Message-ID: <6287eli$9712101507@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: Andrew Roller Subject: Summer of Sin part 3 of 3 (NND) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Reply-To: roller39@IDT.NET Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <348DD9DB.7826@idt.net> --------------------------------------------------------------- PROBLEMS? Please try viewing this with Netscape Navigator. --------------------------------------------------------------- _/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/ Andrew Roller Presents NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS in SUMMER OF SIN _/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/ Chapter Three I found myself in a larger home, still in the center of Paris. We had parked in a garage attached to the back of the house and gone inside. A woman received us. She took our coats off. She gazed briefly at our nudity, then spoke to a servant. “They will require baths,” she said. The woman was about 40, the servant perhaps a little younger. We were led away by the servant; Rebecca drunk, myself confused. The man remained behind with the woman who’d greeted us. In the car he had not molested me, as I thought he would. Instead he had simply let me sit beside him, his arm gallantly around my waist. He treated Rebecca the same way, not touching her, save to hold her with his arm. She’d talked of silly things. He’d listened, mostly. She’d told him of a ring she’d bought downtown, as if we were going, perhaps, to lunch together. I was taken into a bathroom by the servant and deposited with yet another servant. The house was lavish in the extreme. The bathroom left me in awe. A big marble tub already brimmed with bubbles, the water still rising in it. Hot steam wafted up. “She is to be?” one servant, a middle-aged woman, said to the other. “Yes. The bottom,” the servant replied. Then they left, Rebecca taken away from me, with only the newest servant remaining behind. “What is to happen?” I asked the servant, one female to another. It had taken me awhile to muster the courage to ask such a question, I thought. I should have asked the man, in the car. But he made me afraid. “I do not speak the English,” the woman replied. She helped me into the tub, efficiently, even as she spoke to me. “Your jewels,” she said. “Off.” Standing in the tub, I let her strip me of them. She laid them carefully on a cloth on the bathroom counter. I was pushed to a sitting position in the tub when she had set aside my jewels. She washed me. She used a washcloth. When she had done all of me, including even my hair, she pulled me from the tub. I felt like a small child, handled by its mother. She dried me. She sat my bottom on the furred seat of a toilet. She told me, “Stay,” and went and got a makeup kit out of the bathroom cabinet. Then she did my face, very carefully. She also brushed my pubis and inspected it. I felt awkward, knew not what to do, sat with my legs splayed as she did it. Then she touched a rougue pencil to my nipples and colored them, making them redder. “Now you ready,” the woman said in broken English. “For what?” I asked. “I no speak the English,” the woman replied. I thought she might kiss my cheek. Perhaps she considered it. But in the event, she did not. Instead she took my hand, made me stand, and escorted me out of the bathroom. The man was waiting for me on the other side of the bathroom door. When I had met him at the party, not noticing him too much until he grabbed my hand and pulled me from the bathroom, he had been dressed in spaghetti-stained Speedos. Now, however, he had showered, and dressed himself to the nines in a jacket, tie, and pants. I was presented to him by the servant, who quickly absented herself from the room. I was nude, thin, shivering with fear. My nipples on my upraised breasts were rouged. I offered them to him, unwittingly, strangely wishing to keep my posture straight even as his eyes devoured me. My uptilted tits felt as if someone had put a match to their tips, setting them on fire. I felt my hands caress my thighs, my hips, and finally settle awkwardly between my legs, covering my pubis. He grabbed me. His hand seized the back of my newly-brushed mane of hair and yanked my head back. He made me offer him my lips. I gasped. He took my opened mouth as an invitation to insert his tongue. He stabbed hard between my teeth. He forced my jaws apart farther, he filled me up with the meaty flesh of his tongue, making me yelp at his intrusiveness. When he let me gulp down air I did so tremblingly, his hand still on my hair, but letting me have free movement of my head again. My nipples, scraping against his overarching body, pressed hard to his suit and then released from its enveloping touch, felt even more inflamed. “I shall train you in the arts of love, as they relate to the whip,” the man said to me in a gruff, no-nonsense voice. “Then my son shall fuck your bottom.” “I do not wish--” I said in a high-pitched voice. He drew a black cloth from his breast pocket. It had been fetchingly arranged there, neatly folded into a ruffled V. I had thought it a handkerchief. It proved longer, and thinner than a handkerchief when he gave it a flick and unfurled it. It was a gag. He pressed it quickly between my lips and then, turning my nude figure as a potter turns a soft, new urn upon his wheel, he turned me so my back was to him and tied the gag in the nesting of my hair. He lifted my long ropy mane of hair with his hand first, carefully, but resolutely, as if I were a young pony being bitted. Then he paused. With myself biting fruitlessly into my gag, trying to get it off me, my hands skittering nervously across my hips, wondering if I dared to tear the gag from my mouth with my fingers, he breathed, “God, you have a perfect figure. A wonderful bottom!” Then he turned me to face him. He kissed me again, passionately, right over the gag that split my lips and kept my tongue pressed back into my mouth and my jaws apart. It was a long, loving kiss, despite the gag, and the fact that it kept him from pushing his tongue deeply into my mouth again, as he had before. It was he who seemed to need the air more when at last our faces slipped apart. “Forgive me,” he gasped, drawing in a breath. “I should not succumb to your beauty. In Saudi Arabia it was forbidden. A whipmaster should never enjoy the charms of a prisoner.” A servant, a male, opened the door to the bedroom. “Master, there--” he paused. “Oh, forgive me,” he said. He wore an embroidered white shirt and black pants. There was a thin black tie securely fastened around his neck. His sleeves were rolled up. “Yes, Benson?” the man holding me said to the servant. “There is a call requesting your services in Havenhurst,” the servant said, bowing slightly, then presenting in his hand a portable phone. “A man’s wife returned home late and her husband wishes to have her corrected.” “Have them make an appointment,” the man holding me answered. “Tell them the wait will do them good. I cannot come this evening.” “Yes, master,” the servant replied. Quietly he shut the bedroom door, disappearing as quickly as he’d appeared. The man holding me shook his head. “So busy these days,” he said. He looked in my eyes. “I must do you, then your sister,” he said. “Come, let us have you in the bed.” I resisted, but he seemed to take it as an enticement, seeing me wriggle, batting my hands away from my gag when I tried to lift my fingers to it. He pushed me across the room, keeping one hand gripped around one of my wrists so he could control me. I was made to mount up on a large bed. It stood high off the floor, with stairs for a girl like myself to get up on it. I climbed them. He held my wrist. He cupped my bottom and guided me up with his hand hot-pressed to my cheeks. They wobbled upon his palm. When I was standing on the bed he put his foot up on it and stepped up behind me. I tried to lie down. “No,” he said. “You will not be sleeping in the bed. You will remain standing,” he said. He pushed me forward, himself behind me, both of us standing on the bed now. He walked me up to the pillows. My feet sank in the bed, I walked unsteadily. When he had me standing between two pillows, he pressed me up against the wall. The bed’s wooden headboard bumped against my knees. I gasped. With my tummy hard against the wall, I lifted my chin and looked up. My nipples, stiff, poked into the wall’s fabric. It was a satiny fabric, but dull in appearance. My breasts, crushed to the wall, ballooned between myself and its hardness. Above I saw twin iron rings. The man lifted my right wrist and fastened it into the ring set in the wall. I should have used my other hand to tear at the gag in my mouth, but instead I let it hang aimlessly by my side, waiting. When he had fastened up my right wrist, he took hold of my left and lifted it and imprisoned it like my right. I was left standing with my wrists upraised, my arms apart. My hands, widely separated from each other, grasped with their fingers at the flatness of the wall, uselessly. The man stepped away from me. The bedroom door opened. I twisted my head back, fearfully, and saw a young man in the door. He looked about 15. He had a face in need of a shave, as boys do when they are old enough to shave but haven’t started yet. “Is she ready, father?” the boy asked. “Not yet, son,” the man replied. “Come when I call you. Not before,” he said. “Yes, father,” the boy answered. “She is a fine one.” “Do not play with yourself waiting, and shoot before I call,” the man answered. “Yes, father,” the boy said. The door shut. Tremblingly, I was left with the man again, alone. “I am too big for your virgin ass, otherwise I’d perform the necessary insertion with my own prong,” the man told me. His voice was clinical, like that of a doctor. “In Saudi Arabia I worked with boys, opening up young brides’ bottoms for their new husbands. And, occasionally,” he added, “the bottoms of young boys who had male lovers who didn’t mind flaunting the Koran.” His words made me quiver all over. I felt my knees tremble. He took advantage of my nervousness to open my legs. He pushed the pillows aside and spread my knees so that they were a good two feet, or more, apart from each other. Then he drew iron rings out from under the bed’s headboard. First one, locking it around my right ankle, then a second, putting it around my left. Each one was lined with fur. It was attached by a very short chain to the wall beyond the bed’s wooden headboard. Thus fixed, I stood with my arms and legs in a wide vee. “Push out your bottom,” the man told me. “Offer it.” He walked to the edge of the bed and leaned out and opened an armorie that stood close beside us. I swivelled my head back behind me fearfully, yet obeyed his command to better present my bottom. I saw the armorie was mirrored inside. Amidst the sparkling mirrors, the contents magnified and reflected out to my eyes, was a motly assortment of flagellatory items. My bottomcheeks cringed. I emitted a plaintive sob. I felt my breath, drawn in through my nose, catch in my chest. My tummy released butterflies and they flew up to my ears, making me so nervous I could barely think. “Bottom out!” the man snapped. He had taken a long bamboo cane from the armorie. He swished it in the air. “Your ass will taste each of these, so you can get a feel for each one,” the man said. He gestured expansively at the armorie’s contents. “This,” he said, “is a cane, that I am holding now. It was cut and polished in the Philippines. I wonder if they thought of the spoilt young girl’s bottom that would taste it, as they worked their fingers upon its length, making it perfect? You will not have to handle it, my dear. Only your ass will ever touch it.” I closed my eyes. I felt my knees sag. I let out a pitiful wail. “What? Crying before it even touches you?” the man asked. “I expect more bravery than that, even in a girl of 13,” he said. “Imagine your sister, waiting downstairs for her turn. You at least do not have to wait for it, as she does.” I heard a slicing in the air behind me. Suddenly, the cane connected with my bottom. I lurched forward. My cheeks were forced to splurge under its contact, briefly, before it darted away, leaving a white line of heat across my bottomhalves. I felt my tummy pressed hard against the wall. I worked my bare ass where, moments before, the cane had been pressing into my flesh. “EEEIEIEIeeek!” I wailed into my gag. The man behind me laughed. My bottom burned, harshly. “Yes, that is what the cane feels like,” the man said. He gave me another stroke. It was sharp, quick, leaving a bright line of pain across my pale skin, just like the first. I ground my hips into the wall and felt screams tear themselves from my throat. My nipples dug harshly into the satiny wallpaper. “What a display you make of your fine young ass,” the man said. “I should have my son come in and watch this.” But instead he tossed the cane to the bed and reached in the armorie again, taking out a small whip. “This is a pony whip,” he said. “Slender, unbraided, with no knot at the end. It is for tender young horses, so as not to mar their backsides before a buyer has been found.” He swung it. It sliced into the flesh of my bottom. I screeched at the ceiling. “My, you are as jumpy as the young horses the whip was made for,” the man laughed. He gazed at my nude bottom as I rolled it about, rudely, and shoved it wantonly into the air behind me. “One more,” the man said. He used my unwittingly proferred bottom as an invitation to give me a second stroke. I shouted. I made a new display of my fanny, arching my back, pushing my hinds out in an effort to cool them. “We shall go through each one of these implements, letting you get a taste of each,” the man said calmly. By the time his son entered, I was a quivering, broken figure, hung from the wall like a three-dimensional painting, with only the soft sobs in my throat and the febrile jerkings of my hips to indicate I was alive. My bottom was red-ribboned, marked like a roadmap. Yet all the lines were delicate, placed as if with care, and no blood had been drawn. It was as if my pale bottom, white as china, had been carefully marked by an able craftsman. His son was ruder, less, calm. He prised apart my stinging bottomcheeks and shoved in his staff. It was well-oiled by the servants. He put it all the way up my virgin ass. Then he pleased himself for several minutes, rodding himself in me. At last he spilled his seed. He wanted to have another go, after a moment’s rest, but his father told him he had to still do my ‘sister’ downstairs. With reluctance he pecked my cheek with his unshaven face and was gone. “Yes, that was my son,” the man said, gazing at my bottom where his son’s seed was oozing out of my ass. “Like I said, I would do you myself, but you are too new for me. I would split you in two, I fear.” He put up all the implements, back in the armorie, as I hung crying upon the wall. “The servants will come and take you down now,” the man said. “They will bathe you. Then, if I am still busy with your sister, perhaps you will have a short nap. Then a car will take you home. You have done well. Be proud of your first experience. The marks of it will fade in a few days, at most.” He did not kiss me, or touch me. He finished putting his things away in the armorie. Then, still dressed to the nines, but with a slight awkwardness in his walk, and a visible bulge in the front of his pants, he left. He shut the door quietly, as if not to disturb my sobs. A few minutes later two servants came in. They were both female, not males, apparently to preserve some shred of my dignity. They released me from the wall. They took me into the bathroom and gave me a bath. The touch of their hands upon my bottom made me jerk and cry out. “She is sensitive there,” one woman said to the other. “Yes,” the first agreed, then gave a smirk. “Oh, darling, it’s nothing, really,” Rebecca said to me, when we were safely back at her home. We stood alone in her bedroom. It was early morning. The light from the rising sun shone in the windows of her bedroom that faced toward the east. “You should be proud of your little marks,” she said. “But--” I squealed. Rebecca’s hand touched my hiney. I flinched. Rebecca put me in front of a full-length mirror. She inspected my bottom for me. I complained to her, bitterly, for getting me into such a condition. She smiled and patted my ass, making me wince. “It is not as if I didn’t have the same,” she said. We stood red-bottomed beside each other. She made me trace the lines the whip had left across her seat with my finger. I felt pity for her, even though it was she who’d been the cause of my grief. I kissed her seat. “Oh!” Rebecca said, jumping slightly. She laughed. “How tender and sweet you are,” she said. “You will do well in Paris.” Rebecca soon received an invitation to another party. It came in the mail. This invitation, despite my brief stay in Paris, included me in it as well. I was flattered, yet embarrassed too, for we had not been seen in sequined gowns at the previous party. “Don’t fret,” Rebecca told me. “Only the best-looking girls get invited.” We arrived bejeweled, as before, after many hours of having our hair done, and our nails and faces, looking our absolute best. Our coats were quickly taken by the woman who greeted us. Underneath we wore fashionable bikinis. In addition we wore gloves, short ones this time, stretching only as far as our wrists. I had a pearl bracelets around each of my wrists, over my gloves. I wore spiked heels on my feet. I heard noise coming from a room adjacent to the entryway where we were greeted. I stepped towards it, a little unsteady in my heels. They were new, I was nervous. “This way,” the woman who’d greeted us said. She took my arm, then led myself and Rebecca away from the boisterous room, and into a kitchen. Servants met us in the kitchen. It was large, spacious. Metal pots hung over a wooden table in the center of it. “Please take off your bikinis,” the woman said to us. Then she left, for the doorbell had rung. More guests were coming. I looked at Rebecca quiziccally. But she only smiled at me, shyly, and reached for the clasp of her bra, behind herself, saying to me, “It is best to do as she says.” We undressed. The servants watched us. I blushed, undoing my bra. When it was off me and my bosoms hung nakedly before my eyes, I asked a servant woman where I might hang it. “I will take it,” she said, brusquely. She placed it on a silver serving tray. Then, as I watched, my mouth gasping in surprise, she laid it with the cups showing their insides. She filled each bra cup with pudding. She put a cherry on top of each quivering mound of pudding. Then she arranged fruit; slices of orange and pears, and full, uncut bananas around my bra. “Please remove your panties,” the woman said to me when she’d finished decorating the tray. I looked at Rebecca. My aunt was blushing. Her own bra had been laid on a tray and its cups filled with pudding and cherries. Now she tugged at the ties of her panties and undid those. Mine had no ties and I had to pull them down my legs and step out of them. When I did, lifting them from my feet with my hands, the servant woman snatched them away from me. I watched with shocked eyes as she opened my panties, making the crotch and the inside show, and laid them on yet another silver tray. Then she dropped bits of pineapple into my panties. After this she put scoops of ice cream around my panties and decorated the ice cream with nuts. Meanwhile, still wearing my heels, still mittened with my jewelled gloves, I was held by the servants and whipped cream sprayed onto my bush. I shouted. They bade me be silent. Rebecca giggled. The same was done to her. Whipped cream was squirted around my bush and, my legs being parted by rough hands, up between my thighs. Then it was sprayed up along the line between my bottomcheeks. Finally it was sprayed in a single thin trail around my hips, forming in appearance bikinied panties made of whipped cream. Then they put the can of whipped cream to my nipples and sprayed each of those. When they’d been coated they sprayed in larger circles until they’d covered a good portion of each of my bosoms. My nipples stood up perkily, breaking through the cream, and they re-sprayed them. Carefully they then continued their work, creating as they sprayed a small bra of whipped cream for my breasts. It had all the appearance of a real halter, save that, unlike a real bra, which had to be undone, this one could simply be licked away. I gazed at Rebecca. She was clad as myself, wearing real gloves and heels but a bikini made of whipped cream. Our hostess was called. She re-entered the kitchen. She gazed at us. She smiled. Then she looked at the silver serving trays where our bikinis had been made into dessert. “Yes, you’ll both do very nicely,” our hostess said. “Come this way, please. It’s time for you to join the guests in the dining room.” Rebecca and I were led into an elegant dining room. There were perhaps 20 people, all formally dressed. Some were old. Others were young. A chandelier sparkled above the table. I saw they were just finishing dinner. “Two young ladies will be joining us for dessert,” our hostess, whom I later learned was named Rose, announced to the room. Rebecca and I blushed as she led us in. She walked with each of us holding one of her hands. We walked daintily so as not to smear the cream sprayed between our legs, our thighs deliberately apart. A gasp went up. I felt my blushing face turn redder still. Gentlemen arose from their places. I was offered a seat between a man and a woman at one end of the table. Rebecca was put in a chair at the table’s other end. It was a long, single table, accomodating all the diners. I sat down carefully in the seat of a satin-covered chair. I felt the whipped cream on my bottom spread on the chair’s cushion under me. I kept my legs apart so as not to make a mess of myself. “Please, have some dessert,” Rose told me. A servant, coming in behind us, presented me with the silver tray that held my bra. Blushingly I scooped pudding out of my bra. I put it on the china plate in front of me. Meanwhile, another servant was offering around the tray that held my panties. Men and women scooped pineapple out of them and put it on their plates. We began eating. “You have lovely breasts. May I sample them?” the woman beside me asked, when she’d finished what was on her plate. I nodded. She was in her 20’s, I guessed. She wore a low-cut gown. It showed the tops of her bosoms. She leaned over and licked at my nearest tit. Her tongue laved off some of the whipped cream. She exposed one of my nipples. My red teat stuck out, licked clean and looking like a bright red cherry stem. I gasped. I cast my eyes toward Rebecca and saw a woman was doing the same to her. 30 ----------------------- Dreamgirls! ----------------------- -Other stories: type http://www.dejanews.com/ into your browser’s “Location” window. Press your “return” key. Under “Quick Search”, type in: roller39@idt.net Press your “return” key. -Other providers: Usenet Newsgroup: alt.sex.stories.moderated or by e-mail: file.request@backdrop.com or via the Web: http://www.netusa.net/files/Authors/eli/www/erotica/assm/ -Free minicomics: send a stamped, self-addressed envelope 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. -END OF story EMISSION -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ |