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» » Naughty Naked Dreamgirls In Cunt Castle Chapter 4 « «
Author: Andrew Roller
Copyright Andrew Roller
Feeling thoroughly refreshed, and quite sleepy, I lay within a big canopied bed. It was the kind of bed little girls dream of. I know I had, when I was little, dreaming of lying in such a bed awaiting my knight, who would come and do to me whatever it is men do to women when they love them.
Yet, despite such a sumptuous place of repose, with its light, airy curtains pulled back, yet hiding me behind their pulled back folds, leaving just a vee through which a visitor might see me, I felt anxious. I rolled on my belly. With some difficulty I drew my head toward my knees, and finally erected myself upon them. I gazed out through the window. There was a window in the room, behind a thick curtain that I’d mistaken, at first, for part of the wall. It was a large Mayan tapestry. Embroidered upon it were girls hiking upmountain to be sacrificed, their bodies so young and slender, virginal. With them went their guide, hidden behind an Indian mask with many Chieftain’s feathers in it. Joanne and Sylvia had pulled the curtain back to let me watch the sunrise. In the distance, the sky reddened. Watching it, I let my bottom cheeks draw in. I wondered how long I could avoid having a derriere the color of the sunrise.
Finishing my bath, the girls had drawn me out and toweled me with a kind of introspective curiosity. They patted me down carefully with a big, soft towel.
“You have such fine skin,” Sylvia, the nurse, the one for whom a branding was in store, told me. She seemed a little like a doctor evaluating a patient. She scared me, yet she was very considerate, very kind. She studied my bottom, though I tried to twist away. She parted my cheeks and looked within, ignoring my squirmings. She studied my hole.
A hope was dawning within me, even as I watched the sun until it became too bright for my eyes, that Polly and I would just play here, being children really, and never having to submit to men unless we truly wished to. But how would that make us grown-ups? We’d still be little brats when we left, picking and choosing, doing or not, entirely as we pleased, and suffering no consequences. It would hardly train us to be mothers, with morning sickness, blood tests, birthing, nursing, and all the other motherly chores. Yet, the night had passed and, exhausting as it had been, It had been less than I faced at Abandon Gardens, or with Max. Perhaps Rose was simply too sweet to really test it. I must admit, I’d be grateful to her if that were the case. Yet, if Louis, my lover, was really calling the shots, I could not believe that he’d let me (or, wicked man that he was, little Polly) content ourselves with limo rides and visits to saloons.
After my bath Joanne and Sylvia had seated me on a bidet. They told me I’d be cleansed here after fucking. There was a small porcelain ledge at the back of the bidet on which I was able to rest the outermost cheeks of my bottom. The rest, joining with my thighs, was left free, so that water could be maked into my privates. There was no need for that now. Joanne and Sylvia had me lift my legs up and rest them on the opposite sides of the bidet. They knelt on either side of me and painted my toenails for me. Then they drew out my hands and did my fingernails. Finally, using a makeup kit, they pencilled my eyelashes, put lipstick on me, and brushed and fixed my hair. My blonde locks were piled atop my head so that all of my slender back could be seen. A few locks dangled down before my eyes. They did not bother to discipline those. They said they made me look pretty.
Prepared in this most exacting way for bed, I was taken out to the place where I would sleep. It was the same room as before, but now the canopy had been put upon the bed, by unknown servants. I gasped when I saw it. The girls just smiled. Sylvia patted my bottom and urged me toward the bed. When my knees bumped the side of it they stopped me. Joanne pulled back the bedcovers and Sylvia turned me around and had me sit down on the edge of the bed. Or, rather, had me scoot myself up onto it. The bed was high. When I sat on it I found my feet dangling over the floor. I could not touch it.
Joanne brought a pair of manacles from the dresser beside the bed. They’d lain within a drawer, hidden. Now she slipped them over my wrists, giving one to Sylvia, so that each of them confined one of my arms in the steel. It was light, like Mithril, as if drawn by dwarves from the depths of Middle-Earth. I’d read that book by Tolkien, when I was little. I liked the hobbits in it.
I flexed my arms and looked at my new bracelets. There were hooks in them so they could be locked together.
“What are these for?” I asked.
“You must wear them as a guest here,” Sylvia said softly to me. I shifted my bottom on the cool sheets of the bed. I looked at her hands.
“Where are yours?” I asked. She had none, nor did Joanne.
Sylvia pointed to a metal bracelet round her upper arm. My eyes widened. I saw that both she and Joanne were ‘equipped,’ as one might say, with bracelets halfway between their shoulders and elbows. And the bracelets had the same lockets on them as mine did. Their arms, if clipped together, would be pulled back so far it promised instant pain. Their bodies would be grotesquely distorted, their bosoms thrust out like obscene melons. Their arms, drawn tightly behind, would make them appear like prisoners at some medieval trial. Then I saw little chains dangling down from the outside of each metal armband, and I realized that the chains would provide a little relief, giving each girl a few inches of play between her otherwise immobile arms.
Joanne stretched out her arm and displayed the manacle on it. “Yes,” she said, sensing my thoughts. “It would be cruel for my lover to bind my arms using the lockets on the inside of my bracelets, locking each bracelet to the other. Fortunately, he chooses only to attach the two chains, locking their ends together.” She pulled her arms behind herself to imitate how she would look in such an uncompromising position. Her breasts lifted, her nipples, excited, stuck out with female hardness. Sylvia burst out laughing, looking at her friend, and Joanne could not hold the position and instead fell into giggles.
“That’s terrible,” I gasped.
“It’s advanced training,” Sylvia said. “You needn’t worry about it now. You’ll get only what your lover orders for you. And Rose insists that a girl be broken in through stages. She doesn’t believe in giving a girl more than she can handle.”
“Though what Joanne believes a girl can handle may still be more than the girl herself thinks she can handle. Much more,” Joanne added, obviously a bit less sanguine about a female’s prospects at the castle.
“Don’t scare her,” Sylvia told Joanne. “Women are quite strong and hardy. It’s nonsense, all this delicacy stuff.” She lifted her own arm and examined the bracelet round it. She toyed with the little chain a moment. I wondered if she relished being bound, and hoped to be used that way again soon. Sylvia was tawny, like a lioness. I got the feeling she’d broken so many hearts in her life that she longed to be paid back. Obviously she’d chosen a lover who was not unwilling to give her her wish.
Joanne got a leather collar from the dresser drawer. I’d been stripped completely of everything before getting in the bath. Joanne took the new collar, obviously meant for a dog, and buckled it tightly around my throat. She placed a finger within its grip and tested its hold.
“Swallow,” Joanne told me. I did. The collar, though tight, did not keep me from taking in air or gulping.
“Good,” Joanne said. “I’m glad it fits.”
“Why are there rings hanging down from it?” I asked. There were two, one in front and one in back.
“That’s what we’re going to show you right now,” Joanne smiled. As if simply performing an experiment, they lifted my arms up and crossed my wrists behind my neck. I felt my bosoms gain height, like twin marshmallows being hung up on the sticks of my ribs. My nipples lengthened and felt ever more sensitive as I realized how utterly helpless I was with my wrists caught behind my neck. And then, before I could object, Sylvia and Joanne swiftly buckled my self-latching wristlets into the ring at the back of my collar.
“What??!” I blurted. Joanne and Sylvia each gave a soft laugh, as if remembering past days of their lives. Joanne took her hands from my neck and lightly flicked one of my nipples. Sylvia, always more intrusive, cupped my breasts and weighed them in her palms. Was I being given a maked mammography?
“You look so sweet,” Sylvia said at last. That was hardly a medical response. “Lift up your heels. Put them right up on the bed.” Sylvia took one of my small feet and drew it up and placed it, wiggling toes and all, beside my bottom. I resisted, but her grip was firm and uncompromising. Joanne raised up my other leg. Sitting with my arms bound behind me, and my cunt displayed, the twin girls put manacles similar to those on my wrists on my ankles.
“There. Now lie back,” Sylvia told me. I was pushed onto my back as Joanne opened the curtain behind me, letting in the first budding rays of dawn.
“Happy dreams,” Joanne said to me, and she and Sylvia left me there, bare, my breasts wobbling like jello on my chest, my hands raised and bolted behind my neck. For a moment I lay there stunned, my tummy rising and falling in soft indrawn swells, in time with my breaths, my knees bent and my feet firmly planted on the sheets; barefoot, naked, perfectly made up, with my only ‘clothing’ wristlets, anklets, and a dog’s collar. Finally, to regain just a little of my modesty, if I could, I lay my legs flat against the bed. The girls were gone, the door shut firmly behind them. I’d heard them lock it as they departed.
I was alone. My lover knew I was here, Rose knew I was here, but where were they? Were they making love someplace, the two of them, perhaps in some perverse desire to teach me to share? I felt my blood rise. Where was Polly? I guessed, knew I was right. She was in a bed just like this one, in some other room, bound just as I was. I saw in my mind’s eyes her small tennis-ball breasts jiggling nervously on her chest. She might be crying, perhaps, missing her morning cartoons. XuXa would perform her songs this morning without her. Mr. Rogers would show off the fish in his fishtank without Polly’s eyes avidly tracking their tails. She said she just watched him for his fish, though I knew otherwise. I kidded her once that she’d learnt from Mr. Rogers that she couldn’t flush herself down the potty. She’d flung her bra at me for that. Right in public. She was wearing a little vest, in a club, and she’d slipped her bra off, me thinking the joke was past, its damage done, when suddenly she’d used her bra like boys use their towels in a locker room. I’d had to dodge her as, again and again, she tried to whip me by using her training bra as a whip.
Her breasts were bigger now. They’d grown fast since she met Andre. Perhaps he’d inspired them.
I let my eyelids grow heavy with sleep. I had long lashes. They obscured the rising sun. Kneeling before the sun, facing it as it rose, my bed soft beneath my knees, I let its light bathe me. New light, virgin light, the first direct rays of the dawn. They shafted through the window and illuminated my body as if I were an angel in the presence of the lord. If only my arms weren’t pinioned behind my neck, I’d have thought I was in heaven. Without realizing it, I fell into an exhausted sleep, and tumbled down onto the bed’s down-filled pillows.
Soft hands awoke me. I looked up, startled. Where was I? Sylvia beamed down at me. Her bosoms hung heavy, compressed a little, like tulip bulbs, by her dress that was not a dress. It was a different color now. The other had been green. This one was red.
Joanne was dressed identically to Sylvia. Carefully, attentive to the stiffness of my arms, they lifted me up and turned me round so that I faced the window. It was afternoon. I saw the tops of green trees. Birds, keen in their mating and nesting, were flitting about the branches, looking for bug-morsels to feed to their young.
As Sylvia stroked my bottom with her hand, Joanne positioned me on my knees under a chain that hung down, isolated, from the ceiling. It plunged through the roof of the bed’s canopy, and was bound round a wooden post that held it in place. I’d wondered at it, been too sleepy to ask of it’s purpose. Now I found out. My wristlets were drawn back, taking my head with them, so that I was hooked to the base of this post. I felt like a cow being hung up in a slaughterhouse. My bosoms wobbled uncertainly on my chest. What was to happen to me?
“I have to go to the bathroom,” I squeaked. Certainly they’d let me down for that. Joanne giggled. Sylvia unfolded a pair of cloth baby diapers. As I watched, immobile and horrified, the twin girls fitted the diapers to my loins. They even used real safety pins. I drew in my breath, fearing they might stick me with them. They did not. Perhaps that would have been better.
“There. When you need to pee, you won’t have to run to the potty now,” Sylvia said with a devilish little laugh. She patted my diapered behind.
“But I have to go NOW!” I blurted. And I did, too. A full night’s worth of pee had accumulated in my bladder.
“Good! Then we must hurry and get you downstairs for it,” Sylvia answered. She and Joanne unhooked me from the post but did not bother to undo my wrists from the back of my head. They gave me no shoes. On our way past the dresser, Joanne fetched a pacifier from its drawer and stuck it between my lips.
“Wasth thisth for?” I burbled over the intruding nipples.
“Babykins must be good. Suck on your pacifier,” Joanne told me. She had a mother’s concern in her voice, as if company were coming for which I must be very good.
I tripped down the grand central staircase at the front of the house, with Joanne and Sylvia steadying me as we went. I was so scared! What was to happen to me? They led me barefoot and diapered into the same sitting room Polly and I had met Rose in the night before. She was sitting there now, decked out in a formal dress, and Polly was there too!
“Poolly!” I lisped over the indwelling nipple of my pacifier. She spoke my name in response, no more concisely, for she was dressed just like me. I saw she was sitting between two men, both of them dressed in tuxes, with a small square of plastic under her bottom to, I feared, protect the couch from her pee.
She appeared dry as yet. But, like me, she was wiggling, obviously having to go. She held a teacup in one hand. Steam wafted from it. In her other hand Polly held a croissant. I saw she’d taken a bite from it. Perhaps her new lovers had held her pacifier for her to allow her to do it. They were able-bodied men, business men who obviously did a regular workout to stay fit. They held coffeecups. They seemed much more relaxed than Polly. I doubted they had to go like she did, or me.
“Good morning, Fleury. Did you have a nice sleep?” Rose asked me brightly. Her face was powdered. She wore a little too much makeup, I thought. Was that a bruise on her right cheek? I couldn’t tell. If it was, she’d covered it well. Who had done it to her? Louis? I had no idea.
I found myself facing two men on a loveseat. A small square of plastic sat between them, as if awaiting my bottom. Joanne and Sylvia greeted the men, turned me around, and sat me down between them. Immediately one of the men caressed my back, and petted my slightly mussed hair, as if to restore it. The other man frankly fondled my breasts. I was utterly unable to stop them. I had a pacifier jammed in my mouth and my arms were still uplifted and locked by my hands to the back of my neck.
The first man, taking his hand from my head, put it between my thighs and spread them apart.
“Fleury,” Rose said to me. “Louis wanted you to meet two of his friends. They’re business associates.”
Our maid from the night before, the woman with too many clothes, her dress and her girdle and her stockings all rustling and rubbing together, brought me tea on a tray. There was a selection of croissants as well, some with jelly inside.
The man who was so free with my breasts undid my hands. I drew them gratefully from behind my neck and stretched out my arms. I turned them, looked at them, all the while the Mexican woman with the tray waiting for me to select my choice of pastry.
My other male lover, or perhaps I should call him simply my newest male acquaintance, removed my pacifier from my mouth. My tongue slid out between my lips with my pacifier. A string of saliva ran from my tongue to the pacifier’s nipple, breaking finally as he drew the baby toy away.
“Have something to eat,” the man said to me. The maid urged her tray closer.
“I really couldn’t,” I protested. I put a hand to my tummy. “I really do have to go,” I said, looking past the maid at Rose.
“Take a pastry, dear, and then we’ll talk about your more pressing needs,” Rose told me. Reluctantly I obeyed. I reached out a faltering hand, picked up a teacup, wavered with my other hand over the icing-laced crescents.
“Pick one of the jelly ones! They’re gooood!” Polly exclaimed. I looked up. One of her male lovers was holding her pacifier for her. As soon as she’d spoken she lustily bit into her croissant. Some of the jelly inside it squirted out onto her cheek. Quickly her lover took out his handkerchief from his tux and wiped the jelly away. It was a crisp, new handkerchief, carefully folded, which he now opened to wipe her mouth. Polly seemed not to notice. She bit into her croissant again, clearly enjoying it. Then she lifted her teacup daintily to her chin, holding it just so, with her little finger extended, and sipped in some tea to help her swallow the pastry.
I picked a cinnamon croissant. I knew I’d like the spiciness of it, mixed with, of course, plenty of sugar. I bit into it. Yes, very delicious. It tasted as if it had been baked right here, at the castle, perhaps by this very maid herself, slaving over the hot stove out back where we’d found clothes for our little trip into town. My two male lovers watched me eat my croissant. The maid offered them seconds. They declined.
“Now girls, we have four men here whose wives are home pregnant,” Rose said. Her voice was direct and simple in its tone. “As you might imagine, men know nothing about babies. And they, babies I mean, are such delicate creatures. Yet in the 90’s men are expected to feed babies, and wash them, and of course to diaper them. That’s why I decided to dress you up this way this morning. These men need practise. You’re young enough to still look babyish,” (at this Polly frowned, her cheeks bulging with pastry) “yet not quite so delicate as a real baby. I want you both to enjoy conversing with these friends of your lovers. Enjoy them. They certainly enjoy you. And please, when you have to go, just pee right in your diapers. Then the men can change them for you, and learn how to do it properly.”
I just about spluttered out my tea at hearing that! I was supposed to piss right into my diapers, here on this nice couch, and then be changed? I guess I’d somehow expected something else, though it was hard to say what, now that I thought about it. A square of plastic under me, two men leaning in toward me, and me in diapers. Yep. I guess that meant I had to pee in public. God, I detested the thought of it. Last night had been one thing, with my own boyfriend, on a children’s potty. But to actually pee on myself? That was too much.
“Rose,” I said, speaking over my tea and my pastry. “It really is too much. I don’t want to have to pee in these diapers! I mean, okay, I look cute and all, but to actually wet them?”
“I have to go REALLY bad now,” Polly declared, feeling the effects of all the tea she was drinking.
“Wet your diapers, dears,” Rose told us. “It’s the only way these men will learn. You can hardly blame them. What boy would ever be allowed to babysit like we girls do, and learn how to change diapers when he’s a teen? No, boys grow to manhood without ever learning the skills we women do. Now it’s time, their wives are pregnant, and they can hardly learn properly on a woman who’s big with child. It just wouldn’t be the same. And, you know, we wouldn’t want them fumbling their own child, in the middle of Sears or Pennies or something. Babies don’t look too good when dropped off the diapering table. They need to start out with a larger babykins, one that’s a size they can handle. So, I figured, a woman would be too big, a baby too small, but a 13-year-old girl, that would be about just right.” She laughed at her soliloquy. “Piss, darlings. I’ll sound like Lady Macbeth in a minute!”
“Ooooh! I can’t hold it!” Polly announced. One of the men beside her had begun to lightly tickle her belly. It’s smooth flesh shivered, sending her breasts jiggling, and I saw a wet spot begin to appear in her crotch. I think the sight of it inspired me.
“Oh!” I cried. I looked down, holding my tea aloft, trying so hard to look proper despite my nudity. In my other hand my croissant wavered, half-eaten, my mouth watering for more. Too late! I felt a quick outrunning between my thighs and knew my battle with my bladder had been lost. I watched as the wet spot within the vee of my thighs grew larger and more vivid. Yes, I’d wet myself, just like a baby.
I looked up at the men beside me as I felt my bladder continue to piss out my pee. It was so silly, sitting here, looking at these two strangers as I wet the diapers that served as my panties.
“Oh, I can’t stop it!” Polly lamented.
“Don’t, dear,” Rose told her. “Let it all squirt out. You’ll feel much better, and the men will get their training.”
We were each permitted to finish our croissant. I felt so awkward, sitting there, munching on a pastry and sipping tea wearing wet diapers. Yet I was hungry. Too hungry to pass up the change to eat. When we’d each finished the croissant we held, the maid fetched our teacups from our hands. We were offered nothing more. Rose stood and said we must have our diapers changed.
The men each took one of my arms. I was forcibly squired, with Polly drawn ahead of me, into an adjoining room. There I saw a baby’s plaything hanging from the ceiling, one each over two closely matched tables. There were little clowns and birds on the plaything, as if Polly and I might compete with each other, batting at our playthings while the men changed us.
A soft towel covered each table, much as one finds in a massage studio. The tables themselves were made with cushioned tops.
“Up, girls!” Rose told us. With help from the men, feeling ridiculous in our wet diapers, we each got up on a table. “Lie down, girls, on your bellies.” Rose instructed. I lay on my tummy and felt the eyes of the two men who’d accompanied me fix on my pretty tushy. As soon as I was flat they undid the pins to my diapers. With Rose advising them, they carefully drew my diapers out from under me.
The maid came in with a trayful of steaming towels. The men each took one. “That’s right. Wipe her bottom,” Rose told each of the men regarding Polly and me. I mewled at the heat of the towel as it was applied to my bare fanny. Slowly and carefully they wiped me clean, using a dry cloth on my bottom after they’d finished with the moist one. Then I was rolled over.
“Goo,” I said playfully to my two paramours as they gazed with delighted eyes down at me. My titties jiggled on my chest. I felt happy, aroused. They fingered my pussy, found it wet with more than my pee.
“Don’t be naughty, gentlemen. She’s just a little baby,” Rose warned them. They took hot towels and wiped up my pee from my pussy. Then they dried me (as best they could)! I felt deliciously happy.
“You can pee in your pants if you want. I won’t mind,” I said to the men. My eyes were seductive. I’d be the first infant to rape her daddies. Twin daddies, I had, and I longed now to see the tools they’d used to father me. I drew up my knees and let my legs fall apart, showing my sex with its newly grown fur.
“With pregnant wives, it’s sometimes hard...” (Rose paused, suppressed a giggle) “...sometimes hard for a man to find relief,” she told me. “Would you mind, Fleury, if these nice men used your mouth a little?”
“I thought perhaps--” I began, hopefully, letting my hand pass between my legs and tickle me where I suddenly needed it.
“Shhhh,” Rose said. She put a finger to my lips. “Let’s not make Louis jealous, shall we?” There was a bruise on her cheek, I noticed. “Suck, darling. Let them sperm your mouth. It’s the most I can offer you right now. And please do take your hand away from your pussy. It’s not nice to masturbate yourself in front of strange men.”
I heard Polly issue a burbling shriek and knew her to already be entertaining her gentlemen. My own quickly unzipped themselves and presented their penises. I let out a little cry when I saw them.
“Oh, Rose. Where DO you find men with such large ones?” I asked frankly. I touched my fingers to the two tools which presented themselves, one on either side of my upturned face.
“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies,” Rose replied. My gentlemen, sensing permission from Rose, undid their pants completely and dropped them to their ankles. She placed her palms lightly upon their buttocks and urged them both to spear me at once. I saw, to my amazement, two nosy cockheads cross my vision and compete to get into my mouth. Within seconds of their approach I was stretched and filled with both. I felt like a girl with two giant straws in her mouth, and I knew my milkshake would be vanilla for sure. In desperation at being gagged by the organs, I reached out and grabbed for the men’s balls. I’d better empty these boys quick, I reasoned. They were too much for me, much as I liked them!
“Oook Oooof!” I heard, and knew it to be my own voice as my loves maked themselves more deeply into me. With Rose tickling their hams, inquiring into their clefts, I squished and squeezed and groped at their balls. Both of them were very huge and tight with excitement. It was like squeezing a pair of hairy wrecking balls. Meanwhile, their smooth tools drove ever more deeply, and try as I might with my tongue I could not keep them back.
“Hey! What are you faggots doing fucking our chicks?” I heard suddenly from somewhere behind me. My loves, though I could not really alter my gaze to see, both looked up.
“Hello Louis, Andre,” Rose said with warm affection. Then, to my loves: “Don’t worry, boys. You have their complete permission to cum in their girlfriend’s mouths. Don’t drown them with your sperm, of course. But a little taste would be okay, wouldn’t it, Louis?”
I guessed Rose had planned the whole thing to shock the men who now probed Polly and I so fully with their manhood. It had its intended effect. As soon as Louis’ words had boomed across the room, my two newest loves, their bottoms bared to my boyfriend, no doubt fearing the return of Odysseus himself, began jetting into my mouth.
“Oh, God,” I heard one of my lovers moan. I tried to imagine his feelings. Here he was, a grown man, his pants around his ankles, about as vulnerable as a man could be. And then, as if in some gay fantasy, in walk two other men, not at all disabled, ready, it seemed, to fight to the death. To be interrupted so, it must have been horrible, and yet wonderful, in a way, something few men ever attain, actual vulnerability. Permissible vulnerability, something that jolts a man and yet is not too embarrassing once its over. After all, these men had their cocks firmly planted in my mouth. They were violating Louis’ girlfriend, and Andre’s too. They were fucking us, as Andre and Louis were maked to watch.
I think my lovers fathered a thousand children in my mouth that afternoon, or tried to. Spume after spume of their spunk shot into my mouth, filling me, swamping my tongue and my ability to swallow. My cheeks bulged out with their fertility. Their sperm overflowed and spilled from the corners of my mouth. Like milk it ran out over my chin. I felt it even invading my nose, their was so much of it. I had two of them, after all, within me. It was an impossible job to swallow all they gave me.
Rose stood over me, watching my throat work as I battled to down as much sperm as I could. I was afraid she’d scold me for wasting it. Somewhere, I heard Polly shout as she thought herself finished, only to find more sperm shooting from the pricks that gorged her mouth.
Just as the sperm first began to gush forth, there was another development, even naughtier than the rest. I felt an expert pair of long-nailed female fingers take to my cunny. I was too overwhelmed to see who it was. Later, when all was done, I learned it was Sylvia. She touched my spot and diddled with it, most openly, not asking permission or even speaking to me. I was too high strung from my adventures to close my legs to her. She twirled and twirled and twirled within and around my clit. I bucked once, shivered. Placing a palm on my thigh she eased my hips back onto the table and continued her work. I heard a moan from Polly and later learned Joanne had attended to her. We needed it, I think. We’d been on tenterhooks since we almost creamed ourselves pillowfighting at the saloon, on the slick wet post with its invading, sugary froth.
At last the pricks were withdrawn. They were shrinking now. Their deed was done. With some coughs of self-consciousness the lovers who had so lustily spermed our mouths now drew up their pants. They made a manly joke or two, directed at Louis and Andre, to restore their much prized masculinity. Our true loves watched them, then came up to greet Polly and I.
“Hi, Louis,” I said with bright eyes. My tummy still heaved a little from my exertions under Sylvia’s finger. Politely she desisted, though I wouldn’t, I think, minded if she’d continued. Sperm ran all down my cheeks and even somehow had gotten into my hair.
Louis beamed down at me. “You are doing well,” he said to me. “Tonight you will have your first good whipping. Branson will deliver it.”
He saw my eyes widen as he spoke. I could not bear to hear such words. I really didn’t want to be part of this!
Louis touched a finger to my navel. He pressed harder and harder until my eyes finally relaxed. Then he withdrew his finger and reached between my legs and sought my clit.
“Yes,” he said, rubbing, seeking. I gasped as he found me. “A good, long, thorough whipping, one that really works your bottom. Didn’t you tell me when we first met that you’d try anything once?”
“Yes,” I confessed, my breath rapid now that he’d found my essence. He put a finger candidly into my cunt, kept at my spot with his thumb.
“A judicial whipping is what I wish for you,” he said. “Branson used to work as a jailer down in the government prison before he retired. He knows how to bring a girl fully within the world of the whip, until she is utterly shattered. You will have no ego left when he is through with you.”
My heart was beating fast in my chest. I could feel it. I thought it might burst out at any moment. Was Louis the Mayan priest come to stab my bosom and lift out my still-throbbing heart?
“All your life you’ve been a bratty, snotty little girl,” Louis told me. “Admit it. You have. You’re a teen runaway, and you’ve never obeyed, not really. Tonight you will. For the first time in your life. I require it if you’re to be my wife.”
My eyes bugged. My head popped up, then lay back again on the soft table. “Your wife? You’ll really marry me if I let you have me whipped?”
Louis smiled. And somewhere, deep within that smile, I knew he’d never marry me. Yet we girls are foolish, aren’t we? In a millisecond I convinced myself that yes, he really would marry me. My puppy love dreams of being with him forever, just he and I, no others, would be fulfilled. He would cut wood for us and we’d live in a little log cabin and our son would be Abraham Lincoln and save the world.
“Yes,” I said, and thought it was him saying ‘yes’ to me, or told myself it was. Louis pushed his finger deeper into my cunt. His thumb stopped over my aching clitty, waiting. “Yes!” I gasped. “Do whatever you must to me to make me yours!” And he began his cunning work on my clit again, and I swooned with pleasure at his touch.
I rolled over on my belly. I spit sperm into a paper cup held under my chin by Rose. Louis patted my bare bottom. It was white as snow, and he savored picking up baby powder and sprinkling it on my heinie. Polly found Andre equally engaged by her bottom, though I know not what they spoke about while Louis propositioned me about Branson. I think Rose had placed her hands over Polly’s ears and let Joanne finish her off between her legs. There had been a lot of happy screaming from the other table as Louis told me of his plans for me.
Our bottoms were made all silky with the powder. Louis and Andre themselves applied it. Their calloused hands on our rears were a bold contrast with the powder. Sylvia and Joanne wiped my face and Polly’s with hot cloths as the men powdered us. They stuck their cloth-draped fingers in our mouths to let us lick off some of the sperm that was sticking to our tongues.
When Louis and Andre were finished with us, they left. I lay on my table, my hands down by my thighs, my bottomcheeks huddled together like worried sheep.
“Don’t fret so. It’s still several hours ‘til evening,” Rose said. She spoke leaning close to my face, so Polly wouldn’t hear.
We adjourned to ‘the sitting room,’ as Rose referred to it. ‘My outdoor one,’ she added confidentially, as if she might have many of them, like the parlor near the front door, or the one that lay almost as a secret chamber next to the little girl’s bedroom that Polly and I had first been fucked in. My hands were brought behind my neck as I lay on the diapering table and reattached to the back of my dog collar. I did not fight it. I was too scared, too confused, and yet too excited, somehow, at my submission, to protest. Sylvia did me, Joanne did Polly. She blurted something, was ignored. Rose put her pacifier back in her mouth and Polly sucked on it wide-eyed, like a trembling child wishing to pronounce upon something but enjoying her pacifier just a little too much to take it out of her mouth.
We strolled through the castle. There was little hurry in Rose’s walk, and none in mine. Yet, watching her smoothly rolling hips, I let my own sway more, feeling the nakedness of my bottom and wondering if someone might see me. How strange I would look to them! My hair done up perfectly, then mussed a little by my exertions on the diapering table. My bottom glossed with silky baby powder, white as snow, yet my hands bound severely to the back of my neck, showing my submission. Before me my breasts wobbled with naked elegance, so high, so round, the tips hard with anticipation and fright, freely offering themselves like stemmed fruit to whomever might wish to pluck at them. Polly allowed herself the same sexy gait. Indeed, we almost could not help it. The binding of our hands, with our elbows upraised over our heads, made our naked bulbing bottoms somehow freer. We were all bottom, it seemed, with our smooth bellies offering themselves up as vacant wombs, ready to be filled and bloated; our breasts were but udders on which future infants might suck, our pussies so mysteriously dipping into our legs, where their unseen cleft provided entrance to the burrowing male. Our legs were but columns upon which we bounced the hemispheres of our bottoms, transporting them, as it were, to the scene of future delights and depravities.
I heard a gasp. “Oh!” a female voice said behind me. I wanted to turn but found it difficult with my hands bound up behind me. There was a shuffling of feet. A laugh, as if a girl’s, then the deeper, more mature, knowing laugh of a woman. I blushed. I could not see those who had found me. Lovers, playing in the castle. One of them knew at least what my fate was. I heard a man laugh last, he seemed to straighten his sleeves and his cufflinks as he did it. Pipe smoke reached my nose from somewhere off behind myself. I had been seen. My plight was known. They would whisper of it in the castle and know my screams when they heard them that night. I must vow not to cry out. I did not want to embarrass myself. If I must serve Louis’ wicked delights, let it be, but God I did not want to entertain others with it. Polly, I think, was too far ahead of me to hear. I brought up the rear. Sylvia and Joanne walked ahead with Rose, through the castle’s labyrinthine hallways, as if walking point in the jungle, spreading out at the spearhead of our column to check for enemy entrapments. With my hands imprisoned it was impossible to think of escape. I knew those laughing at my predicament would never permit it. No one would, here at the castle. Girls were expected to resist and were ‘helped’ merely to obey, nothing more. I watched Polly’s backside. It jigged with youthful eagerness, quite taut and pretty, as if she might be going to a backyard pool to swim with friends. We passed by a collection of whips on the wall, amidst the decorative paintings and tapestries; I saw her bottom cheeks tighten apprehensively, her pace quicken, then she slowed again as the hideous display of whips receded behind us. Our bare feet slapped noisily upon the floor. We were gollums going fishing in our cave.
We passed at last through a door that led us into the open air of the backyard. A white-columned sunroom beckoned. I stepped onto its brick floor. The bricks were warm from the sun. Gauzy white muslin swags hung like tremulous female panties beneath the sunroof’s glass ceiling, providing us with a kind of nebulous shade underneath. We collected around a patio table and sat down on white wicker chairs with generous cushions. A vase of fresh-cut flowers was placed on our table by the old woman maid. She surveyed Polly and I with eyes that knew too much. Had she witnessed our struggles on the diapering tables? Did she know what the evening promised for us? Her bottom was large, long past its prime, rolling with her accumulated flesh of many years. Ours, perched a bit anxiously on our cushions, were small and tight and white and squeamish. I could not tell whether she envied us, pitied us, or only mocked us in her mind. Sylvia received a key from Rose’s hand and unlocked my hands, then Polly’s. Gratefully I brought them down from behind my head and felt their freedom. They hurt from being bound up, but I knew the discomfort would pass quickly. I turned my wrists and inspected them. I still wore the steel manacles, but they were so light I hardly felt their presence anymore. Our dog collars, like our manacles, were left on. We would need them again, I knew, but I tried not to think of their purpose. My collar hugged my neck. It provided certainty. Though my bottom trembled beneath me, my collar reminded me of my place and showed me that there was no changing it. I must learn to simply understand and accept. I must say ‘yes’ to it, I knew, and nothing more, like a woman finally must when she wants a child. She must accept the man, and the changes that come. She must accept the enlargement of her body, the pain at birth, and rising at midnight to feed and diaper. And then, when the baby is my age, she must accept letting it go. There is no good in keeping it penned up, like an animal, for its ‘protection’ until 18. This I knew. My mother had known it once too, but she’d forgotten. She did not want to grow old. She did not want to be replaced in men’s minds by me. She wanted me small always, too young to kiss, to young to draw men’s eyes away from her. She had accepted having me, but she could not accept letting go of me. I was young now, not her. She must let go of the idea that she was forever young, and I was forever too young. She was old now. I was the one who was young. Springtime was for me now. Springtime and summer. She must resign herself to fall and winter; to menopause, then gray hair, finally wrinkles and old age. It would come whether or not I grew up, or stayed ‘protected’ in her house. It would come as surely as the passing of summer into fall. Yet she fought it, making trouble for both herself and me. It did not help. It only made things worse. It had made me run away and now, perhaps, it brought me to the castle whose name I dared not say to myself. Or maybe, this time, I was on my own journey. Discovering, exploring. Could I blame my mother for this? I looked at Rose. She let her eyes pass over me without seeing me, or so it seemed, yet I knew she drank me in with a passion, consuming me with her gaze. Polly and I were like her little pets, puppies at Christmas. She had tied collars round our necks to keep us. I had traded my mom for Rose. Yet mom offered nothing. Only homework, studies, and ‘goals.’ Sexless goals, of course. Here, sex lay parturient within the very walls, the table we sat at, the cushions we sat on. The flowers bloomed with it. It was everywhere, all encompassing, yet always just about to come forth, never bursting in as one might think, except at special moments. Here I could feel myself right out to the ruby tips of my breasts, my naked breasts, and my boldly naked bottom sitting on the white cushion beneath me. I opened my legs beneath the table. I felt the wantonness of my bare clitty and loved the way my pussy seemed to part just a little with my legs, offering itself. There was nothing to protect me. Nothing. I was nude, Venus-like, and I would rise from the seabubbles of innocence into the open air of knowing, seeing all. From the depths of Ocean, mother-like, shrouding me, I would spring upon the beach of life and confront the lifeguard men who ruled there, the women who strolled there, the other girls. ‘Look!’ I would say. ‘I’m here. Me! Fleury. I have a body with tits and a bottom that sits and a cunny that wants it. Give me what is mine. Don’t hold me back or keep me from it. I have the password now, called ‘breasts.’ See? Here they are. Now show me what this world is all about, and let me take it within myself.
Joanne and Sylvia did not sit with us at table. They sat on hassocks in front of vacant chairs by the wall, perhaps to more readily serve us, yet they had enceinte demeanors, pregnant, as if awaiting something that must happen yet unable to control it. Royal peonies spilled abundantly from hanging baskets. Rose sat down with us at table, casually, and told the maid to bring us summer drinks. They arrived with their straws thrust through fruit. Mine had a lemon speared by a straw, Polly’s drink had a cherry. Crushed ice coated the surface of our drinks. I sipped mine. Vodka, I think, watered down, made pleasant with a sampling of fresh lemonade. Polly removed her straw and ate the cherry. Then she gulped her drink.
“Mmmm, good!” Polly pronounced, setting her glass down at last, quite empty. Rose lifted a linen napkin from the table and wiped a cherry-frosted mustache off Polly’s upper lip. Joanne, finding garlands on the chair behind her hassock, rose and placed them on our heads. They were made of daisies and dandelions. Had they been left by other partiers? They were freshly woven. Perhaps their party had been interrupted by life’s other necessities. Polly received hers without noticing, as if she were the Mayfair queen, entitled to such a crown. I touched mine, felt the pliancy of the stems and their budding flowers.
The maid with her heavy burden of flesh shrouded in an apron and dresses brought Rose a Bloody Mary.
“Oooh! What’s that?” Polly inquired as soon as it had been presented at Rose’s place. The woman let Polly take it and sip it. Polly held the glass with both hands.
“Yuck!” Polly declared, giving Rose her glass back. Polly, perhaps remembering her lesson in manners from the linen napkin, wiped her mouth but, seeking to retain her youthful indulgences, perhaps, used the back of her hand. Rose took back her Bloody Mary and drank it with confidence, in long draughts. The maid asked Joanne and Sylvia what they wished to have.
“A screwdriver, please,” Joanne replied.
“A stinger,” Sylvia said. Joanne shifted on her hassock a little, glanced at Sylvia. They were as bare-bottomed as Polly and I, though permitted to wear dresses. Clothes seemed to be worn as a kind of rank by the girls here at the castle. The newest, like Polly and I, must go naked, and with our restraints freely showing and freely used. Girls with some experience, like Joanne and Sylvia, were allowed clothes, but they were worn so as not to interfere with their use as sexual objects. Men might simply bend them over and take them from the rear, or have them sit on their laps, with nothing protecting them from the penis which sprung up there. Their breasts, too, were kept on view, as statues offer their loins and bosoms, hiding them from no one, displaying their form and function to all comers. Maria our maid brought drinks for the girls. I learnt her name because Sylvia used it, telling her to add extra brandy. “Do not dilute it too much,” she said. “I want it raw.” Maria said nothing, did not nod, but when she brought the drink she waited while Sylvia sipped it and found it met with her approval.
Polly requested another drink. I don’t know if she knew it was alcoholic. She had downed the first one like a glass of punch. Rose did not object. It was brought. Polly gulped her drink, ate the cherry, much as before.
“Polly,” Rose said, waiting until the girl had finished her second drink. “Tonight, when you are asleep, I’m going to have someone come and whip you.”
Polly’s eyes bulged and her head shot up from the rim of her glass, where she’d been sucking up the remains of her drink.
“Whipped?!” Polly announced. “Oh, I don’t like that!”
“It is necessary, Polly,” Rose said quietly. She looked at Joanne and Sylvia. “Stand up and show me your bottoms, girls. Have you two been put to punishment lately?”
Joanne and Sylvia rose. For a moment Sylvia lost her brash, almost over-confident demeanor as they both bowed their heads and turned their backs to us. With a quickening heart I saw their derrieres, nude as my own, but plumper, fuller. They reminded me of myself. I could see their tan lines where their bikinis would normally be, if they sunned by the pool when the workmen were present. Here, in our sheltered sunroom, there was no need for such modesty. Well trained, both girls bent forward and mooned their mistress. Not to do so would have been an offense, just the opposite from conventional society. Their figs showed between their legs, soft and neatly cleft and inviting. Their bottoms had not a mark upon them, despite a month of training at the castle.
“Sylvia, you are to be branded soon, are you not?” Rose asked with cool aplomb. She sipped at her drink. The maid, moving about and between us, had given her a new bloody mary. She lit a cigarette for Rose and Rose accepted it between her fingers, holding it, letting the smoke curl up like daydreaming thoughts on a summer afternoon. Somewhere in the distance I thought I heard the roll of thunder. The air seemed suddenly oppressive.
“Yes, ma’am,” Sylvia replied. “With your permission.”
Rose flicked ash from the end of her cigarette. She took a puff on it and then replied, as the girls remained bending, “Not with my permission, love. With your boyfriend’s permission. Or should I say your fiancee?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Sylvia answered.
“You wish the brand to signal your complete commitment to him?” Rose inquired.
“Yes,” Sylvia answered. A little shudder ran down her spine and her bottom waggled invitingly.
“In the old days, I won’t say in my day, but in the old days,” Rose confided aloud to Polly, as the girl watched her puff again on her cigarette, “In the old days girls saved themselves for marriage. Now, of course, girls hardly save themselves beyond the seventh grade. So new ways of showing commitment are necessary. Piercing, tattooing, branding. I suppose it’s preferable to abstinence, eh, Polly? Have you saved yourself for marriage, Polly?” Rose asked.
“Noo- Not quite,” Polly gulped. Her titties were shaking at their tips, perhaps from nervous apprehension of what Rose was promising for her evening’s entertainment.
“You may turn around and sit back down, girls,” Rose told Sylvia and Joanne. “It’s obvious I haven’t been rough enough with you. Your boyfriends will want a refund if I don’t break you both in more thoroughly. A sound whipping for you both tonight. No more drinks, either. I want you to feel every bite of the leather. Then, tomorrow night, you’ll both go dancing downtown without underpants, in short skirts. That’s how you were both brought to me. Do you remember? Without panties, fresh from club-hopping. Well, tomorrow night we’ll see how much enthusiasm you have for leaving your undies off, when every little twist of your body threatens to show everyone at the disco how you’ve been whipped.”
“Please,” Joanne began, fidgeting a little in her chair, although Sylvia seemed to take a certain masochistic pleasure in the thought of what would happen.
“For that, my dear Joanne, you will enjoy a slim dildo up your behind when you go dancing, in addition to your whipping. Such entertainment you’ll provide, if you don’t keep your skirt very proper-like! But I’ll insist you both wear the handkerchief-sized numbers you were brought to me in. Smile, Joanne. Have you ever read Story of O?”
Joanne gulped. “My-my boyfriend made me read it before he brought me here. Aloud. To him, and once to him while he was playing cards with his men friends on Friday night.”
“So, you see? Did O get to go dancing? I think not. But you do, my dear. So be happy. A nice whipping will put some color into those white cheeks of yours!”
“Will-” Polly spoke up, lifting her chin, as if to intrude into the conversation that she might not be forgotten. I think, like me, she had a craving to be the center of attention. It’s the undoing of many beautiful girls, and despite her tender years she was surely one of the most promising 13-year-olds I’d ever seen in the beauty department. Save for myself, of course. I wasn’t about to let the thought that my pipsqueak pal might outclass me intrude into my head. “Will my whipping be a quick one?” Polly inquired.
Rose took another drag on her cigarette and laughed. It was full, hearty laugh, shaking her breasts. Despite her modest attire, she wore no bra underneath it. “Quick? Quick?! No, dear, it will take as long as Branson can manage it, or his assistant, whoever it may be, seeing as I’m having four of you whipped tonight. No, it is exquisite to feel pain in such a forbidden place; on your bottom and, if the cheeks are offered properly, within its crack. How often do you feel pain in your bottom, hmmm, Polly? Your teeth might hurt, or your arm, or your foot, but not your bottom, I’ll bet. Tonight Branson will help sensitize that part of your anatomy. Your pretty tail will be awakened and blessed with the sharp kissing of the whip.
“Will Andre be there?” Polly asked. Her face had a resigned look to it yet her questions kept popping out, like a child asking about a test in school, or a shot.
“He may, or may not be, dear. It is of no matter to you,” Rose answered. “You are to concentrate entirely on yourself. Think of nothing but your bottom. Think of how you wish to be a good girl and serve Andre always, and will do anything to submit to his wishes, whatever they may be. And, in married life someday, you’ll find such an attitude inspires the male to serve you. Divorce is prevented, and children do not wind up shuttling between two pairs of parents who both hate and denounce the other. Bridal whippings are quite necessary, Polly, and I expect Andre to say “upsy-daisy!” to you quite frequently, if you do eventually marry him, perhaps even once or twice in front of company, just to keep you on your toes. Selfless service is so important in marriage, and I do think modernly it’s been almost completely forgotten!”
“Well, I don’t want to get married, if that’s the case,” Polly said snippily, and quite sincerely. Yet she did not hop up from the table, or run away, as I feared she might, perhaps even causing me to do the same. Instead she sat right there on her bare tushy, keeping it planted in the deep white cushion that felt so nice now but promised to be a discomfort, despite its utter softness, in the morning. Oh, why did the night have to come? Surely this day in all its pleasantness might last forever! Our little tea party was so nice, just us girls, with the maid attending to our every need. Even as I reflected upon my current happiness Rose asked us if we wished to drink Purple Slurples and, just as we nodded yes, the maid appeared, laden down with them, huge glasses filled with Orange sherbert and Lemon-lime soda and Cranberry-grape juice, their straws stemming tall, a wedge of pineapple stuck into the icy depths of each one to give it a tropical flavor.
“Mmmm, with a bendy straw too!” Polly said, her eyes widening happily. She put the straw to her mouth and filled her cheeks with the fluid. I tasted great, I admitted to myself, quickly devouring my own glass. I drew my thighs a little closer together, realizing I’d soon have to pee. Should I pee right here, on this cushion, with my bare tush perched atop it, my thighs all sleek and naked and my pussy exposed? It would be fun, I thought naughtily. It would probably totally ruin Rose’s little party. I felt guests step out on the deck of the sunroof behind us.
“Oh, what have we here?” a cultured woman’s voice asked. Polly and I looked over our shoulders, lifting our glasses as we turned so we could keep right on sucking at our drinks. Two women had entered our little hideaway, accompanied by a man. He was dressed in a sportcoat and slacks, no tie. He was tall and had bold eyes. I liked his frame. Broad shoulders, long legs, hands that spoke of an iron grip. And, letting my eyes fall immodestly to his crotch, I saw that a bulge was forming there even as he looked at me!
Coyly I turned back around to face Rose. More than ever I felt the nakedness of my pussy between my legs. The women approached. One, dressed in a very slick dress that molded her figure right down to her last curve, put her hands on my shoulders. I had small shoulders, almost too narrow for someone my age. When her hands settled possessively on my shoulders it caused my breasts to quiver. They were almost too big for me, big and round and perched high up, but with a protruding fullness to them that made men like Louis seek my company.
The male took up postillion beside her, standing over me and gazing down at my chest, while the female who had been with them drifted over to Joanne and put a hand to her lovely pinned-up hair.
“May we share her?” the woman behind me asked Rose, indicating me, and speaking with an artlessness that I found made me breathless.
“A threesome?” Rose asked, drawing upon her cigarette with pursed lips that made her look like Marilyn Monroe posing for a picture.
“What else?” the woman behind me answered. “When do you need her back?”
“By nightfall,” Rose replied. She lowered her eyes to my level and looked at me frankly. “Fleury, I should not let you take your pleasure so soon in your training but...” A loud clap of thunder interrupted the rest of her sentence. There was a flash of lightning. As if to protect me, the woman behind me bunched her hands over my shoulders, squeezing them together, making my tits protrude all the more.
“I-I suppose I could,” was all I said in reply. It seemed that no more was needed for, as soon as I spoke, the woman snaked her fingers under my armpits and drew me up.
“God, what an ass!” her male friend exclaimed as my heinie was lifted from the cushion. Outside it began to rain in a sudden burst. I wondered if he would come as quickly as the rain had.
“May I take my drink?” I asked suddenly. I reached for my Purple Slurple. The woman laughed quietly. She said I could. I picked it up from the table, looked at Polly, and said, “Bye, bye, Polly.” She gazed at me like a little girl watching a friend called away from a specially important game for dinner. Her straw even popped from her lips, depriving her of the taste of her Purple Slurple.
As I was led away, Polly silent behind me, finally sucking on her straw once more, I saw the woman who had arrived with my new friends sit down on Joanne’s lap and frankly take hold of her face and kiss her. Sylvia, sitting next to Joanne, began stroking both girls’ hair, as if to play mistress. Rose told Polly not to suck up the residue of her drink, putting air in her belly, but to ask the maid to bring another instead. I passed the maid going out. She glanced at me, a superior look on her face.
“What- what’s your name?” I asked the woman now shepherding me to some new fate.
“Beverly,” she replied. She had long lustrous brown hair, piled atop her head at the moment, just as mine was. Her bosom, caught up in a dress that had a single strap looping behind her neck, joggled freely, no bra beneath, the dress itself serving as her only support. I guessed she was approaching 30, though she looked quite beautiful. She had an air of experience, helping me peg her age. She was taller than me, and held me close to her, as if to keep me from harm. As the door closed behind us I heard the rain falling quite heavily outside. The last word I heard from Rose was a demand to the maid to close up the windows lest they all be blown away.
With me naked, wearing my manacles which Beverly did not, thankfully, insist on suiting me up in, in the behind-the-neck posture, we travelled through the house and up the wooden staircase by the front door. I saw no one else, though I heard laughter in the distance, and what seemed like idle conversation. It was mid-afternoon. Not normally, perhaps, a time for sex, except for unsupervised schoolchildren. But Beverly and her boyfriend seemed ready to go, and I sensed there would be no delay.
“I’m Jack,” the man told me. I did my best to seem demure, looking up at him with lowered lashes. I let him take my hand and, holding it limply, I watched as he kissed it. Beverly laughed.
“He won’t be quite such a gentlemen when he puts it to you,” she said. I glanced down at his pants again and saw he was stiffer than ever. Our time in bed promised to be most exacting, with a tool like that to be satisfied!
“Did somebody powder your bottom?” Beverly asked as we walked, patting my heinie.
“Yes,” I replied a little guiltily. She asked no more. We came to a door in the upstairs hallway and Jack withdrew a key from his coat pocket and opened it. We stepped inside. It was a bedroom, with a large bed, big enough to easily handle all three of us. Jack closed the door behind us and locked it.
“Oh, I see you’ve come with your own bondage gear,” Beverly said. She touched a finger to my dog collar, inserted it, checked its tightness. “Good.” She put a hand to my wrist and felt the steel which bound it. “These may come in handy,” she said, with a look of promise in her eyes, as if taking them off, perhaps (though in fact they were locked) would be wasting an opportunity.
I stood between her and Jack, looking up at her, feeling Jack behind me. It was a tense moment for me, with two strangers staring down at me in my nudity, literally evaluating me for sex. “Have you been taken up your behind?” Beverly asked me. Sheepishly I replied that I had.
“Fine,” Beverly answered. “And your cunt, too?”
“Yes,” I nodded.
“Jack and I prefer companions with a little experience,” Beverly assured me. “Let’s dress up, shall we?” She took me by the crook of my arm, pulled me away from Jack who, I think was about to encircle my waist with his arms and grind his pelvis into me. I was surprised at this move. I think Jack was too. Perhaps Beverly, sensing the level of Jack’s interest in me, wished to delay things a bit, cool him down, make him wait, re-establish her control.
“Take off your clothes, please, Jack,” Beverly told him. “We’re going to give you a treat you’ve never had at any of those engineering conferences.” Jack’s face turned red. I realized what she meant. He’d been getting some ‘on the side,’ away from her, while off conventioneering. I guessed he must be an engineer. With a fleeting look at his risen erection I knew it was a perfect occupation for him. He’d need a crane, I thought, to hoist him up when he got old, he was so big. I saw him undoing his belt just as Beverly pulled me inside the bedroom’s adjoining bath. How was it that I kept meeting men with oversized cocks? Perhaps my oversized bosoms had something to do with it.
“Unzip me, please,” Bev said in no-nonsense fashion once we were alone inside the bathroom. It was plush, with a pink rug and pink towels and a big sunken bath that I could already imagine myself soaking quite happily in once Jack had riven me with his tool. Standing on tip-toe, though I didn’t really have to, but feeling a little precious, perhaps, I unzipped the back of Bev’s dress.
The slinky black leather gown, made of the slimmest possible material, came off Bev like leaves opening to let a flower bloom. Inside the black sheath her skin was porcelain white. She stepped from her gown like the Venus I’d envisioned rising from the sea. She primped before a mirror, pushing at her hair atop her head, and then turned to me.
“What do you think?” Bev asked me. “Do you think I’m a suitable playmate?”
“You LOOK like a Playmate,” I answered truthfully. She had big, bold bosoms that stood right up on their own, despite her maturity. Her waist was slim and her hips full, with a neat delta of pubic hair twixt her legs, offering more pleasure than most men could hope to bear (save Jack, perhaps, with his big tool). I shivered in her presence and dipped my knees a little in tribute to her amazing figure. I wondered what Polly would say if she were here. She’d probably just look, then go back to sucking on a straw or something, she was so little, compared to me. But I’d snuck Playboy’s as a child out of my Dad’s bathroom and I knew a gorgeous woman when I saw one. “I hope I grow up to be as beautiful as me,” I admitted. I felt my bosoms hanging from my ribs, big but smaller, of course, than hers, and wondered if I’d be lucky enough to grow as big as she had.
Beverly reached out and cupped my girlish gourds with both her hands. She hefted them. “I wish I’d looked as pretty as you do at your age,” she complimented. “Just how old are you, anyway? You don’t look a day over 15.”
“I’m fourteen,” I answered. She started, letting her head flinch back, then gave a warm sigh. “So you’ll be even chestier than me in a few years, and I’ll be over 30 by then,” she said. “I’m jealous. I’ll make good use of your manacles for sure, young lady,” she said. Then she smiled. She kissed my forehead. “You are lucky to be able to enjoy the fullness of your sex at such a young age,” she told me. “I had such strict parents! They sent me to a baptist college and I, fool that I was, let them. I didn’t get sexually active until just a few years ago and now, with due respect to the feminists, bitches that they are, I’m heading fast for the Over the Hill Bar and Grill, as one might call it. The 30 plus crowd. You at least will make up for all the time I lost. Don’t worry, I at least won’t make it difficult for you. We’ll have fun. Come, lets get on some sexy little corsets and give Jack a wild ride. Or ourselves, actually, considering the state his prick will be in when we come out.”
I followed her to a folding closet door, which she bent back. Within were piles of towels, washcloths, a bath pillow, a bristled brush, a Loofah sponge, and a rubber ducky. Under the ducky were, folded very neatly, as if just put there a few minutes earlier, two female nighties. Bev reached in, moved the duck, and unfolded what turned out to be a corselette. “This one’s for you,” she said. It was pretty, colored pastel red with blue ties. She drew it on me. “Take a deep breath,” she said, and I obeyed. With my cheeks turning blue from holding my breath as long as I could, she laced the corselette tightly up my front, squeezing my belly and, at last, my bosoms, so that I was sure they’d burst out the top. Somehow they hung in there, making the lace trimming along the top of my corselette tremble. To my surprise, inspecting it once I had it on, I realized that little decorative ties actually held aloft satin triangles over my corselette’s otherwise open cups. My corselette, but for the twin triangles, would have been a bare-bosom corselette, despite being tightly tied on. The triangles had such a job covering me that, in straining outward with my fullness, they left narrow slits of flesh on either side of themselves, showing what a little slip of the drawstring that held them up would reveal.
“Here, put these on,” Bev said with a mischievous grin. A pair of panties, but with the same nasty little triangle in front, which, if untied, would show off my mons without Jack even having to go to the trouble of pulling my undies down. The back, of course, was a g-string, but with a neat flutter bow, big and wide and flirtatious, to show off at the top of my asscrack. I slipped into the panties. Pulling them up, I found they didn’t get much higher than the top of my pubic hair. Little curls of my hair sprang out between the slits where the triangle didn’t cover me. Here, it wasn’t a question of being too full. I had fleecy pubic hair and a tight pussy. The danged triangle at the front of my panties just didn’t quite cover me along the sides of itself, that’s all. So wisps of pubic hair showed, leaving me feeling quite naked despite the fact that the panties were actually supposed to help me be modest. More modest, at least, than I had been, with nothing on, yet somehow I felt more indecent now!
I pulled on stockings that went up almost to the tops of my thighs. Then Bev gave me gloves which, it turned out, were full length and even had fingers. They were my most modest piece of clothing but, covering just my arms, they hardly did me any good. Lastly Bev helped me into a pair of adjustable heels. They fit quite nicely, I found. They were made of many little buckles and straps which she diligently laced together so that I felt more bound on my feet than anywhere else. Mercifully, perhaps, for our bedroom play, the spiked heels were blunted at their tips. Maybe the manufacturer knew where these would end up! They were brand new, of course. I guessed they never left this closet, except to visit the bed.
Bev gave herself a more liberal garment. She slipped into a bustier. It had many little ties down its front, all made of lace. I had to take my gloves off to do them up for her. She drew in her breath a little, but not much, for the bustier was so filmy it wouldn’t have held her. Brimming over the top of it, her bosoms offered just their nipples. Below the rest was held in. But the effect was obscene, for with the base of each breast compressed, her nipples extruded over the top like tiny cow’s udders begging to be milked. The straps, each tied with a bow, lest they come off, were alongside the outer edges of her bosoms, squeezing them together to make her look even more milkable.
Garter straps hung down from the bustier and Bev had to find stockings to attach to them. For some reason, the stockings were hidden under a towel. Perhaps somebody liked the effect of a bustier with dangling garters, but Bev didn’t want to start off that boldly. With prim hands, slipping on fingerless gloves tied off at the elbow, she slid on stockings and attached them to her garters. I hoped Jack didn’t detach them. The stockings had no elastic in their tops and would fall down instantly the moment the garters were unclipped from them. She looked quite delicate, all dolled up in her bustier. Yet I watched as she rummaged about in the closet until she found a crop, way at the back, behind the towels, perhaps hidden there by somebody with the courage of Polly, whom, I knew, liked not the least the thought of having her heinie whacked. I didn’t either, but I knew I could find the courage to endure it if I had to. Bev handed me the crop to hold (I knew she would take it back, in my heart) and put on a pair of panties. I guess she pulled those on last because, after all, they’d probably come off first. They had to be tied along the sides to stay up. They trapped her garters beneath them.
In a final touch of femininity, Bev put on a lace mini-robe. It matched her bustier, gloves, and stockings. It was open in front (there was nothing to close it with) and had short sleeves that didn’t even come down to her elbows. The hem fell to her hips and left all below bare. Yet it added a kind of glamorous quality to her that I envied. She wasn’t just in a little bedroom playsuit. She had a robe on too, albeit a filmy one, patterned in see-through patterns of lace and making her more mature. I was just a little toy, suited up tightly, with my tailbone flourish, a bow that teased the eye with the sight of my naked fanny waggling beneath it.
Putting on heels, Bev piouretted before the mirror. The heels were new ones she’d brought just to play in the castle. Then she walked over to me, took the crop out of my hand, and placed my hand in her free one.
I felt a sudden panic of fear. We were done with dressup. Now it was bedtime, and I had the manacles and she had the crop. I knew only her first name, nothing more. She could be an escaped convict for all I knew, straight from the women’s prison, all dolled up to find a man and then, having him, to return to the lesbian games she’d learnt behind bars. And who was Jack?
“I haven’t had anything at all to eat except a croissant,” I told her. My stomach felt empty but, in fact, not hungry, though I tried to look like it did.
“We’ll order room service,” Bev smiled. “Something gooey to get us started.”
“I-I have to pee,” I admitted. I could feel those drinks and that Purple Slurple in my bladder.
“There’s a chamber pot in the bedroom,” Bev replied.
“There’s a potty right here!” I said, pointing to the toilet with my gloved hand.
“Jack’s not here,” Bev said. “Would you like me to invite him in?”
“No,” I admitted.
“Then let’s go!”
“But-” I began, only to find her dragging me straight to the bathroom door and then, opening it, through it and out to Jack.
Omigod! He lay on the bed, buck naked, with a huge staff sticking up as if he were Moses about to herd all Israel’s sheep. It was the biggest penis I’d ever seen! Now I knew why Bev had said they both preferred girls with a little experience. You’d need a lot to take a member like that!
The maid entered. Magpie, Matilda, waht was her name? I’d forgotten it. Flushing from my tip to my toes I watched as she passed me in my birthday suit-playsuit and placed the tray neatly on Jack’s belly. It was hard. It could have held up an elephant. The tray brimmed with a New Year’s revelry of gooey, slurpy items. Pancakes soaked in syrup, a basket of hot buns, a bottle of honey, three cups of steaming cocoa (I hoped the tray didn’t tip over!) and a tube of whipped cream. In addition, right on the tray with our food, was a string of new Ben-Wa balls, vaseline, colored condoms, and a big plastic bottle of Hershey’s Chocolate Syrup, with no discernible use for it as far as I could see, at least with respect to the food.
“Please leave the door unlocked, Maria,” Bev told her. “You may stay yourself if you like.” Maria nodded politely, in her rustic way, that she would not. Rose was downstairs and no doubt would need her. “Then put the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door but, if you please, drape a condom over it,” Bev instructed. She took me by the hand to the bed and reached over to the tray and lifted a condom from it, handing it to Maria. “People will understand what it means, I hope. It means they can enter and watch, or perhaps play, with our permission.”
Maria nodded, turned and left. She switched the Do Not Disturb sign from the inside handle to the outside handle of our door as she departed. Then Bev clapped her hand to my naked bottom and urged me up onto the bed. “Don’t knock over Jack’s tray, you’ll scald his balls,” Bev told me with a merry note in her voice as I scrambled across the bed on my hands and knees. She got up after me, and I found myself facing her across Jack’s legs with his dong sticking up underneath us. Beyond, the tray waited. Bev took my face in her hands and kissed me freely upon my mouth. Relenting, I let her probe inside with her tongue and, although I fought her a little at first, I soon found myself responding my sticking my own tongue in her mouth when I could. Jack watched all, his huge organ trembling with delight. I knew he must have wished he could stroke himself but I sensed he was too excited already to do that.
“Let’s play with his penis,” Bev urged me when she finally let me get some air from her kiss. I caught my breath, feeling my boobies wobble within my corset, and then picked up the honey bottle from the tray as Bev took hold of the chocolate syrup.
Bev looked at me and we both felt the need to kiss again. As we kissed a second time, briefly letting our gooey treats fall from our hands, she clasped each of my breasts. When she had given each a good squeeze she undid the ties. My bosoms sprang from within their cups, offering themselves to her and Jake even as they remained surrounded at their base by the lacy holes in my corselette. Bev cupped each of my breasts and squeezed them hard, almost making me yelp. Then she bent and put her lips to them and, suckling them, bit them too, just a little, to remind me she was in charge, I guess. I begged her to stop. I was scared. But she did no more than put little teeth marks in the stems of my nipples which I could only guess were there. I could not see them. It’s not too easy to see teeth marks on your nipples.
I sighed at her boldness. I picked up my honey bottle and squirted honey onto the tips of each of her squeezingly offered teats. A little ran down onto the front of her bustier.
“Oh! Look what you’ve done! You’ve gotten honey on my bustier!” Bev scolded me.
“I’m sorry,” I replied truthfully. I bent and began licking at her nipples first, to get off the honey I’d playfully squirted there.
Bev reached down to my hips and undid, one by one, the pre-tied drawstrings of my panties, which I’d only had to adjust, not lace together, after putting them on. Now, in short order, the work was undone, completely, and I felt them slip away from me, with only the part wedged in the lips of my pussy hanging on. Bev lifted my face from her boobs and bent her head way down. She placed her palms within my thighs, urged them apart, and bit the dangling fabric of my panties. With a simple tug she nipped them out of my puss. I was quite naked there now, just as I’d been before, but with a tight corset binding my middle (though not, any longer, my boobs) and stockings and gloves and heels on.
“Crawl up to the head of the bed and let Jack give your pussy a licking,” Bev told me. I was about to comply when she stayed me, picked up the whipped cream, and handed it to me. “He’ll want to clean me out,” she said simply. “Put some in my panties so he can do me after he does you.” Gaily, not minding in the least, I pulled open the front of her delicate panties and filled it up with whipped cream. She discarded her see-through robe behind her just as I did it, to get it out of the way. Jack watched all with his cock and balls tense, loving it, but longing for us too, I knew. Why is it that we girls are happiest when we make men to wait? I don’t know.
With Bev properly creamed, we both had the sudden idea of decorating Jack’s handy cock. Bev took the Hershey’s syrup and upended it and dribbled chocolate all over Jack’s cock while I watched with baited breath. Then it was my turn. I got to top him off with whipped cream.
“I’ll race you to the bottom!” Bev told me. I couldn’t resist. With Jack howling with pleasure, we both licked our way all the way down his shaft. Every moment I was sure he’d replace the whipped cream we’d licked off his peehole with bubbling white sperm of his own. But somehow, he survived. When we got down to his nuts we each took one in our lips and sucked him hard, making him shout that he felt like he was being castrated!
“Okay, now a little treat for your hiney hole,” Bev told me.
“No!” I protested, but she took me by the hair, bent me over, pressing my face into Jack’s cock, actually bending him down under my face, and put the tip of the Hershey’s bottle to my anus. I was so anxious about getting messy that I didn’t even realize how wonderful it was to have her boyfriend’s iron rod being bent down under my face cheek. I felt an oozing squirt and the next thing I knew Bev had shot chocolate syrup up my ass!
“Okay, now up top so he can tongue-fuck you into oblivion,” Bev told me. Our night was begun. From now on, I knew, it would be one long orgy of mouths and hands and holes to genitals, over and over, with no stopping until I was called away or we dropped from exhaustion. Too crazy with lust to say no, I hustled my heinie up to Jack’s face and sat myself on his unshaven jaw.
I was wild! His bristly face was pressed up between my creamy thighs, and I found myself clamping myself to him with my legs, letting his calloused palms find my bottomcheeks and stroke and cup them, pinching them a little, though not enough to leave marks. As my white bottom settled onto her lover’s face and occupied his hands, Bev took up position at Jack’s cock. She undid tiny ties underneath her pussy lips, making her modest panties into crotchless ones. The whipped cream I’d squirted in her began to ooze out a little, but she acted too quick for much of it to escape. She mounted Jack, getting herself over his erection, then putting him in her with some difficulty. I guessed she’d had even less sex than she’d let on to. Jack bucked his hips a few times, to lodge himself deeper, but otherwise kept his hands glued to my asscheeks and his face in my pussy. Somehow, he kept our tray steady on his belly, despite our shenanigans. I wondered if he’d had a job once as a waiter, perhaps delivering singing telegram trays?
I cried out with glee as Jack drove his tongue between my female lips. In back he inquired of my drippy chocolate-anointed hiney hole with his finger. He lifted his finger to my mouth and, after a moment’s attempt at evasion by me, maked me to lick his finger clean.
“Oh, Godddd!” Bev cried behind me. She was getting the full make of his erection now, and it was, I speculated, stretching her to new heights she’d never reached before. To save Jack or herself a scalding, she picked up the cups of cocoa and flung them against the priceless walls of the room. The cups, splashing their contents on the wall, shattered and fell to the floor. I hoped we all wouldn’t be made to pay for that indiscretion.
Bev rode Jack with as much abandon as she could muster, given her tightness and his length. At last he spurted within her. She collapsed onto the tray. Her boobs mingled in the syrupy pancakes with their fresh strawberry topping. Screaming, I let Jack, who had a tongue as large as some men’s penises, fuck me up my cunt until I’d crested into several orgasms and could take no more. Finally I drew myself off him, my pussy wet and my mouth smeared with chocolate syrup that had begun the night in my ass.
“Come and clean me, bitch!” Bev ordered. I crawled to her and she knelt up again, letting Jack rest a bit within her cunny before enlarging again. I knelt before her and, as Jack continued to find my butthole a fun place for his finger, I lapped up the syrup on the front of her bodice. When I reached her panties I could not stop. I opened them and played within with my tongue. I licked and licked and lapped and licked until I scooped all the whipped cream out with my tongue, the very cream I’d so naughtily squirted there 20 minutes before, relishing my defilement of her, never suspecting I’d be given the job of cleaning her out. With his cock still encased in her cunt, there was no chance of the whipped cream escaping through Bev’s crotchless panties. But when I’d licked it all out I stuck my tongue down deep within her panties and licked around his shaft. It was full again, bulging with his need. Bev began to rock on him and Jack switched to masturbating my cunt with his hand. The three of us went at it again, Bev still possessively keeping hold of Jack’s rod, me like a little kitty-cat in her master’s bed, getting my pussy fondled as my two masters made love.
“Well, Jack, are you empty yet?” Bev asked him when at last we’d slowed down enough for a rest. Bev had just dismounted from him and he looked up at both of us with gleaming eyes.
“I doubt it,” Jack replied. And I knew what he meant. What young stud would stop after just two spurts?
“As soon as you’re hard again we’ll put Fleury atop you,” Bev told him. “She needs some of your sperm too.”
“Okay,” Jack answered, a big dumb okay from a big guy. I didn’t know him well enough yet to know whether he was smart or dumb.
“It’s up to us to make him hard again, Fleury. Think you’re up to it?” Bev asked me.
“Yes, ma’am,” I answered her. And I gave her a crisp salute, kneeling there on the bed, with chocolate up my ass and my cunny wet with my pleasure and my bosoms and bottom exposed despite my bearhug-tight corselette. For her part, Bev was in a much-licked bustier, her titties showing their ruby tips and her cunny dripping out Jack’s sperm. We both had ribbons in our hair, to keep it pinned up, and I knew we looked absolutely sexy dressed yet undressed like this. I eyes Jack’s balls and saw them drawing upward again already, promising yet more fulfillment.
“Turn around and show me your ass,” Bev told me, picking up her crop from where it lay half-hidden amidst the bedcovers. “I want to pay you back for all the sperm you’re going to steal from my boyfriend.”
“I’m-I’m really not into that,” I said, my voice suddenly wavering, my tits wobbling nudely on my chest, sticking out from the holes in my corselette.
“She must be whipped later tonight, by Branson,” Jack told Bev. “Her bottom is reserved for him.”
“Oh! Branson! He’s such a brute!” Bev gasped. “Let me see your poor bottom! How awful it will tomorrow, after your visit to him! I’ll kiss it for you right now, to help it get better before he even begins. You’ll need it, belive me!”
I turned around, not knowing what else to do. Putting down the crop (which gave me a great sigh of relief), Bev came up behind me and began kissing my ass very diligently. She did not bite it as she’d bitten my nipples. She kissed it very tenderly, patting it with her hands consolingly, and finally laving her tongue up and down my ass crack, for I’d been told that Branson would not even let me keep that part of myself private from him and his whip. With kissing lips she sucked all the chocolate syrup out of my ass. I was glad Hershey’s made such good syrup!
Constricted within the corselette, my bottom felt huge. Her tongue speared it as one might spear a ripe peach. I felt utterly female, fucked up my ass by her pretty tongue while Jack, his own member now starting to rise, prepared me for it by diddling my clit with his fingers.
Soon I was ready. Jack stood tall, and he’d encouraged me close to the brink of orgasm yet again. I was helped down to his waist by Bev. She assisted me in straddling him, and depressed his cock a little at the pee hole so I could get my smaller, child’s frame, atop him. Then she got behind me and bore down on my shoulders. Gazing downward, I watched with gaping eyes as Jack’s organ drilled up into my cunny. He pushed the tray of food off his belly as he realized what a job (and a pleasure, no doubt!) it would be to ram himself up my tight cunt.
I gasped as his fullness went deeper and deeper.
“No,” I begged, but Bev kept her hands pressed to my shoulders and there was no stopping Jack, especially when he gave his hips an upward thrust.
Suddenly the door opened. I turned, my mouth wide, my eyes almost popping out of my head, and saw to my disbelief that Andre and Louis were standing there, with Rose inbetween them. Slyly she unzipped their flies even as our eyes met. Digging within them, she drew forth their flaming rods, all pinkly fleshed and ripe with pre-cum.
“Yes, Louis, watch as another fucks your love. See how big his tool is. Bigger than yours, even. Are you jealous?” Rose asked.
“She will be punished for it by Branson, I can assure you,” Rose replied. Polly peeked over Rose’s shoulder.
“Poooolleee!” I cried as, finding deep purchase within me, Jack began jabbing up and down with his organ, jack-hammer like, befitting his name, with my poor little cunt required to receive every heart-rending stroke.
“Good, good,” Bev told me, and stayed right behind me, not running to service Louis, which I was most grateful for. She helped me bounce up and down on her boyfriend and whispered words of encouragement in my ear. If she was partly a lesbian, I was now glad for it. Any other woman would have abandoned me for Louis, but she ignored him, preferring his eyes instead, with her hands on me. She reached around and grabbed my breasts after awhile, milking them heartily with her hands, still whispering dirty words to me, as I screamed and cried and yowled atop Jack’s ever more viciously fucking prick.
Somewhere in our fuck-fest I collapsed in a dizziness of delight over Jack’s chest. Bev went over with me, squeezing my tits like they were Play-Doh and bucking her hips against me, wishing, no doubt, she had something fake on to shove up my nether hole. All the while Polly watched, big-eyed and curious. I heard Rose slap her and warn her not to frig herself. Louis and Andre, I saw through bleared eyes, stood and massaged their big organs, quite freely, with Rose encouraging them to spill their seed on her carpet, which I knew they didn’t want to do. No man does. Even as he rubs himself he hopes never to cum, yet is so overwhelmed by his pleasure that he can’t stop, yet fears to go on. At least, in the case of Louis and Andre, they were jerking off to a live girl, namely me, not some bathroom magazine or pervert’s story on the Net!
I wept with pleasure as I was filled and squeezed and even banged on my bottom. Bev must have wished she were a man, the way she kept humping my ass with her bereft pussy, having nothing to ‘do’ me with, and me having nothing but buttflesh to reward her with. Somewhere very deep within me Jack erupted in a spasm of cum. I felt my womb flood with him and, at that moment, honestly wished I’d get pregnant with his seed and stay that way for the rest of my life, forever big-tummied, always bearing more and more and more young, until I was as old and loose and fat as Maria the maid.
“Oooh, he DID her,” Polly announced when Jack and I finally separated.
“Yes, dear, but I TOLD you not to play with your pussy,” Rose told the girl. She stood there bare-legged, wearing just her manacles, rubbing her hand quite naturally and artlessly over her cunt. Her child’s thighs were parted in a wide stance, and her tummy heaved in and out as she watched with fascination our bedroom play. I wanted to run up to her and put her angel-like form in a crib and protect her from all she was seeing. And yet, she looked so sweet, so innocent, just standing there masturbating herself, that I finally decided I liked seeing her that way better, with her new young tits wobbling on her chest, and her eyes like saucers. Rose had to smack her bottom to get her to take away her hand but, the minute Rose turned back to Louis and Andre, Polly was at it again, completely ignoring Rose’s injunction, as if she’d never been told it.
“Can I play too?” Polly asked us, still fondling herself.
“Well,” I grinned, looking at Bev. “I don’t know that there’s much left in this young stallion, big as he is.” Jack heaved a heavy sigh, still flat on his back, but certainly less full in his testicles than he’d been an hour ago. Our dinner tray, its food completely uneaten, had fallen off our bed and lay angled up against it.
“I’m afraid it’s time for bed,” Rose said. “Bathtime, then bedtime, for both of you.” Behind me I realized the sun was beginning to set. It would be time for Branson soon. Could I bear it? I knew not what to do. Louis desisted his rubbing, without cuming, and maked his rod brutally back into his pants. He could not get his zipper up, but I doubted anyone in the castle would care. He could have left his dick sticking out, probably, but I imagined he did not want to show it to other men. At least not more than was required. Men are funny. In a locker room, or a bedroom, they strut about showing their stuff, but put them out in a hallway, or some such, and up that zipper goes, depriving us girls of our favorite sight!
“I’ll fill the tub,” Bev offered, clambering off the bed. Her gait was awkward as she went to the bathroom. I quickly followed. I had to GO, and was determined that nothing would stop me from reaching the potty. I scooted through the door behind her and plumped my bottom right down on the toilet seat, not asking anyone’s permission.
“Oh, you saved it up ‘til we were done,” Bev smiled, turning on our bathwater.
“Not by choice,” I replied. “I just got distracted so’s that I didn’t notice.”
“And to think when I was your age I was still sitting alone in my room collecting Beatles photos,” Bev sighed. “And Lennon was dead already, of course, with no hope of the band reuniting. Oh well, show’s you what the music of the 80’s was like.” Her bosoms bobbled on her chest as she stooped down to check the water temperature. Then she made a trip to the towel closet to fetch some bath soap and bubble bath.
“It was terrible music, or so I’ve heard,” I commented to Bev, still peeing out my stream of golden urine. “I was too young to know.”
“You didn’t miss anything,” Bev replied. “Cobain had to shoot himself to get music in really high gear. Too bad. Eleven million dollars, any girl he wanted, and he wasn’t happy. He was a pipsqueak, though, physically. His penis won’t be missed, I imagine, just his scruffy good looks, his insanity, and his voice.”
“I like Bush,” I told her.
“No you don’t, you’re just making a joke ‘cause of the name,” Bev replied.
“Well, the Butthole Surfers then,” I smiled at her. “Or is it Penis? I mean, Primus?”
“How about Porno...for Pyros?” Bev asked. She advanced across the floor toward me.
“Belly!” I replied, slapping my own, wondering if Jack would indeed be found to have filled it up. I wasn’t sure I’d taken any pills lately.
“HOle!” Bev screamed, and she bent low and stuck her finger in mine. It was still all stretchy, from Jack’s massive erection being pumped in and out of it. I retaliated, putting my own finger up hers.
“Girls, there’s really plenty of cock to go around here,” Rose intoned, and we both looked up, shocked, to see her standing in the doorway, looking at us.
“Sorry,” I breathed.
“Me too,” Bev answered.
“Oh, I do NOT want to be whipped, and I especially don’t want to have to take a baaaath!” Polly, making a handful of herself, bleated and whined as Louis and Andre escorted her into the bathroom. Jack followed, a bit sheepishly, I think, being all naked with the other two men dressed up in suits. He ambled past them, his buttcheeks naked and exposed, his cock dangling down and his balls swaying quite loosely and emptily. I got up from the toilet, flushed it, and he took my place, peeing into it without noticing to raise the seat, as men so often do.
“Jack! Please put up the seat!” Rose corrected him. She advanced to him and slapped his ass, which only made his pee stream miss entirely, and decorate the wallpaper.
“I think I’ve got cunt juice all in my prick hair,” Jack commented, ignoring Rose’s admonition entirely. Men are sometimes within their own world, and a female slap, even one on their ass that wangles their dick around, only gives them the pleasure they think they deserve whenever they want it.
“Jack! Stop peeing and lift the seat!” Rose admonished. She hit him again. For an answer, Jack turned around and began peeing on Rose.
“Jack! How dare-” Rose exclaimed. But as his pee hit her, Jack organ elongated to its full size and bloated up with its full girth suddenly restored. Looking at it, Rose felt herself dazzled. Before he’d even stopped peeing, Rose bent and put her mouth to his cock. She did not cover his peehole with her mouth, but bit lightly into the shaft of his cock as he, for his part, kept on wetting her down. As soon as he was done Rose slurped at his slit and kissed him. Bev, watching, laughed, for Rose was not one to go without, and for her to submit herself to Bev’s boyfriend in such a whore-ish way was truly unbelievable. But then, so was Jack. (Though, thinking about it, Louis and Andre were not far behind him, Louis especially. But he was the biggest, like Tarzan, lord of the jungle, reining over all the other apes.)
Rose knelt in her peestained gown before Jack and begged him to sperm her face. They had not met before, I guessed, at least not in this intimate way. Jack, for his part, urged his loins into his face and made a frank effort to cum. He didn’t mind. He was on his fourth go-round and was happy to spurt on command now. Rose clasped his rod and ran her hands up and down it like a madwoman. She clung to his balls and made milking motions, urging him to spew out his spunk. Jack, though erect, was in no hurry. He’d been satiated on me and Bev, and was happy to let his cum come when it came. Rose seemed to value this, somehow, and tried every second to submit herself ever more ignominiously to him. It was as if she relished this sudden break from her regal, polished self, being now just a cheap slut on the bathroom floor, in a peestained gown.
Louis, moved to expose himself again, walked up behind Rose and prepared to jettison his load right in her lovely hair. Andre did the same.
“No!” Bev and I cried, but it was too late. They were highly excited, I could tell, by the stiffness of their erections, and even Polly, though fearing the night ahead, could not help but run up to Rose and begin frigging herself again, as if she had a penis just like the men did, except, of course, she didn’t.
“Aghghg!” Andre shouted suddenly, and his spunk lavished itself upon Rose’s hair. He served as an obscene inspiration for Louis, who jettisoned his load next, with as troubled a shout as Andre had just offered. Simultaneously, though longer in cuming, but climaxing just in time, Jack spurted into Rose’s face. And little Polly, not wishing to be left out, despite being a girl, arched her hips forward, spread her legs, got halfway over Rose’s head, and peed on it. In amazement I watched her little stream as it burst out of her and she tinkled right on our loving mistress, mingling her pee with the heady-smelling sperm of Andre, Louis, and Jack.
When all were finished, Bev turned and found the tub almost full to overflowing. She turned off the water, mooning us in the process with her glorious bottom. Then we got out of our things, all of us, me and Polly keeping on only our collars and manacles, and we all went splashing into the tub. When we were all ensconced within it, I heard a clinking bucket. The maid appeared, Maria, big in girth but otherwise silent. She put the bucket under the sink, filled it, and then put it down on the floor and put a mop into it. As we sat, luxuriating in the bubbles of the bath and savoring our spent loins, she mopped up the floor.
In the intoxicatingly hot water, which made me, I confess, a little sleepy, after all my exertions, the men’s pricks arose again. Polly spotted the first one. Andre was lying back, his head against a folded, partly wet towel. Rose had positioned herself adroitly between Andre and Louis, and I think was fondling their balls encouragingly under the water. Polly had consoled herself to her bath by sailing the rubber ducky around the tub. As she passed it by Andre, her titties scooping up foam as she glided amongst the bubbles layering the water’s surface, Andre’s penis suddenly stuck up like a periscope.
“Oooh, don’t bump my ducky,” Polly reproved her lover, and seemed quite serious, saying it, as if she now preferred her childhood toy to his massive erection. Andre was the youngest male. I guess that’s why he recovered the quickest. Just the sight of little Polly being herself, so innocent and pure, yet so ‘well-rounded,’ as one might say, excited his loins anew. Louis followed shortly, then Jack. I guess we had a trio of rather stalwart men. I figured Rose picked them precisely because they could serve so many cunts so well. No nerdyboys were allowed at the castle, I don’t think. You had to be able to get up and stay up, and cum repeatedly when asked to. Boys who came to soon or men who couldn’t find the inspiration were kept away. Although, no doubt, at times Rose trained even these males, if they could find the money to pay her. But guys like Andre and Louis and Jack were what she preferred. She liked to play with her guests; test them, provoke them, make them wait and then make them cum more times than they thought possible.
Andre suggested that we have an orgy in the tub. Rose placed a fingertip atop his penis, and Louis’s, rubbing their slits and feeling the first oozings of newly created pre-cum bubble up from them.
“Not until after the girls have been whipped,” Rose said quietly. Andre’s cock quivered as he contemplated the fate of his little lover. Polly pretended not to hear. Louis seemed unaffected. I shrank down in the bubbles, instinctively, and felt back behind myself. Was I really to be whipped? Rose kept teasing Polly and I with the thought of it, so much so I no longer knew whether it was just to keep us under her thumb or whether she truly intended it.
“Ah, I have been trained in the art of the whip,” Bev sighed. To my surprise she lifted the riding crop I’d last seen in the bedroom from beneath the water. Foam dripped from it as she held it aloft and twirled it. Had Maria slipped it to her somehow, while I was watching Polly sail her duck? Polly and I both felt our eyes riveted by the implement. We knew that its most likely target was us. Bev took the crop and kissed its looped tip. Leather, made to bite and dig into the buttocks, or whisk across it, depending on the wielder’s skill and spite. Bev extended her tongue and ran the leather stick across it. The crop was longer than most, giving it an extra whippy spring. “I began as a submissive, of course, a ‘bottom,’” Bev laughed, using the term of the S&M trade. “It began one night in a nightclub. I was dancing with this guy, a little bored. He knew the owner. There was a spare room. My boyfriend, a different guy from Jack at the time” (she smiled at her new love) “invited a woman to hold me. The three of us, plus the owner, went into the room and the next thing I knew my boyfriend and the woman volunteer were bending me over the pool table. I didn’t know what to think. Beyond the door, everyone else was still dancing, the music was still playing, drinks were still being served. The woman, going round in front of me and holding down my wrists against the surface of the table, told me to scream freely. No one would hear, with the music blasting away out on the dance floor. Or if they did, just a little, they would think it was something mixed in with the endlessly segued songs.
“Then my boyfriend whipped me, using his belt. I’d done nothing wrong. He was just bored, that’s all, and I was too, until I’d realized what I’d gotten myself into! The owner snapped pictures of my gasping face for my boyfriend to keep as souvenirs. I shouted for him not to, but he ignored me. The woman bent forward over the table and kissed me and told me not to worry. When it was over she helped me replace my dress and straighten it. Then we went back out onto the dance floor, and my bottom couldn’t keep still! Everyone must have thought I’d taken lessons, in that back room. In fact I’d learnt my lesson.”
And it was, ultimately, according to Bev, that a sound thrashing could be fun. I doubted that. Louis told of the differences he’d discovered between using a paddle with a hole in it and one without.
“It swings faster if you drill a hole in it, but the splat from a completely solid paddle is somehow more satisfying,” Louis commented, and Bev agreed.
“Don’t forget a good bedroom slipper,” Jack offered. “I find that’s best sometimes.” Bev exchanged a knowing glance with him. “Sometimes she’ll come to bed in the sexiest nightie after I’ve been slaving away all day at work. I mean, how can I service her if she’s that much hotter than I am? I do a lot of outdoor work. It keeps me fit but it can be backbreaking sometimes. So I give her a good whacking with a bedroom slipper, just to burn off some of her energy. I lay her across my belly and pull her panties down so her bottom is unprotected. Then, while I’m just relaxing, lying back and watching the Tonight Show, I give her repeated whacks on her ass. Whenever I feel like it, you know? If Leno tells a stupid joke, WHACK! If a dumb commercial comes on, WHACK! And I don’t spare her none, no. I want her bawling her head off by the end of the broadcast. Then, when she’s weeping and feeling sorry for herself, I mount her and make slow love to her, at my own pace, with her underneath me quivering and crying.
The conversation continued like this, each participant in the tub, while enjoying the silky smooth water, telling of a favorite experience with the whip. I didn’t really have any, and Polly had none at all. I offered my Abandon Gardens story, then wished I hadn’t, because Rose seemed more determined than ever to outdo what had been done to me there. Polly, sometimes sailing her ducky, sometimes listening raptly, said nothing at all. Except, at the very end, she admitted she’d been paddled once at school for not doing her homework.
“Three swats,” she said. “My teacher told us he’d spank us if we didn’t bring our homework. So, the next day, guess who forgot hers? Me. So he took me outside and made me bend over and he paddled me with all the other kids listening. He got in trouble, though. I think they took him to jail or something. Mommie said he shouldn’t have done that. So when I told her she called the school and he got in lots of trouble. At least I hope he did.” Polly ended her story and we all sat looking at her. She was so darling, with a little frosting of bubblebath on the tip of her nose, unnoticed by her, making her look even younger than she usually did. I was but a year older, but I felt much older. I’d had adventures. While I tried to be my most mature, Polly seemed to relish playing a spoilt baby. I could never entirely figure out whether she did it deliberately, or by accident.
We were quite a bunch, lying there in the tub, on our backs, two grown women and two girls, with Maria mopping up and then changing the sheets in the bedroom next door. Rose with her dark hair, loosed in the tub so she could wash the men’s sperm from it. Andre picked up a nearby bottle of shampoo and dunked Rose under the water as we talked. Several times, to get her hair wet. Then he squirted the shampoo on her and began slicking it through her hair with his hands. He seemed to enjoy it. Louis plucked at Rose’s nipples and commented on the beauty of her glistening white breasts. They bobbed like marshmallows on the water, half-submerged. Rose shut her eyes and let the two men admire and play with her. Louis found her clit and made her gasp with little gasps of pleasure as Andre played bathtub beautician with her hair. Bev took to necking with Jack, leaving me to Polly. I asked her if I could sail her duck and she let me, just a little, all the while telling me I was not doing it right.
“Ducky doesn’t go in reverse!” Polly scolded me, watching intently.
“Ducky is made of rubber. He can go any way I want him to,” I answered.
“Ooooh! I don’t like my ducky going backwards!” Polly said.
“It’s not yours. It belongs to Rose,” I reminded her. And so on. Tit for tat, until Polly grabbed her duck back from me.
Skipping sex, despite the men’s renewed longing for it, we got out of the tub and Maria handed us towels. She watched as we dried each other. The men were tall and well-haired, their cocks up and boldly displayed. Polly seemed fascinated by the difference between drying her own little cunny and a man’s loins, he being huge and erect where she had nothing but a little slit. We took our time, exciting each other by passing the towels repeatedly over the sexiest areas, drying each other’s loins until they were re-wetted by their own fluids. I thought then we’d return to the bed for sure. After all, it had fresh sheets now. Why not? I was feeling frisky.
“Men, I’m going to ask you to be on your best behavior,” Rose told Louis and Andre. Bev and Jack were holding hands, standing close by the bed. “I see no reason why a girl can’t have some fun before she’s whipped. I’m going to take Polly and Fleury dancing. Just to give them a little air.”
With that Rose took Polly and I each by the hand. With newly excited cunnies and stiff nipples we stepped from the bedroom, naked as jaybirds. Louis and Andre and Jack and Bev, with Maria in attendance, were left behind. I looked back, as did Polly. Bev had bright eyes. Her hands had Jack and Andre by their cocks, with Louis extending his toward her as well.
“I thought they weren’t supposed to fuck anymore?” Polly asked in an irked tone of voice.
“Well, honey, they’re not supposed to, and I told them to be good,” Rose replied quietly.
“Well, they look like they’re GOING TO to me,” Polly exclaimed.
“Let’s not worry about them right now,” Rose said. “I’ll ask Bev to give me a full report on their behavior later.”
“Will you spank them if they’re bad?” Polly inquired.
“Certainly! I told them to be good, didn’t I?” Rose said.
“Ooooh, goody!” Polly exclaimed. Her legs danced as we walked, coltish, slim and childish, long but not fully fatted yet. I was conscious of my own legs. They were skinny like hers, but not as much. My bottom was fuller too. Mine had a sense of womanhood about it, while hers still had those rubbery cheeks that veer a little toward the slim side. Hers promised, mine delivered, one might say. Rose’s bottom swayed between us, round and soft and gracious, the sort one sees on Georgia peaches in the springtime, walking up church steps with their children, or dancing with their husbands at evening balls. Her pubic mound was fully furred, while mine and Polly’s were fleecy and light. She projected an aura of the well-mounted woman, unafraid of men, knowledgeable, a good wife. I was more the saucy high school girl, unsure, willing yet unwilling. Polly seemed ever more relentlessly wedded to childhood. I think she used it as a security blanket. She did not have to try to cope with the world if she could pass herself off as a baby. I at least wanted to try. I wished to look men in the eye with the confidence Rose had. We strolled down the hall, calm in our nudity, me copying Rose while Polly skipped alongside. We met no one. I heard sounds behind bedroom doors that we passed. A moan, the sound of a whip? Wood breaking? They must be starting early, Rose’s guests. I did not ask about the sounds. Polly babbled about how Louis and Andre needed to be given all sorts of implements on their bottoms, finally concluding that a bullwhip would be best. Rose humored her. The girl was sealing her own fate, not theirs.
We met Joanne and Sylvia, coming up the stairs. They were wet. They had a boy with them, from the workmen’s huts. They had found him, they said, while they played outside in the rain. Rose scolded them for getting their dresses wet. She ordered the boy back to his hut.
“Take Polly to her room,” Rose said. “We’re going dancing at the cabana. You can take a quick shower in her room, then meet me downstairs.”
Polly waved goodbye to me and went off with Joanne and Sylvia. The girls did not mind losing their boyfriend. They were here to serve, and be trained. They expected Rose to correct them. When they left the castle they could do whatever they pleased. They had come here for something different in this age of the liberated woman. They had come to find fulfillment in the older ways, of servitude and obedience. Happily Polly told them of all she expected to happen to Andre and Louis.
“And Rose will whip them, with a big, big bullwhip that will make their balls bounce up and down!” Polly crowed. Her punishments for the men were getting more elaborate by the minute. Joanne and Sylvia exchanged glances. They knew Polly was sewing her own doom more than that of anyone else, though Polly herself was oblivious. She pranced along between them, describing in spooky terms all the things that must certainly happen to the men if they disobeyed Rose.
Rose took me to my bedroom. Again I looked at the canopied four-poster where she’d promised me I would taste the whip. A corporal punishment, with no mercy, unlike any I’d ever had before. The sheets lay waiting, fresh and crisp, to receive me.
“Oh, do it now, get it over with!” I said suddenly, turning to her.
“Not yet, dear,” Rose replied. I sank to my knees and found myself pressing my nose pleadingly into her delta. It was soft, silky, dark as the hair on her head. She consoled my anxiety by placing a hand on the back of my head. I stuck out my tongue, felt between her legs for her clit.
“Ah! Please!” Rose cried. I’d found her spot. I tongued it with babyish little licks, like Polly might. She said ‘please’ again and I knew not whether she wished me to continue or stop.
I clasped her womanly thighs and parted them wider. I urged my titties between her legs. She let her knees buckle a little, clearly enjoying my efforts. But we were going dancing, in public! We must not play like this, making ourselves all wet.
“Enough!” Rose said. Roughly she pulled me up my my hair. She held my blonde locks in her hands a moment, staring at me, her eyes and her cheeks hot. At last she let go. “I want you to show off your flawless bottom once more before it’s whipped,” Rose said to me.
“Will it still be flawless tomorrow?” I gulped. I felt butterflies lift off anew in my tummy. This was getting serious.
“Not for a few days,” Rose replied. “Then it should be fine again. Unless Louis wants a replay.”
“I don’t want a play, let alone...”
“I know,” she said, putting a finger to my lips. “Get dressed. There are bikinis in the drawer. Just wear a bikini. Nothing else.” I walked to the dresser drawer in my room and opened it. There, arrayed before me, were all sorts of colorful bikinis just my size. Had someone gone out and bought them for me?
“They’re beautiful,” I sighed. They were skimpy too. I picked one that had a nice full bottom to it. Rose might want me showing off my ass in public, but I didn’t. Louis’ eyes were all I needed. I tried not to think of what he might be doing right at this moment.
Rose walked over to me. She put a hand on my back and did not stop me from slipping on the bikini with the modest panties. She helped me tie them. To my chagrin I found the panties didn’t cover all of my bottom crack. I dared not ask to exchange them. I was lucky Rose hadn’t insisted on a thong. She rummaged through the suits and I realized there were bigger ones intermixed with what I thought were all just for me. She found one her size and I helped her into it.
“Armed for battle!” Rose said to me when we’d both dressed. We looked like two girls in an underwear store, wearing just little bikinis, mine cotton, hers leather, but they were decorated for swimming. Mine had pretty dolphins with bulb noses swimming across it. Hers were imprinted with eels. The fabric of both our suits was impossibly thin. My nipples stuck up their nubs despite my bra cups. Her mound was not quite covered. It bulged where it was covered, letting the eye see clearly that she had a nice nest. I wondered how Polly would look. She took my arm and we marched with a sense of gay abandon back into the hall and down the staircase at the front of the house. I wondered if she’d made a little wet spot in her panties from my licking.
Polly greeted us outside in a plastic swimsuit. She was investigating a cricket, holding it in her hands and trying to figure out what made it chirp. She showed it to us. Joanne and Sylvia loitered beside her, mildly intrigued by the cricket. Joanne wore a bikini of felt, Sylvia’s was woolen, a matrix of interlaced little bits of yarn. She was lucky it was dark out. I think in the daylight one might have been able to see thru the yarn to her pubis. Polly, I thought, was lucky too. Bright sunlight would have quickly heated up her fashionable little suit. She’d have found it burning her like a vinyl car seat. Joanne, I suspected, wouldn’t make more than two laps in a pool in her suit. It looked like water would fray it and make it fall apart. But a little sweat from dancing wouldn’t be too bad for it and that, I guessed, is as much water as we’d see tonight. We were dressed for swimming but we’d just be nightclubbing in the city, along the shore.
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