Message-ID: <1202eli$9706041407@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: Path: qz!news.accessus.net!not-for-mail X-Path-Preload: news.accessus.net preloaded to thwart rogue canceller there Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: From: Andrew Roller Subject: Love Child part 14 of 15 (NND) --------------------------------------------------------------- PROBLEMS? Please try viewing this with Netscape Navigator. --------------------------------------------------------------- _/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/ Andrew Roller Presents NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS in LOVE CHILD _/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/ Chapter Fourteen The grandee’s son rose from the table. I saw that his pants had a new visitor. Like some baby close to term, it presented itself in a bulgingly obvious manner. Impertinent, Tiffany reached out and took hold of his zipper. “Tiffany!” Lisa snapped, slapping her hand. Tiffany withdrew her hand contritely, looked up at Master. “It will come out soon enough, Tiffany,” the grandee’s son assured her. Machiavelli glinted from his eyes, calculating, giving her lithe body a final inspection. “It is the feast of flesh, Tiffany,” Lisa said to her quietly, but just loud enough for us all to hear. In the background the grunts and moans of the bride and groom had subsided. Sweaty, spent, they were lifted off one another, separated. Their task was done. The peasants had fertilized themselves. Now only the fertilization of the master remained. If it went well, the crop would be good this year. Lisa explained this to Tiffany, stroking her hair. She took one of Tiffany’s breasts in her hand, weighed it, squeezed it firmly as if to express milk through its stiffened nipple. “To keep power, we must compromise a little,” the grandee’s son said to Tiffany, knowing the rest of us were all ears. Slowly we began to gather in around his table. Beyond, unnoticed by us, the “stage” furniture was being replaced in the next room. In preparation for the next act. The final act. “My father, once a year, presents himself to his people and demonstrates his continuing potency by fucking a young female. This earns him, if you will, the right to rule them. It is a celebration of nature, and woman also, of the bounty both of them are capable of bringing forth...MUST bring forth, if humans are to continue on the planet.” “You--you want ME to be the young female?” Tiffany asked. Lisa took hold of her arms, drew them gently back. Tiffany, her back straight, presented ripe bosoms to the son of the grandee. He reached out and plucked each nipple with his fingers. Tiffany winced. “You ARE the young female,” he replied. “You have no choice. The people have seen you and expect you to be fucked--by me.” “May I handcuff her now?” Lisa asked. “Handcuff all of them,” the grandee’s son replied, indicating the rest of us girls with a broad sweep of his arm. Alas, we had little thought of escaping, save from our own lust. The grandee’s son had played us well. On her own initiative Cheryl followed Lisa over to the bar, watched her take handcuffs from a drawer, asked that she be given ours! Cheryl came padding back to us and ordered us to line up and put our hands behind our backs. Strangely, Sylvia, who had howled so loudly in village courtyard, presented her back to me, arms crossed above her thrusting bottom, and asked me to “do her.” I marvelled at her courage. I took a pair of cuffs from Cheryl’s hands and buckled them on Sylvia’s wrists. Lightly I bent forward and kissed her on the cheek. She smiled, happy in her captivity. Cheryl caught both Amber’s arms. She was more wilful. A young filly unsure of whether she wished to be broken or not. Firmly she imprisoned the girl’s wrists behind her. And then Cheryl turned to me, and I to her. We giggled. Naked and free we stood, and we liked our freedom. Our hair, our makeup was a mess, though a pretty mess. It had a natural appeal to it, a carefree appeal. We were unencumbered by civilized ways. We were little girls again, playing in our back yard. I remembered a baby pool, and dashing around without my swimsuit on. When we were little my friend and I would strip and dash about until mommie came, warning of perverts. With a complicitous smile I let Cheryl turn me around. We were older now. We didn’t want to play with dollies any more. We wanted babies...in our bellies, I realized. As she buckled me into the cuffs I looked down at my bosoms. I wondered what they would feel like, weighted with milk. My milk, for my baby. I must find out! If not tonight, then soon, but perhaps tonight? Tiffany was standing beside Master. He would present himself tonight, instead of his father. A passing of the baton. Or the phallus, actually. He rubbed her bottom. She jerked as he explored too deep between her cheeks. Lisa cuffed Cheryl. Then she put us in a line, gradeschoolers going to recess. Master brought out Tiffany and put her at our head. At his command we marched out into the room where we’d flown Pretend Air. Our bare feet slapping the floor, we presented ourselves in single file to the eyes of the gawking natives. We emerged from Master’s den, from its woodpanelled safety, like babes from some protecting womb. Our bosoms bounced springily, our step was lively. Our flat bellies yearned to swell to the size of the Mexican ladies’, though with young, not fat. Before us stood four aristocratic ladies, drenched in sparkling jewelry. They were Spanish. Their lovely dresses had been ripped open in front to allow their bosoms to be seen. Each had a fine pair, and the nipples were properly erected to welcome Master. Otherwise the ladies were dressed as tastefully as one might for a formal reception; at an ambassador’s residence, perhaps, in Mexico City, or a political inaugural. Their hands were sheathed in dainty black gloves, though, as if they’d just stepped in from outside. And to my heartbeating surprise I saw that they each held a belt. The long leather straps uncoiled towards the floor, their ends twitching slightly. Yet, as I kept one wary eye upon the belts, I saw that there had been some thought at least for our comfort. Master pointed to soft towels laid two thick upon the floor. Upon thin mattresses, I saw, looking more closely. There were no pillows but the mattresses seemed big enough to lie down on, if you curled up on them, anyway. Master told us to kneel. Awkwardly we did. On our knees, straight-backed, we had our handcuffs taken off. Lisa collected them as Master himself unbuckled them. “Get on your hands and knees,” Master told us. “Dip your backs. More girls, more. Spread your legs. Apart, Barbi!” He slapped my fanny. “Arch your backs toward the floor and lift your bottoms up high, girls. You must be ridden. You WILL be ridden, and it will be hard for you if you do not open yourselves up for it fully. Good, good. You are doing all you can. Offer your pouting quims, let me see them there between your thighs. My, how small and tight they are. Nothing a baby could come out of, I think. Perhaps we can change that tonight.” His words mesmerized us. Unchained, we obeyed nonetheless. He buckled collars around each of our necks. I flipped my hair over my eyes, revealing all of myself to him. All except for my face, where my overhanging blonde mane made me anonymous. But my pussy was not anonymous. My breasts, swollen fruit hanging from the slim trunk of my body, they were not anonymous. He gave each of us a leash, clipping it into our collars, each one a different color. Tiffany’s was royal purple, Cheryl’s was gold, mine was silver. Amber’s was green and Sylvia’s bright red, a pair of Christmas ponies, perhaps; gifts from Master to himself, six months early. He lifted our leashes to our mouths and made us hold them between our teeth so they wouldn’t drag on the floor. Unable to bear the pressure of our spectacle, he had the Spanish ladies loose just his cock from his clothing. He stood like a little boy, penitent, while they suavely undid the confinement of his manhood. Out it sprung, the Mexicans gasping, the girls and eye peeking out of the corners of our eyes at it, knowing instinctively that we were not to look. He rebuked us when he turned back to us. “Horses do not lust after their master’s cock,” he said, but not with excessive sternness. Then he told us he would “shoe” us. One by one he fitted dainty lace gloves on our hands. Then he slipped knee pads up our legs to our knees, pausing to inhale the feminine scent of our cunnies, his face unbearably close to our privates, yet only inspecting them as some voyeur might. We wished for a groom. A groom and a marital bed. Yet there was only one of him, and five of us. No man could do all five of us in one night. Would the Spanish ladies substitute? I shivered. I hoped not. Perhaps I would be chosen, after all, and the others would have to put up with the table scraps, not me. With Queenly detachment I would gaze down on their plight. “Let them fuck the cake.” A band assembled amidst the onlookers. The people of the village, happily getting out their hand-me-down and homemade instruments. Merrily they began to play a Spanish dance number. Master took Tiffany by her leash. The ladies with the straps each took one of us. Together with Master they paraded us about the center of the room. My big boobies hung down, swaying with carefree abandon. Mommie would be angry. I was without my training bra. I remembered back to when I was 12, how she accosted me if I went outside without my bra on, my little nipples sticking up like thorns through my t-shirt when the boys would come by to chat with me. She always said I must wear the bra so my breasts would “grow properly.” But I guessed that was just an old wives’ tale. Did Tarzan’s penis grow improperly in the jungle without any jock strap? Did Cleopatra have a size A bra when she was 12? I doubt it. Now my breasts were swinging to and fro, boldly grown melons hanging ever so temptingly from my skinny ribbed torso. And my bottom, oh how mommie would complain when it wasn’t properly contained in my panties. I’d keep wearing my favorite undies even after I’d outgrown them. They’d hold in less and less of me, and if I wore a short skirt to talk to the boys in my bottom would almost surely bid them goodbye when I spun about to go inside. They’d be back the next day for sure then, their pants swelling promisingly. But I was still too young to fuck. I just wanted to see them squirm, their cocks bulging uncomfortably, their voices cracking as they tried to talk to me calmly with my nipples risen and my skirt flapping sensuously in the gentle breeze. That’s how I felt now: sensuous. I felt lithe, alive, playing pony girl before an audience that was absolutely in awe of me. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the Mexican boys rubbing themselves, furtively (you only had to look in their faces to know what they were doing down below.) Poor lads! They wanted me but they could not have me. I was reserved. For Master, hopefully, or someone he might designate. But not for those poor 12 and 13 and 14 year-old-boys, no. Their mothers, for one, would never allow it. They would have to wait, to hope that some other girl like me might someday venture into their deep jungle village, a girl with blonde tossing hair and white skin so thin it barely covered my ribs. A girl with a soft wiggly bottom and large, sweet-nippled breasts. Around and around we pranced, on all fours but proud as young mares might be, or young bulls in a new bullfighting ring. Would the matador spear us? My cunny was tight. It would resist his spear. He would have to push very hard. It would have to be driven up me remorselessly, and I would expect him to soothe me inside with a jettonising of his life fluid. A biologist lady on the T.V. had said that sperm was expensive for men to produce. Well I would expect him to spare me no expense. If he got even one inch inside me I expected full payment. Deep long strokes, procured with difficulty, plumbing my tightness. Only the strongest man would be able to get himself up me, I told myself. Weaker men would be “squeezed out,” so to speak. But the biggest cocked men, with tremendous loin power, they would break into me and fill me. Not just my cunt but my womb also. They would flood it with their life-giving sperm. I would bear their young for them. I would suckle and nurse them at my nude, ripe-hanging breasts. We were all so naked! I kept my eyes down but glanced about, surreptitiously, admiring my nudie girlfriends. Once we’d been airline stewardesses, smartly dressed and ultra-efficient, clattering through airports in our high heels, always hurrying. Now we were stripped absolutely bare, save for our “horseshoes.” Our hair was a shambles, hanging down over our eyes. Our skin, deliciously white, seemed to glow with a kind of innocent incandescence. There was no time here, only feelings. Hot feelings, flashing through me, and them. Our hineys were lifted high, saluting our hosts as we passed round in front of them, shamelessly we offered them views we’d denied so many men. Sweet men, gentle men, handsome men, capriciously denied by us as we flitted through life, inconsiderate of anything but our own ever-changing whim. Now, before strangers, before people we loathed, Master was making us show ourselves. And in our love for him we did not mind. Even as the ladies dropped our leashes, letting them drag between our legs on the floor, we did not mind. Behind us the ladies took up position. Ah! Flat and sharp a belt comes down across my offered bottom. I give a little cry. My breasts shake. “Get into position on your stable mats!” a female yells. One of the dominant females, armed with a strap. We return hastily to our towels, spread lovingly upon the floor for us. Wiggly bottomed we kneel as before, rotating our asses ever so sweetly. We want it now. Want whatever is coming to us. We will accept it with equanimity. My mind a cauldron of thoughts, I remember the other whipping. In the square. In front of the church. Its steeple jutting upward, its spire threatening to pierce the clouds. I remember the intense heat, the brownskinned people, gawking, looking avidly at what should be covered, our indecent bottoms. And I remembered nature’s gawkers too, the flies that buzzed close to inspect our bottoms just before the rains came. Shifting my weight from one knee to the other I wondered if there would be any flies here, driven before a summer storm. And then I saw the ladies take up many-thonged whips, cat o’ nine tails with tight little knots at their tips. Alas! No, Master! Not a horde of bees on my bottom! Curious whiskered flies in the square were bad enough. Gently the ladies began swishing our asses with the cats, letting them dangle down and just sweeping them slightly, back and forth, like palm fronds on overhanging palm trees. I gasped. I trembled. I bit my lip, feeling the soft inquiring sweeping on my delicate fanny. I felt Amber shiver beside me. She did not deserve a whipping, oh no, she told herself, but she was too sensuous now, like me, to refuse. Hot breathed we watched now as Master drew up Tiffany. Dreamy eyed she watched him. He stood her upright on her feet as one might a nervous toddler. He told her to lift her arms and she did, raising her hands up to the level of her nose on either side of her face. She held them there quietly, submissively, as rough Mexican ladies came and bound her wrists with ropes. All the while she looked into Master’s eyes, and he into hers. I longed to be in her place, to receive Master’s full undivided attention. I knew his attention would soon divide her cunt lips, or perhaps her bottom cheeks. Or maybe the lips of her mouth! Yes, I thought, almost rushing forward and grabbing at his wonderful cock. Yes it would divide her mouth and she would suck on it, lustily. He would scream for mercy, not wanting to come, yet not wanting to withdraw from her either. She would have to be careful with him up above if she wanted him down below. She would have to succor him and yet preserve him. Oh, Master, what awful games you play! You make sex so long-drawn-out, worrying even slow-loving girls that the end will never come. I watched as Tiffany was suddenly jerked upward, lifted right off the floor! Her shock was reflected in all our faces. The crowd roared with laughter and approval. Tiffany’s legs jerked and leapt in the air, showing her cunny to any who cared to even glance in her direction. Tiffany, our cool, sophisticated leader! Reduced to a strung up whore in a meat shop! Come, Mexicans! Look at the cheesecake displayed for you on the mats and the little bird we’ve hung up with ropes from the ceiling. See how she twitters and pleads! See her proud titties. See how they bobble helplessly as she twists, captive before you. Look at her sleek legs. Yes, my Mexican women, my ever-suffering laborers, here is your yearly prize. Here is your night of revenge and pleasure! The tourist girls, their sunglasses torn off, their sun-shielding parasols ripped away, their stylish clothing gone. See how white and vulnerable they are under all that finery they like to wear. Their little panties, their ever-so-concealing and revealing lacy bras. Their sheer blouses, with the stiff modest-seeming collars, though all can be seen simply by looking closely. The boobs, shifting beneath their nothing bras, trimmed with lace but with cups of silk. Chiffon blouses with silk bras beneath. Shaft sunlight though them and you can see the red-hued nipples, risen perhaps, as they go down the promenade shopping, passing the church. Yes now the skirts and the bobby socks and the nothing bras and blouses are gone, see how hopelessly naked they are now! Look at the cats, their awful tips promising retribution as they caress their bottoms. See them panting lustily. They love their Master, their grandee, as you must love him also. They are willing to give him everything, every part of their deliciously white bodies, as you have already given yours for many years now. All around me the sounds of men and women having sex began to fill the room. Between my legs I looked, felt a sharper swish across my bottom in response, warning me. Yet in my thigh-framed glimpse I saw the natives finally loosing themselves from their clothing and their restlessness. Down came the dresses of the Mexican ladies, their little husbands eagerly disrobing beside them. Closer at hand the aristocratic friends of the grandee had assembled, guests who ruled their own villages and held their own festivals on separate nights, where no doubt the grandee’s son would be in attendance soon, admiring their showgirls. The aristocrats and their wives stood over us, admiring our light-skinned beauty, our Anglo manes of hair softly sweeping the floor before us, even as the cats swept our bottoms. Gradually clothes came down around me. The aristocrats stripped each other, each man taking another’s wife for the evening to increase their pleasure. With gentle sighs the ladies touched their substitute husbands and were touched in turn. Their fingers apprised stiff-stemming cocks, sweetly indented dells. And ladies too touched each other. “How nice to fondle your breasts and pussy again, my dear, it has been months since we partied last.” “Yes and your bosoms are as firm and resilient as ever my love, kiss me.” Gently Tiffany was lowered to her feet. Mesmerized, her eyes caught the grandee’s and she stared at him. ‘How awful you are, Sir! Awful and ruthless and oh how I love you...’ I could almost hear her thinking. Her lissome body, sleek limbed, trembled all over as she regained her sense of composure, her feet once more solidly on the floor but her arms still lofted high...she could be pulled up again any minute. Tied, ANYTHING could happen to her! And from the look of lust on the grandee’s face, as he returned her stare, anything just might...almost surely would. She was nothing but his toy now, his pink plaything. Her thighs quivering, she flexed her knees, offered her cunt to him by pushing her crotch forward. Above her smooth belly rippled softly, waiting to be filled. “Naughty girl, have you no modesty?” Lisa reprimanded her. She turned Tiffany toward the wall, walked her over to it as the rope ran along a track above. With wobbling steps, her bottom cheeks jiggling as she tread on tip-toe, Tiffany was led to her fate against the wall. A soft carpet had been hung there to protect her breasts from the roughness of the stone masonry. Lisa pressed Tiffany against the furry wall hanging, a bear skin I think it was, imported from Alaska. Tiffany shuddered. All of us did, watching her, all of us on our knees. The twisting leathern thongs of the cat cascaded with light, menacing sparkles over my upturned peach. Wrist twisting, flicking ever so casually, the woman at my rear gave me a teasing taste of what I feared would be much sterner stuff soon. Before me Tiffany stood, Lisa pressing her fingers to the girl’s bare waist. She lifted Tiffany’s ass with her slim-fingered hands gripping her waist. “Offer your pumpkin,” I heard her murmur. Tiffany stuck out her bare white hiney even as Master selected a whip from the wall. A cat, its thongs braided into fearsome cords, its ends tipped with sharp-pointed knots. The leather had been carefully cut and prepared by master craftsmen, Lisa told Tiffany as the girl glanced back over her shoulder and gasped. Master struck at the floor, practising. Lisa brushed Tiffany’s hair with her hands and parted it. She pushed it over the girl’s shoulder’s, baring her back. Tiffany shook her head and replaced it over her back. Oh, if only it ran down farther and could cover her bottom! I thought. At a word from Master, Lisa piled Tiffany’s hair loosely atop her head. An aristocrat woman gave her a clip and she secured it. Now all of Tiffany could be touched by the whip, kissed with its handmade leather. Her white body shivered from head to toe. Master spoke again. Lisa drew the girl out, away from the wall, turned her so that she could be seen both front and back by us and the crowd. Master strode to a new spot, behind her again, but with a mirror on a far wall reflecting her front to him. Tiffany bit her lip. Her breasts heaved as she prepared herself for her erotic punishment. There was no crime, no charges to be read. Yet I felt it my bones her whipping would be a severe one. And mine too! Every stroke Master gave Tiffany would be repeated across my fundament. Carefully, precisely. I glanced back at my Mistress and saw the studiousness in her face. She would not spare me, nor give me more than Tiffany got. With admiring eyes she watched Master, looked at me, nudged me with her boot to make me turn around. “Face forward, eyes down,” she reminded me. Then, at Master’s command, she lay down her cat and assisted in my “buckling.” With soothing words, false comforting words, she helped the Mexican ladies manacle my wrists in steel cuffs and secure them with bolts to the floor. The other girls were secured also, “helpfully,” my Mistress said, to help us take what was coming. When I was bound she caressed my hips, the flanks of my thighs, measuring me for her handiwork. Then she stood and glanced at the other Mistresses. Master was ready. Lisa put the finishing touches to Tiffany’s imprisonment. She was trussed with her legs wide apart, her toes turned prettily inward. Master seemed to marvel at her beauty even as he contemplated how he would tarnish it. Secure in my metal bracelets I watched, my fanny offered up to my Mistress. She shivered the thong tips over my bottom, testing my mettle. I wanted to scream, to plead and beg to be let up. But it would only earn me far worse treatment from her, I knew. At Master’s direction, no less. He was in charge of us all. Would I act up, just for his attention? Just to take his eyes off Tiffany? Ritual-like, Master came over to each of us. He patted each of us on our heads as we knelt, dog-like, in his presence. I kissed his shoe. He patted my head again. Lastly he went to Tiffany. Deftly he put a hand between her legs and fingered her cunny. She whimpered, twisting in her bonds. She squirmed atop his seeking fingers, wishing. He withdrew his hand, sniffed it, found the scent agreeable. Then he strode back and took up position behind her to give her what she so richly deserved. Five white American girls, their unprotected bottoms wiggling lewdly in a display of fine ass flesh. We were about to taste a really severe whipping, I knew. We’d come for it. Not knowing, not understanding, yet deep down, primally, wanting to be violated in some significant way. Wanting to escape our cosseted suburban lives. Here, in the jungle, we would joust with Nature herself, our soft round bottoms verses her man-wielded thongs. And prongs. Hardness and stiffness and sharpness against our pinkly swelling asses, our absorbing little cunts and buttholes. But we were weary of sensitive 90’s men, caged and castrated by laws on sexual harassment and statutory rape. Here there were only Nature’s men, unrestrained by civilized “laws.” Here we would match them blow for blow, and in the end win out, their life juices drained away by our inviting holes. We would leave with their juice in us and go back to our other lives, dainty stewardesses guiding men on planes, saying “yes” and “no” and “maybe so, but right now I must shampoo.” Come back when my hair is combed and set and then I will contemplate your offer, if I haven’t become bored with it already by then. Oh, how my bottom would hurt tomorrow! It would require endless attention, creams delicately applied, perfumes gently sprayed. Just to sit would be a nightmare, yet here I was, my bottom untouched, big and wide-spreading and able to do whatever I wished with it. I could plop it down anywhere, save on nettles, without a care or a second thought. I could go hiking with it, or skiing, or I could take it to a NOW convention and sit with the ladies. But tomorrow! How delicate I would be then, wincing and simpering, begging people not to touch it, even to graze it with their fingertips, lest they hurt me. I would be a Japanese doll then, fragile and delicate beyond measure. No longer a “take charge” Western girl, but an Eastern girl, oh so sensitive, deferential, knowing my place and sitting in it lest someone give my poor bottom an unwanted touch. At my rear, so boldly offered now, the cat tickled. It would transform me. I would become a Geisha girl. I would live in a tall-standing Pagoda and study Confucius. He would be a hard master, but I would obey willingly. Bravely I thrust up my bottom, relishing my last moments of proud defiance. I saw Tiffany too, sticking her ass right out at Master, taunting him with it. See how lovely and white my bottom is, Mexican ladies. The pretty bottom of Europa mooning the inferior, slavish races. See my Aryan ass and kiss it. “No!” Tiffany’s cry pierced the air, plaintive, unwilling. My reverie broke and I saw that Master had accorded her her first ass-stinging, butt reddening stroke. Inswirling knots had graced her pale loveliness and left their prints behind. And now me! With attentive eyes, my Mistress carefully copied Master’s stroke and gave my bottom the same. “Ooooh!” I lurched forward in my bonds, bound at the knees and at the wrists, my legs fixed wide by a spreader bar that ran along behind me, across my towel. And below my hanging face, gazing floorward, a second spreader bar ran over my towel and held my wrists in place. “Offer your bottom properly,” Mistress warned me. I dipped my back reluctantly, not so eager to show off my ass to the Mexican ladies anymore. Tiffany too needed reminding, she curved her back inward, pressing her belly toward the floor, angling it downward as she jutted her ass out, shyly now, not wantonly as before. HISSSS! No sooner had she offered her peach than Master gave it its second rebuke, loving how she waggled it about ruefully. And he told her to stick it out again for more, always she must stick it out again for more. I wept as my own bee-stung bottom suffered the same assault. ‘Please Master it is enough,’ I wanted to shout. ‘I’ve learned my lesson now. I won’t think naughty thoughts about teasing the Mexican ladies with my bottom.’ But again the ass-firing cords came in, scorching our fannies, making us buck and rear and shake our bloated, gourd-like titties. Fruit on slim vines so heavy it might drop off, might stick its stiff-nippled thorns right into the carpet below us. “Ah! Not again!” Tiffany yelped, feeling the bristling cords strike her all over her offered peach. It was splotched in many places now with pink, little splotches, each from one of the tiny wicked knots. Again Master lashed her, again she shook and shivered and led the way for us, quickly following with our own cries. All around me now I heard the calls and moans of people having sex. In close, the aristocrats, their copulations inspired by my suffering. Farther out, the Mexican laborers, their grunts and ululations summoning some jungle rutting ritual in my mind. Beasts and monkeys must be there, amidst their coarse bodies, fucking with them. It was the season of estrus and they were all exchanging their interchangeable genes. Ah, me! Again the cursed cords, scalding my superior stuck-up thoughts, chasing them away. We poor white girls wouldn’t have anything left of our hides tomorrow, I could tell, they could read our minds and were beating us for our snootiness. Mall rats, brats from America, come down south to ask forgiveness for leading sheltered, wealthy lives while half the world starved. “Eeek!” Amber yelled. A woman had slid under her and caught one of her risen nipples in her mouth. It did not abate the whipping. Down came the cords again on her fanny, and mine also, making us buck and rear. The woman sucked vigorously on Amber’s tits, milking them hard, and the poor girl could do nothing to stop her. At the woman’s crotch her husband fed in her dell, inspiring her. Helplessly Amber looked down at her soft hanging tits, now gripped and squeezed and manhandled ruthlessly by the aristocratic woman beneath her. The woman was used to using things up and throwing them away. Cars, men, the luscious breasts (prettier than her own) of virgin American girls. New girls in the jungle with too-white bodies and impossibly seductive curves. Well, these were a pair of curves that would be thoroughly worked over, yes indeed, they would spout babies’ milk when she was through with them. No pregnancy was needed, just vigorous suckling and squeezing. The indriving knots scalded me again. Oooh! What a score of stingers! Those wicked little knots could find me ANYWHERE, even within my soft crevice. Like a frightened horse I tried to bolt from my stable of chains. I dreaded the touch of the knots against my anus! It was so sensitive, the tenderest flesh, tissue flesh, and every swathe of the bitter knots opened me up back there. As my heinie squirmed madly, my cheeks flexing open and closed, reacting to the pain, I knew I’d get hit right on my rosehole before the night was through. I looked up at Tiffany, tears wetting my face, to try to assess the damage to my own bottom. Alas! She had stopped looking back over her shoulder at Master. No longer was she playing the sweet, inviting captive. She couldn’t afford to. All her attention was focused on her bottom now, she was nothing but a burning bottom. Her eyes were squinched shut, her chin uptilted. Squeezing her darling cheeks tightly together, she tried to reduce the target area of her ass. SPLAT! Another blow, echoed on my own fundament, sending me forward in a gritting whine. As I reeled under the force of my own pain I glimpsed Tiffany’s cheeks bounding wide, showing her little hole to Master, offering it to him, a bullseye. He would find it irresistible before the night was done, I knew. He was too cruel not to give her one right up her fanny before it was over. Though she might leave him one day, seeking out other friends, she would talk about it for years to come. And when a woman asked her, in polite but intimate conversation, perhaps over tea, “Have you ever gotten a bee up your bonnet, dear?” Tiffany would know precisely what she meant. “The horses must be watered,” Master said, dropping his cat to his side for a moment. As we continued to rotate our bottoms shamelessly, still in shock from the pain, a cup of brandy was brought to each of our Mistresses, and to Master. “poor darling, am I hurting you?” My mistress asked me. She lowered the cup to my mouth and urged me to drink it. She stroked my hair. I slurped up the offered liquor, which promised to serve as a mild anesthetic. Or so I thought. Later I learned it was mostly hot water, but I drank it greedily, praying it would get me through my ordeal. Mistress seemed genuinely solicitous of me, kissing my hair softly and whispering encouraging words to me. But of course she could do nothing to lessen the blows. She must copy Master exactly. “If you like I can clamp your nipples,” Mistress asked me. “The pain in your teats might help to take your mind off your bottom.” She pinched one of my nipples to demonstrate. I winced, new tears welled in my eyes. “No,” I breathed. “Just let me up. Let me go.” “Shhh! You know that’s not possible!” Mistress said. “I won’t report you, but don’t ask again. You have a lovely bottom and I don’t want to see it harmed any more than it has to be.” She kissed me. “Besides, I know you want to be a big girl. A grown woman. What do you think this is like compared to the pain of childbirth? You must prepare for it, darling. And anyway you have an absolutely adorable bottom. You must expect all your boyfriends to want to give you a good spanking on it. To see your little cheeks squeeze and pop apart, mmm, delightful! You look so silly, waggling your ass around.” She kissed me again. I let the tears run freely down my face. I was helpless. My bottom glowed with pain and a kind of radiating pleasure. Please, God! Help me get through this! Don’t let me be a big baby. Ah, how I wanted to be laid on the smooth sheets that I knew waited for me upstairs. To be complimented and told how good I’d been. How very good. The cool lovely sheets with the misty morning air filtering through the window as Mexican ladies prepared salves for me. For my ass flesh. My adolescent puppy fat. What I had and they hadn’t had for years and years. And how I held it so carelessly! I’d lain by the pool, sunning myself in new bikinis bought by Master in the finest stores. He’d pick them out and have them specially delivered for me. I’d string them on, barely covering myself (not wanting to) and prance about all day like some spoilt child. And yet I knew of his dark yearnings. I knew he was like this, a sadist, yet I hadn’t run, hadn’t hidden myself away somewhere in the jungle, or even within his giant house. Hadn’t even tried. Perhaps he was waiting for that. Waiting to let me go if only I’d asked. But instead I let him spoil me, fatten me for this wicked love fest. And now, my bottom cheeks bulging, blushing red, he was cooking my heinie right in front of the Mexicans. Basting my shameless ass just as if it belonged to some Turkey! I looked at Tiffany. All of her was pristine white, save her bottom, which glowed bright red. We’d lain outdoors, “sunning” ourselves in the shade. We were decadent. Wearing skimpy bikinis that served no purpose if you weren’t exposing yourself to the sun. We may as well have lain on the chaise lounges in shorts and t-shirts, modestly. But no, we wore little bikinis of delicate cashmere. If you swam even a few laps in them they would fall apart. This despite regulation swim suits that lay in our drawers, upstairs in our bedroom. Master denied us nothing. If we wanted to swim laps, if we wished not to display ourselves to the Mexican ladies, athletic one-piece swim suits waited. But we always selected his “boudoir bikinis,” as he liked to call them, though you could find them lately even on American beaches. He disapproved of them, he said, but since we were in the privacy of his home he would not deny them to us...he would make sure we could dress as well here as we could in America. He ignored the fact that I’d grown up in Buenos Aires. I’d gone to a diplomat’s school for American children. That made me an American. And he dismissed my “service” with the Argentine government out of hand. I had been a toy for them just as I was now a toy for him, no more. It certainly didn’t make me a Mexican lady! No, I was American, and Tiffany too, even though she flew out of Columbia a lot. He wanted us to be American girls, and we were as white and spoiled as any American girls could be. So we were getting the stars and stripes laid across our bottoms. Yes, he wanted bona fide American girls, and we would confess to being true blue Americans, that we would--his cat would make us do that very handily. As refreshed as any slave girls might ever hope to be, we watched as Master took up his cat again. Tiffany, gazing now over her shoulder, but with her bottom cheeks desperately huddling, her crack a fine line, begged him to let us off. “I have already,” he replied, polite and gentlemanly in his demeanor. “Normally we bring in five fine prison gaolers to administer the flagellation. Hard men with a steely grip on the rod who delight in flaying their victims alive. But this year I decided to show mercy, at least for my first celebration. I brought in dommes, experts at sexual torture rather than outright punishment. And I practised long hours on horses’ rumps to perfect my stroke, so I would not needlessly injure you. Ah, you should have seen those poor horses! We had to shoot three of them to put them out of their misery. Fine racing horses, too. But I convinced my father that you girls were worth the expense. You would not have me disappoint him, would you? Wiggle your bottom, perform for me a little.” “But it HURTS!” Tiffany cried. “Of course! We must have some enjoyment out here in the jungle, far from the city’s pleasures. What better than half-a-dozen stuck up white girls getting their heinies whipped? Stick out your bottom, girl. Even the Mexican lasses we usually use show more courage than you do.” I was really afraid now. But Tiffany, hesitating, debating within herself, finally arced her back inward and offered her bulbing bottom. With her toes turned in it presented the most feminine spectacle, already polished as bright as an apple, yet willing to suffer more. She couldn’t keep it still, it hurt so much, yet she pushed it out at Master with a rudeness I feared she might be scolded for! “Please don’t mistreat it,” she said, glancing down at her swollen cleft orb. “Please don’t hurt it too much. I-It’s the only one I’ve got!” “I will do what I must,” Master replied sternly. “It is the feast of the flesh.” With ever-rotating bottoms we watched, breathless and scared, as Master swept in again, a long curving stroke that caught Tiffany on the underside of her ass. With a curdling scream she leapt up to the very tips of her toes, her feminine bottom clenching, releasing, wobbling like jello. The Mexican ladies, even the aristocrats laughed at her. We girls, kneeling, got our due seconds later. Four high-pitched screams shattered the room. Our pussies! We’d been caught right on our seductively offered pouches. Hoping to inspire Master to lay down his whip and fuck us, we’d each gotten instead a bee. It went zooming right up our pussy hive. It tasted our sweet honey, robbed us of some of it. Master caught up the whip when it returned to him and smelled the cords, finding the wet one. The uncoiling had been swift and light. But the shock of the violation, and the undeniable sting, left us sobbing openly. We were no longer brave maidens anymore. We were babies. We had sore bottoms and needed them powdered. We were submissive. We hung our heads and cried. In came the awful tips again. Tiffany, struck, let her sobs burst forth now, shaking her bosoms. Big heavy sobs, unrestrained, humiliating. A big girl now, with big girl crying to do. Casting aside the cat, Master could restrain himself no longer. We had been broken, I saw, made to blubber, and that was going to have to be enough for the Mexican ladies. Let them stage their own entertainments. Let them find their own American girls to give bees up the ass to. I sighed, relieved, and I heard Mistress sigh behind me. As Master cupped Tiffany’s bottom in his insistent fingers she took hold of mine. She attempted to control my squirmings. “There, there, you have survived, darling,” Mistress cooed behind me. “Your beauty has saved you. Now you must simply be fucked and then it will be over.” I froze. FUCKED? My ass was on fire. The last thing I wanted now was the burr of some hairy man’s loins pressed up against my fanny. “No, please!” I sobbed. But I was mistaken. Mistress herself would do me, her silken belly to my silky bulb. With our pussies still smarting from our bee bites we would have to be taken up the ass. Oh, I did not want a woman forcing a fake cock up my poor, swollen bottom! Over unintelligible sniffles I wept my protest. Mistress had heard such before, in previous years, from other girls. She understood without hearing. She’d known I’d complain about this from the very first moment. “Shhh, dear. The festival of flesh is, for you and the Master, one of pleasure only. No children may come of it. Watch and you will see Master fuck Tiffany up the ass.” She spoke softly, reassuringly. And, kneeling behind me, she opened a pot of cream and began lubing a big rubber dick. “Go ahead,” she urged. “I saw you stealing looks before but did not give you harder cuts for it.” With her encouragement I gazed straight at Tiffany, trying to ignore what was happening behind me. My bottom blazed in the air, untouched for the moment. Thankfully it was unscarred, I knew, seeing the state of Tiffany’s. But it was a bright red rising sun big enough to lead the Japanese army to victory. They would spear me with their banzai charge. The grandee reminded his son to let each of the aristocratic women suck his cock prior to its insertion in Tiffany. He seemed slightly miffed that we had not received our full due from the cats. He would have seen us wealed and bruised. I think all of us prayed to God then to get us out of this place at the first possible moment. We had gone too far, risked too much. Play had come too close to torture. We had chosen a Master in an offhand way, letting a drug lord pamper us silly and treat us like goddesses. We’d loved every minute of it but we’d been too oblivious. Even the warning delivered to our bottoms in the square we’d let slide by us. He’d spoiled us so deliciously afterward, we’d almost wanted to be beaten again. Yes, we’d wanted it. For itself and for what came afterward. We would be beautiful dolls forever and ever, never growing old, always the favorite pets of our Master. Always young and healthy, always toying with pregnancy and never quite going all the way with it. But now we knew only the chance slip of the grandee’s son coming to power had saved us. He was still young and romantic, merciful. He could not bear to spoil us. But the old man would have. He was old. He would be like the king who had all his wives and mistresses buried with him when he died. Yes God, let us get through with this. Let us do our duty and be gone. We would flit away in the night. I knew we could do it, somehow. A good cock-sucking, applied to a guard, would get us a van. By morning when they found him all tied up we’d be back on...well...maybe not Dungeon Air again. No, I think we were all through with letting arbitrarily chosen men be our masters. We were just a little older now. Vainly Tiffany thrust back her bottom, lifted the tight red ball, offering the pouch of her dell. Despite her bee sting she did not want to take him up the ass. She was too new, she said, and he was too big. Master grinned at her, the Mexican ladies still licking his cock into hugeness. Big globs of pre-cum anointed their noses. “Next year I will give you girls much harder bee stings in your pussies,” Master said. “You should not want anything going up your pussy at all. You should beg to be taken in the ass, no matter how big I am.” “I told you, son!” the senior grandee called from the sidelines. “I will not let them get away with it next year,” the junior assured his father. “You value them too much,” the elder grandee replied. Despite the offering of her fig, wet and seductive, the grandee could not take her there. If she were to get pregnant it would make her too practical, just another workhorse for the grandee. This the Mistress explained quietly to me, buckling herself in and showing me with relish the big cock I must somehow take up my ass. She knelt by my face, told me to kiss the tip. Softly I extended my tongue, touched it lightly. It was black and cold and covered with grease. “You are special,” Mistress said. “You are like a sacrificial lamb, you know. An exotic pet. Be proud that you’ve found a gentle master and do not fear for next year’s plans. You’ll be a year older then, and well trained. You will take it easily.” I gazed up at her, down at the cock intended for my ass. For a moment I forgot Tiffany. My own plight seemed worse. “You know you cannot get that big thing of yours up my ass,” I told Mistress frankly. We were communicating girl to girl. Surely she knew my limitations. I was 15, for God’s sake. “Don’t worry, I’m well trained in popping open young girls,” she replied just as frankly. “Would you like some more brandy?” There was a bottle nearby and she took it, poured some of its contents in a glass. All this she did on her knees, never having to do anything more than twist about to find what she wanted. There were discarded glasses and half empty bottles everywhere. The orgy of the aristocrats had been well provided for. Most of them now lay contentedly around us, watching our fate proceed as they dallied with one another’s genitals. Even poor Amber had finally had her breasts released, though a second woman now sucked just the nipples very lightly. They were miraculously as young and well-formed as ever, despite the rough handling, though I thought I detected some light bruising. Amber hung her head passively, waiting, as her own Mistress prepared to invade her. Amber was drunk with brandy. I wanted to be too. Mistress gave me the glass and I drank every drop, losing only a little. “There, that will help,” she said. She placed the glass on the floor and waddled back behind me, going on her knees with her fake cock leading the way. Gently she prised apart my bottom cheeks, making me howl at her touch. “I’m sorry,” she smiled. “I’ll try to handle your sensitive skin as little as possible.” She wedged the nose of the big dick right up against my anus. We were waiting now, waiting for Master. He still dallied with the ladies. Teasingly Mistress jabbed me with the cock, stroking the insides of my thighs but keeping her hands off my bottom. I felt like I had a bolt stuck up against me back there, attached to some kind of crossbow. Master would pull the trigger. “Oh, how I would have loved to sting your little hole,” Mistress said to me gaily. She bumped my nether opening with her cockhead, eager to get inside me. “Master was too good to you girls. But I don’t blame him. You are so lovely, so pretty.” She grasped my hips with both her hands, sizing me up, ready to break into me at the first hint of permission from Master. The women finished laving Master’s cock. Glistening with the saliva from all their mouths, he presented it to Tiffany’s rear. She glanced back at it. Her eyes were wide with apprehension. Yet she could not take her gaze off it. She was mesmerized. Master approached to the point where Tiffany, strain her head as she might, could no longer observe his manhood. It was too close now. She would have to switch senses. Touch, right where she didn’t want to feel anything... IN her precious hole! It happened suddenly, brutally. Like some stuck pig she squealed, and he showed her just as little mercy as the farmer at christmas, providing for his family. And then me! My cheeks split wide as Mistress forced her way into me. Right up me she went, sparing me not. I whooshed out my breath and bulged my eyes. I felt like I had no air in me. Deeper she urged her thing, just like Master was doing to Tiffany. She copied him in every respect. And Master was avaricious. Tiffany must have thought her bottom was going to burst, because she shrieked at the top of her lungs and writhed like a snake. But then, amazingly, I saw her transformed. Perhaps to lessen the discomfort, the pain, she decided to absorb it. She began humping her bottom to the grandee madly. He almost came to a dead stop in his own urgings, he was so surprised. With quick, desperate thrusts Tiffany impaled herself on him, bumping her bottom back against him, forcing his spike-like cock deeper and deeper into herself. Yes, she was tired of being so tight. She wanted to be able to take men easily in her rectum. The time for girlish games of chastity and abstinence had passed. She was a woman, 23-years-old, and she must learn to take men as they wished to take her. All of us felt a rush of inspiration, watching her. To Mistress’ surprise I began forcing myself back on her, bouncing my ass remorselessly against her thing. My hole screamed for pity but I gave it none. Amber, too, began humping violently, and together with Tiffany we split our cheeks wide upon the offered cocks. Finally Master regained the initiative. Working with Tiffany, helping her take him absolutely to the very last inch of his organ, he fucked her. And when he came he gushed and flexed his hips and squeezed his buns mightily, as if to propagate all his sons in her this one night. Yes, her ass would bear his children! Cain and Abel and all of his sons. There would be no need of a womb. The heat of her ass would suffice, and the spewing ravenousness of his cock. Mistress took me with a vengeance now, making me have every inch of her. I burst into tears, wanting to accept her fully and yet nearly exploding apart in my backside from all the indriving pressure there. At last, gleefully, squeezing the pouch under her dildo, she spurted hot cream into me. I did my best not to resist. We would make a Pillsbury doughboy from it. Our own little baby, hers and mine. Rutting like cows with steers we finished the course. Five girls, all from America, raped in the Mexican jungle. Chained, possessed, claimed by strangers we barely knew. Yet we had been complicitous. We were like butterflies who flitted about a candle flame, knowing well we might be burned. And our asses did burn, woefully so, as we limpened in our captors’ grasp and finally fell into complete exhaustion. Master held himself into Tiffany. He did not want to let go of her, ever. She shuddered limply against him. Her white body against his sturdy brown one. Mistress held me firmly, her thing still up me, rigid as ever. As last, utterly depleted, Master withdrew himself. There was so much cum up Tiffany’s hole that it ran out. An aristocrat lady, desperate that none of Master’s seed should be wasted, dashed up to Tiffany. Eagerly she lapped the overflowing cum from Tiffany’s legs and bottom. 30 ----------------------- Dreamgirls! ----------------------- -Free e-mail subscriptions: No longer available due to mailbombing of my Internet account(s) by right-wing Christians. -Currently I am: roller39@mail.idt.net -formerly I was andrewroller@sprintmail.com, roller66@inreach.com, roller666@aol.com Read my complete works under these names by going to: http://www.excite.com (Click on ‘newsgroups’ and search under my various former screen names). (Also you can read irrelevant bullshit posted by right-wing Christians.) -Recent back issues at Usenet newsgroup: alt.sex.stories.moderated -For all back issues, send e-mail to: file.request@backdrop.com - Free plug: http://www.netusa.net/files/Authors/eli/www/erotica/assm/ -Free minicomics: send a stamped, self-addressed envelope & age statement to: Jim Corrigan, P.O. Box 3663, Phenix City, AL 36868 - JOIN the world’s greatest organization! Send $35.00 to The North American Man/Boy Love Association for a one-year membership. NAMBLA, P.O. Box 174, Midtown Station, New York, NY 10018. -Naughty Naked Dreamgirls (Library of Congress ISSN: 1070-1427) is copyright 1997 and a trademark of Andrew Roller. 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