Message-ID: <1488eli$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 6 of 6 (NND) --------------------------------------------------------------- PROBLEMS? Please try viewing this with Netscape Navigator. --------------------------------------------------------------- _/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/ Andrew Roller Presents NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS in PARTY PUSSIES _/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/ Chapter Six Enslavement. The word has a certain allure to it, I think, at least to the female ear. To be completely cared for, accepted, loved. By a man you love. Or, perhaps, by several men. Except several men, I think, can never love you as much as one. There is too much competition between them, and in the end they all prize you less, thinking of you as being someone else’s. But I didn’t know that when I agreed to be a love slave. A week after our orgy, Cybil returned to Petra’s. Bow and Bethany and I were playing croquet in the back yard. We liked using balls and sticks, and putting balls through holes. Cybil and Petra shared tea and we tried to join them, but they shooed us away. It was a conversation for grown women. We were not permitted to hear. I was disconsolate but knew, somehow, that the conversation was about me, and tried not to feel too offended. Bethany, still 12, was more interested in croquet than sitting and having tea. She and Bow knocked their balls around the yard. They gave up trying to put them through the wire rimmed arches and instead shot them through the flower bed. Tulips were trampled. A rabbit emerged and went running away. They chased after it, their long tresses streaming behind them. When Cybil had gotten permission from Petra, she drew me away from the girls and brought me inside. We sat down together. She offered me tea. Petra went outside to find the girls and lecture them about the sactity of her flower bed. “You can go now to the final place a female experiments with,” Cybil told me. “Not permanently, perhaps. But it is worth experiencing.” “Hmmm?” I asked. I sipped my tea. It was Orange Peoke. It tasted like summer. “Slavery,” Cybil said. My bosoms, clad in a light frock, must have risen as I drew in my breath. Cybil’s eyes watched them. They were young, uptilted. Their tips grew into hard points. At Petra’s insistence I wore no bra. They could be seen, vaguely, through the cotton of my dress. “Complete and total,” Cybil said, as if to ward off any annoying questions. I could not drink my tea. Finally, gathering up the courage to speak, I said, “I belong to Robin.” Cybil laughed. She leaned back in her chair and let out a long, roaring laugh, like a man makes. Finally she composed herself. “I’m talking about real slavery, darling. Robin. Did he tell you that you were his slave? Did Malthus tell you that, hmmm? They are such lightweights. I’ll show you real slavery, dear. I have some men coming over Friday night, and I’m one girl short, I’ll confess. I have a Nordic beauty, but it is too much for her to face, all alone. She needs a companion. Someone to endure the abuse with her.” Abruptly I rose from the table. I wished to hear no more. I tossed my head, primly. I looked out the kitchen window, across the lawn. Bow and Bethany were listening as Petra told them not to trample her tulips. “But we found a rabbit in your flowers,” Bow protested. “He would have eaten them up all up. We saved them.” Her high-pitched voice drifted across the grass, caught by the wind. It shifted. I did not hear Petra’s reply. “You performed excellently at the... party,” Cybil told me. She did not say ‘orgy.’ That would have been impolite, though we were discussing the possibility of just such another right now. “Thank you,” I said. I turned to her, pushed in my chair underneath the table. “The men are quite handsome,” she said. “Would you like to see their pictures?” She took out a small billfold. “Oh, are they male models?” I asked. “Two are construction workers, two are from Mexico City and work in the financial district. One, I’m sure, is a criminal, but he seems well-behaved and has plenty of money, so I didn’t ask more than that. But they all want a sweet little loveslave at their party, and they all expressed an interest in rough sex.” Her dark, liquid eyes looked up at me. “Don’t worry, dear. I’ll be there,” she said, as if to reassure me. “Are you game?” “No, I’m sure I’m not,” I replied. I hesitated. A lock of my blonde hair fell past my cheek. Impatiently, I brushed it back. I drew in a breath. I exhaled. Cybil watched me, watched my eyes, watched the rising and falling of my breasts beneath my thin dress. Her eyes felt like cat’s eyes on my body. I felt like a parakeet. Trapped, held, in the cat’s gaze. I felt my knees tremble. I sighed. I looked at her. Straight into her deep, imprisoning eyes. “But I wouldn’t mind seeing their pictures,” I heard myself say. Afterward I blamed the tea. But I knew it wasn’t the tea, or anything she’d put in it. It was me. Too curious, in the end, to say ‘no’ to anything that perked my imagination. The men she showed me were dreamboats and I longed to know what they had in mind for a girl like me. Sharon was blonde. She was 22 and a model in Mexico City, newly arrived from Norway. I don’t know what her sexual past was. But she seemed to have that same curiousity I possessed. She’d agreed to be the ‘guest of honor’ at Cybil’s party, along with me. I don’t know how Sharon spent her day, but she must have spent it rather like I did. Her hair and makeup were perfect, as were mine. Cybil had seen to that. She’d brought me in to Mexico City the day before, and turned me over to a Spanish woman who was a beautician. I spent the night at the beautician’s house. Her family received me warmly. She had a small son, a small daughter. Her husband was fat and bald. I ate dinner with them and tried not to think of the reason I was staying with them. In the morning, I was permitted to sleep late, for I’d slept fitfully during the night, as might be expected, given what I was preparing for. Finally the Spanish woman roused me. She served me brunch and had me bathe. Then she gave me a small bikini and had me lie out on their porch and tan myself. Then I was required to bathe again, to wash off the suntan lotion. After that she spent all afternoon doing my hair and my nails and my makeup. I looked exquisite when she finished. “What shall I wear?” I asked her. Outside, the afternoon was disappearing into dusk. I knew the party must start soon. “Your tan,” she replied. “My--?” I asked. I shivered. “Yes,” she said. She touched my shoulder. “It’s that sort of party. Didn’t you know?” “Well, I--” I gasped. “I have a shawl you may wear on your way there,” the Spanish woman said. “To the hotel. And heels, of course. You must have those. And earrings. And a gold bracelet. Here,” she handed me a small bracelet. It was made of gold. But the design was of two whips, interlaced. “It snaps around your wrist,” she said. “Put it on. Then I’ll lock it for you. It will identify you to the men as their guest.” The Spanish woman’s husband drove me to the hotel. It was the Tourane Independance, a French hotel. The man’s two children bounced in the back seat of his car. I think his wife sent them along to make sure her husband wouldn’t be inspired to take any liberties with me. “Here. This is the place,” the man grinned at me. “Daddy can we stay in the hotel?” the man’s daughter asked from the back seat. “No,” he answered. A valet approached our car. He opened the door for me. The Spanish woman’s husband nodded at me, bidding me to get out. For a moment I sat there, frozen, looking at him. I was naked under my shawl. I did not have a purse with me, or anything to identify me. All that had been left behind, long ago. But I did have the gold bracelet. It was locked around my wrist. I did not have the key to it. I could not remove it. The Spanish woman had the key, and perhaps someone else, one of the men I would meet. I rose. I let the valet usher me from the car. I heard the car door close behind me. And then the car was gone, and I was standing alone with the valet. “This way, madam,” the valet told me. With a genteel air he ushered me forward, up the steps of the hotel, inside, into a great, high-ceilinged lobby. We crossed it. Guests, milling about, admired my shawl. It was made with Mexican designs, religious symbols. I kept it closely wrapped around me. Once it slipped, baring my shoulder. I pulled it up quickly. My bare legs protruded out from under it, showing my calves, my ankes. I wore no stockings. I wondered if the guests knew how little I wore underneath it. We reached the back of the lobby. There was a bank of elevators there. I felt myself blushing. The valet looked at me. He pressed the ‘up’ button for me. Had he been warned, tipped, in advance? I guessed he must have been. “May I see your wrist?” he asked me. I had the wrist with the bracelet on it hidden beneath my shawl. I turned my visible wrist, showing him the underside of it, as I kept my fist tightly gripping my shawl. “Not that one. The other,” the valet said. I felt myself flush. He must have seen it, surely, when I first was getting out of the car. Hiding it now was no use. I lifted my hidden arm, extended it through the folds of my shawl. The bracelet circling it gleamed under the lights of the lobby. “Yes,” he said. He did not touch it, did not touch me. The doors to an elevator opened. The valet poked his head inside. “Floor 12,” he told the elevator’s operator. Then I stepped in. The valet did not follow me. The doors closed. We rode up in silence. Just me, the bell boy. He glanced at me, said nothing. Perhaps he did not know. I hoped he didn’t. We stopped. The elevator doors opened. Cybil was waiting. She smiled. It was an efficient smile, not betraying emotion. She beckoned to me. I stepped out of the elevator. “Such a lovely shawl, dear. Were you well cared for? You look well prepared,” Cybil said to me. She glanced over me, over my makeup, as a mother hen does over its chick. We walked down a hallway together. We stopped in front of a door. “1202,” it said on it, in big gold letters. Cybil unlocked the door and let me inside. Sharon was already waiting. She was wearing the same bracelet as myself. She was alone, nude, wearing just her heels, and a red scarf tied fetchingly around her neck. It covered nothing but her throat, leaving her tan, and her untanned places, available to be admired. I glanced at her bosoms. Her nipples had risen. They stuck up from her grapefruit-sized breasts like excited thorns. Below her flat belly her bush offered itself, framed by a white patch of skin where she usually wore her swimsuit. Now all was to be seen, the delicate curls of her mons, the cherry-capped swell of her bosoms, all but her throat, concealed behind the knotted scarf. She had a delicate, sensitive look. She seemed a little afraid, as I was. She held a wine glass to her lips and sipped it tentatively. Cybil, standing behind me, took my shawl off my shoulders, leaving me as nude as Sharon. Except I had no scarf. “The men will be absolutely brutal,” I heard a female voice say. A woman appeared. “Oh. They are here already,” the woman said. She seemed a little abashed at having spoken. Cybil frowned. “Yes, Hilda, Sharon has just arrived, and Lisa came up on the next elevator,” Cybil said. “Are you ready to decorate them?” “Of course, madam,” the woman said. A young Mexican girl appeared beside her. She was plain-faced. She was dressed in a blouse and a long skirt. I sensed she wore a bra underneath her blouse and I blushed. How awkward I felt! I was about to turn and run from the room, damn the shawl, never mind my nudity, when there was a knock on the door. Cybil opened it. A young man stepped in. He was gorgeous! But he was almost naked, dressed only in a pair of swim trunks. I saw, to my sudden surprise, that he had a gold bracelet around his wrist, just like I did. His hair was dry on his head and his chest and I sensed his swimsuit, like my shawl, was only for modesty, and he had no intentions of swimming in it. Not tonight, at least. He wore rubber flip flops on his feet. “Get inside, darling. You’ll have everyone in the hotel following you, dressed like that,” Cybil chided the boy. She shut the door behind him. He looked at me, nodded. Then he looked at Sharon and gave her the same polite nod. He reminded me of Steven, but he was older, perhaps 19 or 20. “I guess I’m late, huh?” the young man asked Cybil. With no thought at all, he pulled down his swimtrunks. Sharon and I gasped as he revealed a huge, pulsing young penis. It was covered at its base with pubic hair and stuck up from him like a ripe, peeled banana. Already there was a dollop of pre-cum glistening on its tip and I knew he must be excited, nonchalant as he was, at being able to show himself. “Is he -- a master?” Sharon asked in a voice fraught with tender arousal. I felt wobbly-kneed myself, looking at the man’s cock. “No, I’m the entertainment, just like you,” the boy told her frankly. He looked at Sharon and me, and I knew he must be wishing he could have us. But then Cybil touched the tip of his penis, and his eyes fastened alertly on her. Clearly, I saw, he was most impressed by her, by her mature charm, and was, in truth, stripping for her, not for the men. Nonetheless he would serve them just as we did, I realized, though in hopes of pleasing Cybil, while we (fools that we were) hoped to find our joy with the men. “Come,” Cybil said. She was still touching the man’s penis and she laughed. “Not that way, but into the kitchen,” she added. “The three of you must be decorated. I’m so glad you could join us tonight, Tony. It will be much better with three, and you’ll make a nice, sporting addition to our team. Such a cock! Please don’t jab me with it. Walk straight --” She retreated behind the young man, and placed her hands squarely on his hips, framing his delicious tight buns. “Here, I’ll steer you. Watch it! Don’t hit that flower vase with your cock. There, aim yourself for the kitchen door. In we go,” Cybil said. Sharon and I scurried ahead of Tony. We didn’t want to find ourselves impaled on him before the party even started. The kitchen was warm. There was a smell of baking bread emanating from the oven. In the middle of the kitchen was a large wooden table. On it had been placed two silver trays. They were quite large. Large enough, in fact, for a person to lie on, and the woman who had been cooking in here with the girl now guided myself and Sharon over to the trays. “I’m Margarite, and this is my assistant, Simone,” the woman told me. She admired the peaks of my breasts. My nipples had grown in the warmth of the kitchen and stood out like twin little nubs, waiting to be sucked. “We’re going to decorate you all over. Do you have to pee? Now you should do it. Later will be too late.” “I have to go,” Sharon volunteered. Simone pointed. There was a small bathroom adjoining the kitchen. “Me too,” I said. “One at a time,” Margarite said. “You, Sharon, go first. Don’t bother shutting the door. We’re all going to know you quite well.” She laughed, looked at her nude figure. “We already do.” “I’m fine. Just do whatever,” Tony said. Cybil nodded. She pushed him toward Margarite. “Simone, get the whipped cream,” Margarite told the girl who assisted her. The girl went to the refrigerator. She opened it and took out a can of Redi-Wip. She shook it. As I watched, as Sharon watched, from the bathroom, sitting on the commode and peeing in it, Simone put the can of Redi-Wip between the young man’s legs, from behind. “What is your name?” she asked him. Perhaps she had been too flustered by the sight of his cock, I guessed, to catch it earlier. “Tony,” he answered. “Tony, this is going to feel cold,” Simone warned him. “Ready?” “Yeah, I guess,” Tony said. Simone wedged the can between Tony’s thighs and aimed it right at the back of his balls. “Tony, have you ever taken a cold shower?” Simone asked. “Yeah,” Tony said. “Well you need one now and I’m going to give it to you right where it counts,” Simone said. She suppressed a smile. I heard a sudden squirting sound. It drowned out the sound of Sharon’s peeing. “Yeow!” Tony hollared. The back of his balls was suddenly coated with refrigerator-cold whipped cream. Simone squirted it liberally all over the back of his balls and then, bidding him open his legs, got down between them and squirted the underside of his big, heavy sperm sack, and finally the front. “Up. Get the pubic hair as well,” Cybil told Simone. The girl nodded. She bit her lip and squirted whipped cream all over the pubic thatch that adorned the base of Tony’s prick. She did not, however, spray the prick itself, such that, when she finally lowered the can, Tony’s penis was left sticking out from a circling foam of white cream like a big naked cucumber. “Oh. I’d like to suck on that!” Sharon gushed from the toilet. “The men will be sucking it,” Cybil said. “And enjoying you, my dear, in other ways. Wipe and get up. Let Lisa pee, if she has to.” I walked to the bathroom. Sharon finished wiping and got up. I sat down on the toilet. The backs of her legs had warmed the porcelian seat for me. She washed her hands. “Unh. OH!” I heard Tony cry. I looked up. To my horror, I saw that Cybil was inserting the stem of a long-stemmed rose into Tony’s pee hole. “Relax, dear. It’s just a flower stem,” Cybil told Tony. “Well greased. There. Up it goes. Keep your penis still. In, in,” Cybil said. Her voice was breathy. I think she was as excited as we were at the sight of a rose stem slipping up within Tony’s cock. I felt hot flashes. I heard Sharon gasp beside me, and she touched her slit, as if to wipe it, though it was already wiped. I wished I was finished peeing so I could wipe myself too. Thankfully the rose’s thorns had been clipped off. Tony looked down at himself, aghast at what was being done to him. But he held himself still, and let Cybil finish planting the rose in his penis. He looked like a real life ‘flower child’ when she was done, or, more likely, a gay hoping to get his cock sucked. When Cybil had finished putting the rose into Tony’s penis she gave him a black bow tie. She made him put it around his neck. I broke into giggles, seeing him dressed in it. He looked so proper, and yet he was utterly nude! Sharon couldn’t help laughing either. “Waiter, would you please take our order?” Sharon asked Tony. “You are the order, dear,” Margarite told Sharon. “Come out of the bathroom and climb up on the table.” We were sober then. Sharon and I clasped hands and walked out of the bathroom together. Margarite made her step on a chair. She held her hand as, unsteady in her heels, Sharon climbed up onto the chair and then onto the kitchen table. “Squat. Squat down on the tray,” Margarite told Sharon. Her voice was demanding, but soft. Expectant. “Kneel down. Good.” I watched, trembling, as Sharon got down on all fours on the silver tray on the table. “Press your bosoms to the tray. Yes. And your chin. Rest your chin on the tray. Good. No, keep your bottom up,” Margarite told Sharon. I looked on as Sharon was made to tuck her knees under herself, so that she fit on the tray, with her bottom sticking up while her chin and breasts were pressed hard against the tray’s surface. “Yes, perfect,” Margarite told Sharon. “Your hands behind your back, please. Very good. Hold them there. Yes, of course I must cuff them, dear. You’re dinner. What do you expect?” In a moment Sharon, who had been an elegant, long-legged model, was reduced to a slender figure squatting doggie-style on the sliver tray, her arms pulled behind her back and cuffed, while her ass displayed its vulnerable spheres in open fashion, as if to invite a fork to stab between them. “And now an apple, dear,” Margarite said, in the same soft, lulling voice, that sounded no more demanding than an airline stewardess who was strapping in a passenger. She placed fingers at Sharon’s lips. Urging them to part, popped a big polished apple between them. Sharon’s eyes gaped. I almost laughed, seeing her. Simone did laugh, but Cybil told her to hush. Margarite produced a black ribbon. She stabbed it over the apple’s stem. This held it in place and, with it trapped on the stem, she tied the loose ends of it behind Sharon’s head. “Ahh, how sexy you look, hmmm?” Cybil said to Sharon when the apple was placed. Sharon stared at us balefully. I shivered, knowing I was next. Margarite took my arm. She pulled out a chair for me, on the other side of the table, and urged me to mount it. I did, placing my foot upon it, unsteadily. She palmed my bare bottom and gave me a quick shove. I was up. On the chair and then, with another encouraging push on my tush, on the table. “Lie down, dear. On your back,” Margarite said to me. She was a big woman, and I found it difficult to disobey her. I laid down, with pressure from her hands on my bare slim shoulders. When I was down on my back she arranged my limbs as one might arrange a table centerpiece. My knees were bent, my legs lifted until my heels bumped against my bottom. Then Margarite forced my legs apart, so that my secret place between could be easily admired. To my surprise, she then called to Simone to fetch a ‘spreader bar.’ It was brought. Simone blushed as she brought it. The ‘spreader bar’ was about two feet in length, and the width of a cheerleader’s baton. It had twin rings on each end of it. I wondered at it, staring, and watched as my slim thighs were secured. Then, with my calves pressed up close to my thighs, the secondary ring on each end of the bar was clamped around my calves. I gasped. Suddenly, I was both spread by the bar between my legs, and imprisoned with my calves pressed against my thighs. I couldn’t close my legs. I couldn’t unbend my knees. How horrible this ‘spreader bar’ was! It made me feel like I was a turkey, being trussed and spread open to be stuffed! There were handles along the sides of the tray I was lying on. Margarite made me grip them. When I had, she wrapped strips of cloth around my wrists, fastening them to the handles. I tugged at my bonds. I was tied, tightly, with no way to free myself. I sighed. I felt my bosoms wobble heavily on my chest. I was naked, in only my heels and earrings, showing my tan lines. Would the men like me this way? I turned, looked at Cybil. “I don’t think I want to go through with this,” I told her. All had been fun and games up ‘til now. Getting made up, being escorted by the valet, even seeing Sharon, whom I hardly knew, so ridiculously tied. But now I was tied. It was my turn. I did not want this any more. I was, after all, only 13, prone to curiousities that weren’t entirely thought out in advance. Let Sharon, if she wished, be the men’s entertainment. She was 22, pretty, restless. I was still a child. I needed protection from my desires. Cybil walked up to me. She placed a warm hand on my tummy. She looked into my eyes. I blinked. I was afraid, looking at her. “I’m afraid it’s too late now, dear,” Cybil said to me. She rubbed my tummy. “Don’t worry. I’ll be right here. Nothing will happen to you that I don’t approve of.” I heard knocking. Cybil turned, looked at Tony. “Please go answer the door, darling. Our company has arrived,” Cybil told Tony. He stared at her, his cock painfully erect, a bow tie around his neck and his penis growing a rose. “The door,” Cybil said. “Get the door, Tony. I’m not paying you to dawdle, dear. Let the men in before they get angry.” Tony left. He blushed as he left, I saw, but I found my eyes fixing on his white ass as he walked out of the kitchen. Oh, if only just he and I could be together! But it was all too late now, too late. “I have to go to the bathroom again,” I told Cybil. She turned back to me, smiled. She patted my tummy. “No you don’t, dear,” she said, in a soft, consoling voice. Then, with a gleam in her eyes, she added, “And if you do, too bad for you.” She laughed. I trembled and wished I did have to pee, very badly. I would have done it right there, on her shiny silver tray. But I didn’t, not yet anyway, and I wondered when I’d get a chance to again. Simone fetched a small brush and a pot of honey. She bent closely over my body. She dipped the brush in the honey and then applied it, very carefully, to the nipple of my right breast. I gasped. It felt so wicked, having her daub at my breast like that with the honey-laden brush! I felt my breast tip quiver and shuddered excitedly when she turned her attention to my other nipple. She did just the tips of my breasts, leaving the rest of each bosom untouched. Sharon, meanwhile, was having the meal’s main course wedged underneath her body. Squash, potatoes, slices of ham dipped in gravy, all were placed neatly and artfully under her squatting figure. She retained the polished apple in her mouth, looking quite put out at being turned into a full course meal. Yet there was nothing she could do, with her wrists bound up behind her back. A cucumber was wedged behind her chin to keep her face level and her eyes staring straight ahead. She looked rather uncomfortable. Simone began painting the curls of my pubic hair. She used the honey to decorate me. I felt the insidious little brush as it daubed lower and lower, finally stabbing me between my legs. I let out a nervous shriek. There was laughter in the next room. Oh, the men had heard me! Yet none of them came into the kitchen to rescue me. Instead, they waited, waited for me to be presented to them. On a silver tray. “Keep your fingers folded together,” I heard Margarite warn Sharon. What could she mean, I wondered? “Don’t try to protect your bottom with them,” Margarite explained to Sharon. “Your bottom can take it. Your fingers can’t. We could have tied your hands to the tray’s handles, but the men prefer to see you have a choice. To protect yourself, or not. No doubt you’ll try to use your fingers to hide your rump, and get whacked by the whip, and regret sticking them over your behind. So, don’t. Fold your fingers together and, no matter what happens, keep them out of the way. Don’t try to protect yourself with them.” I was still pondering this soliloquoy when Cybil opened the door to the dining room. The men cheered, seeing her. “Gentlemen,” Cybil said, when the men’s cheers had subsided. “I’m pleased to announce the presentation of our main course. I don’t have roast pig, as you requested, but I do have ‘roast Sharon.’ She’s a blonde. I hope you find her satisfactory. Except I haven’t had time to roast her bottom. Perhaps, with a soundly applied whip, you’d be willing to do it for me.” Another cheer. I trembled. I almost blacked out, hearing such awful talk. Yet Simone, painting the curls of my cunt, so delicately, kept me excited enough that it was impossible for me to faint. Tony entered the kitchen. His penis was still hard, still sporting the rose. He and another man lifted Sharon and carried her out. She tried to twist her head, to look back at me, but with the cucumber stuffed under her chin it was quite impossible. In the event, there was nothing I could do to help her. I heard her scream as she saw the men. It was muffled by the apple in her mouth, but unmistakably hers, all the same, and audible. I imagined the men, taking off their belts to whip her. I tried again to faint, holding my breath, but it was impossible. Margarite showed me a spear-like cucumber. Someone had threaded it with a needle and thread, so that a string dangled from one end of it. The string had a small ring tied to the end of it, that you could pull on, if you wished to. (I couldn’t, of course. My hands were tied.) The cucumber was peeled, and oiled. Someone had carved it to a fairly slim width. “This is going up your ass,” Margarite told me. She had to speak fairly loudly. Sharon, the pitch of her voice rising, could be heard in the next room, as a slapping belt connected with her bottom. I could do nothing to defend myself, with my hands tied. I winced as Simone pressed the tip of the cucumber to my back hole. It was not hard for her to get access to me. My knees were already drawn up, and spread. My slit showed entirely and, below it, where my rump pressed to the tray, the aperature of my backhole offered itself. I gasped. Simone forced the cucumber inside me. I gritted my teeth. I tried to expel it. “Relax. You must take it. You have no choice,” Margarite said to me. “Relax and it will be easier.” She patted my tummy. Simone screwed the cucumber up inside me. I felt I could hardly breathe. It burned, it itched. Most of all, it intruded. It filled my ass and left me panting from its fullness. When at last the infernal thing was all the way up me, I felt my butthole close over its tip. Only the string remained. It snaked out of my bottom and formed a little pile of string. The ring shaped handle gleamed between my feet. A man might pull on it, curious, and delight himself with seeing a cucumber begin sliding out of my bottom. As Sharon screamed in the next room, as the belts of the men connected repeatedly with her pale, vulnerable seat, ‘roasting’ it with their blows, Margarite and Simone continued their wicked decorating of me. I’d figured out by now that Sharon was the main course, and I was dessert. Simone showed me a big tropical banana. Slowly she peeled it, grinning at me. Then, wetting the end of it with baby oil, she shoved it into my twat. I screamed. I heard laughter in the next room. The men were delighted that another female remained to be served. Simone planted the banana in my twat, but left much of it protruding. It looked like a big male penis curving up out of my sex. She got the Redi-Wip and decorated it with whipped cream. She sprinkled nuts on it. I felt awful. Penetrated, yet exposed, wearing nothing but my tan lines, and honey on my breasts, and a cucumber in my ass and a banana in my twat. But my torment was not over yet. Simone dipped a grape in the sticky pot of honey and placed it in my navel. It was a green grape, seedless, and supposed to be a decoration, I guess. Then she got a big ripe strawberry and, dipping it again in the honey, she told me to open my lips. I did. She placed it artfully in my mouth. “Hold it there,” Simone warned me. “Don’t drop it.” How could I? I was flat on my back, with my wrists tied and my legs forced apart. I suppose I might have spit it out, but I didn’t dare. When Simone saw I was obedient, clamping the strawberry between my teeth, she fetched a black blindfold. This was perhaps the scariest thing of all. With the blindfold laid over my eyes, Simone bade me to lift my head. She warned me again not to lose the strawberry from between my teeth. I suppose it might have smeared my lipstick, or put honey on my made-up cheeks if I had spit it out, but I held the strawberry tightly, feeling my saliva pool in my mouth from the effort. It was almost a comfort, in a way, this big masculine strawberry. Clinging to it, I hoped perhaps it might save me. It would, at least, keep men from sticking their dicks in my mouth. But the blindfold was another matter. With it on, I couldn’t see anymore. I had no idea what was happening to me. I coulnd’t even know where I was, if somebody moved me. Simone tied the blindfold behind my head as I clutched the big strawberry between my teeth. She told me to rest my head again on the tray when she was finished. I did. Blackness surrounded me now, making me shiver. In the next room I could hear Sharon screaming. She was louder now. Much louder. Had someone removed her apple? I clutched my strawberry harder. I felt strawberry juice trickle down my cheek. “Don’t bite it. Just hold it. Lightly,” Simone warned me. Yes. Don’t eat the strawberry. Don’t bite it. Just hold it, like a man’s balls, between your teeth, and listen. Listen to poor Sharon screaming. I felt my whole body shivering but knew not what to do about it. I would make a quivering dessert, like Jello. Footfalls sounded in the room. They approached, grew louder on the kitchen tiles. A face bent over me. It was familiar. Too familiar. “Malthus!” I gasped. “Hello,” Malthus said. “Please give me your hand.” “I can’t--” I said. “It’s tied down.” I pulled on my bonds, demonstrating, but my right wrist rose. I looked at it in the air. Malthus took it. His grip was tight, almost painful. “How--?” I asked. Gradually I felt myself rising, standing up. I was no longer on the table, I was in a chair. “This must be done gently, else you’ll be damaged,” Malthus said to me. “Although, given the circumstances, perhaps I should have simply disposed of you.” “I--” I felt confusion in my mind. “You let Robin have me,” I managed to say. I felt a slow withdrawal. Something was being pulled from my ear. An earplug... An earpiece... A direct connection to my mind, through my ear. “Yes,” Malthus said. “Do you know where you are?” “I am... Somebody...” I said. “You are nobody,” Malthus snarled. “You are just a clone. Clone 1712, produced by full-growth cloning. You are an imitation of Lisa... Who is herself a clone, these days,” Malthus added, musing. “But, in any event, you are the first clone of her to break the rules, and invade my library, and get into the data files of her mind.” I saw a room coalesce around me. It was not a room in Mexico City. It was the Library... Malthus’ library. In Malthus’ palace, on his mountaintop, on his world, in... where? I had never considered the question before. Then I remembered the dream I’d had, reading the data files. Except the ‘dream’ was real, and I was simply viewing old memories, of someone, “Lisa,” long dead, though a clone of her lived on. The ‘real’ Lisa, such as she was. I was simply one of many clones of her, denied access to the data files. But I was smarter than the other clones... somehow. I’d understood the Library, and what it offered, and broken in. “What should I do with you?” Malthus said to me. His eyes gleamed. A mixture of displeasure and interest. I turned toward him. I was nude. He liked seeing me nude. His eyes fell to my breasts and watched them wiggling. They were tender and full and round. The tips grew under his stare. I pushed the thought of sex with him from my mind. “I don’t want to be your property, Malthus. Not anymore,” I said to him. “What do you want?” he asked me. His eyes glared. He tried to frighten me with his stare. “You are a clone... of a long dead “‘Malthus,’” I said. “The only difference between you and I is that you were given access to the original Malthus’ data files. And there is only ever one of you at a time, while there are many of me. Of ‘Lisa.’ Though one is declared to be real, and given access to her data files.” Malthus straightened. He was dressed in black. He looked regal. But he had grey hair, and I did not wish to desire him anymore. He was too old. (Though, indeed, he might clone a younger version of himself.) “I...” Malthus paused. “I AM Malthus!” he declared. He was angry now. His face reddened. “You are just a clone, Malthus,” I said. “We are all just clones. We are playing mindless games, out in space, following the dictates of our originals.” “Copies of copies of our originals,” Malthus said. “All this wasn’t created by the first Malthus.” “No, or the first Lisa,” I said. I turned. I walked from the chair by the console where I’d been sitting, absorbed in the data files of ‘Lisa,’ long dead, may she rest in peace.” “Malthus? Malthus. What are you doing?” I heard my own voice. But it was not me. It was a Cassandra, the ‘real’ Lisa, the one who had the most complete set of data files, given to her by Malthus. I spun on my heels. I glared at her. She saw me and glared back. She was nude, like myself. Her breasts wiggled at me, but their tips were not hard, as mine were. I decided to ignore her. “Let me read the rest of the data files,” I said to Malthus. “Hers, yours, everything.” “Life, the universe, and everything, eh?” Malthus asked. His face broke into a wry grin. “I do not know enough yet,” I replied. “And then?” Malthus asked. “And then I want a ship,” I said. “We’re in space, aren’t we? I want to return to Earth. Perhaps I can live a normal life there.” Malthus laughed. He walked round past the console chair I’d been sitting in and then abruptly sat down in it. He seemed to enjoy my rebelliousness. For a moment I wondered if he liked me better than the real Lisa, the one standing in the doorway behind him. Then I suppressed the thought. I wanted no part of him, anymore. I wanted my freedom. “Earth is dead,” Malthus said. “You see? Our games are not so silly. We have no place to go. Nothing to do. Yes, we have fusion, but...” his voice trailed off. “But if you let it loose, really put it to work, you might no longer be sovereign, is that it?” I asked. My voice was angry. I was out of my element, beyond my knowledge, just guessing. Using my female intuition. A copy of me glared a me from the doorway. “I am selfish, perhaps,” Malthus said. “But I have provided myself with a good life here. And, well, a good life to Lisa and Bethany too,” he added. He swivelled in the chair, glanced at Lisa. Her face softened under his gaze. “You are alone, Malthus,” I said. “It’s just you. You have the complete set of data files. Lisa...” I glanced at the copy of myself in the doorway. “...She only has what you give her. And Bethany has less. And the rest of the clones... they have as little as possible.” Malthus turned from the copy of myself to me. He scrutinized me. I saw he was no longer looking at my breasts, or my belly, or my thatch of pubic hair. He was looking directly into my face. “You are different,” Malthus said at last. “Give me a ship, Malthus,” I said. I frowned. It was, I think, the first frown I’d ever formed. It was MY frown. It was not Lisa’s frown. It was me, a new Lisa, a Lisa that was separating from all that had come before. “And if I don’t?” Malthus asked. He lifted his eyebrows. He let his hand rise, his wrist dangle limply. I sensed, though, power in the limp wrist, as a monarch might have, about to pronounce a sentence of death on one of his many subjects. “You must,” I replied. “I demand it.” “You... interest me,” Malthus said. “I don’t want to let you go.” The ship began to accelerate. Lisa looked up at the overhead console. She talked to the ship’s computer. It spoke back, wordlessly, yet vividly, through an ear piece plugged into her ear. Lisa kept the visual portion off. She didn’t want to live the computer’s instructions. She just needed information. As the computer spoke, Lisa began to flip switches in the overhead console. She looked at a dial, adjusted it. She checked a meter. Its luminescent center grew, then faded, then grew again as Lisa adjusted the dial beside it. The computer might have done all this for her, but Lisa wanted to fly manually. She didn’t entirely trust the ‘auto’ mode. Not yet, anyway. Too many things in her brief life had been on ‘auto.’ Even her brain, until she’d broken into the Library. Malthus was dead. At last. She’d erased the data files to make sure of that. And his whore, Lisa, was dead too. She’d considered saving her data files. They were, after all, the files of herself, in a way. But then she’d erased them. Lisa wanted a complete break with Lisa. She’d even change her name, one day. But not yet. She couldn’t handle too many changes at once. “I am a murderer,” Lisa said to herself. It was an unbidden statement. “But I am also free,” another voice in her head responded. For a moment she thought the ship’s computer might be invading her thoughts. To make sure, she pulled the earpiece from her ear. The voice of the computer silenced. “I killed Malthus, and my mother of sorts, Lisa,” Lisa said to herself, in her head. Well, it wasn’t the computer invading her thoughts. It was just her. She now had a guilty conscience. It was a good feeling. She was no longer a clone. She was becoming a real person. She wondered what the dials on the console above her head did, and what the readings meant. She put the voice of the computer back into her ear. Yet her own memories kept circulating in her mind. She’d left the old woman in charge. The ‘aged’ Lisa, for lack of a better name. She was going senile but she still had enough sense left to take charge of things on the space colony, at least temporarily. “Raise Bethany,” she’d told her. “Teach her about herself, who she is, how she came to be.” And she really didn’t know what to tell the old woman about the other clones, the mindless Lisa’s, the ones who’d been denied access to the data files. It was the best she could do. She might have killed them all, Lisa thought, as she watched the stars through the viewport of the small craft. She turned her head, looked through another viewport. There, behind her, looming large but slowly receeding, was the cylindrical space colony. She watched the glint of stars reflected on its burnished surface. She was taking the only ship, but perhaps Bethany could build another. Or perhaps she’d return someday, and pick up Bethany, and whoever else had gained understanding... Was Earth dead? Lisa did not know. She had to decide which way to go. Out toward the stars or in toward the sun? Malthus could have been lying. “I am... somebody,” Lisa repeated to herself. But then she realized she was not much of anybody, yet, and would have to find herself through living. Through being. She was free of Malthus and free of the old, long dead Lisa, and free of the designated Lisa too, who’d screamed and tried to kill her when Malthus failed to, with his gun. She was quick, Lisa mused to herself. She, herself, was quick. She’d proven quicker than both of them. Listening to the computer, she reached up, and turned the dial that determined the ship’s direction. She went toward the stars. THE END ----------------------- 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> /