Message-ID: <1241eli$9706041443@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 12 of 15 (NND) --------------------------------------------------------------- PROBLEMS? Please try viewing this with Netscape Navigator. --------------------------------------------------------------- _/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/ Andrew Roller Presents NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS in LOVE CHILD _/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/ Chapter Twelve I thought then that Tiffany would do something awful with me. But instead for the next hour or so we played about the hot tub or soaked in it. Two men petted my breasts at once, milked them rather rudely I would say, squeezing and sucking on them ‘til they hurt. I actually worried that my titties might sag when they were finally done with them. Standing later, stark naked, before the flight kitchen’s mirror, I leapt lightly up and down, checking the resiliency of my boobies. Tiffany swept into the kitchen, told me I looked as lovely as ever, and told me to get dressed too, for she and all the other girls had long since gotten dressed. They’d bundled themselves back into their flight jackets as soon as they’d left the dungeon, but I hadn’t been able to find my black leather dress. Out of spite, sexual tension, and perhaps a little mischievousness I’d wandered out of the dungeon naked, sucking one of my fingers. Not quite a thumb-sucking baby, but looking pretty nearly so. By now the men were all totally spent, even the two that had so lustily sucked at my titties, finally making me waste them with my fast-rubbing hands. So I just flirted around the plane’s cabin as it made its approach, relishing my still lingering sexuality in the presence of so many manly, yet suddenly unvirile men. They groaned as I gave their loins one last pat, begging me to favor their neighbor instead. But their eyes glinted warmly at me, admiring my beauty and my coltish lustiness, wishing they could get themselves up and give me one illegal poke before the plane actually touched down. None of them could, though, alas for them. They’d gotten their money’s worth on Elizabeth Airlines. She’d taken their coins and every drop of sperm they could spare. “Darling, you simply must get dressed!” Tiffany said, giving my bare bottom a little pat. “And quit admiring your titties! You’ll make me feel jealous.” “How could you ever feel jealous of mine?” I asked, turning slightly, still regarding myself in the mirror. Beyond the entrance to the flight kitchen you could hear the passengers disembarking. Each received a warm goodbye, got a last longing glimpse into a decollete jacket, before he was pushed out by the file of men coming up behind him. “We’ll have to compare sometime,” Tiffany said. “Here, put these on,” she added, drawing a little black panty from her purse. It turned out to be made of lycra. A swimsuit bottom. “What about my other clothes?” I asked. “We seem to have lost them,” Tiffany replied, her eyes a bit too large, too innocent. “Anyway, you’re on duty until I relieve you. Now hurry up and get dressed because the airport inspectors will be aboard any moment, to see that everything is in order. You know we get inspected more than other airlines, and not just out of prudishness, either.” Sure enough, almost as she finished speaking two men boarded, dilettante bureaucrats. We were in Mexico. You’d think the men were uniform inspectors, I thought, glancing from the flight kitchen as I pulled on my black swim panties. Soon one of them had me standing at attention in the flight kitchen, while the other pulled open the back of my bikini panties, a human version of the Coppertone puppy. He gazed in at my bottom and I thanked my lucky stars that it wasn’t crisscrossed with whip marks. SNAP! He let go of the wide-pulled panties and I leapt as they cracked in against my fanny. “Alright, alright,” the man said, going on to the next girl, who’d just come in from the flight kitchen’s far entrance. It was Beverly. She asked them if they needed, perchance, to use the toilet. When they said they certainly did she took them to it and they both went in, and she went in with them. A little later the two inspectors came out grinning. They nodded to all the girls as Beverly trailed out of the bathroom behind them. The men stepped out of the plane and having looked at nothing but us, they were gone. I knew little then of what other favors we girls would be forced to give, including myself. We stayed together at a hotel that night, one of the best near the airport, something with a Spanish name that I couldn’t pronounce. Of course I’d made something of a sight of myself, walking through the airport in bikini panties, my dress unzipped in back. We’d hurried along, all the express passes arranged for us by the two inspectors who’d gone on ahead. I suppose it was customary to expose the new Air Baby to a little embarrassment as we stews disembarked. A final little humiliation for me to brave before I’d be allowed to become one of them. Gathering in my bedroom at the hotel the stews shot the top off a champagne bottle and sprayed me down with it. Then each one of them kissed me on the cheek and wished me well. After their congratulations I and my roommate, Sylvia, were left to ourselves. I was so exhausted that I collapsed in my bed the moment the girls left. Sylvia tucked me in. She said she wanted to go downstairs to the bar and party a little. But later, when I awoke, I found her lying sleepily in her bed. I asked about her partying and she said that they’d all settled down and decided not to go, after all, because of what must happen in the morning. She said no more, pretended to have fallen asleep when I tried to follow up my question with another. So I slipped off to the bathroom, alone in an unpronounceable hotel, with girls who’d paraded me through the airport that day in only an unzippable dress and my panties on. It turned out Tiffany had made a pact with the devil. Some of the girls, including herself, had been dabbling in drugs. And, as luck would have it, they’d run up a substantial bill. Short of cash but long on beauty, Tiffany and the girls decided to let a drug lord have their bodies in payment. They’d agreed to be the man’s love slaves. He’d insisted on 9 1/2 weeks of slavery. Tiff had gotten him down to five. And so, next morning, when I thought we were boarding a van to go to the airport, we were driven instead to a remote villa. Not all the girls went. Not all of them owed money, and some had never used drugs. But Tiffany had, and Amber, and Sylvia, and two others. Beverly took charge of the girls who were going back to the airport. I was supposed to go with her, of course, but Tiffany slipped me into her van. It turned out one of the girls who owed hadn’t shown up for our flight to Mexico, and so Tiffany had been one girl short. And you can guess who she finally decided to make up the count with. As I saw the city draw away behind us I asked one of the girls, a girl named Cheryl, why we seemed to be going away from the airport instead of toward it. “Oh, don’t you know, darling?” she asked. And with growing horror I listened as she told me the entire story. She said she’d just assumed I must owe something too, else why would I have gotten on this van? Before she could finish telling me all the details a man sitting next to the driver in the front of the van stood up. “Alright girls,” he said. “We’re far enough out of town now...I want you to take off all your clothes. Everything. Hand them up to me when you’ve got them off. And you may as well hand me your purses, too, because you won’t be needing THEM for the next month, I can assure you!” He laughed, a raucous, awful laugh, and waved an Uzi as he spoke, as if to assure us that we wouldn’t be needing our willpower for the next five weeks either. I could tell at once that he was just some flunkie, a guard, and surely wouldn’t lay a hand on us if we obeyed, but there was an evil glint in his eye, as if he was just waiting for one of us to give him an excuse to rape us. “Tiffany!” I whispered harshly over my shoulder. She was already undressing, like the other girls, stripping off her newly laundered flight jacket, her blouse (which she’d worn this morning), her modest trousers. “I’m sorry dear,” she replied. “I had no choice.” She looked up at me with eyes stricken with remorse, yet I knew if she had to choose right now, again, she’d choose to throw my lot in with hers once more. “Take off your jacket before he takes if off for you! Don’t worry, I’ll do my best to protect you!” With trembling, inexpert fingers I undid my jacket and blouse. I was so proud of my new flight jacket! I hated to see it crumpled, taken from me, passed to the front. Within minutes I was sitting bare-assed on the hot vinyl seat of the bus. Along with the other girls my titties wiggled freely, the nipples pink and quite visible through the windows of the van. We were in lush countryside now, passing palm-roofed huts, farmers hoeing fields under a rising bright-balled sun. It was climbing swiftly toward high noon and I wondered where I’d be when that hour struck. Our white shoulders flashed by the occasional motorist, the farm lorry, the milk truck, heads turning as they saw a sight unaccustomed in this country; blonde heads, with bright blue eyes, glancing out fearfully as the dark eyed Mexicans stared inward. “Girls for the grandee,” I thought I saw some of them whisper to each other. To my stunning amazement the guard passed irons out then, lightweight stainless steel ones, and we girls were to help each other into them. My five companions obeyed, helping me into mine just as they buckled each other into bondage. When I the shackles snapped shut we all knew none of us in the van, not even the guard, had the key to unlock them again. Only the grandee had that. We were driven into a deep, lush jungle. Soon the asphalt underneath our van’s tires had passed into a deeply rutted dirt road, more suitable for donkeys than anything else. The guard up front laughed, watching us, as we were treated to a tit jouncing ride. I tried to keep my arms covered over my breasts but several times they just popped out, the van jolted about so much. I glanced back once at Tiffany and she sat listlessly, letting her boobs fly where they may, resigned to what lay before her. Like me she wore a neck iron, with a less than flattering bracelet of iron around each wrist. Below she had one around each leg, just above the knew, and I knew her ankles were in shackles too. I call them iron but they were stainless steel, actually, but they looked so much like irons one couldn’t help but think “in irons,” when seeing us. Chains trailed off each of Tiffany’s wristlets over to the wrist bracelets of the girl next to her. But our ankles were not chained, and I could guess why. It was so our legs could be moved or spread as wide apart as our captors wished. They wanted no hindrance to their ability to ravish us. Who, I wondered, were we going to see? Was it one man, a grandee, or a cabal of criminals, each to have each one of us in his own way. Five and half weeks. I guess I had plenty of time to find out! We passed into a villa. It was strong-walled, like some fortress. Cheryl whispered that it was an ancient Mayan temple, converted to modern, though no less primal, purposes. From the spookiness of the deep jungle we seemed to slip into a kind of sun-drenched palisade. Suddenly we were on a closely clipped lawn, with flowers in the distance, bordering a giant house. It was adobe, or concrete painted to look like it, with a red-tiled Mexican roof. All around us you could see the jungle canopy, but inside this little oasis the sun flooded in, and I was glad to see it. The van bumped to a halt, a final tit throwing jolt of the brakes by the driver, and he looked in his rear-view mirror as he did it. Several dark-skinned men, uniformed like our van guard, closed quickly around our vehicle. They all carried guns. One of them slid open the van’s passenger door. “Step lively!” our guard yelled as us as we filed out from the side of the van. We were lined up outside it, told to fix our hands at our sides. Presenting our titties, all our nipples anxiously erect, we shivered in the sunlight as a senior guard stalked in front of us. White bodies trembling before cruel, darkskinned men. He seemed eager to find fault with us, glaring at our flawless bodies, something that would let him lay a hand on us. Finally he addressed us. “Ladies, you will march up to the villa, lifting your knees high.” He brandished a whip as he spoke. “March quickly, but keep your steps short. Trim and neat. The main thing is to get your knees up properly with each step, as this is how the grandee wishes to see you. He may be watching from his window, and it will be my job to correct any of you who do not march as I’ve told you. Every army has its special march, and you must learn yours. The grandee will not have any slouching or sloppiness amongst his female slaves. You need not worry about cutting sharp corners, or twirling about to march to the rear, but you will march crisply, lifting your knees high, demonstrating your obedience and your willingness to obey. You may be dressed like a chain gang, but you will not shuffle along, unwilling, sulky, as prisoners do. You will march proudly, fillies of the grandee, going eagerly to him to be broken in or used as he sees fit, always proud, chins lifted, arms at your sides, breasts naked and ready to suckle his many children. Or to do anything else he requires of you.” The guard seemed to want to say more, all in a thick Spanish accent. I think he would have rambled on all day, gazing at us, but he could get away with no more. We were to be delivered now, out of his hands and into those of the grandee. “March!” the guard hollered suddenly. Off we went, all squeamish and huddling. Two of the girls were slow to get going, got swift-learning cracks on their seats that got them marching properly. As for myself, I got the hang of it right away, as did Tiffany. She was right in front of me, Cheryl behind, Amber next and little Sylvia trailing, her legs smaller, so that she had difficulty keeping up. Our titties jumped with our nervous steps. Up and down and up again, each step firmly executed, but hurryingly, for the guards frightened us terribly. We marched single-file up the steps that fronted the mansion, then into the cool shade inside. Down a broad hallway we went, passing a brown-skinned maid, two more, they looking on at our white-skinned, delicate bodies, tut-tutting in disapproval. “Drugs, you know,” I thought I heard one whisper to another. Fat women they were, all suited up in long frilly aprons and caps, women who’d borne many children, gazing at girls who’d borne none. With our flat bellies and big round titties we passed them, our bottoms still small, with that compact heart shape that men cherish and that does not last past the first child or, with luck, persists perhaps until the second comes. Virgins we were to the true labors of love, the labors of the delivery room, which these women had no doubt been forced to repair to as young as 15, or 12 perhaps, losing quickly the beauty of their youth as they faithfully brought forth young for their husbands. Skinny legged and slim-limbed we passed, our ribs still sticking out, barely fleshed, our hip bones still alluringly revealed, thin white girls with only flesh on their bosoms and bottoms, charmingly placed. “The grandee will fix them,” a woman whispered. “They’ll leave big-bellied.” And then we’d passed beyond, further down the hall, and I couldn’t remember whether I’d just interpreted Spanish words they’d spoken, knowing the language not, or actually heard them whisper in English what I thought they’d said. With panicky, high-stepped steps we went finally into a large chamber. There a man sat, on a chair, at the head of a table. But the table ran along the far wall and his chair was turned toward the near wall, toward us, we having just passed beneath an archway to come through it. “Greetings, girls,” a guard standing beside the seated man thundered. “Please kneel and bow to your new master, the grandee Solanos!” There were soft little mats on the floor, pastel colored, some light yellow and others of other shades. Smooth, finely spun cotton for our knees and faces. We bent down, our chains clattering noisily. Onto my knees I went with the other girls. Then, squeamishly, we pressed our faces to the mats and lifted our bottoms high. “Very good, girls. But you must do it the other way,” the guard laughed. Mortified we looked up at him. Our long lovely hair spilled round our heads, onto or over our shoulders. We looked alternately pensive, penitent, shocked, humiliated. With a crack of the guard’s whip upon his thigh (alas! he had one just like the other!) we jumped up. Round we filed, turning our backs to the grandee. Then we knelt again, and offered him our bottoms. “Higher, girls! Spread your knees! Let your cunts be seen, for that is what you are here for!” the guard yelled lustily, happily, his thigh foreign voice coming from deep within his chest. I jutted my peach out like the other girls, showing my pouch as best I could. Then the guard came to us and passed behind each of us, tapping us each on the cunt lightly with his whip handle. I shivered as he touched me, visibly, and he whistled softly in admiration. When our bottoms had been duly admired, approved of, we were ordered up again. I thought perhaps we could face away then, hiding our breasts at least, but no, we were commanded to turn around again, and all stiff-nippled and trembling we faced our master once more. He had gray hair, swept back off his high forehead. His chin was long, jutting. He wore a fine suit, as if he’d dressed up specially just for us. His eyes were piercing but not hard. I felt myself falling under his sway as he looked specially at me, examining each of us in turn with his eyes. “You have done well, Tiffany,” he said at last. “I see you are one short but you have more than made her up with the substitute you’ve brought.” He told us to sit down then, to fold our legs underneath us and sit on our heels. Smoothing the little towel reflexively with my hands I knelt down upon it, like the other girls. We stared at him, our eyes unknowing, frightened still. “I enjoy your apprehension but I want you to take something to help you settle down,” the grandee said. “No use wasting your energy on being nervous. You’ll need all you can muster later. This will make you a little high, and it may act as a slight anesthesia also, to help you through your first day. I won’t force you to take it but I highly recommend it.” The guard walked over to us as he spoke. Before each of us, onto the mat, the guard threw a syringe and a band of rubber tubing. With hesitant eyes the girls glanced at each other. Then Tiffany, by way perhaps of example, picked up the syringe and tied off her arm with the rubber cord. She held the syringe elegantly as she knotted the cord, as one might a cigarette. Then she depressed the syringe slightly, playfully aiming it in my direction. With a renewed earnestness she put it to her arm. She flinched slightly as the needle went in, her mouth opening in a little surprised O. Then, her sleek fingertips driving the drug home, she injected the entire load. She blew softly through pursed lips as she withdrew the needle. “Would you like help, dear,” she asked, turning to me. With my tits trembling nakedly, feeling very exposed, I fumbled with the syringe, not sure whether I wanted it or not. If it would help me forget this awful place, not know what horrid things they did to me, but then... “Come dear, you must,” Tiffany said. She tied my band onto me, knotting it firmly. She told me to make a fist and flex my arm. Then, taking my syringe, she aimed it carefully at one of my little blue veins in the crook of my arm. “There!” she said, giving me a little jab. “It will make you hot and horny and you’ll want whatever they do to you, instead of feeling sad and sorry for yourself.” I felt a warm glow begin to well up from my belly as the guard passed back in front of us, picking up our syringes. Playfully two girls shot their used rubber cords at him, but he didn’t mind. I felt an itching in my cunt, subtle at first, then more, becoming like a kind of small fire wavering over my clitty. “Oooh! I can feel it already,” Cheryl said, putting her hand to her cunt and rubbing it. “Do not touch yourself,” the grandee snapped in a loud voice. Bashfully she withdrew her hand. She’d done it without even thinking, suddenly, impulsively. Like some naked little girl, untutored, unmannered, kneeling with the other girls in a kind of nude playtime before the sultan. No doubt we would have all been rubbing ourselves, just like her, if he hadn’t reminded us of our manners. I could feel the drug working within me already, shaping my observations. I delighted in my nudity. I wanted to be with these girls, and in front of Him, looking at him as he looked at me. Then the drug subsided a little and I regained some of my mental composure. We were in trouble now, nude and drugged and far away from any help. What would he do to us? I clenched my fists, unclenched them. I was afraid once more, but fires danced on my titties, on my clit. I wanted to run but I had the awful knowledge that I was too aroused to. The guard came over to Tiffany, tossed her a silver key. “The grandee thinks its safe for you to unlock yourself and the others now, Tiffany,” he said. “Yes, unlock yourselves!” the grandee called to us. “I want to see you girls without anything on at all.” Tiffany undid our chains then, kneeing her way from girl to girl and unlocking us each in turn. When the cuffs fell away I stretched happily. Beside me Cheryl sprawled out on her mat like a cat. “Sit up, girls! Sit up!” the grandee called, and we hastily arranged ourselves as before. “Now, I am not entirely unfamiliar with the female body. Aren’t you girls forgetting something?” We stared at him. “Don’t any of you have to go to the bathroom?” The thought rippled through us. Of course! Why, yes! We’d been so distracted by everything, and now by the drug, that we’d completely forgotten about our bladders. Like some patient awaking from a dream, or sleep, I realized I had to go quite badly. But where was the bathroom? And would we be allowed to use it? My face took on a baleful look. Not a few of the other girls looked equally distressed. The grandee surveyed us serenely. Now he had us right where he wanted us. “I want you to pledge to me that you’ll be totally obedient to my wishes,” he said. We nodded hastily. He motioned to his guard. The man told us to raise our right hands. Our titties hanging delicately from our ribs, upthrust and plump, our bottoms wobbling with our anxiousness and our full bladders, we repeated the pledge of eternal love to the grandee: “I promise to always obey Grandee Solanos, “To offer him my breasts, “To offer him my hole, “To love his cock, “And to thank him when he corrects me.” The fact that our minds did not exist to the grandee bothered me a little. I wondered if it bothered the other girls too. I mean, I was an accomplished student. Tiffany had just graduated from college. We were professional women. Well, not in that sense, hopefully. But certainly we American women must be respected for our intelligence too, mustn’t we? Unfortunately my urge to pee kept me from raising these objections. When we finished we sort of glanced at each other. We were all feeling quite naked and vulnerable, more so than even before. It was like we’d just been led unwittingly past some barrier, and none of us knew what lay beyond. We were in the grandee’s hands now. A mexican woman came out, her face and hands broad and swarthy. She wore starched clothes of white muslin. Before each of us she dropped a broad, shallow golden bowl. It reminded me of an offering plate at church. When we’d each been given a plate the woman, standing off to one side of us, crossed her arms and looked at us. “Pee!” she said. At first we all just looked at her. “Pee!” she said again. We realized with horror what she wanted us to do. “Pee!” she said it again. Obviously this woman would have benefitted from a vocabulary enlargement course. With fumbling hands we took the plates. We spread our knees wide and wedged the plates between them. I myself didn’t want to open myself up any wider than I had to for this woman. It felt like I was completely bared to her, though, even more than I was. Like I was about to offer my very soul to her. And, indeed, it must be the last shred of dignity that is torn away when a girl is forced to urinate like this, in public, in front of strangers. Particularly people from strange lands who seemed to exude a kind of self-righteous holiness. As if we white girls deserved what we were suffering. I put my fingers to my cunt, even as the other girls did the same. And then a period of waiting ensued. Awful waiting. Having to go and not being able to. Right at the outset the grandee warned us that any of us who failed to pee right away would be considered baulky and punished for it. This was hardly helpful. Gulping nervously, shivering, we waited. The woman circled round behind us. “AAAH!” Tiffany cried suddenly, and fell to all fours, her hands slapping loudly onto the floor. The woman had drawn forth a whip from somewhere within her mighty garments and given Tiffany a stinger right across her naked bottom with it. Fearfully I gulped, looking over my shoulder at the woman, as she approached me. My bulbing cheeks stuck out at her, all pinkly white and shivery. Suddenly I peed. Thankfully I looked down at myself, unbelieving. I thrust my cunt forward helpfully, watching the golden, luxurious stream as it arced into the bowl between my knees. Behind me the woman, just missing her opportunity, glared and went on to the next girl. But now Cheryl peed to! And Amber and lastly little Sylvia, all four of us peeing at once and loving and relishing it. Hastily Tiffany got back on her knees and began peeing with us. The grandee laughed. The guard laughed. Only the woman, stern faced, did not laugh. When we were finished guards came in and took away our bowls. They sloshed with our essence. The grandee warned the guards not to spill any of it. Another woman came in as the guards left, heavy and unattractive like her sister, and dressed similarly. She had a pile of soft white towels on a tray. They steamed. She handed one to each of us and we took it gratefully. The grandee’s principal guard, standing beside his master, told us to wipe ourselves. I cleaned the smattering of pee splashings from the insides of my thighs. Then I rubbed my cunt with the hot towel. The other girls too held their hot towels to their pussies, massaging themselves, and it quickly became apparent that although we were quite clean down there we were going to make extra, extra, extra sure. “Enough!” the grandee said. He motioned to his foremost guard to take away our towels from us. We’d been told not to play with ourselves but had tried to trick him anyway. With anxious hands I gave up my towel, worrying that I’d earned some special punishment. “Now,” the grandee announced. “I must not keep you girls to myself. My people would be jealous. I must present you at the village, so all my people can enjoy you just as I do.” With that, guards came in and reshackled us. As we remained erectly on our knees they pulled our wrists behind us and fixed them together. I looked down at my breasts, so large and defenseless, the cherry nipples hopelessly erect. We were forced to stand. The grandee told us he’d see us again soon and we were filed out, taken out into the drafty, summer hall, the smell of palm fronds on the breeze. Down the hall we went, and then off into a side room. There we were made to sit on stools. Our feet dangling, we were shod in sharp-heeled pumps. Then spectacular diamonds were brought forth and clipped to our ears. We gasped, amazed. “Don’t worry, you won’t be able to keep them,” a spanish woman said to us in broken english. “They are for temporary decoration only.” Beauticians came and did up our faces and our hair as we sat, breasts outthrust, our hands still helplessly bound behind us. Then each of the beauticians went behind us and did our nails, drawing out our fingers one by one but never unlocking our iron cuffs. Our bottoms shivered nakedly just inches from their eyes. I farted once, apologized. The beautician said something back to me in Spanish. Out across the lawn we trooped at last, more beautiful I think than ever before, but utterly naked also. We were loaded into the van by the guards. Off we went then, without seatbelts on but with our hands bound unhelpfully behind us. Our bosoms bounced as the van left the fine-clipped grounds of the grandee and lurched down a pitted country road. The van pulled to a stop in the square of a little village. Small houses with adobe walls and dusty red-tiled roofs slept in the afternoon sun. The inside of the van was uncomfortably cool, the air blowing on our white skin from chilled air conditioning vents. But outside you could see that the air was heavy, thick with centuries of unremitting heat. Dogs lounged by a dead fountain in front of a grocery with a sign that needed paint. Two horses, looking sad, their tails flipping futilely at several buzzing flies (more interested no doubt in the fresh turds at the horses feet than in the horses themselves), were tied to a hitching post. From the buildings lining the town square people began to emerge. The men, short and fat and bald, or with shaggy black locks coming down to their eyes, stepped out with their hats still in their hands, fanning themselves a little more before being forced to cover themselves from the sun’s glare. Women emerged too, and little children, scuttling amidst the adults. And then the grandee pulled in, riding in a Rolls Royce, coming apparently from the same road we’d travelled, though far enough behind us so as not to catch any of the dust our van had churned up in its passing. And then I saw them. We all saw them at once, I think, for a hushed gasp passed over all of us in the van. Five pairs of iron shackles, fixed to a brick wall, across from the church. The shadow of the church steeple fell across the town square, pointing at the wall. And at one end of the wall there was a bucket. Dried salt clung in rivulets to its sides. And standing in the bucket was a clutch of rods, birch rods I think, bound together with a black rope. “No!” one of the girls sobbed. I felt myself fighting to hold back tears. Did the grandee really intend such a horrid fate for us? It looked awful and unmerciful and utterly demeaning. I could see slaves whipped there, or heretics, but not college girls, not a high school freshman like myself! Did he expect to put little Sylvia against such an implacable wall, with her skinny coltish legs and her unformed, unfinished body, to squash her newly grown tits up against those awful bricks? And Tiffany? Did he wish to place her chic, smooth-bodied form, with her sleek long legs and her inviting bottom, so deeply cleft and properly if sparingly fatted, up against that wall? Must sensitive, shy Amber be thrown up against that wall? Or lovely Cheryl? And then I saw a spanish woman walk up to the wall with an armful of thick shawls. They were fringed, with subtle earth hues spun into them in Spanish and Incan designs. She hung one shawl right beneath each pair of shackles, right under the cuffs of the shackles, actually, but beneath the place where their dangling chains sprouted from the wall. There were little hooks provided in the wall for the hanging of the shawls, one for either of the shawl’s topmost corners. The van driver told us the shawls were provided as a favor by the grandee himself, that criminals and heretics whipped against the wall had no such comfort provided them. The door to the van was yanked open with a harsh, grating sound. The sheriff of the town stepped aboard. He was a dandified gentleman, with a swarthy look and a slim curled mustache. He introduced himself to us politely, tipping his broad hat to us. He wore a military uniform, stiff and unyielding, hesitating it seemed even to crinkle when he bent toward us in greeting. “Ladies, I’m afraid drug usage is a criminal offense, and I shall have to punish you for it,” he explained with utmost gentility. “If you will please proceed across the square to the wall we can amend your sins with the least difficulty for you and the exemplary justice it deserves.” Little Sylvia broke into tears. I felt myself shimmering with fright, my skin all prickled up in the cool air, scared out of my wits. I hunched my shoulders but my titties stuck out resolutely, my nipples like thorns. “We--can’t,” Tiffany gasped. “I’m afraid you must, young lady,” the Sheriff replied simply. “With exaggerated deference he took her by her lovely silky hair and pulled her to her feet. Tiffany’s mouth opened wide, speechless. Chained to her, watching her drawn by her hair, we could not help but rise as she was led from the van. The women from America, so delicate, with lovely hair and smooth fine bodies, from genteel upper class neighborhoods up north or leafy small towns, stepped across the square. A long carpet had been hastily unrolled for us, by order of the grandee, so that our feet would not be soiled by the dust. Trippingly, wearing only spiked stiletto heels and diamond earrings jangling from our ears, we were taken across the square to the wall. One by one we were put to the wall and our hands quickly unbound and re-bound above our heads. With silk-sheened bottoms we stood in the hot sun now, still feeling the lingering effects of the van’s air conditioning upon our skin. Our hair glistened in the sunlight. Our earrings sparkled. A spanish woman began putting up my hair. The grandee stopped her, saying only our bottoms were to “have it,” as he put it. Slim legged we stood there, our hair cascading down our backs, with all eyes now fixed on our shivering asses. A man was selected from the crowd. He swaggered forth, young and strong. He took the rods from the bucket. The grandee told him to pull one forth from the bunch, to save the rest in case they were needed later. He took the stoutest, longest one. He played with it in the air a moment, sweeping it out before himself. Our gently curving backs, half-hidden by our manes of hair (though some had less protection than the others), presented themselves sweetly, our ribs showing with our every indrawn breath, our waists narrow, our bottoms sticking out below. The man took up position before Sylvia. She looked back at him fearfully. She began to sob openly now, big suffering sobs that belched from her small lungs. “No! Give me hers!” Tiffany begged. She turned her head wildly to the grandee. “You are generous, my dear,” the grandee said. But you are all equally sinful. Except your newest friend, that is. She I will punish just for the erotic pleasure of it. I am a generous man, but a wicked one too, and my people have so little to entertain them. “Begin!” he shouted to the young man at our rear. WHACK! The first slicing thud of the birch sounded against Sylvie’s bottom. She screamed aloud, her shriek rustling the pigeons from atop the church steeple. Then, as she bent her head forth and cried into her shawl, the whipmaster sauntered casually over to the next girl. Sylvie would be left to feel her punishment until it was her turn again. Tremblingly Amber begged to be let off. The master just looked at her, ignorant and uncaring. He had not gone to her protected suburb up in America to punish her. She had come to him. Why would she now ask him for mercy? He had lived in the same small town all his life. For a white Anglo girl to get all the way down here, well she must have done SOMETHING. And what would her people have done to him if he’d gone up north to where she lived? Why, the American sheriff would not be as polite to him as his sheriff had been to her. The man drew back his hand, and Amber’s shy eyes blinked wide as the birch swooped in and struck her hard on the tushy. “YEEEOWL!” Amber yelped. Her naked legs danced about, first her left foot lifting, then her right, rapidly, desperately. The townspeople laughed heartily. Sylvie in her sadness, and perhaps receiving a lesser blow than her sister (though you couldn’t have told it by her cry), had stiffened her legs. Even now they still were frozen in some kind of rictus, as if still refusing to believe that her tender bottom had been struck by the birch. But Amber, shy and ever-so-concerned with justice and fair play, put on a venerable show, letting the whole world know she’d been wrongly struck, in her opinion. Cheryl was next. With flinching, hesitant eyes she watched as the master drew himself up before her. “Please sir, not on my hams,” Cheryl peeped. “Do my thighs, or my back, but not my bottom.” The master simply drew back his hand and let loose his stroke. “NOOOO!” Cheryl cried. She sobbed and danced, though not so explicitly as Amber or with the morose attitude of Sylvie. I was next. Gazing at my master, I knew he would not spare me either. I tried to bend my knees, to somehow lower the profile of my bottom, present less of a target with it. But it was impossible. We’d all been stretched high until only our toes touched the ground. The balls of our feet, actually. Bending my knees only brought me up onto my tippie toes. And that is when master struck. “YEEEOCH!” I shouted. A fairly aimed stroke split my white peach, leaving a blazing red line of heat right across the summits. I dangled from my manacles, twisting about, flexing my bottom hard as I tried to throw off the sting. The crowd laughed again, delighted, amused by these Anglo girls with their white bottoms that the grandee had provided for their pleasure. It was how he stayed in power, providing these simple entertainments. In the city you could not find such as this. There was only smog and prostitution, corrupt priests and churches that prayed only for the government. But out here, deep in the jungled countryside, here life was simple and direct. Pain was sharp, simple. It was delivered upon penitent bottoms owned by rich white Anglo girls, who no doubt went home then with tales of the remorsefulness of using drugs in their country, warning their little sisters to beware of waywardness, to follow the straight and narrow of church and farm and home. Bill Bennett, had he known, would no doubt have joined the Mexicans and applauded. And how many Anglos had applauded the caning of the boy in Singapore? Yes, there was justice to be found in Mexico, at least out here in the countryside. Here even the whitest girls could find justice, while the simple peasant was protected by the grandee. All these tumultuous thoughts raced haphazardly through my mind as I twisted from my manacles. These people would not help me. They would not offer any assistance. Any pity we received would come from the grandee, and him alone. Tiffany did not turn her head to look at the whipmaster. Instead she looked once at the grandee. He returned her gaze, wearing an ice cream white suit of vanilla, twin spanish women fanning him as he watched her. Tiffany stuck out her tongue at him. Then she turned her blonde head away, toward the wall. The crowd gasped, realizing what she’d done to their grandee. Impudently Tiffany stuck out her bottom, offering it. When the master arrived, his weapon ready, she bent her knees wide and farted. Curses erupted from the crowd. Fists shook. Yet Tiffany’s bottom remained boldly displayed, defiant. It did not tremble as ours had, but jutted out bold and brave. The master looked at the grandee. He bade him wait. And then slowly, gradually, Tiffany’s bottom began to tremble. Just a little, but showing that she too felt fear. Perhaps more than the rest of us now. Still she held it out at the Mexicans, proud of her white seat and making them look at it, forcing them to gaze at her mooning ass. “Two for her for every one for the others,” the grandee told the whipmaster. Quickly the master delivered two solid strokes upon Tiffany’s pumpkin. She bit her lip and shook like a doggie, her long blonde hair thrashing from side to side. But she did not cry out. With trembling legs she bore the cuts and remained silent. “You do well, Tiffany,” the grandee complimented her. “But you are older than the others and I expect it from you.” Alas, she had set a standard for herself now, one the grandee would expect her to uphold. Could she do it? I wondered. She was only a year older than Amber, only a few years older than the rest of us. And now the master returned to little Sylvie. He gave her another juicy swat, and she cried the loudest of all of us again, though I wondered if he wasn’t actually going easy on her, for he seemed to smile at her and slow his hand a little when he delivered the stroke. Out of compassion or because of some wicked hope that he’d get to treasure her bottom all by himself later on I knew not. Perhaps he was hoping for some reward for his work. He could be saving her for later, when he might give her a more thorough swatting in his own bedroom, tied to his own bedpost. But Sylvie bawled away, certain that she was suffering the cruelest cuts on her heinie. And then Amber was struck again, sending the girl into more self-righteous displays of the pain inflicted on her bottom, letting all of us know by her dancings that she felt every last bit of it. Perhaps she hoped the man who filmed Rodney King would film her, and she could show the world what she had suffered, and sue the grandee for his estate. In any event her antics brought the most laughter from the crowd, while Tiffany’s bold display brought the most scorn. Cheryl offered her peach this time, softly though, humbly, sticking it out in offering rather than defiance. Perhaps she hoped to earn some compassion from the master, but it did not help her. He struck her just as firmly as before. She broke into tears then, remorseful over her bottom, not wanting it marked. I did not look at the master this time. I hung my head and waited, bit my lip. In came the stroke. Hot, hard, extorting a quick shrill cry from me. I took my punishment and danced about a little, then quieted. My nether cheeks squeezed shut, opened, squeezed again, trying to rid away the pain. Tiffany was not so wanton this time. She held her bottom aloft but did not try to make some rude presentation with it. The master gave her two, well-placed, sparing her a hit on skin already marked, but striking her hard nonetheless. Tiffany barely suppressed her ululation. I knew next time she’d offer it up, pierce the sky with it, for I could see her trembling beside me. Her will was cracking. The whipping was so slow, one could not maintain one’s composure for long. The tension was overwhelming as you waited for the master to return. Back to Sylvia he went. He struck her harder this time, making her dance like Amber. She was almost out of tears now, she’d cried so much already. But she shouted as loudly as before. Perhaps she thought she was on the playground, tussling with boys. Amber next again, a regular go-go girl by now, jumping about with her white legs flashing and her bare hips revolving. Who says only New York City has such girls? And then Cheryl, her poor bottom given another fiery stripe, sending her cringing into self-absorbed tears. And then me! How awful the birch felt, striking my heinie in some new spot, bringing flaring heat to some new area of my bottom. I wriggled atop my upstanding toes, cried a little, bit my lip. Lastly Tiffany bore her two in turn, her ass quite red now, suffering more than the rest of us because she’d rudely insulted the grandee and his simple village folk. She was regretting it now, I knew, for she wept openly this time, and howled like a werewolf. Even Sylvie looked over at her. The grandee laughed, tossed a large glimmering coin to the master. The people applauded. In the distance a jeep drove up. The crowd turned. The grandee looked over his shoulder, the women on either side of him still fanning him dutifully even as they looked also. The jeep came closer. Turning my head back, straining my bottom back even as I turned, my wrists still caught in the cuffs, I watched as the jeep drove up. In the distance thunderclouds were building. I saw a flash of summer lightning upon the far mountains. The jeep parked by the van. After the dust settled, a woman stepped out, followed by a man. He was dressed in a smart blazer. With my nude bottom poking out I felt utterly ridiculous. I felt the other girls rustling in their bonds, admiring the handsome man even as they felt utterly, completely embarrassed. “Oh, how luscious!” the woman gasped, approaching, gazing at us. She was a cultured woman, finely dressed, though her skirts looked just a little rumpled now, as if she’d been dallying in the jeep with her lover. Dallying as they drove through the jungle and admired the monkeys and macaws. She was a Spanish woman from the city, I learned, guessing at her dialogue as she and her lover spoke to the grandee. He was very gracious to her, to him. The woman, hot blooded, kept turning toward us. She seemed overwhelmed by our display, in thrall to our suffering. Hot bottomed we wiggled before her, five tushies arranged against a wall. Once American girls, now just white flesh with bottoms the color of ripe tomatoes. Glancing over my shoulder at her well-coiffed face, her fine spun black Spanish hair drawn up in a loose bun, I wondered how she would bear up under similar treatment. The grandee nodded to the whipmaster to continue. He strode back toward Sylvie, cocky before this gorgeous new female admirer. To my shocked amazement the woman cast up her skirts and began rubbing herself as she watched the master take up position behind poor little Sylvia. She seemed shocked too, incredulous, and then she was suddenly howling, screeching her lungs out at a very nasty cut right across the base of her cheeks. The woman turned to her lover as our master strode over to Amber. She unzipped her gentleman and fished out his cock. It was huge, glistening in the sunlight with precum drooling from the tip even as she drew it forth. My guess about their dallying had been right. And it was then, amidst all this horridness, that this sudden intrusion provoked my thoughts into remembering the drug we’d taken earlier, the stimulant for our loins. No sooner had I thought of it than I knew that my companions had thought of it too, for they emitted soft moans, watching as the lady began to service her gentleman. Prior to this we’d been so dazed and astounded by our ordeal in the square, so outraged and scandalized by it all, that the effects of the drug had been forgotten. But now it came flooding back, overriding our fear and making our cunnies throb. Heedlessly I squashed my breasts to the shawl and began rubbing them against it. The master delivered a swifter, harder cut than ever to Amber, then Cheryl, yet I kept pressing myself to the shawl and digging into it with my stiff nipples. In back my bottom began to move, my cheeks rolling in a brazen display. WHACK! In came the admonitory stroke. I screeched, howled, ringing the church bells almost with my voice, but I did not stop waggling my bottom. Even Tiffany was moving hers, though she was about to get two licks to our one. Behind us the young man shuddered, straining to hold himself back as his lusty bride fingered and sucked him. “OOOOOOOCH!” Tiffany screamed, her voice a ululation, a white woman imitating some African tribal maiden at the stake, suffering under the witch doctor. Two of them were wrenched from her, one right after the other. Our master was clinical, precise, each cut delivered in a new spot, though with Tiffany he was running out of spots. He was like a doctor practising surgery on a patient. The wall was his upright operating table. The woman said something to the grandee and he smiled broadly, nodded. He called to the master to halt his proceedings, threw him another coin. I breathed a sigh of profound relief. We all did. And then almost at once we let out a little dismayed cry. The woman was taking all of her clothes off! She was saying something to the whipmaster. Was she going to join us? Would there be six of us? She tore off the last of her undergarments, a tight girdle, a bra, stockings. Boldly she strode forth naked to the wall. And then the whipmaster handed her the birch! She turned to us. She smiled. It was a smile of expectation. Of triumphant expectation. She yanked her hair down in back and let it fall loosely over her shoulders. Glittering earrings danced from her ears as she advanced upon Sylvia, the nearest of us. With swift strokes she cut the air with her birch, practising. Sylvia screamed, deathly afraid, as we all were. Yet we could not stop the lewd gyrating of our bottoms! We kept wiggling away, hungry for relief and utterly unable to obtain any, chained as we were to this awful wall. The woman gave Sylvia a lifting stroke, catching her under her bottom and shooting the girl up onto the tops of her toes. “YEEHOOOOCH!” Sylvia hooted, her whole body quavering. The woman passed her, spoke aloud in a refined english accent: “I’ve whipped cows before, many times, driving them in from the field,” she said. “But never had I thought to try it on people!” I saw then that she was young, perhaps only 17, had looked older because of her elaborate courting clothes. “And such fine young American girls,” she said. “Lost little girls far from home, where their mommies and daddies can’t see what they’re up to.” She was laughing, as if reciting words from some play she’d learned in school. Something about Americans, obviously, perhaps wayward Catholic schoolgirls doing what they knew they weren’t supposed to. This oddly mature, oddly innocent young woman gave Amber a cut then, expertly delivered, even better than the master’s, sweeping right into the crack of her fanny even as the girl wobbled it around, hoping for love. Amber straightened, stilled her bottom a moment, screeched loudly. Then Cheryl’s orb was next, and then mine, finally Tiffany received two on hers, as amorously churning as ours were. “Ah! They are becoming so cut up!” the young woman said, regarding us. She turned to her lover, threw down the stick. “Ramone! Give me your belt!” she called, her bosoms wobbling on her chest as she put her hand to her mouth and shouted. Up he came, bounding, his cock tossing about erectly. He cast off his trousers as he approached, they hindered his stride. Wearing only his shirt he delivered the belt from his pants to his wife. Or lover, or whatever she was to him. With eager eyes she turned once more to us. Lovingly she drew her man’s broad belt through her hand. It looked supple, strong. I knew we would suffer under it tremendously. “Oh do me sir, please?” Little Sylvia said suddenly to the woman’s lover. Perhaps she hoped to put his hips between her and the whip, was willing to suffer his knob up her cunt for it, or up her ass. The woman glowered, then laughed. “Yes! You must all have my Ramone, but only after I am satisfied,” the woman said. He said something to her, called her Alicia. It was that which told me her name. The first broad-swatting stroke came slamming into Sylvia’s heinie. She screamed anew, sending the pigeons all the way to the equator, I thought. Truly the belt was safer than the birch, for it did not slice up the skin, yet it could be delivered with butt-thudding force. And that is just how Amber received her first wallop, like some naughty little girl being disciplined by her father. Yet it was mother who wielded father’s belt. Amber sobbed loudly, was soon joined by Cheryl. A moment more and I was coughing forth my own boo-hoos, then Tiffany! Wailingly we received more blows from the belt. It basted us, turned our seats into veritable hot tamales. “Oh, I can’t stand it!” the woman cried suddenly. She’d been rubbing herself now and then as she hit us. Now she turned to the grandee and begged to be put beside us. He motioned to his people and at once shackles were hung from a bare iron ring poking from the wall. It was on the far side of Tiffany. I had not noticed it earlier. A shawl was hung for her and then she grasped the manacles with her fingers and rubbed her bosoms against the shawl, even as we were lustily rubbing ours. Her lover gently prised her hands from the manacles and then buckled her firmly into them. He stepped back, took up the belt, massaging his still-hard cock all the while. He had not come yet. Perhaps now he would, I feared, with his young girlfriend so alluringly displayed before him, her courting clothes gone, her cunt peeping back at him twixt her thighs, available for his pleasure. “THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!” He gave her several blows to get her going, delivered right across her white heart-shaped bottom. She groaned, tasting for the first time in her life, I guessed, the feel of a belt. Tossing her head she savored the hurt as best she could, though I saw she was having some difficulty with it. Later I learned that amongst us I was the only one to have been whipped on a prior occasion. Tiffany and all the rest had only played amongst the items of dungeon airlines, never actually using any of it. It was for the guest’s pleasure only...on other guests. Of course that had not stopped Tiffany from slapping my bottom on the airplane, and they’d slapped each other before, but none had tasted belt or birch. “How are you holding up?” Tiffany asked, bravely turning to me whilst Alicia begged for and got more strokes of the belt on her bottom. “Terribly,” I sniffled. “And you?” “My butt hurts like hell,” Tiffany sobbed. She bowed her head and joggled her ass about and then, still wiggling it, raised her face again to me. It was stained with tears and she looked absolutely miserable. I gazed at her. Then I stuck my head as far towards her as I could, offering her a kiss, and she met me halfway and we kissed there, under the hot sun with our bottoms blazing. Ramone and Alicia began rutting. He cast the belt aside and fucked her right there, heedless of the crowd, consummating their relationship, I guessed. There was a thunderclap as they orgasmed and a light rain began to fall. I turned my head, looked over my shoulder with immense relief. The rain was soft, cooling. We all stuck our bottoms out at once, as far as we could, and enjoyed the light stinging rain as it soothed our tushies. The rain began falling harder. The crowd began to disperse. Brazenly we held our asses out at them, the rain striking us as if in retribution. It bathed our hot naked heinies with cold, delicious, fluid, washing us down with a care and constancy no human would have shown. Soon the water was running into our butt cracks, down our thighs, streaking our calves and puddling around our toes. We shook our bedraggling locks like horses in a field, whinnying, loving every drop that hit us. Tender hands took us down, caressed us. Young spanish girls from the village escorted us across the soaked welcoming carpet back to the van. Dazed, happy in some strange way, we boarded the van and tried to sit down. “Oooch!” Sylvie was the first to cry out. “Ah! I cannot sit!” Tiffany said, her composure back. Daintily she knelt on the floor, squatting, wrapped her arms round her legs and rested her face sideways upon her knees. She sniffled. Huddling ourselves or one another, staying off the seats, we rode back to the grandee’s estate. Mercifully the driver did not turn the air conditioning on. We were soaked to the bone, our hair messed and dripping, our makeup shot. With sensitive hands we inspected each other’s bottoms, reassuring each other that the marks would fade eventually (and dearly hoping it was true!) We drove onto the grandee’s lawn. The grandee himself came in behind us. The guards let us out. The rain had slowed to a soft drizzle. The grandee came up to us, his head protected by an umbrella held aloft by a spanish girl. She looked at us with dark, wondering eyes. A girl from the village. A girl who drove goats at home in the evening with a stick. The grandee lined us up and walked behind us, inspecting our newly scarred bottoms. We were his property still, and he cared for us just as intently, I saw, as he did for himself. We shivered as he passed, holding ourselves, still hot from the drug yet chilly from the passing rain. My bottom felt raw, as if all the skin had been flayed from it. The grandee made me bend forward. With probing fingers he inspected my heinie. His touch made me cry out. I almost fell over from his touch. I jerked as his thumb drove up my asshole. It was moist from the rain. Each girl in turn he scrutinized, doing Tiffany last. He found her and Sylvia too tight to get his thumb up. He promised them they’d be widened later. Then, miserable and sobbing anew, we were marched up to the house. As I did my best to accomplish the mandatory strutting step, biting my lip as my scored bottom screamed at me, I felt happy. I’d found a demanding master at last, but not a cruel one. He promised to use my body to the fullest extent one could without ruining it. I knew he would hurt me sometimes, but he would love me passionately also, bringing me big men who would fuck me as I knew I needed to be fucked. 30 ----------------------- Dreamgirls! ----------------------- -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. Work by others copyright 1997 by the respective copyright holder. -END OF 272 EMISSION -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | \ .../assm/faq.html> /