Message-ID: <1242eli$9706041444@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 13 of 15 (NND) --------------------------------------------------------------- PROBLEMS? Please try viewing this with Netscape Navigator. --------------------------------------------------------------- _/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/ Andrew Roller Presents NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS in LOVE CHILD _/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/ Chapter Thirteen We were led upstairs to a bedroom. A large bed with black iron railings waited. It had been stripped of everything but a covering sheet. A small wooden stairstep led up to it. One by one we were made to file up the little steps and get into bed. We lay the only way we could, on our bellies. We cried quietly, wetting the big pillows arranged for our heads. Women entered. Large, broad women who had borne many children. Our bottoms must have looked like ripe little apples to them. Skinny legged girls from America, we were, with waspish hips. We’d never known the pain of the delivery room, the labor of bearing young. We only played at sex, recreationally, for the amusement of men like the grandee. He favored girls like us while making the women work in his fields. Now they must take time off from their chores to pamper our little fannies, our bottoms which were so delicate and pretty until we’d chosen to display them in the square. Had we chosen? We had not resisted. Why had we not screamed, shouted? I knew the answer but I did not want to know it. The rough women with rough hands squirted our tushies with atomizers. A light cologne on whip-skinned flesh. Our heads shot up, we grimaced, cried out. Tremblingly we found each other’s hands and held them tightly. Pots of cream were brought. Spreading our legs, curling our toes in agony we accepted the cream on our beet red bottoms. The rest of ourselves shone whitely, our backs and legs, our arms, still moist with the sheen of summer rain, now mixed with a light sweat as we endured the women’s healing ministrations. “My, how lovely they’re wounded,” a woman said, entering the room with the grandee. She was a large mexican lady. Glancing over our shoulders we were told by the grandee that she was his wife. “They are going to masturbate for you dear, these college girls from America,” the grandee told his wife. We cringed with humiliation, knowing we would do just that if he permitted it. And then he did. Shoving my hands down below my belly I joined the other girls in frigging myself silly. We threshed upon the bed, screaming and twisting our lovely hair about with abandon. Our wanton bottoms jiggled madly as we worshipped ourselves. At first we were totally self-absorbed, contained within our own pleasure. But then as the first orgasm passed and we pushed ourselves on to another we turned our faces to one another and began kissing frantically. I think Tiffany and I were the first to take it up. The rest followed our example. The mexican women watched, their chores and children forced to wait while they attended upon our privileged bodies. We screamed together and finally laughed together and at last we settled back down, back to the pain in our arses that flared into our minds again as soon as our pleasure had subsided. Then the mexican ladies went to work on us again, bringing more oils, more salve and healing balm. Lightly we continued to toy with ourselves as they worked. At last, one by one, we passed off into sleep, the women still laboring over us. Several languid days passed at the grandee’s. We played in the pool, ate at dinner with him, conversed with him in his library. Always we would kneel on the floor, unable to sit. The grandee provided little mats for us. During this time our bottoms simply would not accept panties, or anything else. We could wear whatever we wanted on our feet, or on our chests, but we were forced to leave our asses bare. Mostly we pranced about in clingy little t-shirts. Jealously the mexican women would watch us, scrubbing floors at the mansion or washing dishes, or working in the garden. Our laughter was lilting, childlike. Our eyes sparkled. We played tricks on each other sometimes, squirting each other with bottles of seltzer water, shooting whipped cream, flinging our jello desserts at each other. Sometimes the grandee brought over gentlemen friends, but he did not let them touch us. They were mere business associates, he said. We were too precious for them. One day I managed to get myself into a pair of panties. Soon the other girls followed suit. The grandee eyed us the next day at lunch. We sat on chairs, eating at his table. We were all modestly dressed in shorts or skirts. The mexican women served us, bringing fresh vegetables they’d just dug up from the garden. “Oooh! These are so delicious!” Tiffany exclaimed, spearing a stalk of broccoli with her fork and eating it. Hand-drawn butter dripped from it, ran down her chin. She licked her lips. We gorged ourselves on the vegetables, bade the women bring more. For dessert we had fresh-cooked rhubarb pie. A few more days slipped past. The grandee took his wife shopping in the city and brought back presents for us. Presents we could keep. Rings, earrings, little baubles to spice a girl’s fancy. We sashayed around the house in clothing all the time now. We did not want the Mexican women or their children to see our nakedness. In the evening we played ping pong, sometimes with the grandee’s business friends watching. We never wore bras and our breasts would bounce lewdly as we knocked the little white ball back and forth to each other. In the daytime we often lounged by the pool, though the grandee insisted we stay in the shade and keep our boobies and bottoms covered. He said there were enough dark women in Mexico. We would order the mexican women to leave off their digging or washing and bring us mint juleps. We’d lounge about and gossip with each other, read People magazine, play tic-tac-toe in the back of the T.V. Guide. (He kept english language copies for us, special subscriptions from America.) “Are you having fun girls?” the grandee asked us one evening at dinner. “Yes!” we all gushed in response. “And how are your bottoms?” he asked. Our faces sobered. “All better,” “All better,” “All better,” we piped up reluctantly. After dinner he made us stand in a line and drop our shorts. He examined each of us, looking at our seats but not touching us. A mexican woman came into the dining room to collect our dishes. She looked at us. Her eyes seemed to smile with wicked delight. I felt fear in my tummy and tried desperately to quash it. ### It was a flight to nowhere. Pretend Airlines, it was called, and the grandee had built it in his basement. There was a cushioned bench in the middle of the room. It was equipped with seatbelts. Beyond lay the “cockpit,” where the stewardesses of Pretend Airlines might be flown however the passengers wished them to be. Three men from the village were to be our passengers. The grandee said they were nephews of his. They arrived wearing business suits. They were strapping men, a bit surly, “difficult” passengers who threatened to run a poor stewardess ragged. All around the pretend airlines set-up the mexican women of the house sat in chairs with their children. They were “passengers” only in the sense that they got to watch. We were mortified when we walked into the basement and saw them there. But they simply gazed back at us. They sat with their children, waiting for the “flight” to begin. They did not mind having their children see the antics of white American women. “Hi! My name’s Tiffany,” Tiff began, speaking to the men as they strode past her and took their seats. Her voice had an air of forced cheeriness. “I’m the head stewardess on this flight and I’ll be the one primarily responsible for your pleasure. If you have any problems with the service, please let me know about it!” There was laughter among the men. “Now this is a pleasure flight, boys, but I expect you to behave. Do you think you can do that?” They nodded, but you could tell they might choose to misbehave at any moment. However they were a little in awe of us, I think, they’d never flown on an airplane. They looked around the basement expectantly, as if any moment they expected us to actually take off. We’d spent hours being made up for this flight. Our hair was perfect, combed down over our shoulders in glossy waves. Our nails on our fingers and on our toes were carefully shaped and painted. Our bodies had been rubbed all over with baby oil, vigorously, until the oil had been absorbed completely by our skin, leaving behind a healthy, vibrant glow. Mexican ladies had done all the work, beauticians from the village. Women with broken nails and hair streaked with grey. They spent most of their days in the fields, not the beauty parlor, for there weren’t enough customers. Two days earlier a seamstress had arrived from the village. She’d made us take off all our clothes in the upstairs bedroom and she’d measured us meticulously. Then she and several helpmates had sewn our flight uniforms for the grandee and his nephew’s pleasure. Glancing at Tiffany, you might think we’d done alright. She wore a pilot’s cap upon her head, with a straight black bill in front and official-looking “macaroni” above it. A slinky black shirt with a straight hemline covered her torso. The shirt had a turtle neck and long sleeves. Epaulets adorned her shoulders, each with four stripes, showing her rank. Her legs were encased in long black boots of the finest leather that came up to her knees, where they had a “gathered” cuff. Above that were her stockings, black fishnet, but with threads so closely criss-crossed that you could barely discern her skin beneath. Looking at her thighs, you might think that the stockings were pants legs. Only there weren’t any “pants.” Just the stocking/leggings, rising up to her thigh tops, then stopping abruptly. Between the tops of her stockings and the hem of her shirt you could just make out the lower half of her white cotton panties. To make her look even more officious, the grandee had given Tiffany glasses to wear. She stood before the passengers now, checking her manifest to make sure they were all “aboard.” Holding a clipboard in her left hand, she put a pencil to her lips with her right. Meanwhile, the rest of us fidgeted. We were dressed the same as Tiffany from the waist up, but with less stripes on our bars. We wore no glasses. From the hemline of our shirts to our feet we were completely bare. We stood around the “cabin” in high heels, to elevate our bottoms. Our legs flashed nakedly when we walked. White flesh, with our shirts riding up in back exposing our creamy asses. They looked like cream puffs, jutting out sassily at the Mexican ladies and their children. “Gentlemen, I must make sure that you didn’t forget to bring any of your equipment,” Tiffany said to the grandee’s nephews. “Please unzip yourselves so I can check.” Proudly the men undid their trousers and displayed their cocks to her. They were big and brown and pulsed with the vigor of the countryside. Politely Tiffany tapped each one once with her pencil eraser, then replaced it in her lips, studied her manifest a moment, and then called me forward. “We’ll need some measurements of this equipment so I can properly adjust the planes’ ballast,” she told me. I saluted her smartly. The girls and I got a ruler from a table and we measured off each man’s cock and announced the figure to Tiffany. The mexican ladies murmured at the sizes. “Ten inches! Eleven on this one! Oh, my! This one is twelve inches long!” I cried, the other girls joining in with me as I announced the numbers. “Hmmm, I’ll need the circumference also,” Tiffany replied. We went back to the table and rummaged around. We returned with a cloth tape measure. With delicate hands we wrapped each man’s cock with a loop of the tape. Again we announced the figures. The women had grown fine young men, good for more than plowing fields. “Lastly we will need the specific gravity of their balls,” Tiffany said. Have them stand and drop their trousers. Amber, get a pitcher of cream, warm cream, so their balls won’t become chilly. Make them stand with their legs apart and lift out their balls and plop them into the pitcher of cream. Then look inside and guesstimate how much cream has been displaced.” The first man to be measured this way made the cream spill out of the top of the pitcher. It ran down the insides of his hairy thighs, down to his pants where they lay crumpled around his ankles. “Oh my, well I guess we’ll just have to do the best we can,” Tiffany sighed. She wrote down Amber’s wildly made up guesstimate of “40 pounds.” “Good heavens! We can never take off with that much weight on board,” Tiffany exclaimed. “What shall we do?” Amber giggled. “I shall have to take off my panties to compensate,” Tiffany announced. She put down her clipboard and pencil on a chair. Then, bending her knees daintily, she rolled her panties down her legs and carefully plucked them past the cuffs of her boots. Holding them as one might a piece of rubbish, disdainfully, letting them dangle down, she walked over to the edge of our pretend airplane and dropped them. “There,” she announced as they landed on the floor, as if they’d fallen out the door of the plane to the asphalt tarmac below. She walked back to us and picked up her clipboard once more. “I do hope you other boys have been fucking a little more than this one has, or I may have to get completely naked!” Tiffany said. The men grinned. They longed to see the big boobies that bulged with such promise within her tight flight shirt. We had lost so much cream that we decided to refill the pitcher. Somehow the grandee had thought to provide us with a whole bottle of it, sitting on a warmer on our utility table in our make-believe flight kitchen. We refilled the pot and measured the next man’s nuts. “Forty-five pounds!” Amber announced happily, spilling even more cream this time and leaving a milky pool in the center of the man’s descended trousers. “Well!” Tiffany announced. “I am the head stewardess, you know. I do have certain privileges because of my rank. Amber, I want you to take off your shirt.” The girl looked slightly taken aback. She had been hoping to get Tiffany undressed with her fantastic measurements. “Yes, Amber,” Tiffany nodded solemnly. “Off with your shirt right away so we can get airborne.” “I could take my hat off instead, that would do,” Amber said. “No, your hat means you are an official Pretend Airlines stewardess,” Tiffany replied. “You must keep that on. Take off your shirt. You don’t have any rank anyway.” “I have three whole stripes, look at them!” Amber said, pointing to her epaulets. “Yes, but it was a mistake by the seamstress,” Tiffany replied. “You are the official milk maid on this flight, still a stewardess of course.” She was making it up as she went along, I could see, but the men obviously didn’t care. Roles were being created even as we played. I wondered what title I’d eventually get. Official hot seat? Reluctantly Amber pulled up her shirt. Her youthful breasts popped out as she yanked it past them. The shirt was tight, specially made. They’d sewn it on her an hour before. Wiggling her hips and bottom, her legs ridiculously akimbo, Amber finally got the shirt off. “Don’t help her, girls,” Tiffany advised us. “She must be able to do it herself if we should crash land in the ocean. Clothes might make us drown in the water, you know. I’ll explain all the procedures in case of crash landings in a minute.” The last man was measured, by a nude Amber, wearing only her hat. Her lovely breasts jiggled above his stiff-jutting organ. Twice her perky nipples grazed across his pee hole. The man trembled, in ecstasy. The cream bathed his testicles, warming them, perhaps killing some sperm with its warmth. But he had plenty more. “A hundred pounds!” Amber announced, hoping to get the whole crew undressed. She didn’t like being the only one completely naked. “Amber, are you telling the truth?” Tiffany asked over the rim of her glasses. “Because if you aren’t, I’ll have to swat you with my official stewardess paddle.” She pointed to a hard wooden ping pong type paddle, but with a long handle, hanging from a nail on the wall. “Um, only 48 pounds, actually,” Amber said, screwing up her nose and recalculating the imaginary figures in her head. “I guess I over guesstimated.” “I’ll say you did,” Tiffany replied. “Sylvia, why don’t you be the one to take off your shirt this time? You’re the littlest of us, and nobody will mind if you’re naked. People only complain when they see big girls walking around naked in Mexico.” Sylvia took the jibe well and uncomplainingly put down her hat and peeled up her shirt. It took her even longer than Amber to get out of it. She danced around the floor, wriggling her torso, her bottom all a-jiggle. She stood on her toes in an effort, apparently, to inspire her shirt to move up. “Don’t rip it, Sylvia,” Tiffany warned. The shirt was stretchy and light and could possibly be torn if it was excessively mishandled. Of course, to do so would spoil the game of getting it off. “Girls who rip their uniforms will be punished immediately,” Tiffany said, as if reminding us, reading imaginary words on her clipboard. But I knew that the threat of punishment wasn’t imaginary, for besides the paddle a whole range of flagellating equipment waited on the far wall. At last Sylvia got her shirt off. Her breasts bounced freely on her little chest, her ribs heaving with her effort. Her hair was hopelessly mussed. Only the first of many such little disasters, I imagined. Disgustedly Sylvia tossed her shirt out the “window” of the plane (an imaginary space newly invented by her). She brushed her long hair with her hand, trying to mend her coiffure. It had been neatly curled in long strands and arranged just so. She’d been walking very daintily up ‘til now to keep it that way. “Never mind your hair, Sylvia,” Tiffany said. “It’s time for us to take off. Men, pull your pants back on and sit down and let the girls buckle you in.” The men looked incredulous. Their pants were soaked with cream and their cocks were hard as iron re-bars. They protested but the grandee ordered them in Spanish to do as Tiffany asked. With great effort and to the merriment of the mexican women watching (not to mention the flight crew!) they stuffed themselves back in and sat down. They were obviously uncomfortable as we bent low and strapped their seatbelts across their waists. Meanwhile, Tiffany read off the remainder of her flight instructions: “Men, if we should have to attempt a crash landing it will be necessary for as much weight as possible to be thrown from the plane. This means that you will have to ejaculate as quickly as possible. Should you not be able to do this one of our stewardesses will have to undergo an enema, so I hope you will be able to help us out on this.” We looked up at Tiffany, shocked at the thought of having our guts filled and spilled in front of the mexican women. But this the grandee had actually written for her, and she could not alter it. “I shall have to be the pilot,” Tiffany said next. We knelt by our three male passengers for takeoff, massaging the protrusions in their pants. She turned around and faced the chair that was designated as the pilot’s chair. It was turned backwards, so that when she sat down on it her arms were folded over the chairback. Her naked butt loomed proudly at us. With accomplished grace she took hold of a dildo just beyond the chair. It had been standing on what we girls actually used as our make believe flight kitchen. It was a master touch, using the dildo as the plane’s flight stick. None of us had thought of it, nor the grandee. Simultaneously the dildo became Tiffany’s radio communicator. “Head Stew to tower, head stew to tower,” she announced. “I’m ready for takeoff!” “Takeoff approved, Head Stew. And take off your shirt while you’re at it.” “Sorry boys. Maybe some other time,” Tiffany replied to her make-believe companions. Then Tiffany pulled back on the dildo, pretending to take off. But after a little while she announced that the plane was racing down the runway and wouldn’t be able to make it. “The tower says my ass is too fat!” Tiffany exclaimed, looking back over her shoulder at us. “Will one of you men please stick your thing in my butt and help get it up?” We were shocked at her courage. We knew she had the tightest asshole in the universe and her butt, though mature and well-rounded, was anything but fat. It was just a game she was playing, getting more and more involved with every second. I gulped as I watched the middle nephew leap up and drop his trousers. If Tiffany was willing to sacrifice her butthole for our fun, what wouldn’t she sacrifice? Sylvia, perhaps remembering her past conquest, leapt to her feet and helpfully fetched a phial of oil. The man’s stiff rod burst from his zipper. Together they lubed him up. Amber bent low just before he was ready to enter Tiffany and enclosed his organ with her pendant breasts. She could play make-up games too. “Now you go back and forth, like this,” Amber said, looking up sweetly at the man. She wriggled back and forth, sluicing his oiled dick between her close-held breasts. Then she let go of her boobs and kissed him lightly on the head of his penis. “Good luck!” she smiled. The man had lost a lot of his oil between Amber’s bosoms, so Sylvia hastily re-did the lube job. Or penis job, as the case might be. We were just inventing it as we went along, and I found myself enjoying the whole thing more and more with every tantalizing minute. “Oh! I think I’ve got it!” Tiffany said, not sure she wanted another impalement at the hands of Sylvia, or perhaps meaning only to have teased the man all along. “Nothing doing!” Sylvia replied. “You made me take my shirt off and now its your turn!” “Sylvia, there is a big difference between a shirt and an anus,” Tiffany said. But we’d all gathered round her now. We stroked her and told her how pretty she looked and made her put her hands behind herself and pry apart her buttcheeks. Cheryl squirted a little preparatory oil into Tiffany’s anus with an atomizer. Tiffany started, bit her lower lip. Bravely she held her lovely hams apart with her slim-gripping fingers. “Ooooh, NO!” Tiffany choked as the big knob burrowed into her butt. “YES, TIFFANY!” We all cried delightedly. Tears welled in her eyes as she realized how difficult it would be for her to take him. He was large, and she was smaller than she’d remembered. With grimacing, anguished little puffs Tiffany took the big member up her colon. The going was so slow that we decided to get the ruler and measure off the inches as they went up. Suddenly, when he was about halfway up the young nephew discharged. He tried frantically to yank his cock out in an attempt to prevent it, but he was stuck! Only after his member had deflated somewhat was he able to get it out. Tiffany, our pilot, was left weeping, her face down on her arms, now folded back over her chair back. But she was not unhappy. She’d conquered another sexual hurdle in her life, and a fearful one at that. Well, halfway, that is. Tiffany stood up finally and announced that the plane was up in the air. She was back in control, looking as pretty as ever and still wearing everything but her lost panties. But her butthole had a telltale smear of semen on it, and the excess had trickled down to her love pouch. “Well I guess I’ll just have to be a sticky stewardess thanks to your half-assed job, sir,” looking down at him. But we’d been massaging him and he was up again, ready for more. “No, no, sir! There will be many emergencies later that we’ll need your strength for,” Tiffany said. He sat back. He was hard and did not want to lose himself again. It was too enjoyable watching us all with his penis nice and stiff. Another ejaculation might spoil his fun for awhile, leave him out of the festivities. As for the other men, they looked like they’d gladly fuck anything that moved, immediately. “Men, the pilot has turned off the ‘conceal cocks’ sign,” she said helpfully. “You may now display your organs freely if you wish.” Grunting with relief they unzipped themselves and yanked out their penises. They held them aloft at her, though they remained obediently seated. “Very good, boys,” Tiffany said. “The pilot sends his compliments.” She bent over and gave a teasing lick round each man’s purplish plum. When she lifted her mouth her lips gleamed with their pre-cum. We all waited with tingling anticipation as Tiffany retrieved her clipboard. I wanted to rub myself. I saw Sylvia give herself a furtive little wipe between her legs. She looked at her fingertips. They were wet with her dew. “Tonight’s dinner is baked bosoms,” Tiffany announced to our passengers. “However, since our oven is broken you will either have to eat them raw or go hungry,” she added. “Which do you prefer?” “Yours!” they exclaimed. Tiffany tapped her foot impatiently. “That’s not what I meant, boys, and you know it. I see however that you do wish to partake of the evening meal. Amber? Sylvia? We must eat quickly. Come over here and present your bosoms at once.” With little gulps Amber and Sylvia obeyed, both of them the youngest, with freshly grown bosoms waiting to be plucked by our fares. Sylvia seemed especially nervous. Her breasts had been growing recently, perhaps because of all the sexual excitement she’d been undergoing. She said her nipples felt sore and she wasn’t sure she wanted to. “Sylvia!” Tiffany warned. After getting her butt bopped a second time by the girl she wasn’t about to show her any mercy. The girls climbed into the willing laps of the men, facing them, offering them the fruit of their bodies. Greedily the men took their titties in their mouths and nursed frantically upon the nipples. It was the first and the third nephews who were favored in this way, the one in the middle looking slightly bereft. “You, sir, I have a special treat for,” Tiffany said. She walked over to Cheryl and wrapped her arm round the girl’s waist. She brought her to the man and had her stand right in front of him. “Cheryl,” Tiffany said. “Since you’re my best friend I want you to give this man our pussy of the month, or is it of the mouth?” she said. They’d been playing checkers all morning together so I guess that was as good a qualification as any for “best friend,” although I felt a little crestfallen when I heard her say it. Cheryl glowed, happy at last to have a little attention on her yearning, excited pussy. These airplane games were very stimulating. She placed her hands firmly on the man’s broad shoulders. As he watched, delighted out of his mind, she thrust her still-clad torso toward him, aiming to hit him smack in the kisser with her bare pussy. And she did! Soon she was moaning as the man hungrily ate her out. That left only me and Tiff. She came over to me, tall and proud and ever so sophisticated. Although I was almost as tall as her I felt meek in her presence. “You, however, are my breast friend,” Tiffany smiled at me. “Take off your shirt. No wait! She went and got a ruler off the nightstand that was our flight kitchen. “Take your shirt off now,” she said. “And you’d better hurry ‘cause I’m going to keep on smacking your ass until you do!” I knew she had to. The mexican ladies were growing restless. They did not like seeing us having this much fun. Or perhaps it was in the minimal script the grandee had written on her clipboard. In any event I saw in Tiffany’s eyes that she was begging me not to refuse. I nodded. I turned my back to her and she positioned me so that my pretty fundament was facing the audience. She took off my hat. I toyed with the hem a moment, not wanting to lift my shirt. Finally, with a quick confirming look at Tiffany, I began the arduous process. WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! I yelped and danced as I Tiffany laid in the first strokes. The other girls, surprised, looked up at us. I thought I heard Sylvia breathe a sigh of relief that she’d not objected to offering her breasts. She saw that the alternative was obviously worse. With renewed enthusiasm the girls gave themselves over to the men, not wanting to be next for the ruler. Cheryl especially, for she still wore a shirt. I yanked and pulled at my shirt, finally releasing my breasts. They spilled out and immediately joined in my antics, juddering freely all over the place. Soon my shirt was up around my face, and I couldn’t get it off my head. For seemingly the longest time I scampered about, Tiffany chasing me with the ruler. “Stop!” she cried, laughing. “You can’t see and you’ll bump into something!” Like a little animal I jiggled about, my ass reddening more every few seconds as Tiffany’s ruler connected. At last, to my vast relief and with an enormous sigh, I managed to tug the shirt above my chin, then off the top of my head. But my arms, upraised, were still trapped in it. Like some wiggly mutant from Dark Castle I leapt about the room. Tiffany found my heinie wherever I went and gave it a new crack. In the end I finally got my shirt off, tossing it right at the mexican ladies. They clucked their disapproval. My hands immediately flew to my ass and as we resumed our “flight duties” I stood briskly rubbing it. Only Tiffany and Cheryl retained their shirts. The rest of us wore only our hats and heels, no doubt the cutest flight attendants these nephews had ever laid eyes on. Perhaps the ONLY flight attendants they’d ever laid eyes on, living as they did in their rural village. Our cunnies were moist, Cheryl’s more than most. Tiffany had a violated bumhole, stepping awkwardly sometimes because of the lingering discomfort there. But our elegance remained, despite our disheveled locks and not-quite-perfect makeup. We were still stewardesses on Pretend Airlines, and our men were still eager passengers. The grandee had given Tiffany one rule above all the rest, and we all knew what it was, even the nephews. There could be no cunt fucking. I imagine with all of us eager for one another there might have been an orgy then. But the grandee and his guards stood by watching, and we knew anything we did to each other wouldn’t be half as bad as suffering under them. Tiffany stood considering, wondering what to do next. Impatient with herself, she absently brushed the sides of her thighs with her hands. She still looked very distinguished in her boots and stockings, the rest of us bare or bare-legged. Suddenly she turned and looked at her imaginary altimeter. “Oh, my!” She cried. “Gentlemen, we are losing altitude. Please take absolutely everything off!” She turned to Cheryl. “You too, hun. Get out of that shirt.” Cheryl didn’t mind, for it looked like Tiffany had forgotten about spanking people while they were trying to get out of their shirts. Best to get undressed before she remembered. Meanwhile, the men remained seated, handing their clothes up to Tiffany as they pulled them off. Clutching their clothing she went to the side of the plane and tossed them into an imaginary sea. Returning to the men, Tiffany sat down on the lap of the nearest one. She wriggled until he was nicely placed in her bottomcrack. The man groaned, his organ trapped once more, but he did not mind this sort of confinement. Tiffany beckoned me and together we got off her boots. Then I rolled down her stockings. I pulled them off her feet and tossed them out to sea. There were high heels waiting especially for this moment, held up by the grandee, and I ran into the audience and got them. The mexican ladies pinched at my bottom as I ran through them. They were allowed more liberties tonight, apparently. I shivered. Returning to Tiffany, I quickly fitted her into her shoes. “The natives are restless,” I whispered. “I know. Think of something!” Tiffany hissed. “Well, I don’t really want to take one of them up my bottom, despite what we did to you,” I said. “Thanks a lot!” Tiffany replied. Suddenly there was a rustling in the crowd, as of someone passing through. We looked up. The grandee approached, a woman on his arm. She looked to be in her mid-twenties and she was stylishly dressed in a long flowing gown. I had not seen her before. She was spanish but had very light skin. Her eyes gazed at us intently. She seemed fiery. I think we all blanched at her approach, knowing some new twist in our game was about to occur. A twisted sort of twist too, knowing what sort of man the grandee was. “Girls, I believe the purser has come aboard,” he said. “I’ve told her you’re running an unprofitable airline,” he smiled. She looked at him, smiled back. “What do you wish me to wear, darling?” she asked the grandee. “This is my best dress.” The grandee snapped his fingers. His wife came forth, her great garments bustling. You could hear her pantyhose, underneath, rubbing together. When she reached our new player she held aloft what looked like a pair of long white spaghetti straps, with just a small tube of fabric at one end. A sort of midriff, perhaps, but one that would only cover the belly, leaving everything else most inconveniently exposed. “What is that?” the white/spanish woman asked. She looked at the grandee puzzled. “Put it on. It is a shirt,” the grandee’s wife said in a thick accent. It was a sharp contrast to our new visitor’s almost perfect english. “Oh! I do not like being so exposed!” The fair skinned woman answered. “Do as you’re told, Lisa,” the grandee advised in a low voice. “Oh, I shall! But give me a scarf at least. Something to give me a little class, anyway!” A scarf was fetched and duly presented. It looked pink. It looked hardly worth arguing for. Guards came and quickly stripped Lisa. Then she put on her shirt. It went on much easier than ours had. It fell in great cutaway loops from her shoulders, with the biggest armholes I’d ever seen, going all the way down to the morsel of fabric that cluelessly hid her bellybutton. The neckline of the blouse, if it could still be called that, plunged as low as the holes for her arms. This silly, utterly useless shirt failed to contain Lisa’s lovely bosoms in any way. Indeed, her whole torso was exposed, from her shoulders all the way down to the meagre bit of cotton that loosely wrapped itself round her tummy, looping around her back but doing no better back there. From between the homemade spaghetti straps of her shirt Lisa’s bosoms offered themselves to the audience. Gallantly she tied on her neckerchief, tossed her head, walked over to us. The guards had left her nothing but her shoes. While all this was going on the men, poor souls, had been driven from our plane by the guards. Haplessly they bid us goodbye, as butterflies took off in our tummies, wondering what this portended. The five of us were squeezed onto the bench in their place. With apprehension building moment by moment amongst us, we watched as Lisa walked past us to the wall. She placed her hands on her bare hips and scanned the implements used for giving beatings. At last she selected a riding crop. It had a long handle. She walked confidently over to us and gazed down at our trembling bodies. “Please take your hats off when you are in my presence,” Lisa said politely but firmly to us. We did so, with queasy hands. We dropped them on the floor. Watching, Lisa seemed inspired. “I see how you treat your hats,” she said. “Carelessly. But look!” She walked over to one of our shirts, discarded, wrinkled, picked it up off the floor. “Look how you treat your flight suits! This is unacceptable, girls!” We shivered under her harsh gaze. “Tiffany!” she barked. “You are supposed to be the pilot! Where are your panties, young lady?” “Umm, we were losing altitude,” Tiffany offered sheepishly. Their eyes seemed to dance as they looked at each other. They were both nearly the same age. Both of them had absolutely knockout bodies. They both liked being in charge, and they seemed to sense all this in a moment, gazing at each other. “Tiffany, have you ever been in the hands of a professional dominatrix?” Lisa asked quietly. Tiffany blanched, tried to recompose herself and failed. Her hands were jittery as she laid them on her thighs. “N-No,” Tiffany said. She was afraid, you could hear it in her voice. But she was also proud, and I felt her unwillingness to back down from what seemed like a dare. “Lift up your arms, Tiffany, all the way,” Lisa said, her voice still low, almost whispering. Tiffany obeyed, her hands shaking slightly as she raised them above her head. Lisa took the hem of her shirt and yanked and yanked until the woman’s breasts fell out. Then she pulled some more and Tiffany’s head reappeared. A moment more and Lisa had the shirt completely off her. Tiffany settled her hands to her lap. Lisa regarded her newly revealed bosoms with admiration. “You have delightful breasts,” she said at last. “Thank you,” Lisa replied. She did not call her ma’am. “A bit wilful though, aren’t you?” Lisa asked. She dropped Tiff’s shirt to the floor as carelessly as we had dropped our own. Tiffany looked at her. Whether from nervousness or to feign confidence, Tiffany licked her upper lip. Then she shook her head, once, as if to clear her hair from her eyes. There was still electricity between them as they gazed at one another. “Yes,” was all Tiffany said by way of reply, but it spoke volumes. “Please stand, Tiffany,” Lisa said. Tiffany rose. Lisa took her by the wrist and led her a few steps forward. Tiffany did not offer any resistance. I watched her in a mirror. Her tongue was lolling out of her mouth. It was as if she were dumb, or wanting to be. Lisa walked round behind her, those dark spanish eyes relishing every inch of Tiffany’s flesh. She squeezed each of Tiffany’s bottom cheeks in turn, as if weighing them, judging them, counting the ounces of fat that protected her there. In her other hand she still held the crop. A shiver ran up Tiffany’s spine. She drew her hands in front of her, pressed them to the tops of her thighs. Would she try to slake her desire in front of all the Mexicans? I wondered. Could Tiffany, the glamour goddess, really touch herself with so many crude and coarse people watching? She bent forward slightly, dipping her back, presenting her bottom, pressing her fingers harder into her thighs. Just inches from her pussy. It was hungry from all our playing. Pushing, pushing, sighing, pushing harder. Lisa, meanwhile, was oblivious to Tiffany’s tussle with her conscience. Or maybe she just didn’t care. She traced the crack of Tiffany’s bottom with her finger. Tiffany flexed her cheeks once, otherwise did not resist. Was Tiffany hoping Lisa would make her choices for her? With avid pussies we sat watching, wishing the men were still here. Several of us, including me, stealthily dipped our fingers into our dells. We glanced at one another, looking down. Watching fellow fingers going to work. Important work. Let Tiffany wrestle with herself. We were all younger than she, more natural. She was the head stewardess. We were just undisciplined helpers. Mistress turned, saw us. We gasped and withdrew our hands. But none of us closed our legs. They remained open, our snatches begging for more. Mistress surveyed our glistening pussies. To our surprise she said nothing, merely nodded her approval. Then she turned back to Tiffany. We were flustered then. It seemed o.k. to frig ourselves when it was not allowed, had to be done in secret. But to do it openly? How unladylike! We glanced fretfully at each other. “Open your legs, Tiffany,” Mistress said to our lovely leader. Tiffany’s legs were hardly pressed tight, but she widened her stance, looked questioningly at Lisa. Then she followed the woman’s fingers as Lisa put them to Tiffany’s slit. “Oh!” Tiffany gasped. Lisa explored her. Inspired, I put my hand Sylvia’s slit and rubbed it for her. Maybe she would do mine also. Instead, she squealed. Mistress turned, looked. Sylvie put both her hands to her mouth. I withdrew mine, too late! “Girls, how indulgent do you think I am?” Mistress scolded, walking over to us, leaving Tiffany bereft. “Doing yourselves is one thing, but each other? Do you think we Mexicans have no civilization down here whatsoever?” “I-I was just following your example,” I stammered. “I am preparing Tiffany for discipline,” Lisa replied sternly. “Is that what you are doing to Sylvia here? Do you intend to play Mistress behind my back? Is it a coup you are planning, Barbi?” “N-NO,” I gulped. Tiffany turned, watched mistress. Her eyes were mirthful. One domme admiring another. And I noticed Tiffany admiring Mistress’ bottom also. Did she hope to have a turn with the riding crop? Would they trade off, sharing the crop, until they were both black and blue? “M-Ma’am, it is proving to be a rather looong flight,” Sylvia said. Her eyes stared up at Mistress, large as saucers. Of course I felt it then. We all felt it, even Tiffany. We had to go to the bathroom! Sylvia had perhaps just been making an excuse for me, friendly girl that she was. We’d all been together now long enough to have gotten into the habit of covering for one another. But once that dastardly thought got loose, going to the bathroom, it was devastating! We’d been dizzied by our strange visitors, our new surroundings, by desire itself. But now we had one overwhelming thought on our mind, and it was certainly the most unladylike that we’d had all evening. Peeing! And where was the bathroom? None of us had been down in this awful basement before, obviously. We played in the sun. We did not seek out dank underground rooms with God knows what inside them. The nearest bathroom I could think of was at the other end of the house, upstairs, by the pool. And then there was one two floors up, near our bedroom. But down here? And how would we get by all these people? It was then that a rescuer appeared. He strode forth, dressed in the attire of a Bullfighter. A breaker and tamer of bulls. But we were merely she-cows. “The grandee! The grandee!” I heard whispered in the onlookers gathered behind me. But how could it be? The grandee was old, this man was young, and heart-stoppingly handsome! “Good evening, girls.” He nodded to us deferentially. As if perhaps he were addressing the Ladies’ Garden Society. We shivered, all naked and raw and desperate to pee. Tiffany stood with a hand placed delicately over her pussy, squeezing it as politely as she could, her thighs squished together. The rest of us looked no better. “Do you beautiful young women have to go to the bathroom?” the man asked. Gritting our teeth at the indignity of it all, we nodded. “Well I am the son of the grandee. His house is mine also, and everything in it. Including guests. Even undressed guests.” He smiled. A man’s smile. He might be polite but there were wicked thoughts up there in that curly-haired head of his. “Please come with me, girls.” The mob of primitives behind us let out a murmur of disapproval as they watched us all stand and begin to follow the young grandee from the room. He turned to them. He spoke in Spanish. We trooped on past him, led by Lisa, who apparently knew where he intended for us to go. We were let through a door and found ourselves in a small but charming pub. There was nobody inside but ourselves. I gazed at rows upon rows of smartly arranged glasses. They stood on wooden shelves. Cherrywood paneling lined the walls of the room. A bar beckoned, offering stools to rest our tired fannies on. There was a table, too, perhaps for intimate conversation, surrounded by armless, arrowbacked chairs. And there were many bottles of liquor, whatever variety you might wish. Fine for drinking, I thought, but I wanted just the opposite at the moment. “Ah, girls,” the young grandee said, entering triumphantly behind us. He flipped on a T.V. so he could monitor the proceedings in the other room. I watched as a Spanish man and woman were selected from the members of the crowd itself. They emerged from it and took our place in the center of the room. Our chairs were replaced by the guards with a large sheeted mattress. The man and woman began tenderly undressing each other. They were young, I realized. Uncertain. It was their first time together. A forced marriage. Between a king and queen of the prom, so to speak, voted to be together by the others who now sat watching them. “About our potty,” Tiffany finally said, turning her gaze from the T.V. to the grandee. She was bold, delicious. She tossed her hair across her shoulders like a young mare, confident and daring. Her eyes smoldered at him as she held herself in with a hand cupped to her dell. “My father is a forgetful man,” the grandee smiled at her. He took up her challenge, but gracefully. “He builds places like this, to drink in to your heart’s content. But he forgets that what goes in must come out down below. The most I can offer you is privacy, that’s all.” Lisa had fetched a popcorn bowl and now held it out to us. “Go in there,” the grandee said. “I have never seen white girls pee before and it will amuse me greatly.” “Well, I for one have to go too badly to argue with a pervert!” Tiffany snapped. She was not used to being tormented. She was used to being spoilt by men, plied with favors by them...until they bored her stiff. Hastily she squatted over the bowl and separated her cunt lips. Gazing up at the grandee, still defiant, she released her golden rain into the bowl. The rest of us waited, jittery and urgent. Languidly Lisa hefted the popcorn bowl, poured it out in a sink, rinsed it and replaced it on the floor. One by one we relieved ourselves in it until we were all through. The grandee sat at the table, smoking. His eyes glittered at our display. Someone thoughtfully wetted a towel and we passed it from one to another, wiping ourselves. We retreated to various parts of the bar, some of us sitting on stools, others on the floor by the T.V. Tiffany casually pulled out a chair at the grandee’s table and sat down with him. She blushed slightly as he admired her nudity. Her breasts wobbled on her slim-ribbed chest. They were swollen and heavy, their nipples sticking up with no hope of being modest. “May I buy you a drink?” the grandee asked. He was smooth, unruffled. An amazing gentleman. Tiffany giggled, a little embarrassed. “If you wish,” she said. “Lisa, please fetch us drinks,” the grandee ordered Mistress, who sat opposite Tiffany, the two of them sharing him between themselves. Ah! Mistress looked taken aback. Tiffany had turned the tables on her, made HER the slave! Visibly distressed, Lisa rose. As she passed the grandee she girlishly stuck her tongue out at Tiffany. We laughed. He looked, had not caught it. Tiffany merely smiled, a cat with a mouthful of canary. Amongst ourselves we appointed Amber to get us drinks. She was young and puritanical. She did not like drinking. Saying it tasted “yucky” and we shouldn’t be doing it, she whiningly got the glasses for us anyway. Each of us in turn told her what we wanted. Cheryl saw to it that she mixed them correctly. She got up on the bar and lounged along the length of it, stretched out like some lioness at noon. Watching Amber as one might a cub. Our hair bedraggled, our bodies shiveringly naked in the cool room, we nonetheless created for ourselves a sort of little party. We felt silly, awkward, yet somehow liberated. Except for the grandee and Lisa, there was nobody here but ourselves. Just us girls, thankyou. No boys invited. Just our Master, keeping a watchful eye over us. We giggled and chirped and gossiped. On the T.V. the man and the woman in the other room lay down on the bed and began making love. Sipping our drinks, we watched. A microphone picked up their small talk, piped it into our room. We could not understand what they were saying, but we could easily guess. The man presented himself to his new Queen. She opened for him. They merged. We watched, mesmerized, as the couple began to fuck in earnest. Their moans flooded the room. I sat on a stool, backwards, to watch the T.V. The stool had a back to it, for comfort. My legs were open around the stool’s back. It was shaped in the outline of a heart, subtly cut so as not to be too obvious. Except for the outline of wood, heart shaped, the stool had nothing else to offer in the way of back support. Through this well crafted opening my pussy showed, above it the smooth outswelling whiteness of my belly. Just above the back of the chair my breasts dangled, sweetly, as I leaned forward watching the T.V. My hands, resting on my knees, supported me. I wanted them elsewhere, though. All around me the girls were becoming agitated as we watched the amorous fucking on T.V. Yet, glancing at the grandee for permission, we met eyes that told us “no.” He would not allow us to pleasure ourselves, as Mistress had. He expected us to be proper young ladies in his presence. We must not abuse the little period of refreshment he was giving us. We could drink, laugh, talk, watch T.V. But we must not do more. It would be unseemly, yes! American girls must remember to behave properly when they are in a foreign country. They should not carouse like rowdy tourists. Far from it! They should learn the local customs, admire the language, immerse themselves in the culture and ways of the native people. Well, we weren’t doing too badly on that last score, I thought to myself. With my pussy tense and my belly rippling, yearning, my bottom splayed upon the seat, I leaned closer to the T.V. “I want to be a mommie,” I thought, watching the Spanish groom take his newfound bride. She was virgin, seemed too old to be but was. He speared her, she screamed. I trembled as I watched him rod her, his shaft thrusting in and out, blooded. Lisa meant to walk past me. Tiffany, still seated with Master, had ordered another drink. Lisa stopped, though, next to me, put her hand on my shoulder. Together we watched as the man in the next room fucked his bride in earnest. “It is terrible but beautiful,” Lisa murmured, watching the bloody prong at its work. “I know,” I whispered. As we watched she put her hand to my belly, caressed it. “Have you ever had a baby?” she asked me. “No,” I breathed. “Neither have I,” she said. I put my arm around her waist and hugged her to me as we watched the grim groom, all business now, ignoring the bride’s imprecations to desist. “He must impregnate her, she will conceive,” Lisa said to me. “I want it,” I gasped. “I know you do,” Lisa said. Reassuringly she stroked my belly, as if her love alone could make it rise, bear fruit. She dipped her finger in my navel, pressed, indenting me further. Alas! She was not properly equipped and she could not enter there. “Lisa!” Master called. She left me, went to fetch Tiffany’s drink. Returning from the bar she winked at me as she passed. My hair unkempt, my legs open, my tummy yearning I looked back hopefully. I would have had her as my husband then. She could have taken me, I would have striven mightily upon any implement she chose to bear a child for her. Together we could have do it, I was sure. Love would have found a way. But she hurried on, went to the Master who withheld his seed, taunting us. He’d watched us make fools of ourselves, from somewhere, hidden in the crowd, watched as we’d pranced about in our little uniforms and then shed them. Watched as we toyed with the men but kept them from us, mostly, thinking ourselves to be the temptresses. Yet now he out-tempted us, made us crazy for what only we were supposed to bestow. We were the bestowers, not the beggars! Only men were supposed to beg! On bended knee, “Will you marry me?” “I have to shampoo my hair, come some other time.” Yet now he held us tight within this room and denied us. He was Master and we were but little nudie slaves, without clothes and almost without self-control. Little nudie slaves yearning to do his bidding. “Is there any way I could accommodate you, Master?” Tiffany asked him. Her wide spread eyes gazed at him artlessly. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders, uncombed. She licked her lower lip. She held her tongue there, waiting, as if he might wish to plop a cherry on it. Or a plum. A big plum, yes. With a long, thick stem still attached. 30 When we were done . 30? Tiffany--our tit(ular) leader She came to her senses Spanish girl came up, sat beside me--a lesbian thespian she could have said I was so flushed and hot I did not hear Stand up and confess to him she urged giving my little bottom a hearty slap. I laughed i could not refuse him... after all...sigh And oh sir I took drugs in your house I did not resist when they were offered to me I sobbed a little He listened to my blushing admission twiddling with my pussy hair all the while You girls must rub yourselves for 15 seconds every minute. Igor here will time you. breast friend The problem was that she wore nothing down below. The hem of her shirt cut across the top of her pubic hair and--driving in a van, escaping palming our white bottoms. Getting behind a girl he would stroke her seat and then grab her hair and push her forward. With her bent over he would fun his finger down her butt crack and then ordering the mexican women to bring us things sometimes, or telling them to go away. We were mistresses at heart, not slave girls; bitchy and presumptu They were surly and matter of My confused welter of thoughts swirled within marching up the grandee’s lawn subsided soon after. It had been crazy, thinking to enslave myself to some man! I lay on a towel beside Tiffany the next day. Our bottoms still glowed from yesterday’s flogging, though the heat was beginning to subside. “I love it here, but we simply must get away,” I whispered to Tiff. “Don’t worry, I have found a key,” she mouthed back. “To a van.” Behind us, unhearing, a spanish girl applied ointment to our bottoms. The five of us had been pampered all night by young spanish girls from the village. They’d volunteered for it, they told us. Our heinies were rubbed with perfumed oils as we lay upon a large bed. Five across, just like at the wall. The bed was stripped down to just the covering sheet. The spanish girls cavorted above us. The grandee had forced them to undress. Their young teats, newly sprouting from their flat chests, hung clingingly down as they scampered about. The grandee watched us as the five of us lay there sobbing, holding hands. We still shivered with need from the effects of the drug, our legs spread invitingly for any Rameo who might happen by. Finally, stepping close, the grandee gave us permission to masturbate. Sighing with pent up relief, not wanting to but having to, we glanced at each other, then quickly thrust our fingers down our tummies to our cunts. The spanish girls continued to minister to us, considering our naughtiness to be quite natural, nothing to be ashamed of. spraying on the first healing lotions from atomizers, we frigged ourselves silly. As I jerked my bottom about I thought of the whipping. The square, with its intense heat, the people, the flies that buzzed close to inspect our bottoms, just before the rains came. I cherished the moment, then drove that thought from my head. With a groan I came again and again, thrashing on the towel, the spanish girls ministering to me, while all around me my friends came too. 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> /