Message-ID: <1487eli$9706171132@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: Path: qz!not-for-mail Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: From: Andrew Roller Subject: new Party Pussies part 5 of 6 (NND) --------------------------------------------------------------- PROBLEMS? Please try viewing this with Netscape Navigator. --------------------------------------------------------------- _/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/ Andrew Roller Presents NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS in PARTY PUSSIES _/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/ Chapter Five Bethany entered my bedroom and shook me awake. I found myself lying on my tummy, my blonde hair strewn around me. Instantly I became aware of my bottom. It was sore. I reached back behind myself and felt it. Someone had rubbed cream into it as I slept. “Robin’s gone,” Bethany told me. “Luke too.” “Gone?” I asked, sleepy-eyed. “They will be away for a week,” Petra said. She bustled into the room. She was dressed in a short summer dress. It was almost transparent. I could see the curves of her fine body beneath it. Her long brown hair was neatly combed and piled atop her head, loosely. “It will give you both time to be trained as proper young ladies,” Petra continued. She carried a short riding crop in her hand. Bethany shivered as she came near her. Petra swished the crop, once, but it only connected with the air near Bethany’s thigh. “Get up, sleepyhead. You must bathe and learn to wear a dress again,” Petra told me. “I see Verona creamed your bottom for you. Good. Put more cream on it after you wash. That will help it heal as quickly as possible. Are you cut anywhere?” She leaned close. She inspected my posterior. I wanted to roll away. It felt strange, having a grown woman gaze closely at my bare bottom. But her presence was daunting and her hand, touching me, exuded a firmness I knew I must not resist. “No. Good. I’d thank the whipmaster for you but, since it was me, I guess I’ll just thank myself instead.” She laughed. “How talented I am! Even Annette, who endured the cat, escaped without a cut on her behind, though she’s still quite sore, I can assure you.” “You’re wicked,” Bethany told her. My friend was freshly bathed. She was nude, but her hair was glossy from combing and she’d even applied a little lipstick to her lips. “You will find wickedness is best, sometimes, in matters of love,” Petra told Bethany. “What would you say if I told you Luke paid me to handle Annette as I did, hmmm? You are young, but she is pressing 20. And still unwhipped, until last night! Why, she would have delayed and delayed for who knows how many more years. With my firm hand, she was both deflowered and whipped in one night. Now she can grow, and mature, into the the finer, the deeper arts of love. But it took me to get her over that hurdle. And you too, my little virgin. Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy having both men thread your cunt.” “I didn’t,” Bethany answered. But she blushed as she said it and there was a certain excitement in her voice. “How pretty your breasts are,” Petra told her. “But you are a young woman, not a child like Bethany. Go to your room. You’ll find a nice summer dress in the closet. Put it on. I won’t have you running around naked. Good. I see you’ve put on some lipstick. We will learn how to take care of ourselves in the week to come. All the necessary things that young ladies must know. And we will be on our best behavior too,” Petra added, and made Bethany flinch by whisking the crop by her bare thigh again. Petra laughed. “You ran away, only to wind up at finishing school! Don’t worry. At the end of the week we shall have a grand party. It will be your official coming out party, and you’ll remember it for the rest of your life!” We obeyed. Perhaps it was the promise of a party that inspired us. I liked parties. We wore our short summer dresses around the house. Outside we wore big sun bonnets, to protect our skin from its heat. We played cards, we played croquet. We learned to sew. Bow insisted on checkers matches between each of us, and we indulged her. Verona bought her more bubble fluid and we went running through the yard, barefoot, making big bubbles that floated away on the soft summer air. A week later was the night of our party. We put on gold shoes, and long silk stockings that stayed up all by themselves. We did up each other’s hair, spending hours at it. We spent twenty minutes or more tying each other into waist-cinching corsets. We fastened long skirts to our corsets. We slid on opera-length gloves that ran all the way up our arms, where they were tightly tied. We donned pearl bracelets given to us by Petra. I was given the task of answering the door and admitting the guests. I wore a small ribboned name tag tied around my wrist so people would be able to remember my name. I looked luscious. But there was one aspect of my attire that bothered me. My dress, though lovely, rose to just below my nipples. It left them free. They stiffened at the thought of being so visible. The top of my corset, which matched my dress, had loose, lacy fringe that ran across it. My nipples, stiff and hard, stirred the fringe, which excited them even more. I blushed quite deeply as the first man to enter Petra’s house looked down at my bosoms. If only my dress were half an inch higher! He had a woman with him. Her dress, though decollette, covered her bosoms. Yet mine did not. They stood out, free and lovely, showing their nippled halos. The stemmed tips of my breasts aroused themselves by wiggling against the fringe along the top of my corset. “My, such pretty breasts,” the woman said with a casual, almost indifferent voice. “What is your name?” the man asked me. “Lisa,” I replied. I lifted my wrist. I showed him the card tied to my right wrist with a ribbon. “You do not need to speak if you have a card,” the woman said. “Petra is so unimaginative.” She opened her purse. “I’m glad I brought this along,” she said. She drew out a black gag. It did not match my dress, which was yellow, or the pearl bracelet around my wrist, or my shoes, but she touched my bare shoulder lightly, and, gazing from her to the man, I let her turn me around. Carefully she fit the gag over my mouth and then bound it behind my head. “There,” she said. She turned me again so that I might look at her. “Are there two of you coming out tonight?” she asked. I nodded, mutely. I knew not what else to do. “Good. I have one more gag for your companion,” she said. “Now, where is my name card? Do you have it?” she asked. I turned. It was my job, to fetch the name tags for all the guests. The women had cards to be tied round their wrists. The men had cards which could be put into the front pocket of their suit, enough sticking up for their name to be seen. “My name is Delia,” the woman told me. I fished in a small straw basket for her name. It sat on a foyer table with a fresh vase of roses on it. I saw “Delia” on one of the cards. I drew it out. I turned. The woman presented her wrist and I tied the card on it. “My husband’s name is Frank,” she said. I went fishing in the basket again. I found “Frank.” I turned, stood on tip toe, and inserted his name card into his jacket’s front left pocket. “Very nice,” Delia told me. Bethany appeared in the hall. She was dressed as I was, with her waist tightly bound by a corset, but her stiff-nippled breasts freely displayed. I tried to motion her away. Too late. Delia spotted her. “Is she the other girl who’s coming out tonight?” Delia asked me. I nodded. Delia left me. Briskly she walked the length of the hall to Bethany. She lifted the girl’s wrist, checked the name on her card. “Hi, Bethany,” she said. “I have a present for you.” She opened her purse and took out a black gag. I saw Bethany try to flee. The woman grabbed her wrist. Bethany’s resistance faded. Was it her excitement at having her nipples on display? I don’t know. Perhaps it was the tightness of our corsets, or the smooth silkiness of our stockings under our dresses, encasing our legs. Perhaps it was the long spiked heels on our shoes. We did not run. Instead, though we might try to resist a little, we wound up submitting instead. “You are truly beautiful,” Delia’s husband, still at my side, said to me. I saw his crotch had hardened and risen and knew he did not expect to confine his admiration of my beauty to the Platonic. But I nodded, mutely, wearing my gag. When he left me, I did not reach up and try to untie my gag. Instead, I waited silently for the next couple to arrive at the house. The guests numbered about a dozen. The men ranged in age from their 20’s to their late 40’s. All their wives were young, 20 at the least, perhaps 30 at the most. Petra sat at the head of the table. She wore a long, flowing dress, like Bethany and I, but her nipples did not show. Bow sat in the chair closest to her, dressed in a child’s party dress. Her nipples too were covered. Even Annette was permitted a dress that covered her nipples, though, admittedly, it just managed this, letting the tops of her areolas show. Only Bethany and I showed our nipple stems. And we were gagged. When Verona served dinner she paused and loosened my gag, and Bethany’s, so we could eat. We wore our loosened gags round our necks. They looked like children’s bibs. I hoped I didn’t spill any food into mine. Bow was on her best behavior. She had a coloring book at her place to keep her busy when her interest in the food flagged. It was her favorite, a Barbi coloring book. Brand new. She would pause now and then to color some more in her coloring book between bites of her food. She was quiet, relatvely so. Only once or twice did she try to show the guests what she had colored. Annette shushed her, made her keep her coloring to herself. Dinner passed slowly. I felt silly with my nipples showing. The men, and even the women, didn’t hesitate to admire my breasts. But they said very little to me, or to Bethany. One man, almost 50, asked Bethany which school she went to. She gave the name. He did not know it. She explained it was in America. His eyes widened. “You are a long way from America,” he told her. “I ran away,” she replied. “Perhaps you will go back someday?” he asked. “Perhaps,” she answered. She ate more of her food. His eyes lingered over her breasts. As dinner wound down Annette excused herself. I watched her leave. Her dress rustled as she walked. I knew she would return without it. Petra had secretly designated her to be the evening’s entertainment. About ten minutes later she returned. She wore a bikini. Applause and a cheer went up from the table when the guests saw her. I guessed Verona must have been the one to help her out of her tight corset. She still wore her long stockings, and her gold shoes, and her hair was done up as before, and she still had her arms encased in opera length gloves, with her nametag tied around one wrist, and a pearl bracelet on the other. But, otherwise, her dress, lovely as it had been, was gone, as well as her corset. She wore a swimsuit instead, though I knew no swimming was planned for this evening. Petra didn’t own a pool. Annette gazed at the guests. She blushed a little. She let them take a long minute to admire her in her bikini. She stood at the head of the table, near Petra. When the guests had all had a chance to take in her bikini, she reached behind her back and undid her bra. The cups over her bosoms loosened. She reached up behind her neck and undid the drawstring there. Her bra fell off. Another appreciative cheer went up from the guests. Annette, wishing perhaps to show off a little, for she had truly perfect bosoms, shook them. They wobbled on her chest, both quite bare now, her bra somewhere on the floor. I watched as her nipples became fully erect. The night promised to be one the men would enjoy. I hoped Bethany and I wouldn’t find it unbearable. After all, it was our party, wasn’t it? Annette had brought with her a can of whipped cream. It was ice cold, fresh from the refrigerator. Beads of water formed a sheen upon the metal surface of the can. I knew some wickedness must be planned with this. Annette smiled. She caught the men’s eyes. When she was sure every one of them was watching her, she picked up the can of whipped cream. Then she blushed. She opened the front of her swimsuit. She peered down over her breasts at her furry mount. Blushing even more deeply, she aimed the can of whipped cream at the front of her panties. She squeezed the top of the can. She shrieked. Whipped cream burst from the can’s nozzle and filled the opening in the front of her suit. She released her bikini. It snapped shut, trapping the whipped cream inside it, against her dell. Annette shook the can of whipped cream. Now it was someone else’s turn, I guessed, to have their privates creamed. With a grin, slightly mischeivous, Annette suddenly slipped beneath the table. Several guests gasped in astonishment. I felt Annette bump my knee as she crawled around underneath the table. But she didn’t stop at my seat. Instead, she crawled on, until she came to Frank. “Aghgh!” Frank announced. He shifted in his seat. His wife gazed at him with cat’s eyes. “Why, dear. What’s wrong?” She asked. I heard a spritzing sound. “I--” Frank said. He ground his teeth together. Delia lifted the edge of the tablecloth, where it hung down over his lap. “My, she’s unzipped you,” Delia said, speaking loudly enough so that everyone in the crowd could hear. “Is the cream chilly dear? Your cock is usually so warm. Perhaps it’s wise of her to cool it before placing it in her mouth.” “OH!” Frank cried. I could see that he must be suffering under Annette’s ministrations. She had confided in me that one thing she was good at, one thing that Luke had forced her to learn, was how to be a perfect cocksucker. I hoped Frank could endure her torments. And yet I hoped he could not, too, for it would be quite naughty to watch him as he was forced to spend, sitting there at his place at the table in his nice suit. Mints were passed out. A silver bowl, containing them, was passed down the table, from person to person. We each took as many as we chose. I took two. They were unwrapped mints, made of different colors, shaped like little pillows. The bowl’s passage ended at Bow’s place. She was delighted to find that she could eat all that remained. There were quite a few left. We savored our mints. We were entertained as Annette moved from man to man, under the table. She forced each to present his cock. She squirted him with whipped cream and then took her time licking him clean. When she was finished she didn’t try to replace him in his pants. He was left, always, just short of orgasm, achingly hard. She seemed to have a knack for knowing when to cease pleasuring a man. I looked at Bethany. Surely, this was not a bad way to spend our party, if not the goodest way either. Her eyes danced. She enjoyed seeing the 50-year-old man beside her forced, after spending the whole dinner admiring her bare tits, to contrain himself as Annette took him right to the edge of losing his load. A man his age would miss the rest of the party if he were unfortunate enough to cum. I don’t know if she was glad that he survived, or not. But while he was groaning under the licking of Annette’s tongue, he had no time to leer at Bethany. Annette moved round the table to the man beside me. His name was Stewart. He was young, only 20. On my other side sat his wife. Her name was Cybil. She was the same age as he. I wondered if their marriage would last, with them both being the same age. But it had so far, for two months. Annette caused Cybil to giggle as she, hiding beneath the table, abruptly parted Stewart’s legs and unzipped his zipper. Stewart coughed. I could see he was nervous. With his youth, he was probably already on a hair-trigger. I hoped he could last, under Annette’s licking tongue. Gently I touched his arm. “Think other thoughts,” I told him. I felt very mature, suddenly, advising this man, trying to distract him, as Annette, beneath the table, squirted chilly cream onto his bare penis. “Stewart, darling, please don’t cum,” Cybil told her husband. She sounded rather like an older sister, I thought. He trembled. Annette would stop short of making a man cum but he did have to hold himself back long enough for her to cream him and then lick the cream off. She might do it quickly, if she feared triggering him, or slowly, if she wished to torture him, knowing he could take it. But at least this minimum standard of performance had to be surmounted by each man. Stewart, I saw, in his eagerness, was in danger of failing the test every man had, so far, managed to pass. “Think of Mickey Mouse,” I told Stewart. I liked him. He was young and handsome and had not the cruel streak in him that so many men I’d met south of the border seemed to possess. He was no drug dealer, that was for sure. Just a quiet young man, perhaps a student, though I’d been too nervous, with my breasts bare, to inquire too much into his life. Now, as I watched him suffer, I wished to do anything to help him. I even kicked at Annette a little, under the table, with the toe of my shoe, hoping to make her hurry, perhaps even to desist, so Stewart could survive, like the other men had. Annette moved a little to one side, so that when I swung my foot again, I didn’t connect with her. It was cheating, to do that, I knew. I did not do it again, for fear she might retaliate against me. After all, she had the whipped cream, and free access to anyone’s loins she chose to attack. I might find myself with cream all over my dress. Stewart looked like a man in a fever. I patted his hand. I whispered consoling words to him. His wife, leaning across me, urged him to hold himself in. At last, Annette must have drawn away, for a wave of relief passed over Stewart’s features. “Did you cum?” I asked, alarmed. “No,” he breathed. A moment later a man farther down the table uttered a heavy gasp as his own legs were parted and his zipper undone. “You did well, Stewart. I’m proud of you,” Cybil told her husband. “You’re cute,” I said. “Thanks,” he replied. “Just don’t touch my dick, whatever you do.” “I’m not.” I replied. I turned my head to his wife. I felt a little alarmed that Stewart would ask me not to touch him, as Petra forbade touching at the table. “Don’t worry, I’m not playing with your husband’s penis,” I told her. “That’s good,” Cybil answered. Alfonse and Rico appeared. They were well dressed, in suits and ties. There were two extra chairs against the wall of the room. They picked them up and set them next to Petra at the head of the table. “Lisa, Bethany. Would you come here, please?” Petra called. Stewart hastily got up from his chair. He took it upon himself to escort me. He had been the one to scoot my chair under me when we first sat down. Now, perhaps out of courtesy, or perhaps to dwell on something other than his own need to spurt, he gallantly drew back my chair. He took my wrist and urged me to rise. I did. I couldn’t help gazing at his penis as I stood up. It stuck out lewdly, bare and hard, throbbing gently. It gleamed with saliva from Annette’s tongue. There were wisps of whipped cream in his pubic hair, bits of which stuck through his unzipped zipper. Despite his awkwardness at being forced to show his dick, Stewart escorted me, as if I were royalty, up to Petra. She thanked him for bringing me to her. She glanced at his penis, smiled, asked him to remain standing next to her in case she needed him. I glanced down the table at Cybil. She frowned a little, but said nothing. Stewart, with his strong build, looked like a quiet-tempered Hercules standing with his naked cock on display next to Petra’s seat. “Mmmm, I like cheesecake,” Bethany said. She was standing next to me, having been escorted forward by the 50-year-old man. He was permitted to return to his seat. I smelled what Bethany smelled and turned my head. Verona brought out two large cheesecakes and set them down, inexplicably, on the two chairs Alfonse and Rico had placed next to Petra. “Girls, please lift your skirts,” Petra said to myself and Bethany. “Stewart, would you help them please?” She asked him. “They must be rolled up, and pinned.” Stewart smiled. He nodded. I wondered at this order of Petra’s, for she knew very well that I wore no panties under my skirt. She had deemed them unnecessary; for our long, flowing skirts, reaching down to our toes, made it unlikely anyone would see under them. At least, that had been her excuse, this afternoon. Now, however, Stweart reached for my dress, and lifted it. Verona lifted up Bethany’s. My friend let out a nervous squeak. I heard a gasp of protest spring from my own throat. It was no use. Our skirts were lifted. Our dells were shown to the guests. My bottom felt the cool air of the room upon it and I knew Bethany must be feeling the same. I had a white bottom again. The long week had given it plenty of time to heal. “Pin them up, yes, front and back. Don’t worry about the sides,” Petra told Verona and Stewart. With his bare cock trembling, Stewart carefully pinned up the back of my dress, then the front. I was left with no way to hide my muff, save with my hands. I blushed. My nipples stemmed above the top of my corset. In back the cheeks of my bottom clenched, unclenched. I was nervous as Stewart had been, getting his cock licked. “Now, girls, I want you both to sit down,” Petra said. She pointed at the two chairs with the big cheesecakes on them. “Do you like cheesecake?” she asked. There was a wry smile on her lips. “Oh! What do you mean?” Bethany asked. She turned her head and looked behind herself. Verona pressed on her shoulders. “YEEK!” Bethany cried suddenly. With a loud ‘plop’ she was forced to sit down on the chair, directly into the cheesecake. I felt Stewart push me down and, a moment later, I too screamed as my bottom connected with the cake. It smooshed underneath my seat. Its warm interior rose up between my legs, coating my pussy. “Ooooh! This cake is hot!” Bethany announced. But it was, in fact, just short of hot, and we were both able to sit in our cakes without having to leap up to save ourselves. We were not burned. Instead, the cake stuffing invaded our bottom cracks. It found its way up between the lips of our cunts. And when, at last, Petra bade us rise, and turn around, we displayed cheesecaked bottoms to the guests sitting at the dinner table. A roar of laughter sounded among the guests. I flushed deeply. I could feel Bethany flushing beside me. But there was nothing we could do, in our tight corsets, with our gloves and heels and stockings on, and our dresses rolled up, except endure the laughter. “Girls, get up on the table. Both of you,” Petra ordered. Bethany and I turned around. It was a relief to not have to show our bottoms to the guests anymore. But when we turned around, we were given no chance to recover from our embarrassment. Instead, Verona made Bow get up from her chair. Then she forced Bethany to step up on Bow’s vacated chair, using it as a step stool, and climb onto the table. Steve forced me to follow my friend. A moment later, both Bethany and I were kneeling on the table, our cheesecaked asses wiggling behind us as we wondered what to do. Women reached out to us. Taking us by the arm, they bade us crawl down the table. Soon I was almost back at my place, except I was now perched up on the table, on all fours, like a dog, instead of sitting primly in my seat. Cybil whispered in my ear that I should lie down. Bethany saw me lie flat on my belly and, for no reason at all, imitated me. “Gentlemen, I think dessert is served,” Cybil laughed. At once all the men rose from their places. They clambored within reach of Bethany and myself. Some hoisted themselves up on the table. Others, the two closest to us, simply stood up and leaned forward. All of them were displaying their cocks. With eager tongues, despite quick screams from Bethany and myself, they all began licking at our seats. I wriggled. I struggled. I tried to escape. It was impossible. The men’s avid tongues laved my fanny. They invaded, unbidden, between my cheeks. One managed to prise into my clenching back hole. I felt my legs spread wide and another tongue invaded my snatch. The men, meanwhile, with their attention focused on me and Bethany, presented targets for the women to engage. All of the men had erect penises. None of them had managed to replace his cock in his pants after Annette had licked it. Now the women, rising from their places, attacked the men’s well-displayed organs. The men, or most of them, continued to compete with each other in licking clean the bottom of myself and Bethany. Somewhere, I heard Bow squeal happily. In my delerium at being licked all over my bottom and within it, I found myself wondering what she was up to. Had Stewart accidentally loosed his seed upon her? It was a possibility, I guessed, with his hair-trigger penis and her ever-mischievous ways. I hoped she was not swallowing down his seed. Did I hear Petra scold her? I wasn’t sure. Bethany was squealing beside me, like some stuck pig, and I was screaming myself. Above us both, the men grunted happily. They were like bristly boars, rooting in the ground for vegetables. I flexed my bare legs and tried to close them. It was no use. They held me open and their tongues alternated in invading my bottom and my cunt. Outside, with the sun long gone behind the horizon, the desert sands cooled and the night chilled. The crops growing in long rows between Petra’s house and the desert beyond rustled in the night air. But within her house, things were rapidly heating up. I felt sweat bathe my brow as I tried to scramble out from under the men. My cunny moistened, involuntarily, for I wished not to fall prey to so many strangers upon this table that seemed like a stage. I heard screams. They were not my own, or Bethany’s, though we voiced our displeasure at being so rudely attacked. They were cries from the other women. The men who weren’t stabbing at Bethany and I with their tongues were using their penises to pin down and fuck them. There was no hope, no help now, I realized. All was lost to licentiousness. I squeezed my eyes shut. I thrashed beneath the men who attacked me. They seemed to enjoy my struggles. I felt strong hands grip my legs and push them farther apart, farther away from each other, than they already were. There was a sound as of males pushing and shoving each other. “Yeek! NO! Not there!” Bethany screamed in my ear. Her cry was urgent. Desperately I twisted my head round to her. Reluctantly, I opened my eyes. I saw a big, hulking man crouching over her. From between his legs a big dong grew and he was pressing it implacably down between the soft tender twin curves of her ass. “No! She is a virgin!” I cried. Too late! Robin had left his prize to be taken as fate might decide, and now the die had been cast. I felt someone beat out the other males and take possession of my own bottom. He wedged himself down between my cheeks, forcing a scream from me, as I watched Bethany surrender her anal cherry to the stranger. Bethany’s eyes gaped. She looked at me, her twin orbing eyes begging for rescue. But I couldn’t help. I could only scream, as she now did, her throat issuing a long moaning cry. We were both pierced. Both fucked. I wished to kiss her, to console her, but even that was denied me by the weight of the unknown man pressing down on me from above. I felt the air driven from my lungs. A huge bulk drove itself up my back passage. I felt as if I would surely never sit again, for I would be too riven, too widely opened, to ever have a proper bottom to sit on again. At last the man was fully ensconsed within my tight, squeezing young ass. I tried hard to expel him. He seemed to enjoy the clenchings of my bottom. Watching my twisting head, my flowing, flying blonde tresses, the man began to rudely pleasure himself. He pulled back. A gasp of relief issued from my mouth. But he cared nothing for me. As soon as he had withdrawn his penis a little, he shoved it up me again. I shouted. He gave a low grunt of enjoyment. Back and forth he moved his cock, never leaving me, but rodding me instead, like a rower might, rowing his sloop across a smooth pond, watching how it cuts a swath through the water. I existed only for his pleasure. I was a bottom, nothing more. He had beaten back the other randy men and managed to mount me. A few, I realized, still hovered round, pulling at him, trying to get him off me (but only to mount me with their own cock instead!) Steadily he maintained his pose, arched over me, his cock up my ass and his loins working smoothly. Up, back. Up, back. Up, back. “Y’are long about it, aren’t ye?” I heard a man say. I remembered him from our dinner conversation, barely. He was an Aussie. He had complimented me on my dress. He had asked about my schooling. He had seemed quite polite then, but he was much older than me and I found him not to my liking. Yet now, the politeness was gone. He wanted only to fuck me. He was eager for the man in my bottom to finish, so he could take his place! Oh, alas! What could I do? I turned my head to Bethany. She was screeching like a baby whose favorite toy was being stolen from her. She would flirt no more, after tonight, with her cherry bottom. She was being devirginated, and forever after would have to console herself with being a woman. I turned my head to my right. Suddenly I realized Cybil was watching me. She sat at her place. Artfully she had a wine glass poised just beneath her lips. She sipped. Her eyes gazed at my face. “Oh, Cybil, HELP!” I cried. But she only stared at me, implacably. Her eyes had a warmth to them, but it was distant, detached. She maintained an air of complete reserve. I realized she must be evaluating me, but for what? Again I tried to ask her to help me, but in response she lifted a finger, and placed it over her lips. “Shhhhh,” she seemed to say to me, though I, and many others, were screaming so loudly I couldn’t have heard such a quiet sound as a motherly shush. Then she took another sip from her wine glass. She retained her clothes still. No one touched her, though all around her there was chaos. I bit my lip. I felt the man in me go deeper still, deeper than he ever had before. His cock seemed to swell. I cried anew and felt his seed suddenly gush into my ass. He gave a war whoop. The Aussie clawed at him and told him to dismount. The man pushed the Aussie back, gave me a few deep-thrusting stabs, and filled me with his copious sperm. For several long minutes the stranger stayed mated to me. Then, softening, he pulled himself free. I felt him lift his bulk off me. I sighed. But no sooner had the man gotten off me than I felt myself flipped over like a pancake. The Aussie! He had me now, and with his bearded face he bent and attacked me between my legs. “Oh, God! Cybil!” I cried. I turned my head anew to her. She sipped her wine, watching. I felt the Aussie, whom I didn’t even like, stuff his tongue into my snatch. I trembled. My spine shivered from my tailbone all the way up to my neck. The man, despite being disagreeable to me, seemed an expert at cunnilingus. Suddenly I felt myself opened and probed as I’d never been before. I tried to close my legs but, instead, I found myself overwhelmed with pleasure. My tanned young legs opened, giving the man more room to work. He probed deeper. I shuddered. I felt an orgasm, unbidden, rip through me like paper is ripped by a slicing pair of scissors. “Aughghgh!” I cried. I shouted at the ceiling. I bucked my hips in a last effort to escape. My movement only assisted him. He invaded me more deeply. I twisted my head, looked at Cybil. She laughed. She turned, slightly, to acknowledge a bare-waisted man who approached her. She accepted his cock in her hand. She lowered her wine glass to his loins. I lifted my eyes to the face of the man who solicited her. His eyes seemed lovestruck. I thought Cybil and he might kiss, might embrace, might fuck. But no. Instead, Cybil took firm control of his penis. She did not kiss him. She did not kiss it. She dipped his penis in her half-finished glass of wine. He gaped. He enjoyed, I think, the pleasure of the wine, bathing his cock, though he’d offered himself to her in the hopes of having sex with her, not to get his dick washed. Cybil squeezed hard on the man’s cock with her fingers. Her hand was small. Her fingers were slim. She looked like a child wrestling with a big hot dog. The effect of the wine and Cybil’s grip enflamed the man’s passion. Suddenly, as she squeezed him repeatedly, like a dairy maid squeezing an udder, the man shot off his sperm. It jetted into her wine glass. It mixed with the wine and filled her glass right to the brim. Cybil smiled. She looked up from the man’s penis to his face. He had won, but failed too, for now he’d lost his chance to fuck her. His penis softened. Cybil released his cock and gently pushed him back, touching his waist, turning him, giving his bare ass a little goodbye slap. Reluctantly the man withdrew. He was humbled. He had hoped to strip Cybil of her clothing, to toss her to the floor, to conquer her, but instead, teased by her wine glass, he’d unexpectedly jetted himself away into the wine. Cybil lifted the glass. She sniffed at it, but she didn’t sip it. Then, looking at me, at my puffing mouth, my pleading eyes, she tossed the entire contents of her glass into my face. I do not know how many men I entertained at that party. It was a ‘free for all.’ I had little control of myself, especially after the Aussie opened me so completely with his tongue. He was an expert. He turned me into a trembling mass of jellied flesh, my limbs all quivery, my mind utterly bereft of reason. He eased up in his ministrations to let me watch Cybil wash the poor man’s penis. The man who spermed himself fruitlessly in her glass. But once I’d been given that short respite, the Aussie caressing my pubic hairs with his nose as I watched, he attacked me anew. His fingers pried apart my cunt lips and his tongue went to work in my snatch. He had a long tongue. It threaded me and tickled me inside like no big, bulging prick ever could. I, meanwhile, lay shocked upon the table, a glass of spermy wine tossed in my face. Sperm leaked from my bottom. It stained my cheeks. And now, with the Aussie possessed of a hard prick, I knew I would suffer sperm being pumped between my thighs, into my snatch. I gave up trying to resist. It was futile. There were too many horny men. I could no more keep them off me than a honeyed strip of fresh flypaper could keep away buzzing insects. So I lost myself in the pleasure. I resigned to the tongue in my cunt, to the taste of sperm on my virginal lips. I heard Bethany scream and turned my head and tried to tell her, ‘Relax, relax. It will be better if you simply relax and take it.’ I took all they had to offer me. Was it four men, or five, or six? I don’t know. I lost count. I lay upon the dining room table, where they’d so pleasantly chatted with me a half-hour before, and let them treat me like the fresh slut they really saw me as. I was rodded in the mouth, in the face, sperm shooting up my nose. I had dicks placed in my hands and I was forced to rub them until they squirted. I had penis tips placed over my stemming nipples, as if I might pierce, with my little buds, the very men who so thoroughly ravaged me. I had a dick placed between my plump breasts and sawed back and forth, until the cum from it shot up against my chin. My hair was used as a washrag. Men wiped themselves in my lustrous gold hair. If they were still hard, they thrust themselves within the soft mane of my hair until they were not. I was fucked repeatedly in my cunt. Penis after penis forced its way into me. I was soft, receptive. They were hard and demanding. I received. They left spent, satisfied. Bethany wailed beside me. I tried stroking her, consoling her. As the night wore on she became less resistant. There was no hope in resistance, with all these men hemming us in, grabbing us, piercing us. There was only hope in acceptance. We were wombs, little else. By receiving the men, we could play our appointed role. We were built to receive, they to give. I saw Bow wander by. She had a faceful of sperm. She said something in her high, chirpy voice about getting her first blow job. Poor girl. She didn’t understand. As a girl she could only give a blow job, not get one. I guessed someone must have shot off in her face, some awful man, inspired perhaps by her presence, by her arched brows and her glistening, childish eyes. An 8-year-old did not belong at an orgy. Yet here she was, happily receiving attention, out of her party dress now, naked as if for her bath. I do not think anyone fucked her. But some man loosed his balls in her face. Perhaps someone else helped her breasts grow, by kissing her nipples. Perhaps someone pinched her bare bottom. At last the lightening sky, fresh with the dawn, broke up our orgy. Couples shared a final kiss and went looking for their original partners. They dressed. They left. I heard cars pulling away from the house. A wet rag bathed my face. I looked up. Verona was there. She shook her head slightly. She was too old for these games. She regarded me as one might a fool, parted from his money because he valued it too lightly. I could only stare at her. I had not been wrong, had I, in attending this party? How was I to know the men would be so crude? Yet they had been exquisite, at times, in their crudeness, plumbing depths of myself I didn’t even know I possessed. “You will have baby in nine months,” Verona told me. “No,” I tried to say. But my lips were caked with men’s sperm. I felt hot sperm drying in my throat. It seemed to be stuck to my lungs, inside of me, and it was smeared all over my breasts. “No,” I tried to say again. But perhaps she was right. I’d taken a pill, but could it ward off millions of sperm, pumped all over me and within me by a dozen lusty men? I didn’t know. I heard Bethany whimpering beside me and knew, if I was to be in a maternity ward nine months from now, that she’d surely be lying there beside me. We’d have our babies together. Perhaps Verona herself would deliver them. She was a midwife, I was sure. She seemed to know everything else. Bethany and I would scream out our birthing pains and she would watch, and assist, much as she’d watched and assisted in our getting pregnant. “If I get fucked up my bottom will a baby pop out of it?” I heard Bow, ever awake, ever frisky, ask in her high-pitched voice. “Shush. Go upstairs!” I heard an exhausted Petra reply. I tried to lift my head to look, but I was too tired. “Well, I was just wondering,” Bow said. I heard her bare feet slap on the wooden steps of the stairs. She counted them off, as she mounted them, and I was reminded of having to count whip strokes. 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> /