.
All the men did. But their naked asses on the velvet reminded them of
the straps and the canes and the tawses and all the other wicked
implements that hostess had slashed across their buns prior to giving
them permission to come tonight. Before they could even get the day and
date of this memorable party, before they even could obtain the location
from her, hostess had insisted on giving each man a through flogging.
Now, tonight, each man sat in his chair, his ass newly healed, and not
daring to risk another flogging at the hands of the governor’s wife.
I watched them with interest. All of them were tall and
strong, each a powerhouse in his own right, a muscle machine, yet they
sat dutifully, like guards for the Queen, each man daring the other to
take his eyedropperfull of wine. And each was done in turn, by Karen,
her own pussy chilly in her close-fitting undies. She was but a girl,
accomplished in her little dinner table tasks but, otherwise, innocent
as me, I thought. Yet the men accepted the terrible wine from her,
letting this slip of a girl torment their organs with her stinging
dropper.
When the men had been attended to, Gwen volunteered we girls as
subjects for the same experiment. She spoke with her hand raised up to
her ear, palm outward, as if she were a student at school, and hostess
our teacher.
“Thank you, Gwen,” hostess answered. “It is very nice of you
girls to join your husbands in this little agonizing rite of passage.
We’ll use full 100% bourbon for you girls, straight, since I do like to
be more merciless with the females than the males, being a woman. I
always have a bit of pity for the men. But women are, in the end, just
competition, aren’t they? Let’s be quick about it, though. Each of you
do the girl next to you. Pass the dropper and bottle down the line.”
We did as she ordered. A bottle was passed, each girl doing
herself or letting the girl next to her do it for her. Jill took the
bottle and dropper, poured some bourbon into her empty champagne glass
and, gritting her pretty teeth, inserted the tip of the dropper into her
peehole after first filling it in the glass. She did me then, not
washing the dropper off inbetween, but simply taking it from her peehole
to mine. She’d only given herself half a dropperful, I got the rest.
Gwen did herself next, refilling the dropper first from Jill’s glass.
She held back her hair from her face, so blonde and beautiful, and
watched her own hand as it maneuvered the dropper into her peehole.
Gwen held it within herself a minute, not squirting anything, afraid
to. Finally she squeezed the little rubber bulb.
“Oh!” Gwen ejaculated, feeling the bourbon squirt into her tiny
hole. Next to her cunt it seemed so insignificant, yet now it would
sting awfully, making her aware of it every moment. Jill giggled. I
rubbed myself surreptitiously to try to assuage the sting which now
plagued me.
“Is everything alright, madam?” a man asked, appearing suddenly
from the kitchen. It was the restaurant’s maitre d’. He was outfitted
in a suit with tails, his eyebrows raised. Our hostess turned, smiled
at him, even as Gwen finished filling her peehole with the bourbon. The
maitre d’s eyes seemed to take us in, sitting with our titties wiggling
nakedly, the men with their ramrod cocks standing up so fine, on display
like soldier’s rifles. Yet, at the same time, he seemed not to notice
us. It was the practised non-glance, yet all-seeing, of a headwaiter.
“We’re quite fine, Armand,” hostess answered. “The girls are
trying out your bourbon where it’s sure to be appreciated, even in tiny
quantities.”
“Very well,” Armand answered. He disappeared as quickly as
he’d come. I wondered if his trousers bulged a little now, as he
returned to the main part of the restaurant. Would 6-year-old girls
notice something in his pants as he stood close to their table, taking
their order? I hoped, for their sake, that he’d be able to contain
himself and talk himself out of any erection.
Only hostess remained clothed amongst us. She sat regally in a
high-necked gown, its collar stiff and tall around her neck, but with
the gown open in front, showing just enough of her bosom to be daring.
With long-nailed fingers she now undid the buttons down the front of her
dress. She pulled apart the halves of her gown as if some event must
occur, for which she must be topless. And then, my breath catching, I
saw her bosoms spill freely from her gown even as she reached out and
picked up one of the tattooing needles. It was as straight and stiff as
her nipples which now sprang into view. They were excited nipples, I
could tell. Excited at the prospect of seeing us tattooed in our most
intimate places.
Hostess replaced the needle upon the table. She saw the men’s
eyes on her tits and smiled.
“Now boys, let’s not be indecent, please. I just wanted to
give my breasts a little freedom, that’s all, now that Armand has made
his check of the evening. He won’t be back. We can proceed with the
main festivities.” She surveyed us all. “My, my, what fun we’ve had
already. And we haven’t even had dessert yet!” she said.
I raised my hand. Timidly, just up to my ear, as Gwen had
done. But I figured if I was to ask permission to leave it must be now.
“I-I’m not hungry anymore. I’m quite full,” I said directly to
hostess, bypassing Jill, whom I knew would forbid me to leave if I asked
her. She was scared of being tattooed, had brought me along for
company.
“Why dear, the dessert isn’t for eating,” hostess said. “I’ll
have you tattooed first for speaking up, though. Thank you for
volunteering,” she taunted me. I withdrew my hand. I felt overcome
with dismay. I looked at Sam. His eyes seemed slightly glazed. A male
dog in heat, thinking of nothing but his cock. Would I truly be
tattooed? I could not bear the thought of it! I felt Jill and Gwen
suddenly grab me by my arms. They yanked them behind me, throwing my
breasts out into stark relief from the rest of my body. Sam, his eyes
still glazed, looked admiringly at my obscenely offered boobies,
ignoring my face completely, my anxiousness, my fear. Candi was behind
me a moment later and she tied a strip of rawhide around my
close-pressed wrists, Jill and Gwen holding me, their own arms straining
as they held mine. Thin, frail arms they had, but within that frailness
there was just enough strength to hold my younger arms tightly
together. A moment later I was tied, my bosoms bobbing in front of me,
my hands useless now.
“Don’t get up,” Jill warned me. She fingered her twig of
birch, beside her plate, and gave me a meaningful glance.
“You have such lovely nipples,” Gwen consoled me. She touched
a fingertip to the underside of my nipples, stroking each one, making it
sizzle with pleasure.
“Please, don’t,” I begged. They only smiled.
“Share and share alike,” Jill said at last, as Candi rolled out
a big cake. It was made in the obvious shape of a vulva. Cherries
studded it, it was cherry cheesecake, Gwen whispered to me, still
tantalizing my nipples with her devilish finger.
“Girls, tonight you will, each of you,” she glanced at me, “be
tattooed on the inside of your vulva. Such a private place. It will
ruin your looks not the least as, in my opinion, most tattoos do. Only
your lover will ever see it, and then only when he spreads apart your
labial lips and looks inside to the womb that is his, and his alone.
There, inside your privates, will be a little heart-shaped tattoo. Not
too big, but a clear symbol of your servitude and commitment to your
husband. No other man, eating you, will be able to do so without
knowing that you once belonged to another, and that he was your first
real love, the first man that you were willing to sacrifice for, to
bleed for. Yes, there will be little droplets of blood where the needle
pricks you. I suppose we shall have to paint the design on first, now
that I think of it. I am new to this tattooing business, but Gwen’s
husband will guide my hand. I will tattoo you myself, though I have
never done it before. There will be no anesthesia, of course. We will
discuss this some more in a few minutes, after our dessert. Let us now
enjoy a last moment of carefree abandon though, shall we? Cut the cake,
please, Candi.”
Candi lifted a sharp knife and proceeded to slice up the cake
into equal portions. Hostess, meanwhile, took hold of Karen by her
waist and drew her close.
“Karen, you must be tattooed too,” hostess told her. “And will
everyone else’s vulva now visible yours must be too.” As Karen
gulpingly watched, hostess drew down her panties from her privates.
They snapped a little as the gusset finally broke free of her clenching
lovelips. Hostess pulled them all the way down Karen’s legs and made
her step out of them. Hostess tossed them neatly over her boyfriend’s
cock.
“A ringer!” hostess laughed. Then she took her linen napkin
and neatly wiped away the coolwhip that hung upon the curls of Karen’s
pubis. After each wipe hostess put the napkin to her lips and licked
off the cream herself. “You taste very good, Karen,” hostess
complimented her.
“Thankyou, ma’am,” Karen answered shyly.
Her pussy newly freed from her confining undies, Karen was
ordered to help Candi distribute the slices of cheesecake. Mine
arrived, all blubbery and wobbling. I sat looking at it, my hands tied
behind my back. Would somebody feed it to me?
Gwen picked up the entire plate of cheesecake. “You are too
pretty,” she told me laughingly. And then, to my heartbeating surprise,
she smooshed the cake right into my face! I screamed with shock. She
ground the plate into my face. When she withdrew it my once-lovely
visage was a frothy mess. Everybody laughed at me. I felt myself
blushing right down to my toes. My boobies jiggled helplessly. I
yanked at the bonds which held my wrists behind me but it only made the
rawhide cut into my arms.
All around me then I heard girls getting pied in the face.
Each one did the other, laughing at the mess she made, only to be
quickly repaid. Oh, our makeup session under Candi’s expert young hands
was all wasted now! Why, oh why? I wondered. I managed to shake some
frosting from my eyes and opened them. Hostess strode down the line of
males across from me, her breasts proud and free, a little icing on
them, and deliberately picked up and smashed each man’s serving of pie
right into his own face. Some of the detritus splashed onto her lovely
dress and bosom, but she was not deterred. Each man received his due.
When all of us had been thoroughly humiliated, hostess re-took
her place at the head of the table.
“Well, that should dispel any notion that any of you are above
me or can refuse what is next to follow,” hostess said. “I know you
husbands will have second thoughts as you see your young wives and
girlfriends put under the tattooing needle, but remember my hand in your
face, and keep your protests to yourself. Candi!” The girl appeared at
her side quick as lightning, her breasts jiggling within their bodice
with the utmost alacrity. She was willing to serve in whatever way was
needed, hoping to avoid both a pie face and the tattoo needles.
“Bring forth the chair,” hostess said. Candi disappeared quick
as she’d come, but returned soon, bearing a small v-shaped lawn chair
that she placed in front of hostess, facing her. “Drape a silk cloth
over it, to protect it and provide a little comfort,” hostess told
Candi. The girl complied, going to the kitchen as we all sat
apprehensively and returning moments later, unfolding a brocade, one
without a design sewn in yet, perhaps never to bear one, and laid it
upon the chair. Would our dropletted blood decorate it, from our
pussies? I shuddered to think of such things, yet they flashed in my
mind, making me feel guilty and forcing me to wish I was home, with my
mom, even wearing an infernal one-piece for her, if it would spare me
the needles and the tattoo!
Gwen lifted her napkin and wiped my face for me, pouring a
little bourbon into the napkin to wet it first. Candi came for me, took
my arm. I rose, not knowing what else to do. Jill gave my bare fanny a
little slap as I passed behind her chair. I was walked, still in my
heels but with nothing else on, up to the silk-covered chair. It was
just one of those simple chairs you see at the beach, with no legs, a
small vee into which one might sit one’s bottom for a quick rest.
Hostess rose, had me step up into her chair and then onto the table.
She sat back down in her chair again. She did not seem to mind that my
shoes had been out in the street. They were new heels, though, barely
worn, given to me by Jill for this night’s festivities. I guessed all
the girls wore new heels in deference to hostess.
I sat down in the chair. Hostess drew herself close and
frankly pulled my knees apart. Nothing was to be hidden from her.
Absolutely nothing. Before sitting down again she had shed her dress,
and I gazed down at her belly, her hips. She was boldly shaped, with a
prominent bust and hips that flared out like men like them, showing her
to be a mature woman, ready to receive however much of their seed they
might strive to pump into her. She looked at me with cold eyes. They
were remorseless.
“Have you started using tampons yet?” she asked me. As she
spoke her fingers worked themselves into my frightened cunt and pulled
my lips open.
“Yes,” I breathed. My heart was beating frantically in my
chest and I saw my boobies were twitching nervously, my nipples
painfully hard. Yet my clitty buzzed excitedly, not knowing the
difference between sex and impending pain. Hostess glided her fingers
mercifully over my spot, soothing me, but I was apprehensive still,
knowing my fate, and only being soothed in that small way that makes
your passion bloom even more, as yet unfulfilled.
“And you have regular periods?” she inquired. She looked at my
newly deflowered twat, peering closely, rimming her fingers along my
lovelips.
“Mmm,hmmm,” I answered, my mouth lips tight-pressed even as my
lovelips were drawn wide apart.
“Good. And you have known the fucking of a cock, I see,” she
said. “Well, we will make it just a little tattoo for you. You will
bear my initials, young lady, or rather just that of my surname. A nice
cursive-style L.” She looked up at me, holding me forcibly apart. “Do
not tremble so. It will be your passport to anywhere, here in Brazil.
Simply show it, and you will be admitted, however grand the party or
function. It will hurt just a little, for a little while, and then
forever after you will be admitted to a very high class of aristocrats,
chosen by me, and all of my girlfriends will be happy to see you. I
myself bear the initial E, given me by Evita Peron, who preferred to use
the initial of her first name since, I think you’ll agree, a P would be
rather undignified. She put it upon me when I was a child, just your
age, so all your squirming is not going to spare you. I have worn it
proudly ever since, as you will wear mine.”
I did my best to hold back my tears, I don’t know why, as Candi
was made to sit on hostess’ lap.
“Candi, are you good at drawing and painting,” hostess asked
her.
“Oh, yes’m,” Candi nodded quickly.
“I know you are. That’s why I selected you for this evening,
in addition to your loveliness. Now Candi, do you feel kinda twitchy
and nervous?” hostess asked her.
Candi whispered something in her ear, sitting there on her lap,
hostess naked but Candi still clad in her bosom-gripping bodice.
“Yes, I have to cum, and you do too,” hostess said to her.
“Let’s both bring each other off, shall we? We can do it sitting right
here, while Flurrie wants to receive her tattoo. Then you’ll be calm to
paint it on her, and I’ll be calm enough to poke it into her so she can
wear it for the rest of her life.”
Beyond women rose, went to the chamberpot, and relieved
themselves. They wiped each others’ faces to make themselves pretty
again, shared the makeup kit. The men sat spellbound, thinking only of
their cocks now, desperate to cum, desperate not to.
“Yes, gentlemen, it’s fun to watch women pee, isn’t it?”
hostess said, looking up. “Don’t cum, though. A tattoo can be placed
on a cock as easily as inside a vulva. I’ll do it, too, if you cum now,
this late in the evening. Be good boys and keep your sperm quietly
within your balls for now. You can shoot it all out later, I assure
you. But for now, behave yourselves and just watch. You may gather
round my chair in a minute, after Candi and I have rubbed each other a
bit.” She smiled at the girl in her lap, so cute and so terribly
innocent. Yet I looked younger still, and my slit was about to be
pillaged!
“Let’s rub each other, Candi, hmmm?” hostess said. “You do me,
and I’ll do you. Do you think you can cum if I rub you?”
“Oh, yes ma’am!” Candi answered. “I’m dying for it!” She
squirmed in hostess’ lap. Her legs were parted, her bottom churned
eagerly, hoping to feel her cunny pleasured.
I sat there, my legs apart, but held no longer by anyone’s
hands. Behind me, I pulled at my wriststraps. I must get up. Surely I
must. I was lying back, pressed against the chair back, which was
fairly long and high, high enough for me to rest the back of my head
upon. The chair came with an attachment, which the handsome boy closest
to hostess had helpfully yanked upward once I was seated in the chair.
The weight of my bottom on the opposite V of the chair kept it from
toppling backward. Just to be sure, though, he rammed two tall
candlesticks up into the back of the chair, on either side, right where
the metal supporting edges of the chair ran upward toward my head,
toward the ceiling. He’d removed the wax candles first, leaving just
the sturdy gold base. I could feel the slight bulge of them against the
outer edges of my back. I pressed myself backward, they held fast.
I turned my head, leaned, glanced over my shoulder. What was
he doing back behind me now? He was standing, leaning forward. My eyes
could not help but glance at his cock. It was huge, sportingly erect.
He had a small drill in his hands. Where had he gotten that?! To my
surprise I saw the candlesticks, perhaps brought along by hostess
herself, each had two small holes in the base. Through these some
enterprising young man, should he just happen to bring a small portable
drill and four screws, might drill the candlesticks into the table. As
I watched, amazed that such preparations would be taken on my behalf, he
resolutely zipped each of the screws directly into the hardwood table.
Before he’d started he was done. It took only a moment. I think he did
construction work for a living. And why not? He was hostess’ special
guest. She didn’t need a doctor or a lawyer for a boyfriend. She had a
governor of an entire province for a husband. She did, however, need a
handy young man who knew how to screw a girl into place before she could
say ‘no.’
But that was just the chair. I myself was still free. I
wriggled my bottom. The base of the chair was so short! My hind cheeks
hung mostly free, my knees drawn up to my chin. My feet remained apart,
properly fitted in my new, expensive heels. Otherwise I was naked. My
sex pulsed hungrily. Before me hostess and Candi shared intimate
touchings. Candi swooned against hostess, screamed into her ear,
announcing her pleasure under hostess’ probing finger. With her own
hand Candi returned the pleasure. Hostess was more reserved, though,
biting her lip discreetly. She did not shout out like the undisciplined
Candi. Hostess had cum many times. This was just one more party, I was
just one more girl, as was Candi. Yet, somehow, I admired her reserve.
Here were all these young men amongst us, each vibrantly erect, and
little Candi did know how to twiddle her pointing finger most pleasantly
into hostess’ cunny. Yet hostess just ‘rode out the storm,’ so to
speak, smiling wanly to herself. Finally both of them came in a
jabbing, poking frenzy, working each others’ clittys with quick,
impressive strokes, sometimes not so much directly upon the clitty as
circling just around it, tantalizing as much as attacking it.
As I watched, mesmerized, each of the men sitting along the
table behind me kicked off his pants and got up. They gathered around
hostess and Candi. They were stark naked now, ready for sex, for
whatever the night had to offer. On some of their bottoms I saw newly
healed scars, not deep, more bruises than anything, all fading away now,
but still in their last stages of healing. Hostess’ whip. And God only
knows what else she’d used on them. It had worked, that was for sure.
They stood around me now, painfully erect, yet they did not touch me.
Hostess and Candi finished up their shared moment of bliss. The men
stood with arms crossed, closing themselves off from their own
emotions. But their penises stood up eagerly, unable to hide anywhere,
betraying their real desires. It was that sight, I think, of all those
men staring directly at me, their cocks stiff to the point of abandon,
uncaring. I think I could have whipped out a chain saw at that moment
and the men would not have cared. They were all cock now, nothing else
could chase their erections from their mind. Only hostess’ injunction
stayed their desires, restrained them. They had seen one of their
number expelled, did not want to be the next to go. As they stood
there, holding themselves round their chests, arms crossed, many of them
jabbed at the air with their hard-ons. Absently, as if horses swishing
their tails at flies, except nobody would mistake their big, unforgiving
organs, full of the blood of their passion, for harmless horsetails.
These were all muscle, ready to sperm me. It was that vision of male
pride, of male desire, for little me, that held me pinned to the chair
even though nobody kept me forcibly in my seat.
My senses might have returned eventually, but my girlfriends
knew that and moved quickly to keep me in my place. Smiling, Jill and
Gwen approached me. They took up position on either side of me. They
leaned me forward. My breasts hung gourdlike beneath me. Jill pushed
the back of the chair down with some difficulty. They lifted my bound
arms over the chair back, let them hang down behind it. Then Jill
pulled the chairback up again.
With one quick buzz hostess’ boyfriend drilled a little ring
into the wood of the table behind me. I could not see, but felt
something pass between my bound wrists and affix them to the newly
installed ring. I saw Jill and Gwen trembling as they worked. Their
nude titties shivered. Their slim throats gulped little gulps.
Affixing my wrists to the ring, they knew they were advancing their own
fate. I would only be the first to suffer under the long tattooing
needles. They would be next, and all the other girls after them. None
would leave here tonight without having her boyfriend’s initial drilled
into the inner lip of her sex, where only he could see it, parting her
lips to look, or she herself, in her private moments, by hostess’
needles.
“There. Pull. See if you can break free,” Jill said softly to
me. With childlike determination I yanked upward with my arms.
Nothing. I was held fast like a butterfly to a board.
“Good,” Gwen said. “The legs next.” She took hold of my
knee. Her hands were light, forgiving, but my knee was drawn up and out
nonetheless, to give hostess plenty of room to get at me. Jill pulled
my other knee, both were looped with rope and tied off to the sides of
the table, a little behind me, the ropes arching backward so there could
be no forward movement of my legs.
I contemplated myself. I was in quite a predicament now!
Fortunately, I still had my little feet. With my dangerously spiked
heels I tried to hide my pussy. I kicked my feet in front of myself,
holding them over my sex. Jill giggled. She and Gwen each took hold of
one of my heels and drew them apart. As I watched, biting my lip, each
of my feet was secured with a special rope of its own. In all, two
ropes bound each of my legs. One at the knee, attached to the side of
the table, and one at the foot, attached to the side of the table. A
simple affair, when you consider it. A towel-covered lawn chair, four
ropes, two candlesticks and a ring for my wrists. Hostess’ boyfriend
stood up, the drill propped casually on his shoulder. It was a good
job. I was ready, like a turkey about to be stuffed, my sex displayed.
All around me the men stabbed with frustration at the air with their
cocks. Such a luscious young thing as myself, all open and ready, yet
they could not have me! I think they were on the verge of fighting
amongst themselves to see who could be the first to get into me. They
seemed grumpy now, mean, sullen. Yet their hips moved with proud
pumping motions, cockfucking me with their minds even if their cocks
could not have me, stabbing into the air like frustrated fighters.
Hostess, her own pleasure done, rose and turned to the men,
scooting Candi off her lap as she did so. “Boys,” hostess smiled. “My,
what little boys you all look to be! I’d think you were all in the
second grade if you weren’t bulging with so much muscle. Now, you know
you must retain your seed until all the tattoos have been done. It’s
your initials, after all, that these girls will bear. When all the
girls have been committed to you for life, and believe me this is QUITE
a commitment on their part, then I will permit you to fuck them. What
you must do is decide which girl will be fucked by which of you. For I
will not permit any man to have his own girl. That would indeed be a
waste of opportunities. And remember that these girls must be taken up
the bottom, not in their pussies. Their pusses will be newly tattooed,
and too tender. So please share any information you have between
yourselves about the state of your wife’s bottom. How many times have
you fucked her there? Can she take a man easily, does she know how to
relax herself? Or is she new to it? I do hope all of you have at least
tested your girlfriend’s heinies. Even if she is an anal virgin you
will not get to fuck her. No, that will be your punishment for not
breaking in your wife when you were supposed to, at home, at the first
opportunity, whether she wished it or not. That’s right, girls,”
hostess added, turning to admire them. “Any of you who have refused
your boyfriends your bottomhole will not leave here tonight still a
cherry. Every girl will get her ass fucked tonight. And if you need to
be warmed by the whip to make you receptive, we will do that also,”
hostess added. “The birch rods are not, in fact, just for decoration,
or to give an impetus to a tardy maid like Candi here. I see most of
them still lie untouched beside their respective plates. What a pity!
Don’t hesitate to warm yourselves with them if you need to.”
Jill and Gwen and the others stood listening with rapt
attention. I saw that Jill was absently feeling her own bottom cheeks,
actually pulling them apart in back, as if she’d never taken anything
there and was scared to death to do it tonight, in public, in such
strange company. Gwen noticed, ran a sly finger down Jill’s spine.
Jill turned, looked at her, a touch of fear in Jill’s eyes.
“Please gag Flurry,” Gwen told Jill. My blonde friend cast her
eyes frantically toward Sam. He smiled back tensely. He could not make
up his mind what to do. There was his wife, apparently a cherry when it
came to buttfucking, yet he was so enthralled by all the nude females
before him, so possessed by the need springing from his own loins, that
he could do nothing but listen to hostess, and obey. He stood, merely
watching. Gwen had a leather gag in her hand and passed it to Jill.
Had Gwen gotten it from hostess? From hostess’ boyfriend? I could not
know. I had not noticed. Jill accepted the gag, swallowed nervously,
looking at it.
“Yes, Jill, you’ll be next. But gag your friend first. We
must start with her,” hostess intoned. Her voice was cold. It brooked
no dissent. Jill looked at her husband again and, finding no reprieve,
came up to me. She spread my lips as one might open the mouth of a
horse, unlovingly, mechanically, almost, it seemed, blaming me for what
must happen to her. I wanted to tell her it was not my fault, but she
stuffed the strip of leather into my mouth, deeply, so that I could not
speak or even close my teeth together again. Harshly gagged, my tongue
pressed back, she tied the gag behind my head with a casual flip of her
own, tossing her long blonde hair out of her eyes so she could better
see to bind me.
I felt the wetness of my saliva upon the deep-pressing gag. It
was made of canvas. I could barely clench my teeth upon it. I could
not even dream of closing my lips. And, down below, retaking her seat,
hostess now separated my cunny lips with her hands.
“Lalique is such a lovely name, and ‘L’ such a lovely initial,
don’t you think, Fleury,” hostess asked me. Her eyes were wicked. I
could not move. I could not answer. “I hope you agree, really I do,
because you’ll be wearing it for the rest of your life!” hostess
chortled. Gwen had taken a birch rod from the table and, as Jill
checked my gag to make sure it was secure, leaning forward a little over
me, Gwen whacked her lovely white heinie with it.
“Hey!” Jill protested. Immediately she forgot about me and her
hands flew behind her tushy to protect it and assuage the sting.
“Are you an anal cherry, my dear?” hostess asked Jill, ignoring
the girl’s hard feelings about having her bottom so rudely struck by
Gwen’s birch. Jill nodded, still rubbing her bottom.
Ah, how demure she must look, walking the streets, I thought.
Jill worked part-time in a law office, as a legal secretary, typing
briefs in accordance with rules and principals of the Law. Yet now here
she stood, utterly bereft of clothes, holding her heinie like some
wayward toddler who’s just been taught that Mommie is boss.
“You’ll need a little whipping then, to get you ready,” hostess
answered. “My, how frisky you look! All naked, as if ready for
skinny-dipping. And so young and lovely. When the night is done your
cunt will be tattooed, your bottom well-fucked (for I think the men will
line up for a chance at a new virgin’s bottom!), and your pretty ass
striped. You will know what it means to be a properly-wed wife then!
No more pussyfooting around, eh Jill? Your husband has been to easy on
you. That is the problem with men: they love their women so much they
don’t dare do what must needs be done, to bring them fully into the
office of Womanhood. That’s why I’m here, Jill. That’s why your
husband arranged to bring you to me. You’ll be truly married after
tonight, dear. Now wait patiently for your fate, and watch closely.
How nice it is of little Flurry here to agree to go first. You’ve no
objection, have you, Flurry?” She eyed me now, taunting me. “Candi,
let’s do your painting. Here’s the brush, girl, and the ink. Paint
nicely now. Any mistakes will find you most apologetic, I can assure
you.”
“Yes,’m,” Candi said. She resumed her spot on hostess’ lap
where she had so recently paid tribute to her with her cunt. Now she
took up a fine, feathery brush, and gently intruded it into my cunny.
Hostess held me open for her. My lips yanked apart, Candi began daubing
the ink into my cunt. ‘L’ it would say, in cursive, when she was done.
Candi tickled me with the brush, making me giggle, despite my fear. The
brush itched a little as it stroked over my insides. Within a minute or
two, working intently, Candi was done. Now they switched places. Candi
held my nether lips apart, while hostess picked up the longest needle.
It was about the length of a good cigarette holder, but much narrower.
Mostly it was for show, of course, only the very tip of the needle would
be used on me.
I drew in my breath over the gag as hostess leaned close with
the needle. Candi pulled me wider apart. Suddenly I felt a little
poke. I screeched into my gag. My bosoms heaved upon my chest. My
nipples wiggled, naked and delicate, yet as erect as the needle itself.
“Quiet, girl!” hostess hissed. As Jill watched, holding her
pussy now instead of her bottom, Gwen lightly stroking her back, teasing
her tailbone down where her spine ended, caressing her ass, the needle
was driven in again.
I lurched in my chair. Hostess was not deterred in the least.
Again the needle poked me, and again. My tenderest, most intimate place
was being subjected to the stinging of the bitter needle,
remorselessly. I was jabbed repeatedly with it. Oh, how many girls my
age still feared being ‘touched inappropriately,’ yet here I was being
touched with the needle, each jab of it stinging me deep into my very
core (which indeed was right where it touched me!) Hostess worked
quickly, not wanting the ink to dry on her. Jab! Jab! Jab! And then,
with my legs straining to break free, my arms tugging at the ring, it
was at last done.
“It is finished,” hostess said. She looked up at me. She
lifted a tissue and applied it to my cunny to absorb the little pinprick
droplets of blood that decorated me there. I collapsed in my bonds. My
body went totally limp. It was over, over, over at last. I was a new
woman. I hated the tattoo, but the men, their staffs pointing upward,
watching me, admiring me, made me feel proud of myself as I lay limply
there in the chair. I barely felt the hands that came to untie me. I
was returned to my chair, where I sat huddling myself upon my velvet
cushion. In my place, Jill was strapped. She shrieked at the last
moment, refusing to be tied down. Hostess slapped her. Her own husband
was brought in to help in tying her down. The second maid, Karen, came
to me and spread my legs and knelt down in front of me. Afraid for my
pussy, she licked my bellybutton. I had an innie, and she impressed her
tongue into it, and held me, and hugged me. I did not mind. I needed
someone to comfort me after my turn in that awful chair.
One by one each of the females present was bound into the chair
and tattooed. Finally they all stood around admiring hostess’
handiwork, all but a few who, like me, sat disconsolately in a chair or,
in the case of one, adopted a fetal position and lay holding herself on
the floor. The girls who stood, including Jill and Gwen (Jill having
found her courage at last, after the deed was done), stood and passed a
handheld mirror around. It was silver. They each of them put it to
their pussy and looked inside themselves at their husband’s initial,
tattooed for life there in their innermost place. I watched out of the
corner of my eye as the girls all admired their pussies. How strange
and beautiful they looked, I thought, like tall willows, standing there
utterly nude, gazing at their pussies. By day they were college
students or secretaries, all prim and proper, or doctors even, wearing
the formal garb of their profession, but here now they were just nude
females, looking at themselves in a mirror.
One act still remained. They all knew it too, you could tell,
for they stood flexing their hind cheeks, apprehensively, even as they
admired themselves. Gwen slipped the mirror from Jill’s fingers. Jill
let her, fearing yet knowing what she must show her. “Here’s your
bottom, Jill, all nice and white and virginal,” Gwen teased her. One
blonde held the mirror for the other to see. Jill looked over her
shoulder at the reflection of her own bottom in the mirror. With soft
fingers Gwen stroked Jill’s hind cheeks, then forced them apart, trying
to show Jill her own anus. It did not quite work, but just seeing it,
seeing Jill try to get a last look at her cherry hole, made me shiver
and wonder deeply at my own fate. How many men would insist on trying
my bottom? After all, it was probably not every day that they got to
fuck a 13-year-old! Hopefully Candi would help me with such chores.
She was my age. Let her take half of them. But she had won a reprieve
from hostess. And her own pussy was not tattooed like mine was. She
could take them the normal way.
“Line up, girls!” hostess ordered. She took up one of the
birch rods and made us all stand up, every last one of us, even the
weeping girl who lay on the floor, in a straight line. She walked down
the line in front of us, whisking our bare thighs lightly with her
birch. The men made sure we stood still and did as we were told.
Karen, who had so recently consoled me with kisses, now brought a box
out from the kitchen.
“There are enough collars for each of you in that box,” hostess
told us. “I want each of you girls to get a collar and buckle it on
yourself, or have a friend do it for you.” Karen offered each of us a
look into the box. We each took from it a dog collar. Alas, was I to
be collared like a dog in preparation for being fucked like a dog? It
seemed it was to be so.
“Come, let me put it on you,” Jill offered. She was more sure
of herself now. She was a wedded wife and she knew that someday this
night had to come. She had just not expected to lose her precious
bottomhole virginity in the company of other people, that’s all. But
she seemed grateful that the decision was, for all practical purposes,
out of her control. Firmly she buckled me into my collar. I stood
quietly, my bottom rotating behind me, nervously, not knowing what to
think but sure that none of the men in this room would let me escape.
She almost broke a nail getting me into the collar, for she was almost
as scared as I was, though her self-control was keeping her fear down to
a manageable level.
I in turn affixed one of the dog’s collars to her own pretty
neck. When all of us were wearing the awful devices, we were led up to
the table, where hostess’ boyfriend, working quickly, had screwed in a
series of rings, all in a row. Jill bent me over the table, placing a
small pillow beneath my tummy, handed to her by Gwen. I was pressed
downward until my cheek came into contact with the implacable table. It
was polished, deeply waxed. With a click my collar was fastened to the
ring in the table. I could not rise now. Instinctively my hands flew
back to protect my bottom. Laughingly Gwen grabbed them and pulled them
together and tied up my wrists with a new strip of rawhide. She bent my
elbows so that they crossed over the midpoint of my back, and bound my
wrists there, each to my crossing-over forearm. I was helpless now.
Helpless as a little froggie I once examined, as a small girl, holding
it up, curious, holding it by its legs and spreading them apart and
looking at its bottom. I was only two, I’d not learnt fear of frogs and
such things yet at that age. I’d seen it hopping in my back yard and I
just picked it up and looked at it, just like that. A curious
two-year-old, goddess of my own backyard, examining a interloper. It
had wriggled free at last, helped by its slime. I’d not picked up
anymore frogs after that. Soon I’d become a little girl, all curls and
pink dresses and pretended screams. But, at two, I’d been half-boy
still, unlearned in feminine ways, playing in mud and declaring myself
to be Queen of all that I saw.
I was not Queen now. I was Slavegirl, my arms bound up, my ass
quite nicely posed over the table, in the opinion of the men. They
gathered around me. Hostess selected one of them to have me. Meantime
all the other girls were being collared to the table. Jill, even Gwen,
Candi and Karen doing them, for hostess was busy with me. A few of the
girls resisted. The men helped with those, promising them good
spankings to make them reform.
Wriggling over my pillow I looked down the line of girls. Each
was petulant, pouty, trying to escape her fate now. But in each case a
man was assigned to ensure she gave up her anus. There would be no
privacy tonight, no hidden secrets, nothing withheld. The men advanced
upon us, my own taking his place behind me. His fellows dispersed to
have a girl of their own. Hostess surveyed all. Candi and Karen moved
quickly to grease each man’s pole, not wanting to go too slow, lest he
try taking the girl before him with nothing but his bare cock. After
all, it was not his wife he was about to fuck. Why should he care about
her comfort? He and all of his brothers were desperate to relieve
themselves of their spermy burdens. I felt my own man stab at me,
impatient. At last Candi reached him and insisted he hold himself back
while she greased him.
“None must begin until my say-so,” hostess advised, hoping to
keep all the men at bay until each was properly lubed. Candi touched a
bit of oil to my hole to prepare me. Two girls remained. Karen did
them.
Wickedly poised, we waited for hostess’ permission to begin.
My own man urged just the tip of his cock into me, surreptitiously. I
gasped. I wished for my gag again, lest I scream out and tattle on
him. He urged in a little more. I felt his big knob splitting me. One
man in line yelped as hostess gave him an admonitory whack with her
birch.
“Now, gentlemen, before you so eagerly take what is offered, I
want to remind you of my birch,” hostess said. “It is available for any
girls that prove too resistant. Do not force yourself beyond what she
can take. Go easy. I realize it is not your wife you have before you,
but somebody else is fucking your Lady, so your consideration for his
bride will no doubt be repaid by consideration by him for yours. Let us
begin, then. Be happy, Jill, that I spared you a whipping. But relax
your hiney properly, or you’ll feel it yet!”
With that I felt a sudden indriving, making me squeal. I
tightened myself. The man behind me wrenched my cheeks apart and drove
himself in further. Up he went, driving my breath from me. I wanted to
bite my nails, bite a gag, anything! But all I had underneath me was
the hardness of the wooden table. I felt my breasts crushed against it
as he literally raised up my ass with his hands to drive in deeper. I
could not stop him. He probed with himself, right into me, charging up
fast as he could. All around me I heard screams. I felt the man turn
his head to look at his wife, receiving hers, even as he gave me mine.
With long, surging strokes the man cleft my bottom with his
pole and fucked me deeply. I could not resist. I felt my excitement
quicken in my belly even as my limbs went slack. The length of the
night, so exhausting, took its thankful toll now, suddenly, making me
relax just enough for him to get himself up me without much pain. I
mewled, feeling his fullness, wishing he would TAKE IT OUT!, as one girl
yelled, even as I relished being so thoroughly forsaken. I was not
myself anymore. I was just a doll, impaled, gasping, and then weeping.
He fucked me hard. He did not care. He would never see me again and he
knew it. It was a one-night stand. We would go our separate ways and
never meet again. I did not know his name. I didn’t like him as much
as some of the other men. He was tall, but others were taller, and Sam
was handsomer still than any of them, in my opinion. He had been given
another, though, perhaps at the caprice of hostess, or because she
mistakenly thought he’d had me before.
At least the man fucking me had, at last, the presence of mind
to fondle my clitty, and I came just about when he did. He burrowed
deep at last, rotating his staff in my quivering ass, and shot off like
a stallion might, rearing into me as he released himself. The men
switched about then, each of them young and restless enough for a second
round. Hostess whipped their bottoms lightly to keep them hard for this
second assault. Some other stranger took me. I did not look to see who
it was. Someone with hair hanging down, partly over his eyes, obscuring
his view. He did not, I think, really care which girl’s butthole he
had, so long as she was young and sweet. And we were all of us young
and sweet. I would have liked to at least have learnt his name, but his
cock was up me before I could ask, and I was still trembling from my
last paramour.
He fucked me like a horse and I received him as best I could,
already open from my last lover. He was harder with me. He did not go
slow as hostess advised but seemed intent on ridding himself once and
for all of his desperate hard-on.
At last all was done. The men, unhurt except for their
depleted testicle sacks, which they found a most welcome relief, put
their pants back on. They buttoned up their shirts and reknotted their
ties like men in a health club after a good workout. We girls, on the
other hand, our bottoms and pussies stinging, had to brace and hold up
each other as we falteringly put back on our gowns. Jill helped me
dress. I helped her. Candi, who had enjoyed a man’s cock in her cunt,
flitted about and helped any female who needed it, as did Karen. Both
of them seemed little more than refreshed from the evening’s final
event, while the rest of us shared winces and felt up our riven
bottoms.
Jill and I left the restaurant in the company of Sam. I was
dressed in my cape again, Jill in her jacket. We were, except for our
tousled hair and our mussed dresses, the very picture of
modesty.
30
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