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From: Andrew Roller <roller39@IDT.NET>
Subject: Love Child part 12 of 15 (NND)
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_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
LOVE CHILD
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Chapter Twelve
I thought then that Tiffany would do something awful with me.
But instead for the next hour or so we played about the hot tub or
soaked in it. Two men petted my breasts at once, milked them rather
rudely I would say, squeezing and sucking on them ‘til they hurt. I
actually worried that my titties might sag when they were finally done
with them. Standing later, stark naked, before the flight kitchen’s
mirror, I leapt lightly up and down, checking the resiliency of my
boobies. Tiffany swept into the kitchen, told me I looked as lovely as
ever, and told me to get dressed too, for she and all the other girls
had long since gotten dressed. They’d bundled themselves back into
their flight jackets as soon as they’d left the dungeon, but I hadn’t
been able to find my black leather dress. Out of spite, sexual tension,
and perhaps a little mischievousness I’d wandered out of the dungeon
naked, sucking one of my fingers. Not quite a thumb-sucking baby, but
looking pretty nearly so. By now the men were all totally spent, even
the two that had so lustily sucked at my titties, finally making me
waste them with my fast-rubbing hands. So I just flirted around the
plane’s cabin as it made its approach, relishing my still lingering
sexuality in the presence of so many manly, yet suddenly unvirile men.
They groaned as I gave their loins one last pat, begging me to favor
their neighbor instead. But their eyes glinted warmly at me, admiring
my beauty and my coltish lustiness, wishing they could get themselves up
and give me one illegal poke before the plane actually touched down.
None of them could, though, alas for them. They’d gotten their money’s
worth on Elizabeth Airlines. She’d taken their coins and every drop of
sperm they could spare.
“Darling, you simply must get dressed!” Tiffany said, giving my
bare bottom a little pat. “And quit admiring your titties! You’ll make
me feel jealous.”
“How could you ever feel jealous of mine?” I asked, turning
slightly, still regarding myself in the mirror. Beyond the entrance to
the flight kitchen you could hear the passengers disembarking. Each
received a warm goodbye, got a last longing glimpse into a decollete
jacket, before he was pushed out by the file of men coming up behind
him.
“We’ll have to compare sometime,” Tiffany said. “Here, put
these on,” she added, drawing a little black panty from her purse. It
turned out to be made of lycra. A swimsuit bottom.
“What about my other clothes?” I asked.
“We seem to have lost them,” Tiffany replied, her eyes a bit
too large, too innocent. “Anyway, you’re on duty until I relieve you.
Now hurry up and get dressed because the airport inspectors will be
aboard any moment, to see that everything is in order. You know we get
inspected more than other airlines, and not just out of prudishness,
either.”
Sure enough, almost as she finished speaking two men boarded,
dilettante bureaucrats. We were in Mexico. You’d think the men were
uniform inspectors, I thought, glancing from the flight kitchen as I
pulled on my black swim panties. Soon one of them had me standing at
attention in the flight kitchen, while the other pulled open the back of
my bikini panties, a human version of the Coppertone puppy. He gazed in
at my bottom and I thanked my lucky stars that it wasn’t crisscrossed
with whip marks.
SNAP! He let go of the wide-pulled panties and I leapt as they
cracked in against my fanny.
“Alright, alright,” the man said, going on to the next girl,
who’d just come in from the flight kitchen’s far entrance. It was
Beverly. She asked them if they needed, perchance, to use the toilet.
When they said they certainly did she took them to it and they both went
in, and she went in with them. A little later the two inspectors came
out grinning. They nodded to all the girls as Beverly trailed out of
the bathroom behind them. The men stepped out of the plane and having
looked at nothing but us, they were gone.
I knew little then of what other favors we girls would be
forced to give, including myself. We stayed together at a hotel that
night, one of the best near the airport, something with a Spanish name
that I couldn’t pronounce. Of course I’d made something of a sight of
myself, walking through the airport in bikini panties, my dress unzipped
in back. We’d hurried along, all the express passes arranged for us by
the two inspectors who’d gone on ahead. I suppose it was customary to
expose the new Air Baby to a little embarrassment as we stews
disembarked. A final little humiliation for me to brave before I’d be
allowed to become one of them. Gathering in my bedroom at the hotel the
stews shot the top off a champagne bottle and sprayed me down with it.
Then each one of them kissed me on the cheek and wished me well. After
their congratulations I and my roommate, Sylvia, were left to
ourselves. I was so exhausted that I collapsed in my bed the moment the
girls left. Sylvia tucked me in. She said she wanted to go downstairs
to the bar and party a little. But later, when I awoke, I found her
lying sleepily in her bed. I asked about her partying and she said that
they’d all settled down and decided not to go, after all, because of
what must happen in the morning. She said no more, pretended to have
fallen asleep when I tried to follow up my question with another. So I
slipped off to the bathroom, alone in an unpronounceable hotel, with
girls who’d paraded me through the airport that day in only an
unzippable dress and my panties on.
It turned out Tiffany had made a pact with the devil. Some of
the girls, including herself, had been dabbling in drugs. And, as luck
would have it, they’d run up a substantial bill. Short of cash but long
on beauty, Tiffany and the girls decided to let a drug lord have their
bodies in payment. They’d agreed to be the man’s love slaves. He’d
insisted on 9 1/2 weeks of slavery. Tiff had gotten him down to five.
And so, next morning, when I thought we were boarding a van to go to the
airport, we were driven instead to a remote villa.
Not all the girls went. Not all of them owed money, and some
had never used drugs. But Tiffany had, and Amber, and Sylvia, and two
others. Beverly took charge of the girls who were going back to the
airport. I was supposed to go with her, of course, but Tiffany slipped
me into her van. It turned out one of the girls who owed hadn’t shown
up for our flight to Mexico, and so Tiffany had been one girl short.
And you can guess who she finally decided to make up the count with.
As I saw the city draw away behind us I asked one of the girls,
a girl named Cheryl, why we seemed to be going away from the airport
instead of toward it.
“Oh, don’t you know, darling?” she asked. And with growing
horror I listened as she told me the entire story. She said she’d just
assumed I must owe something too, else why would I have gotten on this
van? Before she could finish telling me all the details a man sitting
next to the driver in the front of the van stood up.
“Alright girls,” he said. “We’re far enough out of town
now...I want you to take off all your clothes. Everything. Hand them
up to me when you’ve got them off. And you may as well hand me your
purses, too, because you won’t be needing THEM for the next month, I can
assure you!” He laughed, a raucous, awful laugh, and waved an Uzi as he
spoke, as if to assure us that we wouldn’t be needing our willpower for
the next five weeks either. I could tell at once that he was just some
flunkie, a guard, and surely wouldn’t lay a hand on us if we obeyed, but
there was an evil glint in his eye, as if he was just waiting for one of
us to give him an excuse to rape us.
“Tiffany!” I whispered harshly over my shoulder. She was
already undressing, like the other girls, stripping off her newly
laundered flight jacket, her blouse (which she’d worn this morning), her
modest trousers.
“I’m sorry dear,” she replied. “I had no choice.” She looked
up at me with eyes stricken with remorse, yet I knew if she had to
choose right now, again, she’d choose to throw my lot in with hers once
more. “Take off your jacket before he takes if off for you! Don’t
worry, I’ll do my best to protect you!”
With trembling, inexpert fingers I undid my jacket and blouse.
I was so proud of my new flight jacket! I hated to see it crumpled,
taken from me, passed to the front. Within minutes I was sitting
bare-assed on the hot vinyl seat of the bus. Along with the other girls
my titties wiggled freely, the nipples pink and quite visible through
the windows of the van. We were in lush countryside now, passing
palm-roofed huts, farmers hoeing fields under a rising bright-balled
sun. It was climbing swiftly toward high noon and I wondered where I’d
be when that hour struck.
Our white shoulders flashed by the occasional motorist, the
farm lorry, the milk truck, heads turning as they saw a sight
unaccustomed in this country; blonde heads, with bright blue eyes,
glancing out fearfully as the dark eyed Mexicans stared inward. “Girls
for the grandee,” I thought I saw some of them whisper to each other.
To my stunning amazement the guard passed irons out then,
lightweight stainless steel ones, and we girls were to help each other
into them. My five companions obeyed, helping me into mine just as they
buckled each other into bondage. When I the shackles snapped shut we
all knew none of us in the van, not even the guard, had the key to
unlock them again. Only the grandee had that.
We were driven into a deep, lush jungle. Soon the asphalt
underneath our van’s tires had passed into a deeply rutted dirt road,
more suitable for donkeys than anything else. The guard up front
laughed, watching us, as we were treated to a tit jouncing ride. I
tried to keep my arms covered over my breasts but several times they
just popped out, the van jolted about so much. I glanced back once at
Tiffany and she sat listlessly, letting her boobs fly where they may,
resigned to what lay before her. Like me she wore a neck iron, with a
less than flattering bracelet of iron around each wrist. Below she had
one around each leg, just above the knew, and I knew her ankles were in
shackles too. I call them iron but they were stainless steel, actually,
but they looked so much like irons one couldn’t help but think “in
irons,” when seeing us. Chains trailed off each of Tiffany’s wristlets
over to the wrist bracelets of the girl next to her. But our ankles
were not chained, and I could guess why. It was so our legs could be
moved or spread as wide apart as our captors wished. They wanted no
hindrance to their ability to ravish us.
Who, I wondered, were we going to see? Was it one man, a
grandee, or a cabal of criminals, each to have each one of us in his own
way. Five and half weeks. I guess I had plenty of time to find out!
We passed into a villa. It was strong-walled, like some
fortress. Cheryl whispered that it was an ancient Mayan temple,
converted to modern, though no less primal, purposes. From the
spookiness of the deep jungle we seemed to slip into a kind of
sun-drenched palisade. Suddenly we were on a closely clipped lawn, with
flowers in the distance, bordering a giant house. It was adobe, or
concrete painted to look like it, with a red-tiled Mexican roof. All
around us you could see the jungle canopy, but inside this little oasis
the sun flooded in, and I was glad to see it. The van bumped to a halt,
a final tit throwing jolt of the brakes by the driver, and he looked in
his rear-view mirror as he did it. Several dark-skinned men, uniformed
like our van guard, closed quickly around our vehicle. They all carried
guns. One of them slid open the van’s passenger door.
“Step lively!” our guard yelled as us as we filed out from the
side of the van. We were lined up outside it, told to fix our hands at
our sides. Presenting our titties, all our nipples anxiously erect, we
shivered in the sunlight as a senior guard stalked in front of us.
White bodies trembling before cruel, darkskinned men. He seemed eager
to find fault with us, glaring at our flawless bodies, something that
would let him lay a hand on us. Finally he addressed us.
“Ladies, you will march up to the villa, lifting your knees
high.” He brandished a whip as he spoke. “March quickly, but keep your
steps short. Trim and neat. The main thing is to get your knees up
properly with each step, as this is how the grandee wishes to see you.
He may be watching from his window, and it will be my job to correct any
of you who do not march as I’ve told you. Every army has its special
march, and you must learn yours. The grandee will not have any
slouching or sloppiness amongst his female slaves. You need not worry
about cutting sharp corners, or twirling about to march to the rear, but
you will march crisply, lifting your knees high, demonstrating your
obedience and your willingness to obey. You may be dressed like a chain
gang, but you will not shuffle along, unwilling, sulky, as prisoners
do. You will march proudly, fillies of the grandee, going eagerly to
him to be broken in or used as he sees fit, always proud, chins lifted,
arms at your sides, breasts naked and ready to suckle his many
children. Or to do anything else he requires of you.” The guard seemed
to want to say more, all in a thick Spanish accent. I think he would
have rambled on all day, gazing at us, but he could get away with no
more. We were to be delivered now, out of his hands and into those of
the grandee.
“March!” the guard hollered suddenly. Off we went, all
squeamish and huddling. Two of the girls were slow to get going, got
swift-learning cracks on their seats that got them marching properly.
As for myself, I got the hang of it right away, as did Tiffany. She was
right in front of me, Cheryl behind, Amber next and little Sylvia
trailing, her legs smaller, so that she had difficulty keeping up. Our
titties jumped with our nervous steps. Up and down and up again, each
step firmly executed, but hurryingly, for the guards frightened us
terribly.
We marched single-file up the steps that fronted the mansion,
then into the cool shade inside. Down a broad hallway we went, passing
a brown-skinned maid, two more, they looking on at our white-skinned,
delicate bodies, tut-tutting in disapproval.
“Drugs, you know,” I thought I heard one whisper to another.
Fat women they were, all suited up in long frilly aprons and caps, women
who’d borne many children, gazing at girls who’d borne none. With our
flat bellies and big round titties we passed them, our bottoms still
small, with that compact heart shape that men cherish and that does not
last past the first child or, with luck, persists perhaps until the
second comes. Virgins we were to the true labors of love, the labors of
the delivery room, which these women had no doubt been forced to repair
to as young as 15, or 12 perhaps, losing quickly the beauty of their
youth as they faithfully brought forth young for their husbands. Skinny
legged and slim-limbed we passed, our ribs still sticking out, barely
fleshed, our hip bones still alluringly revealed, thin white girls with
only flesh on their bosoms and bottoms, charmingly placed.
“The grandee will fix them,” a woman whispered. “They’ll leave
big-bellied.” And then we’d passed beyond, further down the hall, and I
couldn’t remember whether I’d just interpreted Spanish words they’d
spoken, knowing the language not, or actually heard them whisper in
English what I thought they’d said.
With panicky, high-stepped steps we went finally into a large
chamber. There a man sat, on a chair, at the head of a table. But the
table ran along the far wall and his chair was turned toward the near
wall, toward us, we having just passed beneath an archway to come
through it.
“Greetings, girls,” a guard standing beside the seated man
thundered. “Please kneel and bow to your new master, the grandee
Solanos!” There were soft little mats on the floor, pastel colored,
some light yellow and others of other shades. Smooth, finely spun
cotton for our knees and faces. We bent down, our chains clattering
noisily. Onto my knees I went with the other girls. Then, squeamishly,
we pressed our faces to the mats and lifted our bottoms high.
“Very good, girls. But you must do it the other way,” the
guard laughed. Mortified we looked up at him. Our long lovely hair
spilled round our heads, onto or over our shoulders. We looked
alternately pensive, penitent, shocked, humiliated. With a crack of the
guard’s whip upon his thigh (alas! he had one just like the other!) we
jumped up. Round we filed, turning our backs to the grandee. Then we
knelt again, and offered him our bottoms.
“Higher, girls! Spread your knees! Let your cunts be seen,
for that is what you are here for!” the guard yelled lustily, happily,
his thigh foreign voice coming from deep within his chest. I jutted my
peach out like the other girls, showing my pouch as best I could. Then
the guard came to us and passed behind each of us, tapping us each on
the cunt lightly with his whip handle. I shivered as he touched me,
visibly, and he whistled softly in admiration.
When our bottoms had been duly admired, approved of, we were
ordered up again. I thought perhaps we could face away then, hiding our
breasts at least, but no, we were commanded to turn around again, and
all stiff-nippled and trembling we faced our master once more.
He had gray hair, swept back off his high forehead. His chin
was long, jutting. He wore a fine suit, as if he’d dressed up specially
just for us. His eyes were piercing but not hard. I felt myself
falling under his sway as he looked specially at me, examining each of
us in turn with his eyes.
“You have done well, Tiffany,” he said at last. “I see you are
one short but you have more than made her up with the substitute you’ve
brought.” He told us to sit down then, to fold our legs underneath us
and sit on our heels. Smoothing the little towel reflexively with my
hands I knelt down upon it, like the other girls. We stared at him, our
eyes unknowing, frightened still.
“I enjoy your apprehension but I want you to take something to
help you settle down,” the grandee said. “No use wasting your energy on
being nervous. You’ll need all you can muster later. This will make
you a little high, and it may act as a slight anesthesia also, to help
you through your first day. I won’t force you to take it but I highly
recommend it.” The guard walked over to us as he spoke. Before each of
us, onto the mat, the guard threw a syringe and a band of rubber
tubing. With hesitant eyes the girls glanced at each other. Then
Tiffany, by way perhaps of example, picked up the syringe and tied off
her arm with the rubber cord. She held the syringe elegantly as she
knotted the cord, as one might a cigarette. Then she depressed the
syringe slightly, playfully aiming it in my direction. With a renewed
earnestness she put it to her arm. She flinched slightly as the needle
went in, her mouth opening in a little surprised O. Then, her sleek
fingertips driving the drug home, she injected the entire load. She
blew softly through pursed lips as she withdrew the needle.
“Would you like help, dear,” she asked, turning to me. With my
tits trembling nakedly, feeling very exposed, I fumbled with the
syringe, not sure whether I wanted it or not. If it would help me
forget this awful place, not know what horrid things they did to me, but
then... “Come dear, you must,” Tiffany said. She tied my band onto me,
knotting it firmly. She told me to make a fist and flex my arm. Then,
taking my syringe, she aimed it carefully at one of my little blue veins
in the crook of my arm. “There!” she said, giving me a little jab. “It
will make you hot and horny and you’ll want whatever they do to you,
instead of feeling sad and sorry for yourself.”
I felt a warm glow begin to well up from my belly as the guard
passed back in front of us, picking up our syringes. Playfully two
girls shot their used rubber cords at him, but he didn’t mind. I felt
an itching in my cunt, subtle at first, then more, becoming like a kind
of small fire wavering over my clitty.
“Oooh! I can feel it already,” Cheryl said, putting her hand
to her cunt and rubbing it.
“Do not touch yourself,” the grandee snapped in a loud voice.
Bashfully she withdrew her hand. She’d done it without even thinking,
suddenly, impulsively. Like some naked little girl, untutored,
unmannered, kneeling with the other girls in a kind of nude playtime
before the sultan. No doubt we would have all been rubbing ourselves,
just like her, if he hadn’t reminded us of our manners. I could feel
the drug working within me already, shaping my observations. I
delighted in my nudity. I wanted to be with these girls, and in front
of Him, looking at him as he looked at me. Then the drug subsided a
little and I regained some of my mental composure. We were in trouble
now, nude and drugged and far away from any help. What would he do to
us? I clenched my fists, unclenched them. I was afraid once more, but
fires danced on my titties, on my clit. I wanted to run but I had the
awful knowledge that I was too aroused to.
The guard came over to Tiffany, tossed her a silver key. “The
grandee thinks its safe for you to unlock yourself and the others now,
Tiffany,” he said.
“Yes, unlock yourselves!” the grandee called to us. “I want to
see you girls without anything on at all.” Tiffany undid our chains
then, kneeing her way from girl to girl and unlocking us each in turn.
When the cuffs fell away I stretched happily. Beside me Cheryl sprawled
out on her mat like a cat.
“Sit up, girls! Sit up!” the grandee called, and we hastily
arranged ourselves as before. “Now, I am not entirely unfamiliar with
the female body. Aren’t you girls forgetting something?” We stared at
him. “Don’t any of you have to go to the bathroom?”
The thought rippled through us. Of course! Why, yes! We’d
been so distracted by everything, and now by the drug, that we’d
completely forgotten about our bladders. Like some patient awaking from
a dream, or sleep, I realized I had to go quite badly. But where was
the bathroom? And would we be allowed to use it? My face took on a
baleful look. Not a few of the other girls looked equally distressed.
The grandee surveyed us serenely. Now he had us right where he wanted
us. “I want you to pledge to me that you’ll be totally obedient to my
wishes,” he said. We nodded hastily. He motioned to his guard. The
man told us to raise our right hands.
Our titties hanging delicately from our ribs, upthrust and
plump, our bottoms wobbling with our anxiousness and our full bladders,
we repeated the pledge of eternal love to the grandee:
“I promise to always obey Grandee Solanos,
“To offer him my breasts,
“To offer him my hole,
“To love his cock,
“And to thank him when he corrects me.”
The fact that our minds did not exist to the grandee bothered
me a little. I wondered if it bothered the other girls too. I mean, I
was an accomplished student. Tiffany had just graduated from college.
We were professional women. Well, not in that sense, hopefully. But
certainly we American women must be respected for our intelligence too,
mustn’t we? Unfortunately my urge to pee kept me from raising these
objections.
When we finished we sort of glanced at each other. We were all
feeling quite naked and vulnerable, more so than even before. It was
like we’d just been led unwittingly past some barrier, and none of us
knew what lay beyond. We were in the grandee’s hands now.
A mexican woman came out, her face and hands broad and
swarthy. She wore starched clothes of white muslin. Before each of us
she dropped a broad, shallow golden bowl. It reminded me of an offering
plate at church. When we’d each been given a plate the woman, standing
off to one side of us, crossed her arms and looked at us.
“Pee!” she said. At first we all just looked at her. “Pee!”
she said again. We realized with horror what she wanted us to do.
“Pee!” she said it again. Obviously this woman would have benefitted
from a vocabulary enlargement course. With fumbling hands we took the
plates. We spread our knees wide and wedged the plates between them. I
myself didn’t want to open myself up any wider than I had to for this
woman. It felt like I was completely bared to her, though, even more
than I was. Like I was about to offer my very soul to her. And,
indeed, it must be the last shred of dignity that is torn away when a
girl is forced to urinate like this, in public, in front of strangers.
Particularly people from strange lands who seemed to exude a kind of
self-righteous holiness. As if we white girls deserved what we were
suffering.
I put my fingers to my cunt, even as the other girls did the
same. And then a period of waiting ensued. Awful waiting. Having to
go and not being able to. Right at the outset the grandee warned us
that any of us who failed to pee right away would be considered baulky
and punished for it. This was hardly helpful. Gulping nervously,
shivering, we waited.
The woman circled round behind us.
“AAAH!” Tiffany cried suddenly, and fell to all fours, her
hands slapping loudly onto the floor. The woman had drawn forth a whip
from somewhere within her mighty garments and given Tiffany a stinger
right across her naked bottom with it. Fearfully I gulped, looking over
my shoulder at the woman, as she approached me. My bulbing cheeks stuck
out at her, all pinkly white and shivery. Suddenly I peed.
Thankfully I looked down at myself, unbelieving. I thrust my
cunt forward helpfully, watching the golden, luxurious stream as it
arced into the bowl between my knees. Behind me the woman, just missing
her opportunity, glared and went on to the next girl.
But now Cheryl peed to! And Amber and lastly little Sylvia,
all four of us peeing at once and loving and relishing it. Hastily
Tiffany got back on her knees and began peeing with us. The grandee
laughed. The guard laughed. Only the woman, stern faced, did not
laugh.
When we were finished guards came in and took away our bowls.
They sloshed with our essence. The grandee warned the guards not to
spill any of it. Another woman came in as the guards left, heavy and
unattractive like her sister, and dressed similarly. She had a pile of
soft white towels on a tray. They steamed. She handed one to each of
us and we took it gratefully. The grandee’s principal guard, standing
beside his master, told us to wipe ourselves. I cleaned the smattering
of pee splashings from the insides of my thighs. Then I rubbed my cunt
with the hot towel. The other girls too held their hot towels to their
pussies, massaging themselves, and it quickly became apparent that
although we were quite clean down there we were going to make extra,
extra, extra sure.
“Enough!” the grandee said. He motioned to his foremost guard
to take away our towels from us. We’d been told not to play with
ourselves but had tried to trick him anyway. With anxious hands I gave
up my towel, worrying that I’d earned some special punishment.
“Now,” the grandee announced. “I must not keep you girls to
myself. My people would be jealous. I must present you at the village,
so all my people can enjoy you just as I do.” With that, guards came in
and reshackled us. As we remained erectly on our knees they pulled our
wrists behind us and fixed them together. I looked down at my breasts,
so large and defenseless, the cherry nipples hopelessly erect.
We were forced to stand. The grandee told us he’d see us again
soon and we were filed out, taken out into the drafty, summer hall, the
smell of palm fronds on the breeze. Down the hall we went, and then off
into a side room. There we were made to sit on stools. Our feet
dangling, we were shod in sharp-heeled pumps. Then spectacular diamonds
were brought forth and clipped to our ears. We gasped, amazed.
“Don’t worry, you won’t be able to keep them,” a spanish woman
said to us in broken english. “They are for temporary decoration only.”
Beauticians came and did up our faces and our hair as we sat,
breasts outthrust, our hands still helplessly bound behind us. Then
each of the beauticians went behind us and did our nails, drawing out
our fingers one by one but never unlocking our iron cuffs. Our bottoms
shivered nakedly just inches from their eyes. I farted once,
apologized. The beautician said something back to me in Spanish.
Out across the lawn we trooped at last, more beautiful I think
than ever before, but utterly naked also. We were loaded into the van
by the guards. Off we went then, without seatbelts on but with our
hands bound unhelpfully behind us. Our bosoms bounced as the van left
the fine-clipped grounds of the grandee and lurched down a pitted
country road.
The van pulled to a stop in the square of a little village.
Small houses with adobe walls and dusty red-tiled roofs slept in the
afternoon sun. The inside of the van was uncomfortably cool, the air
blowing on our white skin from chilled air conditioning vents. But
outside you could see that the air was heavy, thick with centuries of
unremitting heat. Dogs lounged by a dead fountain in front of a grocery
with a sign that needed paint. Two horses, looking sad, their tails
flipping futilely at several buzzing flies (more interested no doubt in
the fresh turds at the horses feet than in the horses themselves), were
tied to a hitching post.
From the buildings lining the town square people began to
emerge. The men, short and fat and bald, or with shaggy black locks
coming down to their eyes, stepped out with their hats still in their
hands, fanning themselves a little more before being forced to cover
themselves from the sun’s glare. Women emerged too, and little
children, scuttling amidst the adults. And then the grandee pulled in,
riding in a Rolls Royce, coming apparently from the same road we’d
travelled, though far enough behind us so as not to catch any of the
dust our van had churned up in its passing.
And then I saw them. We all saw them at once, I think, for a
hushed gasp passed over all of us in the van. Five pairs of iron
shackles, fixed to a brick wall, across from the church. The shadow of
the church steeple fell across the town square, pointing at the wall.
And at one end of the wall there was a bucket. Dried salt clung in
rivulets to its sides. And standing in the bucket was a clutch of rods,
birch rods I think, bound together with a black rope.
“No!” one of the girls sobbed. I felt myself fighting to hold
back tears. Did the grandee really intend such a horrid fate for us?
It looked awful and unmerciful and utterly demeaning. I could see
slaves whipped there, or heretics, but not college girls, not a high
school freshman like myself! Did he expect to put little Sylvia against
such an implacable wall, with her skinny coltish legs and her unformed,
unfinished body, to squash her newly grown tits up against those awful
bricks? And Tiffany? Did he wish to place her chic, smooth-bodied
form, with her sleek long legs and her inviting bottom, so deeply cleft
and properly if sparingly fatted, up against that wall? Must sensitive,
shy Amber be thrown up against that wall? Or lovely Cheryl?
And then I saw a spanish woman walk up to the wall with an
armful of thick shawls. They were fringed, with subtle earth hues spun
into them in Spanish and Incan designs. She hung one shawl right
beneath each pair of shackles, right under the cuffs of the shackles,
actually, but beneath the place where their dangling chains sprouted
from the wall. There were little hooks provided in the wall for the
hanging of the shawls, one for either of the shawl’s topmost corners.
The van driver told us the shawls were provided as a favor by the
grandee himself, that criminals and heretics whipped against the wall
had no such comfort provided them.
The door to the van was yanked open with a harsh, grating
sound. The sheriff of the town stepped aboard. He was a dandified
gentleman, with a swarthy look and a slim curled mustache. He
introduced himself to us politely, tipping his broad hat to us. He wore
a military uniform, stiff and unyielding, hesitating it seemed even to
crinkle when he bent toward us in greeting.
“Ladies, I’m afraid drug usage is a criminal offense, and I
shall have to punish you for it,” he explained with utmost gentility.
“If you will please proceed across the square to the wall we can amend
your sins with the least difficulty for you and the exemplary justice it
deserves.” Little Sylvia broke into tears. I felt myself shimmering
with fright, my skin all prickled up in the cool air, scared out of my
wits. I hunched my shoulders but my titties stuck out resolutely, my
nipples like thorns.
“We--can’t,” Tiffany gasped.
“I’m afraid you must, young lady,” the Sheriff replied simply.
“With exaggerated deference he took her by her lovely silky hair and
pulled her to her feet. Tiffany’s mouth opened wide, speechless.
Chained to her, watching her drawn by her hair, we could not help but
rise as she was led from the van.
The women from America, so delicate, with lovely hair and
smooth fine bodies, from genteel upper class neighborhoods up north or
leafy small towns, stepped across the square. A long carpet had been
hastily unrolled for us, by order of the grandee, so that our feet would
not be soiled by the dust. Trippingly, wearing only spiked stiletto
heels and diamond earrings jangling from our ears, we were taken across
the square to the wall. One by one we were put to the wall and our
hands quickly unbound and re-bound above our heads.
With silk-sheened bottoms we stood in the hot sun now, still
feeling the lingering effects of the van’s air conditioning upon our
skin. Our hair glistened in the sunlight. Our earrings sparkled. A
spanish woman began putting up my hair. The grandee stopped her, saying
only our bottoms were to “have it,” as he put it. Slim legged we stood
there, our hair cascading down our backs, with all eyes now fixed on our
shivering asses.
A man was selected from the crowd. He swaggered forth, young
and strong. He took the rods from the bucket. The grandee told him to
pull one forth from the bunch, to save the rest in case they were needed
later. He took the stoutest, longest one. He played with it in the air
a moment, sweeping it out before himself. Our gently curving backs,
half-hidden by our manes of hair (though some had less protection than
the others), presented themselves sweetly, our ribs showing with our
every indrawn breath, our waists narrow, our bottoms sticking out below.
The man took up position before Sylvia. She looked back at him
fearfully. She began to sob openly now, big suffering sobs that belched
from her small lungs.
“No! Give me hers!” Tiffany begged. She turned her head
wildly to the grandee.
“You are generous, my dear,” the grandee said. But you are all
equally sinful. Except your newest friend, that is. She I will punish
just for the erotic pleasure of it. I am a generous man, but a wicked
one too, and my people have so little to entertain them. “Begin!” he
shouted to the young man at our rear.
WHACK! The first slicing thud of the birch sounded against
Sylvie’s bottom. She screamed aloud, her shriek rustling the pigeons
from atop the church steeple. Then, as she bent her head forth and
cried into her shawl, the whipmaster sauntered casually over to the next
girl. Sylvie would be left to feel her punishment until it was her turn
again. Tremblingly Amber begged to be let off. The master just looked
at her, ignorant and uncaring. He had not gone to her protected suburb
up in America to punish her. She had come to him. Why would she now
ask him for mercy? He had lived in the same small town all his life.
For a white Anglo girl to get all the way down here, well she must have
done SOMETHING. And what would her people have done to him if he’d gone
up north to where she lived? Why, the American sheriff would not be as
polite to him as his sheriff had been to her.
The man drew back his hand, and Amber’s shy eyes blinked wide
as the birch swooped in and struck her hard on the tushy.
“YEEEOWL!” Amber yelped. Her naked legs danced about, first
her left foot lifting, then her right, rapidly, desperately. The
townspeople laughed heartily. Sylvie in her sadness, and perhaps
receiving a lesser blow than her sister (though you couldn’t have told
it by her cry), had stiffened her legs. Even now they still were frozen
in some kind of rictus, as if still refusing to believe that her tender
bottom had been struck by the birch. But Amber, shy and
ever-so-concerned with justice and fair play, put on a venerable show,
letting the whole world know she’d been wrongly struck, in her opinion.
Cheryl was next. With flinching, hesitant eyes she watched as
the master drew himself up before her.
“Please sir, not on my hams,” Cheryl peeped. “Do my thighs, or
my back, but not my bottom.” The master simply drew back his hand and
let loose his stroke.
“NOOOO!” Cheryl cried. She sobbed and danced, though not so
explicitly as Amber or with the morose attitude of Sylvie.
I was next. Gazing at my master, I knew he would not spare me
either. I tried to bend my knees, to somehow lower the profile of my
bottom, present less of a target with it. But it was impossible. We’d
all been stretched high until only our toes touched the ground. The
balls of our feet, actually. Bending my knees only brought me up onto
my tippie toes. And that is when master struck.
“YEEEOCH!” I shouted. A fairly aimed stroke split my white
peach, leaving a blazing red line of heat right across the summits. I
dangled from my manacles, twisting about, flexing my bottom hard as I
tried to throw off the sting. The crowd laughed again, delighted,
amused by these Anglo girls with their white bottoms that the grandee
had provided for their pleasure. It was how he stayed in power,
providing these simple entertainments. In the city you could not find
such as this. There was only smog and prostitution, corrupt priests and
churches that prayed only for the government. But out here, deep in the
jungled countryside, here life was simple and direct. Pain was sharp,
simple. It was delivered upon penitent bottoms owned by rich white
Anglo girls, who no doubt went home then with tales of the
remorsefulness of using drugs in their country, warning their little
sisters to beware of waywardness, to follow the straight and narrow of
church and farm and home. Bill Bennett, had he known, would no doubt
have joined the Mexicans and applauded. And how many Anglos had
applauded the caning of the boy in Singapore? Yes, there was justice to
be found in Mexico, at least out here in the countryside. Here even the
whitest girls could find justice, while the simple peasant was protected
by the grandee. All these tumultuous thoughts raced haphazardly through
my mind as I twisted from my manacles. These people would not help me.
They would not offer any assistance. Any pity we received would come
from the grandee, and him alone.
Tiffany did not turn her head to look at the whipmaster.
Instead she looked once at the grandee. He returned her gaze, wearing
an ice cream white suit of vanilla, twin spanish women fanning him as he
watched her. Tiffany stuck out her tongue at him. Then she turned her
blonde head away, toward the wall. The crowd gasped, realizing what
she’d done to their grandee. Impudently Tiffany stuck out her bottom,
offering it. When the master arrived, his weapon ready, she bent her
knees wide and farted.
Curses erupted from the crowd. Fists shook. Yet Tiffany’s
bottom remained boldly displayed, defiant. It did not tremble as ours
had, but jutted out bold and brave. The master looked at the grandee.
He bade him wait. And then slowly, gradually, Tiffany’s bottom began to
tremble. Just a little, but showing that she too felt fear. Perhaps
more than the rest of us now. Still she held it out at the Mexicans,
proud of her white seat and making them look at it, forcing them to gaze
at her mooning ass.
“Two for her for every one for the others,” the grandee told
the whipmaster.
Quickly the master delivered two solid strokes upon Tiffany’s
pumpkin. She bit her lip and shook like a doggie, her long blonde hair
thrashing from side to side. But she did not cry out. With trembling
legs she bore the cuts and remained silent.
“You do well, Tiffany,” the grandee complimented her. “But you
are older than the others and I expect it from you.” Alas, she had set
a standard for herself now, one the grandee would expect her to uphold.
Could she do it? I wondered. She was only a year older than Amber,
only a few years older than the rest of us.
And now the master returned to little Sylvie. He gave her
another juicy swat, and she cried the loudest of all of us again, though
I wondered if he wasn’t actually going easy on her, for he seemed to
smile at her and slow his hand a little when he delivered the stroke.
Out of compassion or because of some wicked hope that he’d get to
treasure her bottom all by himself later on I knew not. Perhaps he was
hoping for some reward for his work. He could be saving her for later,
when he might give her a more thorough swatting in his own bedroom, tied
to his own bedpost. But Sylvie bawled away, certain that she was
suffering the cruelest cuts on her heinie. And then Amber was struck
again, sending the girl into more self-righteous displays of the pain
inflicted on her bottom, letting all of us know by her dancings that she
felt every last bit of it. Perhaps she hoped the man who filmed Rodney
King would film her, and she could show the world what she had suffered,
and sue the grandee for his estate. In any event her antics brought the
most laughter from the crowd, while Tiffany’s bold display brought the
most scorn.
Cheryl offered her peach this time, softly though, humbly,
sticking it out in offering rather than defiance. Perhaps she hoped to
earn some compassion from the master, but it did not help her. He
struck her just as firmly as before. She broke into tears then,
remorseful over her bottom, not wanting it marked.
I did not look at the master this time. I hung my head and
waited, bit my lip. In came the stroke. Hot, hard, extorting a quick
shrill cry from me. I took my punishment and danced about a little,
then quieted. My nether cheeks squeezed shut, opened, squeezed again,
trying to rid away the pain.
Tiffany was not so wanton this time. She held her bottom aloft
but did not try to make some rude presentation with it. The master gave
her two, well-placed, sparing her a hit on skin already marked, but
striking her hard nonetheless. Tiffany barely suppressed her
ululation. I knew next time she’d offer it up, pierce the sky with it,
for I could see her trembling beside me. Her will was cracking. The
whipping was so slow, one could not maintain one’s composure for long.
The tension was overwhelming as you waited for the master to return.
Back to Sylvia he went. He struck her harder this time, making
her dance like Amber. She was almost out of tears now, she’d cried so
much already. But she shouted as loudly as before. Perhaps she thought
she was on the playground, tussling with boys. Amber next again, a
regular go-go girl by now, jumping about with her white legs flashing
and her bare hips revolving. Who says only New York City has such
girls? And then Cheryl, her poor bottom given another fiery stripe,
sending her cringing into self-absorbed tears. And then me! How awful
the birch felt, striking my heinie in some new spot, bringing flaring
heat to some new area of my bottom. I wriggled atop my upstanding toes,
cried a little, bit my lip. Lastly Tiffany bore her two in turn, her
ass quite red now, suffering more than the rest of us because she’d
rudely insulted the grandee and his simple village folk. She was
regretting it now, I knew, for she wept openly this time, and howled
like a werewolf. Even Sylvie looked over at her. The grandee laughed,
tossed a large glimmering coin to the master. The people applauded.
In the distance a jeep drove up. The crowd turned. The
grandee looked over his shoulder, the women on either side of him still
fanning him dutifully even as they looked also. The jeep came closer.
Turning my head back, straining my bottom back even as I turned, my
wrists still caught in the cuffs, I watched as the jeep drove up. In
the distance thunderclouds were building. I saw a flash of summer
lightning upon the far mountains.
The jeep parked by the van. After the dust settled, a woman
stepped out, followed by a man. He was dressed in a smart blazer. With
my nude bottom poking out I felt utterly ridiculous. I felt the other
girls rustling in their bonds, admiring the handsome man even as they
felt utterly, completely embarrassed.
“Oh, how luscious!” the woman gasped, approaching, gazing at
us. She was a cultured woman, finely dressed, though her skirts looked
just a little rumpled now, as if she’d been dallying in the jeep with
her lover. Dallying as they drove through the jungle and admired the
monkeys and macaws.
She was a Spanish woman from the city, I learned, guessing at
her dialogue as she and her lover spoke to the grandee. He was very
gracious to her, to him. The woman, hot blooded, kept turning toward
us. She seemed overwhelmed by our display, in thrall to our suffering.
Hot bottomed we wiggled before her, five tushies arranged against a
wall. Once American girls, now just white flesh with bottoms the color
of ripe tomatoes. Glancing over my shoulder at her well-coiffed face,
her fine spun black Spanish hair drawn up in a loose bun, I wondered how
she would bear up under similar treatment.
The grandee nodded to the whipmaster to continue. He strode
back toward Sylvie, cocky before this gorgeous new female admirer. To
my shocked amazement the woman cast up her skirts and began rubbing
herself as she watched the master take up position behind poor little
Sylvia. She seemed shocked too, incredulous, and then she was suddenly
howling, screeching her lungs out at a very nasty cut right across the
base of her cheeks.
The woman turned to her lover as our master strode over to
Amber. She unzipped her gentleman and fished out his cock. It was
huge, glistening in the sunlight with precum drooling from the tip even
as she drew it forth. My guess about their dallying had been right.
And it was then, amidst all this horridness, that this sudden intrusion
provoked my thoughts into remembering the drug we’d taken earlier, the
stimulant for our loins. No sooner had I thought of it than I knew that
my companions had thought of it too, for they emitted soft moans,
watching as the lady began to service her gentleman.
Prior to this we’d been so dazed and astounded by our ordeal in
the square, so outraged and scandalized by it all, that the effects of
the drug had been forgotten. But now it came flooding back, overriding
our fear and making our cunnies throb. Heedlessly I squashed my breasts
to the shawl and began rubbing them against it. The master delivered a
swifter, harder cut than ever to Amber, then Cheryl, yet I kept pressing
myself to the shawl and digging into it with my stiff nipples. In back
my bottom began to move, my cheeks rolling in a brazen display.
WHACK! In came the admonitory stroke. I screeched, howled,
ringing the church bells almost with my voice, but I did not stop
waggling my bottom. Even Tiffany was moving hers, though she was about
to get two licks to our one. Behind us the young man shuddered,
straining to hold himself back as his lusty bride fingered and sucked
him.
“OOOOOOOCH!” Tiffany screamed, her voice a ululation, a white
woman imitating some African tribal maiden at the stake, suffering under
the witch doctor. Two of them were wrenched from her, one right after
the other. Our master was clinical, precise, each cut delivered in a
new spot, though with Tiffany he was running out of spots. He was like
a doctor practising surgery on a patient. The wall was his upright
operating table.
The woman said something to the grandee and he smiled broadly,
nodded. He called to the master to halt his proceedings, threw him
another coin. I breathed a sigh of profound relief. We all did. And
then almost at once we let out a little dismayed cry. The woman was
taking all of her clothes off! She was saying something to the
whipmaster. Was she going to join us? Would there be six of us? She
tore off the last of her undergarments, a tight girdle, a bra,
stockings. Boldly she strode forth naked to the wall. And then the
whipmaster handed her the birch! She turned to us. She smiled. It was
a smile of expectation. Of triumphant expectation. She yanked her hair
down in back and let it fall loosely over her shoulders. Glittering
earrings danced from her ears as she advanced upon Sylvia, the nearest
of us. With swift strokes she cut the air with her birch, practising.
Sylvia screamed, deathly afraid, as we all were. Yet we could not stop
the lewd gyrating of our bottoms! We kept wiggling away, hungry for
relief and utterly unable to obtain any, chained as we were to this
awful wall.
The woman gave Sylvia a lifting stroke, catching her under her
bottom and shooting the girl up onto the tops of her toes.
“YEEHOOOOCH!” Sylvia hooted, her whole body quavering. The
woman passed her, spoke aloud in a refined english accent:
“I’ve whipped cows before, many times, driving them in from the
field,” she said. “But never had I thought to try it on people!” I saw
then that she was young, perhaps only 17, had looked older because of
her elaborate courting clothes. “And such fine young American girls,”
she said. “Lost little girls far from home, where their mommies and
daddies can’t see what they’re up to.” She was laughing, as if reciting
words from some play she’d learned in school. Something about
Americans, obviously, perhaps wayward Catholic schoolgirls doing what
they knew they weren’t supposed to.
This oddly mature, oddly innocent young woman gave Amber a cut
then, expertly delivered, even better than the master’s, sweeping right
into the crack of her fanny even as the girl wobbled it around, hoping
for love. Amber straightened, stilled her bottom a moment, screeched
loudly. Then Cheryl’s orb was next, and then mine, finally Tiffany
received two on hers, as amorously churning as ours were.
“Ah! They are becoming so cut up!” the young woman said,
regarding us. She turned to her lover, threw down the stick. “Ramone!
Give me your belt!” she called, her bosoms wobbling on her chest as she
put her hand to her mouth and shouted. Up he came, bounding, his cock
tossing about erectly. He cast off his trousers as he approached, they
hindered his stride. Wearing only his shirt he delivered the belt from
his pants to his wife.
Or lover, or whatever she was to him. With eager eyes she
turned once more to us. Lovingly she drew her man’s broad belt through
her hand. It looked supple, strong. I knew we would suffer under it
tremendously.
“Oh do me sir, please?” Little Sylvia said suddenly to the
woman’s lover. Perhaps she hoped to put his hips between her and the
whip, was willing to suffer his knob up her cunt for it, or up her ass.
The woman glowered, then laughed.
“Yes! You must all have my Ramone, but only after I am
satisfied,” the woman said. He said something to her, called her
Alicia. It was that which told me her name.
The first broad-swatting stroke came slamming into Sylvia’s
heinie. She screamed anew, sending the pigeons all the way to the
equator, I thought. Truly the belt was safer than the birch, for it did
not slice up the skin, yet it could be delivered with butt-thudding
force.
And that is just how Amber received her first wallop, like some
naughty little girl being disciplined by her father. Yet it was mother
who wielded father’s belt. Amber sobbed loudly, was soon joined by
Cheryl. A moment more and I was coughing forth my own boo-hoos, then
Tiffany!
Wailingly we received more blows from the belt. It basted us,
turned our seats into veritable hot tamales.
“Oh, I can’t stand it!” the woman cried suddenly. She’d been
rubbing herself now and then as she hit us. Now she turned to the
grandee and begged to be put beside us. He motioned to his people and
at once shackles were hung from a bare iron ring poking from the wall.
It was on the far side of Tiffany. I had not noticed it earlier. A
shawl was hung for her and then she grasped the manacles with her
fingers and rubbed her bosoms against the shawl, even as we were lustily
rubbing ours. Her lover gently prised her hands from the manacles and
then buckled her firmly into them. He stepped back, took up the belt,
massaging his still-hard cock all the while. He had not come yet.
Perhaps now he would, I feared, with his young girlfriend so alluringly
displayed before him, her courting clothes gone, her cunt peeping back
at him twixt her thighs, available for his pleasure.
“THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!” He gave her several blows to get
her going, delivered right across her white heart-shaped bottom. She
groaned, tasting for the first time in her life, I guessed, the feel of
a belt. Tossing her head she savored the hurt as best she could, though
I saw she was having some difficulty with it. Later I learned that
amongst us I was the only one to have been whipped on a prior occasion.
Tiffany and all the rest had only played amongst the items of dungeon
airlines, never actually using any of it. It was for the guest’s
pleasure only...on other guests. Of course that had not stopped Tiffany
from slapping my bottom on the airplane, and they’d slapped each other
before, but none had tasted belt or birch.
“How are you holding up?” Tiffany asked, bravely turning to me
whilst Alicia begged for and got more strokes of the belt on her bottom.
“Terribly,” I sniffled. “And you?”
“My butt hurts like hell,” Tiffany sobbed. She bowed her head
and joggled her ass about and then, still wiggling it, raised her face
again to me. It was stained with tears and she looked absolutely
miserable. I gazed at her. Then I stuck my head as far towards her as
I could, offering her a kiss, and she met me halfway and we kissed
there, under the hot sun with our bottoms blazing.
Ramone and Alicia began rutting. He cast the belt aside and
fucked her right there, heedless of the crowd, consummating their
relationship, I guessed. There was a thunderclap as they orgasmed and a
light rain began to fall. I turned my head, looked over my shoulder
with immense relief. The rain was soft, cooling. We all stuck our
bottoms out at once, as far as we could, and enjoyed the light stinging
rain as it soothed our tushies.
The rain began falling harder. The crowd began to disperse.
Brazenly we held our asses out at them, the rain striking us as if in
retribution. It bathed our hot naked heinies with cold, delicious,
fluid, washing us down with a care and constancy no human would have
shown. Soon the water was running into our butt cracks, down our
thighs, streaking our calves and puddling around our toes. We shook our
bedraggling locks like horses in a field, whinnying, loving every drop
that hit us.
Tender hands took us down, caressed us. Young spanish girls
from the village escorted us across the soaked welcoming carpet back to
the van. Dazed, happy in some strange way, we boarded the van and tried
to sit down.
“Oooch!” Sylvie was the first to cry out.
“Ah! I cannot sit!” Tiffany said, her composure back.
Daintily she knelt on the floor, squatting, wrapped her arms round her
legs and rested her face sideways upon her knees. She sniffled.
Huddling ourselves or one another, staying off the seats, we
rode back to the grandee’s estate. Mercifully the driver did not turn
the air conditioning on. We were soaked to the bone, our hair messed
and dripping, our makeup shot. With sensitive hands we inspected each
other’s bottoms, reassuring each other that the marks would fade
eventually (and dearly hoping it was true!)
We drove onto the grandee’s lawn. The grandee himself came in
behind us. The guards let us out. The rain had slowed to a soft
drizzle. The grandee came up to us, his head protected by an umbrella
held aloft by a spanish girl. She looked at us with dark, wondering
eyes. A girl from the village. A girl who drove goats at home in the
evening with a stick.
The grandee lined us up and walked behind us, inspecting our
newly scarred bottoms. We were his property still, and he cared for us
just as intently, I saw, as he did for himself. We shivered as he
passed, holding ourselves, still hot from the drug yet chilly from the
passing rain. My bottom felt raw, as if all the skin had been flayed
from it. The grandee made me bend forward. With probing fingers he
inspected my heinie. His touch made me cry out. I almost fell over
from his touch. I jerked as his thumb drove up my asshole. It was
moist from the rain.
Each girl in turn he scrutinized, doing Tiffany last. He found
her and Sylvia too tight to get his thumb up. He promised them they’d
be widened later. Then, miserable and sobbing anew, we were marched up
to the house. As I did my best to accomplish the mandatory strutting
step, biting my lip as my scored bottom screamed at me, I felt happy.
I’d found a demanding master at last, but not a cruel one. He promised
to use my body to the fullest extent one could without ruining it. I
knew he would hurt me sometimes, but he would love me passionately also,
bringing me big men who would fuck me as I knew I needed to be
fucked.
30
----------------------- Dreamgirls! -----------------------
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