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Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
CAPTIVE COCK
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Chapter One
He was all ready for another tough day of practise. He looked at
himself in the locker room mirror. He was one hard mother fucker, he had
to admit. He had swarthy good looks and an excellent build, built for
action. His football uniform made him look even tougher.
Greg grinned at himself. He turned from the mirror and, with his
usual swagger, headed out of the locker room for the field. He adjusted
his jock strap as he walked. It was rumored among the team that he had
the biggest cock and, while he wasnÕt sure (he didnÕt exactly stand around
measuring the other players), he knew he wasnÕt small when it came to
the penis department. The guys had nicknamed him ÒGreg Cocker,Ó in honor
of the size of his cock and the 60Õs singer. He wished sometimes, though,
as he adjusted his jock strap, that heÕd not been given such a big one by
God because it did make it rather uncomfortable for him when he stiffened
inside his jock strap.
Lately heÕd been stiffening a lot. His wife had left him and, free of
her, heÕd gone back to his high-school ways, sowing his seeds and leaving
a trail of broken hearts behind him. With a casual air of conquest he
noticed two females dead ahead as he emerged from the MenÕs Locker
Room. One was blonde, the other had very dark brown hair, almost black.
They both had long hair, the blonde halfway down her back and the brunette
almost down to her waist, like Elvira.
Greg laughed to himself. If this was Elvira sheÕd become awfully
young and cute. The girls turned from gazing through a window at the men
out on the field and looked at him. He realized with a start that they were
both quite young. Junior high girls, not even high school. Too bad. Just
two little autograph hounds. No chance for sex with them. If theyÕd been
just a few years older, he assured himself, he would have had them flat on
their backs after practise and, if they werenÕt careful, pregnant by
morning.
ÒHello, Greg,Ó the waif-like blonde said to him as he came up to
them. They looked like two small children standing beneath him, rising in
height barely to his chest. And they were tall for their age, both with
extremely long legs that they didnÕt mind showing under Catholic school
girl skirts that looked as if theyÕd been shortened.
ÒYes, girls, what can I do for you?Ó Greg asked with the weary air of
a star whoÕs long since lost interest in signing his name for people.
ÒCocker,Ó the brunette with hair that was almost jet black said to
him. She had her hand lifted halfway to her chest, as if unsure where to
place it, and her index finger was curled slightly, as if she might reach
out and unzip his fly.
Greg tried to force a laugh. ÒArenÕt you two girls a little young to be
knowing my nickname?Ó he asked. ÒMy last name is Cook, not Cocker.Ó
ÒMmmm, Greg Cook, football player extraordinaire, on and off the
field,Ó the brunette agreed. Greg realized she wasnÕt at all ready to let go
of the sex analogies. There was something mesmerizing in her attitude,
he realized. She had a diminutive frame, the exact opposite of his. Her
shoulders were extremely narrow and frail. Her arms were slender and
her face was almost elfin, it was so cute, with large liquid brown eyes
that seemed to possess some kind of a dark inner fire. Of couse, they
shared one similarity. He had a massive chest and, despite being no more
than 13-years-old, the brunette had two large plump bosoms that rose
from her chest and seemed to poke at his belly, demanding attention. The
girl moved and her breasts jutted forward with her movement. She tossed
her hair back, casually, deliberately, and again her hand seemed to hover in
anticipation of unzipping his fly.
Greg knew he needed to ask these girls to let him sign quickly or he
might find himself in trouble with more than just his ex-wife.
ÒI got to hurry, girls. You got pads or something I can sign for you?Ó
ÒDo you think weÕre wearing padded bras, dearest Greg?Ó the
brunette asked with a sly grin. Now she was really getting under his skin.
He expected females to worship him, no matter what their age. Hell, if
they were as young as these two they should be falling all over him, not
behaving as this impish little (but well-busted) brunette was.
ÒI donÕt really care if your fucking bra is padded or not,Ó Greg said in
a harsh whisper to the brunette. He was sure that would floor her. NO
female ever wanted to cross Greg Cocker, at least not before sheÕd gotten
a taste of his assets. Afterward, maybe, after he dumped her, or
philandered around after promising her he wouldnÕt. But not before.
Before was always, ÒI worship the ground you tread, the urinal you release
your pee into.Ó
ÒGee, you look awfully tight down there,Ó the blonde said in a
suggestive voice to Greg. She was gazing quite directly at his groin. She
was as small in her build as the brunette, with that noticable exception
the brunette sported so lasciviously, a knockout pair of knockers. She
looked even younger, 12 at most, but Greg knew girls started growing tits
these days at age 8 or 9 so it was improbable, but not impossible, that a
girl her age might be very well outfitted by the 7th grade.
ÒLook, girls,Ó Greg said. He wasnÕt going to try to intimidate them.
That obviously only excited them to take greater liberties with his
temper. He was going to be calm and cool and get these two cherry bombs
Ôsigned off,Õ as they say in the trade of groupies and grubbing boys who
think once theyÕve managed to meet a star they can take him home and
keep him (or at least dominate the next hour and a half of his life). ÒWhat
did you do, travel miles and miles to meet me?Ó Greg asked. ÒI appreciate
that. And youÕre probably skipping school to do it. And youÕll probably get
in trouble when you get back.Ó He eyed their skirts. ÒEspecially for
making your skirts as short as you have. But IÕve got to be on my way,
okay? Show me your pads and give me a pen and IÕll sign my name for
you.Ó
ÒOh, we werenÕt hoping youÕd sign with a pen,Ó the blonde said in a
rather gushy voice, getting visibly excited. But the brunette kept her cool.
ÒWhat else could I sign with?Ó Greg asked in a voice that sounded
rather like a snarl. These two were getting on his nerves.
ÒWell, thereÕs something else which does put out fluid,Ó the brunette
smirked. Greg couldnÕt believe that. Were these girls here to worship him
or to make fun of him? The brunette reached out her hand and, swishing
back her long hair again, making it seem like an accident, she brushed her
hand across his cock.
This was not a painless maneuver for Greg. HeÕd been stiffening in
his jockstrap from the moment heÕd first seen the girls (thinking them
older), and now, as this damnable brunette actually touched him, touched
him there, his cock popped a massive boner that made him think he was
going to split his jock strap. Of course his strap was tight and made to
keep him well down, not to permit him the freedom of an erection. So this
little brunette with her newly grown bosoms, which she liked so much to
flaunt, had suddenly put Greg into a painful state of erection inside his
tight football pants and his even tighter jock strap.
ÒGod damn!Ó Greg said. He was forced, right in front of these two
young waifs, to reach down and adjust his jockstrap.
ÒOhhh, your pants really look too tight,Ó the blonde said, apparently
with honest intent, for her eyes were large and innocent as she spoke. But
the brunette, with her equally large eyes, continued to regard Greg with a
malicious air, enjoying putting him into a cocked-up state in his pants and
laughing, it seemed, at the condition he was now in.
Greg figured it was time to give in to these girls and just be totally
blunt and direct. ÒOkay, you win, girls,Ó he said. ÒWhat do you want me to
do, take out my dick and write with it, right here, with the coach waiting
for me and the guys wondering where I am and about to come looking for
me? Should I just drop my pants and take off my jock strap and just
produce my erection for you, and write on your little pads for you?Ó
ÒWe forgot our pads,Ó the brunette said. She wriggled and her
bosoms shook. ÒWe donÕt need them.Ó
ÒCould you?Ó the blonde giggled. ÒCould you write it right on our
bellies?Ó She lifted her shirt, a starched, buttoned white uniform shirt,
and showed Greg her small little navel. Greg frowned. The blonde
apparently didnÕt have the best grasp of the male anatomy. Apparently she
believed he was possessed of some quick-drying seed, like a pen was, and
that he could simply ejaculate his signature onto her stomach and it would
instantly dry and she could take it back to her school and show it to all
the girls.
The brunette, Greg guessed, was a little more knowledgeable. She
eyed him from the height of his chest but her shortness did little to deter
her. ÒWe donÕt want your autograph,Ó the brunette said. She looked down
at GregÕs bulging groin and then back up at him. ÒWe want to torture you.
We want to torture... your cock.Ó
What in GodÕs name was this, Greg asked himself. He knew girls of
today were more forward than in his time, when he lorded himself over his
junior high, long ago, using girls up like kleenexes. But what in GodÕs
name was this? Some girl, no more than 13, with her hymen probably still
intact, telling him she wanted to torture his cock? Senator Exon was
right. These girls were reading too much crap on the Net and it was high
time they went back to doing the the three RÕs. Reading (well... not that
one), writing (well... not to Men on the Net) and Ôrithmatic. Yes, that one
seemed okay. Unless they were doing the math simply to check up on the
abilities of the Pentium in their computer so it wouldnÕt fuck up their
chat messages and their e-mail.
Greg bent forward a little. He put his hands on his hips and he looked
down at the brunette. He scowled. He felt like taking this little impish
brunette and putting her apple-round ass over his knee and paddling it.
ÒSo you want to torture my cock, do you?Ó He asked. The brunette
shivered but seemed excited by his question, by his scowl.
ÒYes, I do,Ó she laughed. Still she had the luminous eyes with the
fire of Hell in them, Greg mused. Even now, with him twice her size and
feigning that he was thinking of snapping her small frame in two. Gulping
slightly, the brunette reached out and touched the zipper on his football
pants. And then, quite deliberately, never mind that they were standing in
the middle of the hall, the girl actually tugged on his zipper. He was
unzipped. Not all the way, just halfway. The brunette looked up from his
zipper at him.
Greg felt himself in the clutches of SatanÕs daughter. He could feel
a gasp coming from somewhere within the bellows of his chest. He was
possessed with this girl, suddenly. A moment ago sheÕd just been
somebodyÕs child. SomebodyÕs young teen. A girl he was trying to get rid
of as fast as possible. Yet now he felt he couldnÕt leave her. No. That
wasnÕt possible anymore. If he walked away now, she would haunt his
mind. Most girls lingered in the stands, watching the players, but
somehow he knew if he walked away at this moment she wouldnÕt grant
him that favor. The blonde might, but not this wicked-eyed brunette.
SheÕd disappear and heÕd never see her again but heÕd always be thinking
about her. HeÕd never seen such a small, diminutive, young girl with such a
well-possessed manner. She was like some kind of wicked poison, brewed
by his ex-wife and sent to haunt his nights just as he was sure his
philandering had left her lying haunted and bereft in the marriage bed in
their home.
Was this his penalty? Greg asked himself. To suddenly find himself
tortured by some cherry-bomb waif? He found himself in a quandary. If
he left, walked away, heÕd see her forever, in his mind, and want her, and
her eyes would be laughing at him, saying, ÒYes, Greg, you missed the best.
I may have been only 13, but you missed the best dish of your life, and let
some other more worthy man have me.Ó Yet, if he accepted her, if he
didnÕt get her damn little fingers of his zipper, sheÕd promised him sheÕd
Òtorture his cock.Ó That phrase, revolting as it seemed at first, began to
itch at him. HeÕd always had females falling all over him to please him.
What did this small child mean, sheÕd Ôtorture his cock?Õ What, like in the
inquisition or something? Was she some high priestess of Witchery?
Some wayward Nun? Greg felt himself tremble a little as he regarded her.
She looked up at him. And then, again quite deliberately, the girl unzipped
his pants the rest of the way.
ÒI do hope IÕm permitted into your locker room today, you swine,Ó
Greg heard from behind him. Instantly he knew who it was. The damnable
reporter from The Sporting Herald, who insisted that, even though she was
a woman, she had every right to be in the menÕs locker room, just as any
male reporter was. Greg grabbed at his crotch and yanked up his zipper.
Unfortunately in his haste he failed to check that his jock-strapped cock
was completely inside his fly-hole. The zipper his a portion of his cock
which had managed to bulge thru the hole and Greg let out a howl as the
zipper bit into his manhood.
ÒOoooch!Ó Greg said in a voice that sounded like a male belching.
With his hands still on his fly, he turned around.
ÒMeeting your fans?Ó the woman reporter asked. Greg gritted his
teeth.
ÒTheyÕre not MY fans,Ó he said sternly. How dare she imply that his
fans were sex-kitten girls barely out of primary school?
ÒMind if I go in your locker room now that there are no men in it?Ó
the reporter asked.
ÒI guess not,Ó Greg answered. ÒIÕm not in charge of locker room
policy,Ó he said.
ÒPerhaps, if I canÕt interview you men directly, I can at least sniff
out your strategy for this weekendÕs game,Ó the reporter said.
ÒIÕm sure you can,Ó Greg replied.
ÒOhhh, can we go in too?Ó the blonde 12-year-old asked.
ÒNo, little girls arenÕt permitted in a menÕs locker room,Ó the
reporter answered. Then she turned and, with a sly backward cock of her
head, added, ÒEnjoy your fans, Cooker.Ó
She didnÕt say it. She wouldnÕt, in front of the two little girls. But
Greg knew she was saying it, although being discreet in doing so. ÔEnjoy
your fans, Cocker,Õ thatÕs what she really meant. As if he was some kind
of child molester. Well, he wasnÕt. HeÕd whisk these two girls away and
then heÕd be out on the field, running, tackling, showing the other guys
what the word ÔdirtÕ really meant. And what it tasted like, too.
Greg turned around. The girls were gone. He experienced a sudden
sense of loss, like falling out of an airplane with no parachute. He was
shocked that he did. Yet, he did, there was no question about it. Where had
they gone? That lusciously gushy blonde and her compatriot, the devilish
brunette? How could they disappear so fast? Well, Greg reminded
himself, they were children. Kids could disappear pretty fast. He frowned
at himself for wishing they handÕt left and yet now he was free, wasnÕt
he? HeÕd told himself he wanted to be rid of them and yet now, already, he
could see that dazzling brunette, in his mind, talking to one of his
teammates, or perhaps, even, to some player from the incoming team that
theyÕd play against this weekend. Tweaking his zipper, telling him her tall
tales of how she desired to torture his cock.
ÒNo,Ó Greg said aloud to himself. That damn girl wasnÕt going to
cuckold him like that. HeÕd seen her before any of the other guys and he
wasnÕt going to allow himself to be humiliated like that. HeÕd been a nerd
in elementary school. It was only in junior high that heÕd flowered. His
uncle had taught him how to lift weights and then his body had kicked in,
giving him hormones, and suddenly heÕd gone from being a runt to being a
God. But he still remembered how, in grade school, the other boys had
gotten the better of him and the girls had passed him by. It had left a
mark on him. A mark heÕd assauged perhaps to well, by laying every girl he
could, to the point of wrecking his marriage with his wife. Now, it
seemed, the circle had closed, and that damn brunette had been sent by
some wicked Goddess, some skein-weaving Fate, to destroy him no matter
which way he turned.
ÒOh, Greg,Ó he heard. He was advancing down the hall and now he
stopped. He turned around. It was the brunette. ÒReady to have your cock
tortured?Ó she asked him.
Greg stared at the girl. The blonde, soft and nubile, seemed to float
beside her, like some angel who might rescue him at the last moment. The
brunette stared back. Her eyes were like dark sapphires and he knew sheÕd
gotten her talons into him. Without even touching him, except on his
zipper. SheÕd won. HeÕd lost his ability to resist her. If he walked away,
sheÕd cuckold him. If he stayed, he was expected to produce his penis for
her.
Greg walked toward the girls, hoping to intimidate them. But they
held their ground. He decided to deal with the brunette bluntly again.
Perhaps that would shatter this awful web he was finding himself
descending into.
ÒWhere do you want to torture me?Ó Greg asked. ÒMy cock, I mean.
Do you want to torture it right here, in the hall?Ó The brunette smiled.
She reached for his big arm with both of hers and she found his hand.
Lightly she pulled upon it and, like putty, like some kind of big Gumby,
Greg let his arm be tugged forward by her little hands.
ÒCome along,Ó the brunette smiled up at Greg. She said nothing else.
She turned, the blonde turned. The blonde took GregÕs other hand.
ÒWhew! It STINKS in there!Ó Greg heard the woman reporter hollar,
emerging from the MenÕs Locker Room, but Greg was already around the
corner of the hall, being led by the girls out to the parking lot.
30
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