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From: Andrew Roller <roller39@IDT.NET>
Subject: Summer of Sin part 3 of 3 (NND)
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_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
SUMMER OF SIN
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Chapter Three
I found myself in a larger home, still in the center of Paris.
We had parked in a garage attached to the back of the house and gone
inside. A woman received us. She took our coats off. She gazed
briefly at our nudity, then spoke to a servant.
“They will require baths,” she said. The woman was about 40,
the servant perhaps a little younger. We were led away by the servant;
Rebecca drunk, myself confused. The man remained behind with the woman
who’d greeted us. In the car he had not molested me, as I thought he
would. Instead he had simply let me sit beside him, his arm gallantly
around my waist. He treated Rebecca the same way, not touching her,
save to hold her with his arm. She’d talked of silly things. He’d
listened, mostly. She’d told him of a ring she’d bought downtown, as if
we were going, perhaps, to lunch together.
I was taken into a bathroom by the servant and deposited with
yet another servant. The house was lavish in the extreme. The bathroom
left me in awe. A big marble tub already brimmed with bubbles, the
water still rising in it. Hot steam wafted up.
“She is to be?” one servant, a middle-aged woman, said to the
other.
“Yes. The bottom,” the servant replied. Then they left,
Rebecca taken away from me, with only the newest servant remaining
behind.
“What is to happen?” I asked the servant, one female to
another. It had taken me awhile to muster the courage to ask such a
question, I thought. I should have asked the man, in the car. But he
made me afraid.
“I do not speak the English,” the woman replied. She helped me
into the tub, efficiently, even as she spoke to me. “Your jewels,” she
said. “Off.” Standing in the tub, I let her strip me of them. She
laid them carefully on a cloth on the bathroom counter.
I was pushed to a sitting position in the tub when she had set
aside my jewels. She washed me. She used a washcloth. When she had
done all of me, including even my hair, she pulled me from the tub. I
felt like a small child, handled by its mother. She dried me. She sat
my bottom on the furred seat of a toilet. She told me, “Stay,” and went
and got a makeup kit out of the bathroom cabinet. Then she did my face,
very carefully. She also brushed my pubis and inspected it. I felt
awkward, knew not what to do, sat with my legs splayed as she did it.
Then she touched a rougue pencil to my nipples and colored them, making
them redder.
“Now you ready,” the woman said in broken English.
“For what?” I asked.
“I no speak the English,” the woman replied. I thought she
might kiss my cheek. Perhaps she considered it. But in the event, she
did not. Instead she took my hand, made me stand, and escorted me out
of the bathroom. The man was waiting for me on the other side of the
bathroom door.
When I had met him at the party, not noticing him too much
until he grabbed my hand and pulled me from the bathroom, he had been
dressed in spaghetti-stained Speedos. Now, however, he had showered,
and dressed himself to the nines in a jacket, tie, and pants. I was
presented to him by the servant, who quickly absented herself from the
room. I was nude, thin, shivering with fear. My nipples on my upraised
breasts were rouged. I offered them to him, unwittingly, strangely
wishing to keep my posture straight even as his eyes devoured me. My
uptilted tits felt as if someone had put a match to their tips, setting
them on fire. I felt my hands caress my thighs, my hips, and finally
settle awkwardly between my legs, covering my pubis.
He grabbed me. His hand seized the back of my newly-brushed
mane of hair and yanked my head back. He made me offer him my lips. I
gasped. He took my opened mouth as an invitation to insert his tongue.
He stabbed hard between my teeth. He forced my jaws apart farther, he
filled me up with the meaty flesh of his tongue, making me yelp at his
intrusiveness.
When he let me gulp down air I did so tremblingly, his hand
still on my hair, but letting me have free movement of my head again.
My nipples, scraping against his overarching body, pressed hard to his
suit and then released from its enveloping touch, felt even more
inflamed.
“I shall train you in the arts of love, as they relate to the
whip,” the man said to me in a gruff, no-nonsense voice. “Then my son
shall fuck your bottom.”
“I do not wish--” I said in a high-pitched voice. He drew a
black cloth from his breast pocket. It had been fetchingly arranged
there, neatly folded into a ruffled V. I had thought it a
handkerchief. It proved longer, and thinner than a handkerchief when he
gave it a flick and unfurled it. It was a gag. He pressed it quickly
between my lips and then, turning my nude figure as a potter turns a
soft, new urn upon his wheel, he turned me so my back was to him and
tied the gag in the nesting of my hair. He lifted my long ropy mane of
hair with his hand first, carefully, but resolutely, as if I were a
young pony being bitted.
Then he paused. With myself biting fruitlessly into my gag,
trying to get it off me, my hands skittering nervously across my hips,
wondering if I dared to tear the gag from my mouth with my fingers, he
breathed, “God, you have a perfect figure. A wonderful bottom!” Then
he turned me to face him. He kissed me again, passionately, right over
the gag that split my lips and kept my tongue pressed back into my mouth
and my jaws apart. It was a long, loving kiss, despite the gag, and the
fact that it kept him from pushing his tongue deeply into my mouth
again, as he had before.
It was he who seemed to need the air more when at last our
faces slipped apart.
“Forgive me,” he gasped, drawing in a breath. “I should not
succumb to your beauty. In Saudi Arabia it was forbidden. A whipmaster
should never enjoy the charms of a prisoner.”
A servant, a male, opened the door to the bedroom.
“Master, there--” he paused. “Oh, forgive me,” he said. He
wore an embroidered white shirt and black pants. There was a thin black
tie securely fastened around his neck. His sleeves were rolled up.
“Yes, Benson?” the man holding me said to the servant.
“There is a call requesting your services in Havenhurst,” the
servant said, bowing slightly, then presenting in his hand a portable
phone. “A man’s wife returned home late and her husband wishes to have
her corrected.”
“Have them make an appointment,” the man holding me answered.
“Tell them the wait will do them good. I cannot come this evening.”
“Yes, master,” the servant replied. Quietly he shut the
bedroom door, disappearing as quickly as he’d appeared. The man holding
me shook his head.
“So busy these days,” he said. He looked in my eyes. “I must
do you, then your sister,” he said. “Come, let us have you in the
bed.”
I resisted, but he seemed to take it as an enticement, seeing
me wriggle, batting my hands away from my gag when I tried to lift my
fingers to it. He pushed me across the room, keeping one hand gripped
around one of my wrists so he could control me. I was made to mount up
on a large bed. It stood high off the floor, with stairs for a girl
like myself to get up on it. I climbed them. He held my wrist. He
cupped my bottom and guided me up with his hand hot-pressed to my
cheeks. They wobbled upon his palm. When I was standing on the bed he
put his foot up on it and stepped up behind me. I tried to lie down.
“No,” he said. “You will not be sleeping in the bed. You will
remain standing,” he said. He pushed me forward, himself behind me,
both of us standing on the bed now. He walked me up to the pillows. My
feet sank in the bed, I walked unsteadily. When he had me standing
between two pillows, he pressed me up against the wall. The bed’s
wooden headboard bumped against my knees. I gasped. With my tummy hard
against the wall, I lifted my chin and looked up. My nipples, stiff,
poked into the wall’s fabric. It was a satiny fabric, but dull in
appearance. My breasts, crushed to the wall, ballooned between myself
and its hardness. Above I saw twin iron rings. The man lifted my right
wrist and fastened it into the ring set in the wall. I should have used
my other hand to tear at the gag in my mouth, but instead I let it hang
aimlessly by my side, waiting. When he had fastened up my right wrist,
he took hold of my left and lifted it and imprisoned it like my right.
I was left standing with my wrists upraised, my arms apart. My hands,
widely separated from each other, grasped with their fingers at the
flatness of the wall, uselessly.
The man stepped away from me.
The bedroom door opened. I twisted my head back, fearfully,
and saw a young man in the door. He looked about 15. He had a face in
need of a shave, as boys do when they are old enough to shave but
haven’t started yet.
“Is she ready, father?” the boy asked.
“Not yet, son,” the man replied. “Come when I call you. Not
before,” he said.
“Yes, father,” the boy answered. “She is a fine one.”
“Do not play with yourself waiting, and shoot before I call,”
the man answered.
“Yes, father,” the boy said. The door shut. Tremblingly, I
was left with the man again, alone.
“I am too big for your virgin ass, otherwise I’d perform the
necessary insertion with my own prong,” the man told me. His voice was
clinical, like that of a doctor. “In Saudi Arabia I worked with boys,
opening up young brides’ bottoms for their new husbands. And,
occasionally,” he added, “the bottoms of young boys who had male lovers
who didn’t mind flaunting the Koran.”
His words made me quiver all over. I felt my knees tremble.
He took advantage of my nervousness to open my legs. He pushed the
pillows aside and spread my knees so that they were a good two feet, or
more, apart from each other. Then he drew iron rings out from under the
bed’s headboard. First one, locking it around my right ankle, then a
second, putting it around my left. Each one was lined with fur. It was
attached by a very short chain to the wall beyond the bed’s wooden
headboard. Thus fixed, I stood with my arms and legs in a wide vee.
“Push out your bottom,” the man told me. “Offer it.” He
walked to the edge of the bed and leaned out and opened an armorie that
stood close beside us. I swivelled my head back behind me fearfully,
yet obeyed his command to better present my bottom. I saw the armorie
was mirrored inside. Amidst the sparkling mirrors, the contents
magnified and reflected out to my eyes, was a motly assortment of
flagellatory items.
My bottomcheeks cringed. I emitted a plaintive sob. I felt my
breath, drawn in through my nose, catch in my chest. My tummy released
butterflies and they flew up to my ears, making me so nervous I could
barely think.
“Bottom out!” the man snapped. He had taken a long bamboo cane
from the armorie. He swished it in the air. “Your ass will taste each
of these, so you can get a feel for each one,” the man said. He
gestured expansively at the armorie’s contents. “This,” he said, “is a
cane, that I am holding now. It was cut and polished in the
Philippines. I wonder if they thought of the spoilt young girl’s bottom
that would taste it, as they worked their fingers upon its length,
making it perfect? You will not have to handle it, my dear. Only your
ass will ever touch it.”
I closed my eyes. I felt my knees sag. I let out a pitiful
wail.
“What? Crying before it even touches you?” the man asked. “I
expect more bravery than that, even in a girl of 13,” he said. “Imagine
your sister, waiting downstairs for her turn. You at least do not have
to wait for it, as she does.”
I heard a slicing in the air behind me. Suddenly, the cane
connected with my bottom. I lurched forward. My cheeks were forced to
splurge under its contact, briefly, before it darted away, leaving a
white line of heat across my bottomhalves. I felt my tummy pressed hard
against the wall. I worked my bare ass where, moments before, the cane
had been pressing into my flesh.
“EEEIEIEIeeek!” I wailed into my gag. The man behind me
laughed. My bottom burned, harshly.
“Yes, that is what the cane feels like,” the man said.
He gave me another stroke. It was sharp, quick, leaving a
bright line of pain across my pale skin, just like the first. I ground
my hips into the wall and felt screams tear themselves from my throat.
My nipples dug harshly into the satiny wallpaper.
“What a display you make of your fine young ass,” the man
said. “I should have my son come in and watch this.” But instead he
tossed the cane to the bed and reached in the armorie again, taking out
a small whip. “This is a pony whip,” he said. “Slender, unbraided,
with no knot at the end. It is for tender young horses, so as not to
mar their backsides before a buyer has been found.” He swung it. It
sliced into the flesh of my bottom. I screeched at the ceiling. “My,
you are as jumpy as the young horses the whip was made for,” the man
laughed. He gazed at my nude bottom as I rolled it about, rudely, and
shoved it wantonly into the air behind me. “One more,” the man said.
He used my unwittingly proferred bottom as an invitation to give me a
second stroke. I shouted. I made a new display of my fanny, arching my
back, pushing my hinds out in an effort to cool them. “We shall go
through each one of these implements, letting you get a taste of each,”
the man said calmly.
By the time his son entered, I was a quivering, broken figure,
hung from the wall like a three-dimensional painting, with only the soft
sobs in my throat and the febrile jerkings of my hips to indicate I was
alive. My bottom was red-ribboned, marked like a roadmap. Yet all the
lines were delicate, placed as if with care, and no blood had been
drawn. It was as if my pale bottom, white as china, had been carefully
marked by an able craftsman. His son was ruder, less, calm. He prised
apart my stinging bottomcheeks and shoved in his staff. It was
well-oiled by the servants. He put it all the way up my virgin ass.
Then he pleased himself for several minutes, rodding himself in me. At
last he spilled his seed. He wanted to have another go, after a
moment’s rest, but his father told him he had to still do my ‘sister’
downstairs. With reluctance he pecked my cheek with his unshaven face
and was gone.
“Yes, that was my son,” the man said, gazing at my bottom where
his son’s seed was oozing out of my ass. “Like I said, I would do you
myself, but you are too new for me. I would split you in two, I fear.”
He put up all the implements, back in the armorie, as I hung crying upon
the wall. “The servants will come and take you down now,” the man
said. “They will bathe you. Then, if I am still busy with your sister,
perhaps you will have a short nap. Then a car will take you home. You
have done well. Be proud of your first experience. The marks of it
will fade in a few days, at most.”
He did not kiss me, or touch me. He finished putting his
things away in the armorie. Then, still dressed to the nines, but with
a slight awkwardness in his walk, and a visible bulge in the front of
his pants, he left. He shut the door quietly, as if not to disturb my
sobs. A few minutes later two servants came in. They were both female,
not males, apparently to preserve some shred of my dignity. They
released me from the wall. They took me into the bathroom and gave me a
bath. The touch of their hands upon my bottom made me jerk and cry out.
“She is sensitive there,” one woman said to the other.
“Yes,” the first agreed, then gave a smirk.
“Oh, darling, it’s nothing, really,” Rebecca said to me, when
we were safely back at her home. We stood alone in her bedroom. It was
early morning. The light from the rising sun shone in the windows of
her bedroom that faced toward the east. “You should be proud of your
little marks,” she said.
“But--” I squealed. Rebecca’s hand touched my hiney. I
flinched.
Rebecca put me in front of a full-length mirror. She inspected
my bottom for me. I complained to her, bitterly, for getting me into
such a condition. She smiled and patted my ass, making me wince. “It
is not as if I didn’t have the same,” she said. We stood red-bottomed
beside each other. She made me trace the lines the whip had left across
her seat with my finger. I felt pity for her, even though it was she
who’d been the cause of my grief. I kissed her seat.
“Oh!” Rebecca said, jumping slightly. She laughed. “How
tender and sweet you are,” she said. “You will do well in Paris.”
Rebecca soon received an invitation to another party. It came
in the mail. This invitation, despite my brief stay in Paris, included
me in it as well. I was flattered, yet embarrassed too, for we had not
been seen in sequined gowns at the previous party.
“Don’t fret,” Rebecca told me. “Only the best-looking girls
get invited.”
We arrived bejeweled, as before, after many hours of having our
hair done, and our nails and faces, looking our absolute best. Our
coats were quickly taken by the woman who greeted us. Underneath we
wore fashionable bikinis. In addition we wore gloves, short ones this
time, stretching only as far as our wrists. I had a pearl bracelets
around each of my wrists, over my gloves. I wore spiked heels on my
feet.
I heard noise coming from a room adjacent to the entryway where
we were greeted. I stepped towards it, a little unsteady in my heels.
They were new, I was nervous.
“This way,” the woman who’d greeted us said. She took my arm,
then led myself and Rebecca away from the boisterous room, and into a
kitchen. Servants met us in the kitchen. It was large, spacious.
Metal pots hung over a wooden table in the center of it. “Please take
off your bikinis,” the woman said to us. Then she left, for the
doorbell had rung. More guests were coming.
I looked at Rebecca quiziccally. But she only smiled at me,
shyly, and reached for the clasp of her bra, behind herself, saying to
me, “It is best to do as she says.”
We undressed. The servants watched us. I blushed, undoing my
bra. When it was off me and my bosoms hung nakedly before my eyes, I
asked a servant woman where I might hang it.
“I will take it,” she said, brusquely. She placed it on a
silver serving tray. Then, as I watched, my mouth gasping in surprise,
she laid it with the cups showing their insides. She filled each bra
cup with pudding. She put a cherry on top of each quivering mound of
pudding. Then she arranged fruit; slices of orange and pears, and full,
uncut bananas around my bra.
“Please remove your panties,” the woman said to me when she’d
finished decorating the tray. I looked at Rebecca. My aunt was
blushing. Her own bra had been laid on a tray and its cups filled with
pudding and cherries. Now she tugged at the ties of her panties and
undid those. Mine had no ties and I had to pull them down my legs and
step out of them. When I did, lifting them from my feet with my hands,
the servant woman snatched them away from me. I watched with shocked
eyes as she opened my panties, making the crotch and the inside show,
and laid them on yet another silver tray. Then she dropped bits of
pineapple into my panties. After this she put scoops of ice cream
around my panties and decorated the ice cream with nuts.
Meanwhile, still wearing my heels, still mittened with my
jewelled gloves, I was held by the servants and whipped cream sprayed
onto my bush. I shouted. They bade me be silent. Rebecca giggled.
The same was done to her. Whipped cream was squirted around my bush
and, my legs being parted by rough hands, up between my thighs. Then it
was sprayed up along the line between my bottomcheeks. Finally it was
sprayed in a single thin trail around my hips, forming in appearance
bikinied panties made of whipped cream. Then they put the can of
whipped cream to my nipples and sprayed each of those. When they’d been
coated they sprayed in larger circles until they’d covered a good
portion of each of my bosoms. My nipples stood up perkily, breaking
through the cream, and they re-sprayed them. Carefully they then
continued their work, creating as they sprayed a small bra of whipped
cream for my breasts. It had all the appearance of a real halter, save
that, unlike a real bra, which had to be undone, this one could simply
be licked away.
I gazed at Rebecca. She was clad as myself, wearing real
gloves and heels but a bikini made of whipped cream. Our hostess was
called. She re-entered the kitchen. She gazed at us. She smiled.
Then she looked at the silver serving trays where our bikinis had been
made into dessert.
“Yes, you’ll both do very nicely,” our hostess said. “Come
this way, please. It’s time for you to join the guests in the dining
room.”
Rebecca and I were led into an elegant dining room. There were
perhaps 20 people, all formally dressed. Some were old. Others were
young. A chandelier sparkled above the table. I saw they were just
finishing dinner.
“Two young ladies will be joining us for dessert,” our hostess,
whom I later learned was named Rose, announced to the room. Rebecca and
I blushed as she led us in. She walked with each of us holding one of
her hands. We walked daintily so as not to smear the cream sprayed
between our legs, our thighs deliberately apart. A gasp went up. I
felt my blushing face turn redder still.
Gentlemen arose from their places. I was offered a seat
between a man and a woman at one end of the table. Rebecca was put in a
chair at the table’s other end. It was a long, single table,
accomodating all the diners. I sat down carefully in the seat of a
satin-covered chair. I felt the whipped cream on my bottom spread on
the chair’s cushion under me. I kept my legs apart so as not to make a
mess of myself.
“Please, have some dessert,” Rose told me. A servant, coming
in behind us, presented me with the silver tray that held my bra.
Blushingly I scooped pudding out of my bra. I put it on the china plate
in front of me. Meanwhile, another servant was offering around the tray
that held my panties. Men and women scooped pineapple out of them and
put it on their plates. We began eating.
“You have lovely breasts. May I sample them?” the woman beside
me asked, when she’d finished what was on her plate. I nodded. She was
in her 20’s, I guessed. She wore a low-cut gown. It showed the tops of
her bosoms. She leaned over and licked at my nearest tit. Her tongue
laved off some of the whipped cream. She exposed one of my nipples. My
red teat stuck out, licked clean and looking like a bright red cherry
stem. I gasped. I cast my eyes toward Rebecca and saw a woman was
doing the same to her.
30
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