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From: Andrew Roller <roller39@IDT.NET>
Subject: new Party Pussies part 6 of 6 (NND)
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_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
PARTY PUSSIES
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Chapter Six
Enslavement. The word has a certain allure to it, I think, at
least to the female ear. To be completely cared for, accepted, loved.
By a man you love. Or, perhaps, by several men. Except several men, I
think, can never love you as much as one. There is too much competition
between them, and in the end they all prize you less, thinking of you as
being someone else’s. But I didn’t know that when I agreed to be a love
slave.
A week after our orgy, Cybil returned to Petra’s. Bow and
Bethany and I were playing croquet in the back yard. We liked using
balls and sticks, and putting balls through holes. Cybil and Petra
shared tea and we tried to join them, but they shooed us away. It was a
conversation for grown women. We were not permitted to hear. I was
disconsolate but knew, somehow, that the conversation was about me, and
tried not to feel too offended. Bethany, still 12, was more interested
in croquet than sitting and having tea. She and Bow knocked their balls
around the yard. They gave up trying to put them through the wire
rimmed arches and instead shot them through the flower bed. Tulips were
trampled. A rabbit emerged and went running away. They chased after
it, their long tresses streaming behind them.
When Cybil had gotten permission from Petra, she drew me away
from the girls and brought me inside. We sat down together. She
offered me tea. Petra went outside to find the girls and lecture them
about the sactity of her flower bed.
“You can go now to the final place a female experiments with,”
Cybil told me. “Not permanently, perhaps. But it is worth
experiencing.”
“Hmmm?” I asked. I sipped my tea. It was Orange Peoke. It
tasted like summer.
“Slavery,” Cybil said.
My bosoms, clad in a light frock, must have risen as I drew in
my breath. Cybil’s eyes watched them. They were young, uptilted.
Their tips grew into hard points. At Petra’s insistence I wore no bra.
They could be seen, vaguely, through the cotton of my dress.
“Complete and total,” Cybil said, as if to ward off any
annoying questions.
I could not drink my tea. Finally, gathering up the courage to
speak, I said, “I belong to Robin.”
Cybil laughed. She leaned back in her chair and let out a
long, roaring laugh, like a man makes. Finally she composed herself.
“I’m talking about real slavery, darling. Robin. Did he tell you that
you were his slave? Did Malthus tell you that, hmmm? They are such
lightweights. I’ll show you real slavery, dear. I have some men coming
over Friday night, and I’m one girl short, I’ll confess. I have a
Nordic beauty, but it is too much for her to face, all alone. She needs
a companion. Someone to endure the abuse with her.”
Abruptly I rose from the table. I wished to hear no more. I
tossed my head, primly. I looked out the kitchen window, across the
lawn. Bow and Bethany were listening as Petra told them not to trample
her tulips.
“But we found a rabbit in your flowers,” Bow protested. “He
would have eaten them up all up. We saved them.” Her high-pitched
voice drifted across the grass, caught by the wind. It shifted. I did
not hear Petra’s reply.
“You performed excellently at the... party,” Cybil told me.
She did not say ‘orgy.’ That would have been impolite, though we were
discussing the possibility of just such another right now.
“Thank you,” I said. I turned to her, pushed in my chair
underneath the table.
“The men are quite handsome,” she said. “Would you like to see
their pictures?” She took out a small billfold.
“Oh, are they male models?” I asked.
“Two are construction workers, two are from Mexico City and
work in the financial district. One, I’m sure, is a criminal, but he
seems well-behaved and has plenty of money, so I didn’t ask more than
that. But they all want a sweet little loveslave at their party, and
they all expressed an interest in rough sex.” Her dark, liquid eyes
looked up at me. “Don’t worry, dear. I’ll be there,” she said, as if
to reassure me. “Are you game?”
“No, I’m sure I’m not,” I replied. I hesitated. A lock of my
blonde hair fell past my cheek. Impatiently, I brushed it back. I drew
in a breath. I exhaled. Cybil watched me, watched my eyes, watched the
rising and falling of my breasts beneath my thin dress. Her eyes felt
like cat’s eyes on my body. I felt like a parakeet. Trapped, held, in
the cat’s gaze. I felt my knees tremble. I sighed. I looked at her.
Straight into her deep, imprisoning eyes. “But I wouldn’t mind seeing
their pictures,” I heard myself say.
Afterward I blamed the tea. But I knew it wasn’t the tea, or
anything she’d put in it. It was me. Too curious, in the end, to say
‘no’ to anything that perked my imagination. The men she showed me were
dreamboats and I longed to know what they had in mind for a girl like
me.
Sharon was blonde. She was 22 and a model in Mexico City,
newly arrived from Norway. I don’t know what her sexual past was. But
she seemed to have that same curiousity I possessed. She’d agreed to be
the ‘guest of honor’ at Cybil’s party, along with me.
I don’t know how Sharon spent her day, but she must have spent
it rather like I did. Her hair and makeup were perfect, as were mine.
Cybil had seen to that. She’d brought me in to Mexico City the day
before, and turned me over to a Spanish woman who was a beautician. I
spent the night at the beautician’s house. Her family received me
warmly. She had a small son, a small daughter. Her husband was fat and
bald. I ate dinner with them and tried not to think of the reason I was
staying with them.
In the morning, I was permitted to sleep late, for I’d slept
fitfully during the night, as might be expected, given what I was
preparing for. Finally the Spanish woman roused me. She served me
brunch and had me bathe. Then she gave me a small bikini and had me lie
out on their porch and tan myself. Then I was required to bathe again,
to wash off the suntan lotion. After that she spent all afternoon doing
my hair and my nails and my makeup. I looked exquisite when she
finished.
“What shall I wear?” I asked her. Outside, the afternoon was
disappearing into dusk. I knew the party must start soon.
“Your tan,” she replied.
“My--?” I asked. I shivered.
“Yes,” she said. She touched my shoulder. “It’s that sort of
party. Didn’t you know?”
“Well, I--” I gasped.
“I have a shawl you may wear on your way there,” the Spanish
woman said. “To the hotel. And heels, of course. You must have
those. And earrings. And a gold bracelet. Here,” she handed me a
small bracelet. It was made of gold. But the design was of two whips,
interlaced. “It snaps around your wrist,” she said. “Put it on. Then
I’ll lock it for you. It will identify you to the men as their guest.”
The Spanish woman’s husband drove me to the hotel. It was the
Tourane Independance, a French hotel. The man’s two children bounced in
the back seat of his car. I think his wife sent them along to make sure
her husband wouldn’t be inspired to take any liberties with me.
“Here. This is the place,” the man grinned at me.
“Daddy can we stay in the hotel?” the man’s daughter asked from
the back seat.
“No,” he answered. A valet approached our car. He opened the
door for me. The Spanish woman’s husband nodded at me, bidding me to
get out. For a moment I sat there, frozen, looking at him. I was
naked under my shawl. I did not have a purse with me, or anything to
identify me. All that had been left behind, long ago. But I did have
the gold bracelet. It was locked around my wrist. I did not have the
key to it. I could not remove it. The Spanish woman had the key, and
perhaps someone else, one of the men I would meet.
I rose. I let the valet usher me from the car. I heard the
car door close behind me. And then the car was gone, and I was standing
alone with the valet.
“This way, madam,” the valet told me. With a genteel air he
ushered me forward, up the steps of the hotel, inside, into a great,
high-ceilinged lobby. We crossed it. Guests, milling about, admired my
shawl. It was made with Mexican designs, religious symbols. I kept it
closely wrapped around me. Once it slipped, baring my shoulder. I
pulled it up quickly. My bare legs protruded out from under it, showing
my calves, my ankes. I wore no stockings. I wondered if the guests
knew how little I wore underneath it.
We reached the back of the lobby. There was a bank of
elevators there. I felt myself blushing. The valet looked at me. He
pressed the ‘up’ button for me. Had he been warned, tipped, in
advance? I guessed he must have been.
“May I see your wrist?” he asked me. I had the wrist with the
bracelet on it hidden beneath my shawl. I turned my visible wrist,
showing him the underside of it, as I kept my fist tightly gripping my
shawl. “Not that one. The other,” the valet said. I felt myself
flush. He must have seen it, surely, when I first was getting out of
the car. Hiding it now was no use. I lifted my hidden arm, extended it
through the folds of my shawl. The bracelet circling it gleamed under
the lights of the lobby. “Yes,” he said. He did not touch it, did not
touch me.
The doors to an elevator opened. The valet poked his head
inside. “Floor 12,” he told the elevator’s operator. Then I stepped
in. The valet did not follow me. The doors closed.
We rode up in silence. Just me, the bell boy. He glanced at
me, said nothing. Perhaps he did not know. I hoped he didn’t. We
stopped. The elevator doors opened.
Cybil was waiting. She smiled. It was an efficient smile, not
betraying emotion. She beckoned to me. I stepped out of the elevator.
“Such a lovely shawl, dear. Were you well cared for? You look
well prepared,” Cybil said to me. She glanced over me, over my makeup,
as a mother hen does over its chick. We walked down a hallway
together. We stopped in front of a door. “1202,” it said on it, in big
gold letters. Cybil unlocked the door and let me inside.
Sharon was already waiting. She was wearing the same bracelet
as myself. She was alone, nude, wearing just her heels, and a red scarf
tied fetchingly around her neck. It covered nothing but her throat,
leaving her tan, and her untanned places, available to be admired. I
glanced at her bosoms. Her nipples had risen. They stuck up from her
grapefruit-sized breasts like excited thorns. Below her flat belly her
bush offered itself, framed by a white patch of skin where she usually
wore her swimsuit. Now all was to be seen, the delicate curls of her
mons, the cherry-capped swell of her bosoms, all but her throat,
concealed behind the knotted scarf. She had a delicate, sensitive
look. She seemed a little afraid, as I was. She held a wine glass to
her lips and sipped it tentatively. Cybil, standing behind me, took my
shawl off my shoulders, leaving me as nude as Sharon. Except I had no
scarf.
“The men will be absolutely brutal,” I heard a female voice
say. A woman appeared. “Oh. They are here already,” the woman said.
She seemed a little abashed at having spoken. Cybil frowned.
“Yes, Hilda, Sharon has just arrived, and Lisa came up on the
next elevator,” Cybil said. “Are you ready to decorate them?”
“Of course, madam,” the woman said. A young Mexican girl
appeared beside her. She was plain-faced. She was dressed in a blouse
and a long skirt. I sensed she wore a bra underneath her blouse and I
blushed. How awkward I felt! I was about to turn and run from the
room, damn the shawl, never mind my nudity, when there was a knock on
the door.
Cybil opened it. A young man stepped in. He was gorgeous!
But he was almost naked, dressed only in a pair of swim trunks. I saw,
to my sudden surprise, that he had a gold bracelet around his wrist,
just like I did. His hair was dry on his head and his chest and I
sensed his swimsuit, like my shawl, was only for modesty, and he had no
intentions of swimming in it. Not tonight, at least. He wore rubber
flip flops on his feet.
“Get inside, darling. You’ll have everyone in the hotel
following you, dressed like that,” Cybil chided the boy. She shut the
door behind him. He looked at me, nodded. Then he looked at Sharon and
gave her the same polite nod. He reminded me of Steven, but he was
older, perhaps 19 or 20.
“I guess I’m late, huh?” the young man asked Cybil. With no
thought at all, he pulled down his swimtrunks. Sharon and I gasped as
he revealed a huge, pulsing young penis. It was covered at its base
with pubic hair and stuck up from him like a ripe, peeled banana.
Already there was a dollop of pre-cum glistening on its tip and I knew
he must be excited, nonchalant as he was, at being able to show himself.
“Is he -- a master?” Sharon asked in a voice fraught with
tender arousal. I felt wobbly-kneed myself, looking at the man’s cock.
“No, I’m the entertainment, just like you,” the boy told her
frankly. He looked at Sharon and me, and I knew he must be wishing he
could have us. But then Cybil touched the tip of his penis, and his
eyes fastened alertly on her. Clearly, I saw, he was most impressed by
her, by her mature charm, and was, in truth, stripping for her, not for
the men. Nonetheless he would serve them just as we did, I realized,
though in hopes of pleasing Cybil, while we (fools that we were) hoped
to find our joy with the men.
“Come,” Cybil said. She was still touching the man’s penis and
she laughed. “Not that way, but into the kitchen,” she added. “The
three of you must be decorated. I’m so glad you could join us tonight,
Tony. It will be much better with three, and you’ll make a nice,
sporting addition to our team. Such a cock! Please don’t jab me with
it. Walk straight --” She retreated behind the young man, and placed
her hands squarely on his hips, framing his delicious tight buns.
“Here, I’ll steer you. Watch it! Don’t hit that flower vase with your
cock. There, aim yourself for the kitchen door. In we go,” Cybil
said. Sharon and I scurried ahead of Tony. We didn’t want to find
ourselves impaled on him before the party even started.
The kitchen was warm. There was a smell of baking bread
emanating from the oven. In the middle of the kitchen was a large
wooden table. On it had been placed two silver trays. They were quite
large. Large enough, in fact, for a person to lie on, and the woman who
had been cooking in here with the girl now guided myself and Sharon over
to the trays.
“I’m Margarite, and this is my assistant, Simone,” the woman
told me. She admired the peaks of my breasts. My nipples had grown in
the warmth of the kitchen and stood out like twin little nubs, waiting
to be sucked. “We’re going to decorate you all over. Do you have to
pee? Now you should do it. Later will be too late.”
“I have to go,” Sharon volunteered. Simone pointed. There was
a small bathroom adjoining the kitchen.
“Me too,” I said.
“One at a time,” Margarite said. “You, Sharon, go first.
Don’t bother shutting the door. We’re all going to know you quite
well.” She laughed, looked at her nude figure. “We already do.”
“I’m fine. Just do whatever,” Tony said. Cybil nodded. She
pushed him toward Margarite.
“Simone, get the whipped cream,” Margarite told the girl who
assisted her. The girl went to the refrigerator. She opened it and
took out a can of Redi-Wip. She shook it.
As I watched, as Sharon watched, from the bathroom, sitting on
the commode and peeing in it, Simone put the can of Redi-Wip between the
young man’s legs, from behind.
“What is your name?” she asked him. Perhaps she had been too
flustered by the sight of his cock, I guessed, to catch it earlier.
“Tony,” he answered.
“Tony, this is going to feel cold,” Simone warned him.
“Ready?”
“Yeah, I guess,” Tony said. Simone wedged the can between
Tony’s thighs and aimed it right at the back of his balls.
“Tony, have you ever taken a cold shower?” Simone asked.
“Yeah,” Tony said.
“Well you need one now and I’m going to give it to you right
where it counts,” Simone said. She suppressed a smile. I heard a
sudden squirting sound. It drowned out the sound of Sharon’s peeing.
“Yeow!” Tony hollared. The back of his balls was suddenly
coated with refrigerator-cold whipped cream. Simone squirted it
liberally all over the back of his balls and then, bidding him open his
legs, got down between them and squirted the underside of his big, heavy
sperm sack, and finally the front.
“Up. Get the pubic hair as well,” Cybil told Simone. The girl
nodded. She bit her lip and squirted whipped cream all over the pubic
thatch that adorned the base of Tony’s prick. She did not, however,
spray the prick itself, such that, when she finally lowered the can,
Tony’s penis was left sticking out from a circling foam of white cream
like a big naked cucumber.
“Oh. I’d like to suck on that!” Sharon gushed from the toilet.
“The men will be sucking it,” Cybil said. “And enjoying you,
my dear, in other ways. Wipe and get up. Let Lisa pee, if she has to.”
I walked to the bathroom. Sharon finished wiping and got up.
I sat down on the toilet. The backs of her legs had warmed the
porcelian seat for me. She washed her hands.
“Unh. OH!” I heard Tony cry. I looked up. To my horror, I
saw that Cybil was inserting the stem of a long-stemmed rose into Tony’s
pee hole.
“Relax, dear. It’s just a flower stem,” Cybil told Tony.
“Well greased. There. Up it goes. Keep your penis still. In, in,”
Cybil said. Her voice was breathy. I think she was as excited as we
were at the sight of a rose stem slipping up within Tony’s cock. I felt
hot flashes. I heard Sharon gasp beside me, and she touched her slit,
as if to wipe it, though it was already wiped. I wished I was finished
peeing so I could wipe myself too. Thankfully the rose’s thorns had
been clipped off. Tony looked down at himself, aghast at what was being
done to him. But he held himself still, and let Cybil finish planting
the rose in his penis. He looked like a real life ‘flower child’ when
she was done, or, more likely, a gay hoping to get his cock sucked.
When Cybil had finished putting the rose into Tony’s penis she
gave him a black bow tie. She made him put it around his neck. I broke
into giggles, seeing him dressed in it. He looked so proper, and yet he
was utterly nude! Sharon couldn’t help laughing either.
“Waiter, would you please take our order?” Sharon asked Tony.
“You are the order, dear,” Margarite told Sharon. “Come out of
the bathroom and climb up on the table.”
We were sober then. Sharon and I clasped hands and walked out
of the bathroom together. Margarite made her step on a chair. She held
her hand as, unsteady in her heels, Sharon climbed up onto the chair and
then onto the kitchen table.
“Squat. Squat down on the tray,” Margarite told Sharon. Her
voice was demanding, but soft. Expectant. “Kneel down. Good.” I
watched, trembling, as Sharon got down on all fours on the silver tray
on the table. “Press your bosoms to the tray. Yes. And your chin.
Rest your chin on the tray. Good. No, keep your bottom up,” Margarite
told Sharon. I looked on as Sharon was made to tuck her knees under
herself, so that she fit on the tray, with her bottom sticking up while
her chin and breasts were pressed hard against the tray’s surface.
“Yes, perfect,” Margarite told Sharon. “Your hands behind your
back, please. Very good. Hold them there. Yes, of course I must cuff
them, dear. You’re dinner. What do you expect?” In a moment Sharon,
who had been an elegant, long-legged model, was reduced to a slender
figure squatting doggie-style on the sliver tray, her arms pulled behind
her back and cuffed, while her ass displayed its vulnerable spheres in
open fashion, as if to invite a fork to stab between them.
“And now an apple, dear,” Margarite said, in the same soft,
lulling voice, that sounded no more demanding than an airline stewardess
who was strapping in a passenger. She placed fingers at Sharon’s lips.
Urging them to part, popped a big polished apple between them. Sharon’s
eyes gaped. I almost laughed, seeing her. Simone did laugh, but Cybil
told her to hush.
Margarite produced a black ribbon. She stabbed it over the
apple’s stem. This held it in place and, with it trapped on the stem,
she tied the loose ends of it behind Sharon’s head.
“Ahh, how sexy you look, hmmm?” Cybil said to Sharon when the
apple was placed. Sharon stared at us balefully. I shivered, knowing I
was next. Margarite took my arm. She pulled out a chair for me, on the
other side of the table, and urged me to mount it. I did, placing my
foot upon it, unsteadily. She palmed my bare bottom and gave me a quick
shove. I was up. On the chair and then, with another encouraging push
on my tush, on the table.
“Lie down, dear. On your back,” Margarite said to me. She was
a big woman, and I found it difficult to disobey her. I laid down, with
pressure from her hands on my bare slim shoulders. When I was down on
my back she arranged my limbs as one might arrange a table centerpiece.
My knees were bent, my legs lifted until my heels bumped
against my bottom. Then Margarite forced my legs apart, so that my
secret place between could be easily admired. To my surprise, she then
called to Simone to fetch a ‘spreader bar.’ It was brought. Simone
blushed as she brought it. The ‘spreader bar’ was about two feet in
length, and the width of a cheerleader’s baton. It had twin rings on
each end of it. I wondered at it, staring, and watched as my slim
thighs were secured. Then, with my calves pressed up close to my
thighs, the secondary ring on each end of the bar was clamped around my
calves.
I gasped. Suddenly, I was both spread by the bar between my
legs, and imprisoned with my calves pressed against my thighs. I
couldn’t close my legs. I couldn’t unbend my knees. How horrible this
‘spreader bar’ was! It made me feel like I was a turkey, being trussed
and spread open to be stuffed!
There were handles along the sides of the tray I was lying on.
Margarite made me grip them. When I had, she wrapped strips of cloth
around my wrists, fastening them to the handles. I tugged at my bonds.
I was tied, tightly, with no way to free myself. I sighed. I felt my
bosoms wobble heavily on my chest. I was naked, in only my heels and
earrings, showing my tan lines. Would the men like me this way? I
turned, looked at Cybil.
“I don’t think I want to go through with this,” I told her.
All had been fun and games up ‘til now. Getting made up, being escorted
by the valet, even seeing Sharon, whom I hardly knew, so ridiculously
tied. But now I was tied. It was my turn. I did not want this any
more. I was, after all, only 13, prone to curiousities that weren’t
entirely thought out in advance. Let Sharon, if she wished, be the
men’s entertainment. She was 22, pretty, restless. I was still a
child. I needed protection from my desires.
Cybil walked up to me. She placed a warm hand on my tummy.
She looked into my eyes. I blinked. I was afraid, looking at her.
“I’m afraid it’s too late now, dear,” Cybil said to me. She rubbed my
tummy. “Don’t worry. I’ll be right here. Nothing will happen to you
that I don’t approve of.”
I heard knocking. Cybil turned, looked at Tony. “Please go
answer the door, darling. Our company has arrived,” Cybil told Tony.
He stared at her, his cock painfully erect, a bow tie around his neck
and his penis growing a rose. “The door,” Cybil said. “Get the door,
Tony. I’m not paying you to dawdle, dear. Let the men in before they
get angry.”
Tony left. He blushed as he left, I saw, but I found my eyes
fixing on his white ass as he walked out of the kitchen. Oh, if only
just he and I could be together! But it was all too late now, too
late.
“I have to go to the bathroom again,” I told Cybil. She turned
back to me, smiled. She patted my tummy.
“No you don’t, dear,” she said, in a soft, consoling voice.
Then, with a gleam in her eyes, she added, “And if you do, too bad for
you.” She laughed. I trembled and wished I did have to pee, very
badly. I would have done it right there, on her shiny silver tray. But
I didn’t, not yet anyway, and I wondered when I’d get a chance to again.
Simone fetched a small brush and a pot of honey. She bent
closely over my body. She dipped the brush in the honey and then
applied it, very carefully, to the nipple of my right breast. I
gasped. It felt so wicked, having her daub at my breast like that with
the honey-laden brush! I felt my breast tip quiver and shuddered
excitedly when she turned her attention to my other nipple. She did
just the tips of my breasts, leaving the rest of each bosom untouched.
Sharon, meanwhile, was having the meal’s main course wedged
underneath her body. Squash, potatoes, slices of ham dipped in gravy,
all were placed neatly and artfully under her squatting figure. She
retained the polished apple in her mouth, looking quite put out at being
turned into a full course meal. Yet there was nothing she could do,
with her wrists bound up behind her back. A cucumber was wedged behind
her chin to keep her face level and her eyes staring straight ahead.
She looked rather uncomfortable.
Simone began painting the curls of my pubic hair. She used the
honey to decorate me. I felt the insidious little brush as it daubed
lower and lower, finally stabbing me between my legs. I let out a
nervous shriek. There was laughter in the next room. Oh, the men had
heard me! Yet none of them came into the kitchen to rescue me.
Instead, they waited, waited for me to be presented to them. On a
silver tray.
“Keep your fingers folded together,” I heard Margarite warn
Sharon. What could she mean, I wondered? “Don’t try to protect your
bottom with them,” Margarite explained to Sharon. “Your bottom can take
it. Your fingers can’t. We could have tied your hands to the tray’s
handles, but the men prefer to see you have a choice. To protect
yourself, or not. No doubt you’ll try to use your fingers to hide your
rump, and get whacked by the whip, and regret sticking them over your
behind. So, don’t. Fold your fingers together and, no matter what
happens, keep them out of the way. Don’t try to protect yourself with
them.”
I was still pondering this soliloquoy when Cybil opened the
door to the dining room. The men cheered, seeing her.
“Gentlemen,” Cybil said, when the men’s cheers had subsided.
“I’m pleased to announce the presentation of our main course. I don’t
have roast pig, as you requested, but I do have ‘roast Sharon.’ She’s a
blonde. I hope you find her satisfactory. Except I haven’t had time to
roast her bottom. Perhaps, with a soundly applied whip, you’d be
willing to do it for me.”
Another cheer. I trembled. I almost blacked out, hearing such
awful talk. Yet Simone, painting the curls of my cunt, so delicately,
kept me excited enough that it was impossible for me to faint. Tony
entered the kitchen. His penis was still hard, still sporting the
rose. He and another man lifted Sharon and carried her out. She tried
to twist her head, to look back at me, but with the cucumber stuffed
under her chin it was quite impossible. In the event, there was nothing
I could do to help her. I heard her scream as she saw the men. It was
muffled by the apple in her mouth, but unmistakably hers, all the same,
and audible. I imagined the men, taking off their belts to whip her. I
tried again to faint, holding my breath, but it was impossible.
Margarite showed me a spear-like cucumber. Someone had
threaded it with a needle and thread, so that a string dangled from one
end of it. The string had a small ring tied to the end of it, that you
could pull on, if you wished to. (I couldn’t, of course. My hands were
tied.) The cucumber was peeled, and oiled. Someone had carved it to a
fairly slim width.
“This is going up your ass,” Margarite told me. She had to
speak fairly loudly. Sharon, the pitch of her voice rising, could be
heard in the next room, as a slapping belt connected with her bottom.
I could do nothing to defend myself, with my hands tied. I
winced as Simone pressed the tip of the cucumber to my back hole. It
was not hard for her to get access to me. My knees were already drawn
up, and spread. My slit showed entirely and, below it, where my rump
pressed to the tray, the aperature of my backhole offered itself. I
gasped. Simone forced the cucumber inside me. I gritted my teeth. I
tried to expel it.
“Relax. You must take it. You have no choice,” Margarite said
to me. “Relax and it will be easier.” She patted my tummy. Simone
screwed the cucumber up inside me. I felt I could hardly breathe. It
burned, it itched. Most of all, it intruded. It filled my ass and left
me panting from its fullness. When at last the infernal thing was all
the way up me, I felt my butthole close over its tip. Only the string
remained. It snaked out of my bottom and formed a little pile of
string. The ring shaped handle gleamed between my feet. A man might
pull on it, curious, and delight himself with seeing a cucumber begin
sliding out of my bottom.
As Sharon screamed in the next room, as the belts of the men
connected repeatedly with her pale, vulnerable seat, ‘roasting’ it with
their blows, Margarite and Simone continued their wicked decorating of
me. I’d figured out by now that Sharon was the main course, and I was
dessert. Simone showed me a big tropical banana. Slowly she peeled it,
grinning at me. Then, wetting the end of it with baby oil, she shoved
it into my twat. I screamed. I heard laughter in the next room. The
men were delighted that another female remained to be served.
Simone planted the banana in my twat, but left much of it
protruding. It looked like a big male penis curving up out of my sex.
She got the Redi-Wip and decorated it with whipped cream. She sprinkled
nuts on it. I felt awful. Penetrated, yet exposed, wearing nothing but
my tan lines, and honey on my breasts, and a cucumber in my ass and a
banana in my twat. But my torment was not over yet. Simone dipped a
grape in the sticky pot of honey and placed it in my navel. It was a
green grape, seedless, and supposed to be a decoration, I guess. Then
she got a big ripe strawberry and, dipping it again in the honey, she
told me to open my lips. I did. She placed it artfully in my mouth.
“Hold it there,” Simone warned me. “Don’t drop it.” How could
I? I was flat on my back, with my wrists tied and my legs forced
apart. I suppose I might have spit it out, but I didn’t dare. When
Simone saw I was obedient, clamping the strawberry between my teeth, she
fetched a black blindfold.
This was perhaps the scariest thing of all. With the blindfold
laid over my eyes, Simone bade me to lift my head. She warned me again
not to lose the strawberry from between my teeth. I suppose it might
have smeared my lipstick, or put honey on my made-up cheeks if I had
spit it out, but I held the strawberry tightly, feeling my saliva pool
in my mouth from the effort. It was almost a comfort, in a way, this
big masculine strawberry. Clinging to it, I hoped perhaps it might save
me. It would, at least, keep men from sticking their dicks in my
mouth. But the blindfold was another matter. With it on, I couldn’t
see anymore. I had no idea what was happening to me. I coulnd’t even
know where I was, if somebody moved me. Simone tied the blindfold
behind my head as I clutched the big strawberry between my teeth. She
told me to rest my head again on the tray when she was finished. I
did. Blackness surrounded me now, making me shiver. In the next room I
could hear Sharon screaming. She was louder now. Much louder. Had
someone removed her apple? I clutched my strawberry harder. I felt
strawberry juice trickle down my cheek.
“Don’t bite it. Just hold it. Lightly,” Simone warned me.
Yes. Don’t eat the strawberry. Don’t bite it. Just hold it, like a
man’s balls, between your teeth, and listen. Listen to poor Sharon
screaming. I felt my whole body shivering but knew not what to do about
it. I would make a quivering dessert, like Jello.
Footfalls sounded in the room. They approached, grew louder on
the kitchen tiles. A face bent over me. It was familiar. Too
familiar.
“Malthus!” I gasped.
“Hello,” Malthus said. “Please give me your hand.”
“I can’t--” I said. “It’s tied down.” I pulled on my bonds,
demonstrating, but my right wrist rose. I looked at it in the air.
Malthus took it. His grip was tight, almost painful. “How--?” I
asked. Gradually I felt myself rising, standing up. I was no longer on
the table, I was in a chair.
“This must be done gently, else you’ll be damaged,” Malthus
said to me. “Although, given the circumstances, perhaps I should have
simply disposed of you.”
“I--” I felt confusion in my mind. “You let Robin have me,” I
managed to say. I felt a slow withdrawal. Something was being pulled
from my ear. An earplug... An earpiece... A direct connection to my
mind, through my ear.
“Yes,” Malthus said. “Do you know where you are?”
“I am... Somebody...” I said.
“You are nobody,” Malthus snarled. “You are just a clone.
Clone 1712, produced by full-growth cloning. You are an imitation of
Lisa... Who is herself a clone, these days,” Malthus added, musing.
“But, in any event, you are the first clone of her to break the rules,
and invade my library, and get into the data files of her mind.”
I saw a room coalesce around me. It was not a room in Mexico
City. It was the Library... Malthus’ library. In Malthus’ palace, on
his mountaintop, on his world, in... where? I had never considered the
question before.
Then I remembered the dream I’d had, reading the data files.
Except the ‘dream’ was real, and I was simply viewing old memories, of
someone, “Lisa,” long dead, though a clone of her lived on. The ‘real’
Lisa, such as she was. I was simply one of many clones of her, denied
access to the data files. But I was smarter than the other clones...
somehow. I’d understood the Library, and what it offered, and broken
in.
“What should I do with you?” Malthus said to me. His eyes
gleamed. A mixture of displeasure and interest.
I turned toward him. I was nude. He liked seeing me nude.
His eyes fell to my breasts and watched them wiggling. They were tender
and full and round. The tips grew under his stare. I pushed the
thought of sex with him from my mind.
“I don’t want to be your property, Malthus. Not anymore,” I
said to him.
“What do you want?” he asked me. His eyes glared. He tried to
frighten me with his stare.
“You are a clone... of a long dead “‘Malthus,’” I said. “The
only difference between you and I is that you were given access to the
original Malthus’ data files. And there is only ever one of you at a
time, while there are many of me. Of ‘Lisa.’ Though one is declared to
be real, and given access to her data files.”
Malthus straightened. He was dressed in black. He looked
regal. But he had grey hair, and I did not wish to desire him anymore.
He was too old. (Though, indeed, he might clone a younger version of
himself.)
“I...” Malthus paused. “I AM Malthus!” he declared. He was
angry now. His face reddened.
“You are just a clone, Malthus,” I said. “We are all just
clones. We are playing mindless games, out in space, following the
dictates of our originals.”
“Copies of copies of our originals,” Malthus said. “All this
wasn’t created by the first Malthus.”
“No, or the first Lisa,” I said. I turned. I walked from the
chair by the console where I’d been sitting, absorbed in the data files
of ‘Lisa,’ long dead, may she rest in peace.”
“Malthus? Malthus. What are you doing?” I heard my own
voice. But it was not me. It was a Cassandra, the ‘real’ Lisa, the one
who had the most complete set of data files, given to her by Malthus.
I spun on my heels. I glared at her. She saw me and glared
back. She was nude, like myself. Her breasts wiggled at me, but their
tips were not hard, as mine were. I decided to ignore her.
“Let me read the rest of the data files,” I said to Malthus.
“Hers, yours, everything.”
“Life, the universe, and everything, eh?” Malthus asked. His
face broke into a wry grin.
“I do not know enough yet,” I replied.
“And then?” Malthus asked.
“And then I want a ship,” I said. “We’re in space, aren’t we?
I want to return to Earth. Perhaps I can live a normal life there.”
Malthus laughed. He walked round past the console chair I’d
been sitting in and then abruptly sat down in it. He seemed to enjoy my
rebelliousness. For a moment I wondered if he liked me better than the
real Lisa, the one standing in the doorway behind him. Then I
suppressed the thought. I wanted no part of him, anymore. I wanted my
freedom.
“Earth is dead,” Malthus said. “You see? Our games are not so
silly. We have no place to go. Nothing to do. Yes, we have fusion,
but...” his voice trailed off.
“But if you let it loose, really put it to work, you might no
longer be sovereign, is that it?” I asked. My voice was angry. I was
out of my element, beyond my knowledge, just guessing. Using my female
intuition. A copy of me glared a me from the doorway.
“I am selfish, perhaps,” Malthus said. “But I have provided
myself with a good life here. And, well, a good life to Lisa and
Bethany too,” he added. He swivelled in the chair, glanced at Lisa.
Her face softened under his gaze.
“You are alone, Malthus,” I said. “It’s just you. You have
the complete set of data files. Lisa...” I glanced at the copy of
myself in the doorway. “...She only has what you give her. And Bethany
has less. And the rest of the clones... they have as little as
possible.”
Malthus turned from the copy of myself to me. He scrutinized
me. I saw he was no longer looking at my breasts, or my belly, or my
thatch of pubic hair. He was looking directly into my face.
“You are different,” Malthus said at last.
“Give me a ship, Malthus,” I said. I frowned. It was, I
think, the first frown I’d ever formed. It was MY frown. It was not
Lisa’s frown. It was me, a new Lisa, a Lisa that was separating from
all that had come before.
“And if I don’t?” Malthus asked. He lifted his eyebrows. He
let his hand rise, his wrist dangle limply. I sensed, though, power in
the limp wrist, as a monarch might have, about to pronounce a sentence
of death on one of his many subjects.
“You must,” I replied. “I demand it.”
“You... interest me,” Malthus said. “I don’t want to let you
go.”
The ship began to accelerate. Lisa looked up at the overhead
console. She talked to the ship’s computer. It spoke back, wordlessly,
yet vividly, through an ear piece plugged into her ear. Lisa kept the
visual portion off. She didn’t want to live the computer’s
instructions. She just needed information. As the computer spoke, Lisa
began to flip switches in the overhead console. She looked at a dial,
adjusted it. She checked a meter. Its luminescent center grew, then
faded, then grew again as Lisa adjusted the dial beside it. The
computer might have done all this for her, but Lisa wanted to fly
manually. She didn’t entirely trust the ‘auto’ mode. Not yet, anyway.
Too many things in her brief life had been on ‘auto.’ Even her brain,
until she’d broken into the Library.
Malthus was dead. At last. She’d erased the data files to
make sure of that. And his whore, Lisa, was dead too. She’d considered
saving her data files. They were, after all, the files of herself, in a
way. But then she’d erased them. Lisa wanted a complete break with
Lisa. She’d even change her name, one day. But not yet. She couldn’t
handle too many changes at once.
“I am a murderer,” Lisa said to herself. It was an unbidden
statement. “But I am also free,” another voice in her head responded.
For a moment she thought the ship’s computer might be invading her
thoughts. To make sure, she pulled the earpiece from her ear. The
voice of the computer silenced.
“I killed Malthus, and my mother of sorts, Lisa,” Lisa said to
herself, in her head. Well, it wasn’t the computer invading her
thoughts. It was just her. She now had a guilty conscience. It was a
good feeling. She was no longer a clone. She was becoming a real
person. She wondered what the dials on the console above her head did,
and what the readings meant. She put the voice of the computer back
into her ear.
Yet her own memories kept circulating in her mind. She’d left
the old woman in charge. The ‘aged’ Lisa, for lack of a better name.
She was going senile but she still had enough sense left to take charge
of things on the space colony, at least temporarily. “Raise Bethany,”
she’d told her. “Teach her about herself, who she is, how she came to
be.” And she really didn’t know what to tell the old woman about the
other clones, the mindless Lisa’s, the ones who’d been denied access to
the data files.
It was the best she could do. She might have killed them all,
Lisa thought, as she watched the stars through the viewport of the small
craft. She turned her head, looked through another viewport. There,
behind her, looming large but slowly receeding, was the cylindrical
space colony. She watched the glint of stars reflected on its burnished
surface. She was taking the only ship, but perhaps Bethany could build
another. Or perhaps she’d return someday, and pick up Bethany, and
whoever else had gained understanding...
Was Earth dead? Lisa did not know. She had to decide which
way to go. Out toward the stars or in toward the sun? Malthus could
have been lying.
“I am... somebody,” Lisa repeated to herself. But then she
realized she was not much of anybody, yet, and would have to find
herself through living. Through being. She was free of Malthus and
free of the old, long dead Lisa, and free of the designated Lisa too,
who’d screamed and tried to kill her when Malthus failed to, with his
gun. She was quick, Lisa mused to herself. She, herself, was quick.
She’d proven quicker than both of them. Listening to the computer, she
reached up, and turned the dial that determined the ship’s direction.
She went toward the stars.
THE END
----------------------- Dreamgirls -----------------------
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