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o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
o The 'Bookshelf collection' offers a very wide variety of o
o stories. They have been submitted by people from all over the o
o world. Also from alt.sex.stories (Newsgroups). There is no o
o particular order other than offering them to you in alpha- o
o betical directories. o
o I don’t believe in categorizing things. "I don’t want to o
o be typed therefore I don’t type things myself." I think it’s o
o a lot more fun to browse around and find 'little' surprises o
o that you might not have even thought of looking for. o
o Lest we forget!!! This story was produced as adult en- o
o tertainment and should not be read by minors. Kristen o
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
Cunt Castle (MF, fant, orgy)
by Teri Baal
***
I rose up from the sand. I wiped my hands on my legs. Without
saying a word, I undid my panties. I passed them to Barbi and she took
them wordlessly. "Do one thing for me," I told my ex-boyfriend.
"Sure," Lord Shaftsbury answered, and made to unzip himself.
"Not that, silly," I said. I stopped his hand in mid-zip.
Carefully I zipped him back up. "I want you to tattoo me." He started.
He looked as if I'd caught his penis in his zipper, although I hadn't.
"I-I have a tattoo, it's an 'L,' I said. But I need it changed.
To an 'F,' my initial. It's in cursive. It won't be hard. It will mean
I belong to me, and nobody else. You can do it?"
He swallowed. "I can do it. Although, I'll admit, it will be
tough, looking at your wet cunt and knowing I can't fuck it."
"No, you can't. Just do me with the tattoo needle this time.
You owe me, in my opinion, for deflowering me and... and all that other
stuff you did to me too!"
"Not that you didn't enjoy it," he replied with a glowing grin,
his teeth as white as the moon might have been, if we weren't all shrouded
in darkness.
"Just do it," I said. "Don't fight me, don't seduce me, just do
it. Then go away so I'll never be tempted to take to your bed again."
"What am I, Burger King?" he sniffed. But he took my hand and,
with Barbi holding my panties, he led me up the beach to his limo. He had
a driver now. He drove me to a tattoo parlor, someone he knew, someone he
could trust to do a good job. They changed my tattoo there, with me
screaming, with Barbi gently fondling me to get me through it. And then I
went home, and I vowed to myself to be a good girl for the rest of my
life.
I sat obediently with my lover at dinner. I sipped my Chardonnay
but said nothing. We'd met just last month. I'd taken several male
lovers since my "sinful sojourn," as my mother called it when holding tea
in the parlor for her friends. She had taken to relieving her
mortifaction at my not turning out "her way," as she liked to call it, by
publicly humiliating me in front of her friends. But I'd culled a few
secrets from her old photos and letters that told me the 60's weren't the
placid decade of civility and conformity that she now claimed they were.
"Well," she would say, over her teacup. "We did have to protest
the social injustices of the time. Vietnam, civil rights. But otherwise
we went to class and did our homework and trained ourselves to be modern
working women," my mother would patiently explain to me. "Styles are
styles, my dear, and the media is always full of hype. Now go do your
homework, and that doesn't mean 'go chat up men on the Internet.' I can
read your e-mail now, so don't think I won't catch you."
And she'd nod to her friends and they'd all chime in on how
important it was to "protect the safety of a child," namely, me.
I'd taken back my old name, "Fleury," short for "Fleurette." But
I'd changed it a little in my 14th year of life. "Furry," I was known as
now, and you can probably guess what my boyfriends thought of when they
called me that.
I was no longer trying to grow up. I felt dreadfully mature, in
fact. Trying to keep my various men friends and boyfriends from killing
each other while still actively liking me was no easy job. That's why I
was so happy when I met Louis. He was French, full of money, and with a
sly, overpowering manner that absolutely guaranteed a girl she'd bear at
least one of his children, whether she wished to or not. He made it
possible for me to forget my other boyfriends, gorgeous as they all were.
He expected me to focus fully on him, to think of him all the time, even
if he skipped asking me out and I knew he was making love to another woman
just to force me to pout and see other men. And, of course, the whole
time I'd be with some other man I'd be thinking of him, spoiling to get
revenge. When we'd meet I'd be eager to wreck his hopes, but find myself
embraced in his arms instead, melting like butter.
And so it was I sat at dinner now, in one of Montevideo's best
restaurants, watching the moon rise over the sea and the homely fishing
vessels as they trundled out for a night's hard work amidst the waves. My
panties were tucked into the breast pocket of his $1400 dollar jacket.
He'd dared me to take them off and, infuriating me at last with his
teasing, I'd slingshotted them at him when the waiter's back was turned
and the other diners seemed occupied. I think a middle-aged lady saw me,
but no one else. Except, of course, our dinner guests, Polly and Andre.
"You should send her to Traflangier," Andre chuckled, still
amused that I'd shot my panties at my boyfriend.
"Eh, you know what they call that place," Louis replied. He
dabbled with the plastic sword sticking up from his Daiquiri. He leaned
close to Andre, speaking low, but not so low that I couldn't hear. "Cunt
Castle."
"Hmmm?" Andre asked. He looked pleasantly startled. Polly shot
me a look of disgust and rolled her eyes, as if to say, 'Men!' That one
word said it all. But I didn't mind. I was enthralled with Louis. Polly
was just 13. She reminded me of myself a year ago, except she was more
like my mother, always trying to be prim and proper. I think she loved
Andre despite herself. She still had her panties, though from the length
of her dress you'd have wondered whether she intended them as underwear or
outerwear.
"It was intended as a place of sexual liberation in the 60's, run
by an old pharmacist who used to hand out his homemade drugs to the kids
like they were candy. Then, in the 70's, as his flock grew a little
older, it became a 'sex for health' place, for people who weren't into
jogging 20 miles a day but didn't mind spending lots of time each day
humping in bed. 'Sexual therapy and then sexual recovery' came into vogue
in the 80's, with everyone in the final days disavowing their sexual past
as they feared their newly-born children might one day walk in their
ways." Louis took a deep drag on his cigarette and exhaled. "He died
about then, '87 or so. For awhile the place lay dormant. Then his estate
was finally settled and his niece took it over. Nowadays she runs it as a
place where girls can be taken to 'receive instruction,' as she puts it.
Men take their wives there, or their lovers." Louis shot a glance at me.
"Or a girl might take her manly boyfriend there, it makes no difference."
Louis lifted his hand from his drink and fiddled with my panties.
Part of them stuck out the top of his pocket, and I was wishing he'd
stick them all the way down in so no one would see. "And so the place is
alternately called 'Cunt Castle,' or 'Cock Castle,' depending on which
version of the eroticized estate most suits your fancy. As for me, I
propose a suggestion. You and I might send Polly and Furry there for two
weeks, and then later, they might send us."
A shiver ran down my spine. Immediately I knew somehow he'd pull
it off. And I knew something else too. Despite his words, I knew he'd
never let me send him there. No, it would just be me. My mind swirled.
What must it be like to be taken someplace by your husband, or your lover,
and made a love slave for a week? How long was it? Did he say a week, or
was it two weeks? I'd found a book once in my dad's dresser, when I was
snooping around. It was under his underpants. Probably a fitting place
for it, too. Story of O'revoir, or something. O? Au revoir? I couldn't
remember. Maybe it was the book version of 9 1/2 weeks. I'd seen part of
the movie once, late at night, after Leno. Well, this was 2 weeks. Yes,
that was it. Two weeks. Polly looked not the least amused, but I found
myself a little intrigued. And I could hear a little voice somewhere
inside me warning me away. 'no, furry, and change your name back too, you
can't go there, your mother will report you missing and...'
That's why I liked Louis. My other men friends worried
constantly that they might get in trouble seeing me. Louis absolutely did
not care. He knew my mother had her 'surveillance radar' on me 24
hours-a-day. He knew if I disappeared for two weeks there'd be no way to
hide it from my mother. And now here he was, smoking his head off, not
caring the least about the Surgeon General, and proposing sending me to
some weird castle or something where I'd get to play Geisha Girl for two
weeks. Polly was right. Men!
"Alright," I heard Andre agree. And I realized I must have
missed some crucial bit of their conspiratorial conversation, the words
spoken just quietly enough to force Polly and I to strain forward to find
out what they had planned for us. "The price is steep, but it would be
worth it to make this bitch more agreeable." He pinched Polly's thigh.
She flinched, frowned. She looked like a cat who, seeing a canary, wants
it but remembers the last one had given it indigestion. My cat ate a bird
once, one that had eaten pills intended for pigeons. Only a fast trip to
the vet had saved her. My mother insisted on giving her away a year later
when we moved. I wanted to run away, to go back for her, but I got lost
trying, and the police delivered me home at 9 o'clock that night to a cold
supper and stern words from my father. I know the real reason mother
insisted on giving away my cat. It was pregnant, and she didn't want me
to know about sex. But I knew. I saw her getting fat and a friend had
told me the reason. Mother maintained we were feeding her too much, and
actually cut back on her food. I had to feed her surreptitiously under
the table.
"Okay," Louis said. He smiled at me. Nothing more was said
between them. He ordered dessert for us. Cherry Rhubarb pie. A little
sweet, a little sour. Was it a way of telling us what they had in mind
for us? I didn't know. I ate mine slowly, savoring the tangy mixture,
yet contemplating it to, wondering if I should let Louis lead me into his
fantasy of me being his absolute, total slave. I had no illusions.
That's what it would come to. Utter subservience to his will. I felt a
thrill deep inside myself as I wondered whether I should accept this, or
run to the maitre de, explain I was only 14, and that Louis was not my
father at all but my illegal lover. The police would come quickly, he
would be whisked away. Or he might harm me. There's no telling what an
enraged man might do. Then again, if I slipped away, to use the toilet,
he would never know. My daddy would protect me from him. But my daddy
screwed my mother every night. He was mine, but...
Louis was mine altogether. Well, he loved other women, but I
hoped he loved me most of all. If I said 'no' to him I knew I'd lose him.
Oh, what to do? What to do? I looked at Polly. She was complaining
about her dessert. Andre was quite indulgent. She explained to him in
her high-pitched voice that while the cherries were fine, the rhubarb was
much too sour. And, come to think of it, the crust was not flaking
properly. Her mother made much better crusts than this. Andre nodded
patiently. Louis rolled his eyes, accepted that the girl must be listened
to. I liked the way Louis rolled his eyes. So worldly. Yet, as I gazed
at Polly, I noticed how freely her breasts shifted within her blouse. It
was tight. She had let her jacket become unbuttoned. Andre liked toying
with her clothes while she was eating. I saw that Polly's blouse was
tented where her nipples were. She was excited by all the attention she
was receiving, both from Andre and Louis. Why had she not worn a bra? I
had a bra on, a nice black one, with my vest neatly buttoned over it, to
give just a hint of it out the top. Yet she, with her jacket now opened,
showed everyone how thin her blouse was and how stiff her nipples were. I
glanced around. Did anyone else see besides us? Oh well, we girls have a
right to skip our bras if we wish, but... This was an elegant, high-class
restaurant, not a nightclub. The waiter returned. Andre made to order a
cherry pie, without the rhubarb, but after her long soliloquy Polly seemed
not to wish to change her order after all. I knew then she just wanted to
be noticed, paid attention to. I was jealous. Here she was, cheating,
with her nipples all erect and her blouse treacherously thin, with even
Louis watching her now instead of me. Should I slip away to the ladies
room and ditch my bra? That would top her, me sticking my bra in the
waste bin where it might be seen by the other ladies, and returning,
sitting down, with my breasts noticeably bare beneath my little vest.
The waiter, at a nod from Louis, presented the bill. Louis
handed him a $100.00 bill and rose. We were leaving, just that suddenly.
Polly, more or less finished with her pie by now, took a quick sip of her
coffee and the four of us were outside the restaurant within the minute.
I felt the cool night air brush against me beneath my skirt, my panties
still tucked neatly in Louis' pocket. I reached for them, for the bit of
them that stuck up, in his jacket, where he might have worn a carnation
instead of using my underwear. With a suave movement he brushed my hand
away. He wanted to keep them. I gritted my teeth and realized I would
have to bear up without them. I felt so cool, so free. There was
absolutely nothing underneath my dress. The wind caught it. My hands
leapt to my thighs, trying to keep the doorman fetching our car from
catching sight of my nakedness. I regretted wearing such a short dress
now. Mother would never have approved, and now I knew why. It was not
handkerchief-short, like Polly's, but it was still way too short to run
around in without any panties on.
Bruised Flower.
The bruised flower sleeps,
I'm waiting in the
living room battle ground.
Dawn seeps light into the room.
In this alien hill country
a hundred miles from home.
Sleeping in-laws like these
I dare not shut my eyes.
She's just one of those people
with the fate of having the wrong father.
He walked into this thing,
what kind of choice did she have
to take the blame?
Not the worst holiday I ever had,
there's been several that have been worse.
Sometimes I wonder what's the point,
but not for long...
All she wants is some love
she could really use some acceptance.
All she gets is some coldness
it tears my heart up to see it.
The bruised flower sleeps,
I'm waiting in the
living room battle ground.
Dawn seeps light into the room.
Gaunt, printed in Fuck Decency 224, is from Will Dockery's zine, Teri
Baal, a 16 page chapbook. The poem above is also by Dockery and from Teri
Baal. Will Dockery, P.O. Box 3663, Phenix City, AL 36868, U.S.A.
AND IN THE END...