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Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
CUNT CASTLE
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Chapter Three
I heard Country music wafting across the night air. We pulled up in
front of a ramshackle place with the name of RawliesÕ Rodeo. Looking out,
I saw was a saloon, built outside of town to evade the finer points of the
law. Bright neon flashed into my eyes. The limo ground to a stop in a
parkinglot made of gravel. Rose had her driver open the car doors for us
and Polly and I, followed by her, tumbled out. I could hear dancing inside.
Rose shouldered her purse and we crossed the parking lot together,
holding hands. We passed up a small flight of steps. They creaked under
my feet, as if the whole set of them might collapse because three
lightweight women had chosen to trod upon them. We were met by a huge
bouncer. He glowered down at us. Our well-curved bodies, our skimpy
clothes, impressed him not in the least. ÔGay,Õ I thought to myself, and
realized a boy in swim trunks would have been his preferred date for the
night.
Rose, her confidence undiminished, smiled at him. ÒHi Bubba, weÕre
here for the show,Ó she said quietly.
ÒOh!Ó The bouncerÕs eyes bulged from his fat face. His stomach
trembled. ÒYou must be--Ó
ÒYes,Ó Rose answered, keeping her voice low.
ÒCome right in,Ó the bouncer said quickly. He turned as a dog might,
eager to please a master, his huge butt rolling with hasty gracelessness. I
saw his jeans were too low on his hips to cover him properly. The top of
his buttcrack showed. Polly turned up her nose in disgust, seeing it. I did
too.
We were ushered inside. A cacophony of celebrating people, dancing
and drinking and swearing, greeted my ears. The place was packed. We
could barely fit in amongst them. Smoke from cigarettes and cigars laced
the air. Loud music, accompanied by flashing colored lights, competed
with the steady white light flowing out from behind the counters where
drinks were served. I saw a sign announcing beer for $5.00 a glass. The
band seemed terrible, I could not see them but I could hear a rasping
hillbilly voice somewhere in the distance, obviously live. No one would
record crap like that. It sounded even worse than Ministry. Yoko Ono
would have taken this place by storm.
ÒBooss,Ó the fat man bellowed. ÒThe strippers are here!Ó At first
his words did not register. Then I felt people turning, pulling back from
me, seeing me with new eyes. A round of applause erupted. Rose strove to
maintain her composure. She pushed myself and Polly forward, following
quickly behind us.
ÒYou are a big fat dolt,Ó Rose told the bouncer as she passed him. He
stared after her, then shrugged.
ÒThatÕs why IÕm gay,Ó he said aloud, to himself. He turned and went
back to his post outside, away from the women with their overheated
perfume, the men with their full-grown desires. He had no interest in
such things. His loves were home asleep, tucked in at eight oÕclock.
With a sinking feeling I realized I must be the entertainment for the
evening. For the moment, though, I just wanted to get out of the crowd.
There were too many of them. I felt oppressed. As the applause
continued, Rose herself ushered us back, back, deeper into the crowd and
then finally through it, passing us through a door, which quickly opened for
us and then closed behind us.
Holding PollyÕs hand, I looked around at our new surroundings. Rose
passed out from behind us and confronted a large, handsome man in a suit.
We stood in a room backstage. Somewhere to my left I could hear the band
playing. I realized we were in the room performers used to prepare for
their acts out on the barÕs stage.
The man smiled at myself, Polly. He wore a vanilla white suit, as if
he were about to deliver a Sunday sermon. He was young, with a wry grin
that made me feel like I might be disrobed by it alone.
ÒYour doorman is an idiot,Ó Rose said to the new male in our life. He
smiled at her. He had teeth that sparkled like I knew the devilÕs would if I
ever met him.
ÒHe keeps the trash out,Ó the vanilla-suited man replied to Rose.
ÒAnd lets the good stuff in.Ó His eyes openly admired RoseÕs bust.
ÒDavid, to change your plans like this, at the last minute. ItÕs just
not fair,Ó Rose answered. ÒDonÕt expect me to do this again for you. Just
this once, okay?Ó
ÒOkay,Ó David replied, but with a voice so casual I knew none of us
could put any faith in it.
Rose turned and faced Polly and I. ÒGirls, weÕre going to continue
your training here,Ó she said. ÒBoth of you, please get undressed. WeÕre
going to give a little show for DavidÕs customers.Ó
ÒWaht?Ó Polly asked, her high-pitched voice cracking, urgent. She
lifted a hand to her shirt. It was so brief, its hem ragged, her titties
sticking up within it. Was she now to lose it? I liked this no more than
she. My jeans hardly did their job, but at least they did something. I
didnÕt want to take them off in this strange place, even if the vanilla-
suited man looked like a pastor who could keep whole flocks of choir girls
happy.
ÒI have to undress too, so donÕt complain,Ó Rose replied. At once she
pulled up her peasant blouse. It fitted her tightly. As it crossed over her
breasts it set them to lewdly wiggling. I put a hand to my mouth. We
were just to strip naked, without even anything to wear? David
approached Polly. She squealed. He put his hand to the zipper of her
cutoffs and zipped it right down, exposing her bush. He yanked them down
her thighs and a moment later she was bare from the midriff down,
wearing just her tennies and shirt, with her scarf decorating her neck.
Polly put a hand up to her cowboy hat, to assure herself that it remained.
There was a method to her madness for, with that on, the man might not
remove her shirt.
David slapped PollyÕs bottom. Her hands flew behind her to protect
herself. Then he lifted off her hat, having neatly tricked her right out of
it. I stood watching, fumbling with the buttons on my very short LeviÕs
501Õs. I guessed there was no way to avoid our fate. Polly shrieked as
David lifted off her shirt. Her titties jiggled from her struggles,
alluringly. She bobbed and weaved her naked hips. Her asscheeks quivered.
I dropped my shorts. Rose took off her skirt. Then she came to me
and pulled up my shirt for me, baring my breasts. Polly cried anew as
David undid her scarf. Then he sat her down on a chair, pushing her into it,
and lifted each of her legs in turn and took off her tennis shoes. She
looked like a little girl, each of her legs awkwardly lifted in turn, her slit
showing, her eyes big with fright and apprehension. Rose finished
stripping me, sitting me down finally in a chair of my own and pulling off
my tennies and socks.
We were given platform pumps, with long lace ties that had to be
bound to our calves to keep our new heels on. Rose did mine. David did
PollyÕs. Then we were made to stand and we were each given a baby doll
nightie.
ÒIt doesnÕt cover my bottom!Ó Polly declared, when hers had been
slipped on. Mine didnÕt either. It wafted down over most of my bush,
leaving a little showing, then arched round my legs and up high in back,
letting nearly all of my ass be seen.
ÒImagine youÕre on your honeymoon,Ó David told Polly. I glanced
toward the stage, where the band had ceased playing. I doubted she and I
were going to find ourselves in a bedroom. More likely, we were going to
find ourselves out there, on stage. I felt the strap of my nightie slip down
off my shoulder. I lifted it back up, realized it would be a chore keeping
both my straps up at once. They were too flimsy, too close to the ends of
my narrow shoulders. Whatever deficiency my nightie had down below, it
made up for it by being too widely spaced where my straps hung from my
shoulders. Was this nightie made for a bigger woman? How could it be? I
guessed whoever designed it had in fact a girl of 14 in mind, and wicked
plans for her.
Polly was no better off. We each sported a decorative bow in the
front of our nighties, where the decollete front dipped too low, showing
off almost all of our bosom. Our nipples, barely covered, pointed like bell
pushes into the fabric. It was filmy, silky soft, a girlÕs perfect companion
for bed but hardly a garment to be worn under a spotlight out on a stage in
a bar!
ÒNo panties,Ó Rose was saying to Polly as I regathered my thoughts.
A woman stood behind me, gathering up my hair so it would not block the
view of my body. Lady Godiva was better dressed than I, riding her horse,
with her hair long and free. David, mesmerized by PollyÕs youth, tied her
hair into pigtails, pinned in a few barrettes to make her look younger still.
I turned and looked at Rose. She was buckling a dogÕs collar round
her own throat, as if she were to be DavidÕs own special pet. The woman
finished with my hair and helped Rose with her collar. She had trouble
buckling it, wearing her cowboy gloves. David gave Polly lace mittens.
ÒHere, put these on, youÕll need them,Ó he grinned. Polly, resigned to
the inevitable now, slipped on little mittens that covered her palms but
were otherwise fingerless. They had little bows that needed to be tied
around her wrists. David tied them for her. Then he gave me a similar
pair and, with his help, I put them on.
ÒOh, couldnÕt we please have panties?Ó Polly begged.
ÒNo,Ó Rose answered. She was in no mood to waste time arguing.
The woman touched up my makeup, PollyÕs. Rose donned a cowboy hat. It
had a chin strap and she neatly tucked the slim strap under her face,
turned and looked in a mirror and adjusted her hat. Then she stepped into
a very small skirt and pulled it up her legs. She wore no panties
underneath. She zipped it up as David watched her. The zipper was in
back. She zipped it carefully up her bottom so as not to pinch her flesh.
The skirt had steep slits up each side. When she walked I saw the skirt
was little more than a pair of flaps, one in front, one behind, joined at the
waist. It was made of shiny brown suede, matching her boots and gloves.
She did not attempt to cover her breasts. They bounced freely on her
chest. Her nipples were stiff.
Rose, still wearing her neckerchief, looked in the mirror once more
and tugged it so it would hang just right, teasingly, way to short too cover
her boobies and yet tricking one into thinking, somehow, it might have
been a blouse, if only it hadnÕt, well, been a neckerchief instead. Tightly
her dog collar bound her neck. It showed only that someone possessed her.
There was no hope it might provide her with modesty. Rose turned to us.
ÒLetÕs go, girls,Ó Rose commanded. She urged us up a small flight of
steps, like someone in the park urging reluctant doves ahead of her. Doves
domesticated by the parkÕs visitors, fed until they were plump. Polly and I
walked with wiggly bottoms, our cheeks round, apprehensive. She shooed
us ahead of her, we could not refuse. Leaflike, blown by the gust of her
determination, we emerged from the dressing room, and suddenly found
ourselves on stage.
Polly and I blushed fiercely as the crowd beyond the spotlights
erupted into howls and cheers of applause. She and I were festooned in
our nothing nighties, with nothing else to hide us from their stares. I
gazed out across the stage. There was a pole, made of plastic. It was
fairly wide, about a foot wide perhaps, or nearly so. It lay lengthwise
along the stage. It was elevated to the height of our thighs. Its top half
was slathered with whipped cream.
Dazed by the lights, Polly and I proceeded out onto the stage. We
held hands tightly, scared stiff. Our nipples were no less frightened,
poking into our nighties, showing themselves for all the world to see
beneath the harsh stage lights. Our hips waggled with our fear, making
our bottoms sway back and forth like womenÕs bottoms, fresh from love.
WeÕd each been given a teddy bear and we clutched it for dear life, praying
we might somehow be delivered by the bears, or saved by them.
Polly and I approached the cream-lathered pole. Rose managed to get
our hands apart and drew Polly from me. I stood stock still, watching, as
Rose led her to the other side of the stage. The two of them had to cross
over a mud pit in the center of the stage. The pit was lower than the rest
of the stage, and two boards had been laid over it to allow Rose and Polly
to cross. As soon as theyÕd done so, a man appeared and took away the
boards. He wore workmenÕs clothes. He was fat, though not as big as the
doorman. I wondered if he too were gay. Probably not. As he passed, I
saw a bulge in his trousers. He escaped from the stage via the steps weÕd
come up. I knew I must not follow.
ÒBut IÕll get cream all over my pussy!Ó I heard Polly declare from
across the stage. Rose had made her straddle the pole and she stared down
at it apprehensively.
ÒSit!Ó Rose urged and, so that she might not disobey, Rose placed a
firm hand on the girlÕs shoulder and shoved her down. Polly cried out and
felt her bush and her cunny come straight down on the pole.
SPLAT! I heard her as she sat. I realized I must do the same. Rose
looked over at me, her eyes firm, uncompromising. I approached the pole.
I stepped across it with one leg, then gazed down at it.
ÒPut your teddy bear in your mouth, then,Ó I heard Rose say. I looked
up. Polly had just stuck the leg of her upturned teddy bear between her
teeth, so that she could grab hold of the slippery pole with both her
mittened hands. Poor teddy. He wore a little shirt, leaving his belly and
bottom bare. As Polly held him aloft, his leg in her mouth, his bare woolly
bottom knocked against her chin.
I put the ear of my bear in my mouth. I didnÕt want to lose him. He
was my security blanket. He would save me, somehow, from this creamy
pole and the ominous mudpit. My bear dangled by his ear, still grinning
stupidly at the audience. His legs were stuck open as wide as mine were.
I had no choice. I must sit on the pole, or worse things than this would
happen to me.
Daintily I reached down with my hands, my mittens protecting my
palms, at least. My breasts swung within my nightie as I bent forward. I
placed my hands on the pole. The cream was cold. Then, delicately as I
could, I seated myself on it.
Squish. I felt the cream enter my cunny as my cuntlips splurged
open upon the pole. Even in my virginal tightness I could not keep the
cream out of my genitals. I felt the gookiness enter my buttcrack and
smear the lowest portions of my bottom with its essence.
Polly protested over the leg of her bear but, with its foot in her
mouth, I couldnÕt understand her. The front of her nightie had a smidgen of
cream where it touched the pole. In back, I knew her bottom was spoilt
like mine, the cream adhering to her darling cheeks where they made
contact with the pole. Her nightie, useless, rose up to reveal her heinie,
leaving her squirming cheeks with nothing to protect them from the
audienceÕs admiring eyes.
ÒPull yourself to the center,Ó Rose told Polly. Simultaneously she
pushed the girl forward, making her drag herself along the pole.
ÒOh, IÕm getting more cream in my pussy!Ó Polly shrieked. But with
Rose watching, she had to obey. She did not want to feel the cane again.
She knew, as I did, that there must be a cane someplace nearby, or, failing
that, the male customers would gladly take off their belts.
I felt wet cream pass beneath myself as I drew myself with my
hands along the poleÕs length. I turned and looked over my shoulder.
Behind me the pole was now clean, wiped off by my own ass and thighs!
Polly wished to cry, but couldnÕt find it in herself to be quite that upset.
The cream was soothing, it surely teased her and wettened her just as it
was doing to me. She had not gotten hers yet, perhaps this sperm-colored
cream would be an acceptable substitute. I saw her suppress a smile as
she drew herself toward me. Yes, she felt it too. She flushed, realizing
the audience could see her pleasure just as well as I could. Rose
pretended to ignore the effect of the cream and the sliding pole upon us.
She liked maintaining a facade of decorum, no matter what might be
happening. Inside she might be plotting like a slut, but her outward
demeanor remained that of a lady entertaining guests at Buckingham
Palace.
In a few moments Polly and I faced each other across the mud pit.
Her face glowed softly. Shyly she looked away from me. I wanted to take
my teddy from my mouth but my hands were all covered with cream. My
mittens had been little help. Their sheer fabric covered my palms, but I
had cream all over my bare fingers.
Carefully, her boots protecting her, Rose stepped down from the
stage into the mud pit. It was not very deep, just a few inches. She had to
balance herself within it carefully, though, for the mud had been poured
over pillows. She made Polly and I scoot ourselves out over the pit. With
our platform heels, we each had to step into the pit, while still sitting on
the pole. The pit was just a little lower than the rest of the stage. The
mud did not quite touch my toes. I hoped it never would.
Rose was very attentive of our safety. ÒKeep your toes pointed
inward,Ó she told us. ÒIf you fall, I donÕt want you to break either of your
ankles.Ó I turned in my toes, like she ordered. It was harder to keep
perched atop the pole this way, but I knew if I was unfortunate, God
forbid, to fall into the mud in front of everybody, I at least would plop
down as my heels rose up beneath me. I did not want them to get caught in
the well-cushioned pillows. Fortunately, the pillows in the pit were
covered with slick pillowcases. Our feet should slip right out from under
us if we truly lost our grip on the pole. Rose, though, had to be extra
careful, standing on such a slippery, cushiony surface, lest she be the
first to embarrass herself in front of the crowd. Fortunately, her heavy
cowboy boots helped her keep her balance. I knew now why her spurs were
blunt. They would have pierced the pillows. Looking down at them, I
realized they were filled with air. I hoped my spiked heels didnÕt poke
through them.
The man in the work clothes returned. Before I realized it, heÕd
taken my teddy bear from my mouth. He took PollyÕs also. She did not
want to lose hers, gave a little squeal of displeasure as the man pulled it
away. In return, he presented her with a big pillow. He handed me one
also. We received the pillows with cream-laden hands. I did my best not
to get any of the white goo on the rest of me.
ÒIck!Ó Polly said, trying to fling the cream off her hands before the
man made her take a pillow.
ÒDonÕt, Polly,Ó Rose cautioned. She didnÕt want any cream flung on
her, or on me.
ÒMmm, itÕs nice and soft,Ó Polly said happily, squeezing her pillow.
Taking mine, hefting it, I realized it was a pillowcase stuffed full of
light, downy feathers. Polly plumped her pillow and a sleepy look crossed
her face. What were we supposed to do, go to sleep right here on the pole,
over the mud pit?
The workman handed Rose a whistle. She snapped its chain around
her neck. It hung sweetly between her breasts. She smiled at us, standing
over us, our referee, I suddenly realized.
ÒGirls, you are going to have a pillow fight,Ó Rose announced to us,
letting the audience hear too. ÒI hope, Polly, that for your sake youÕre not
a pacifist, or youÕll be taking a little mudbath.Ó Rose smiled.
ÒOh, I want to go home!Ó Polly cried, but I saw her eyes told a
different story. She realized sheÕd like nothing better than to knock me
straight into the mud at our feet.
ÒFight hard, girls, but no biting or scratching or pulling,Ó Rose
cautioned us. ÒJust use your pillows, please. If either of you cheats, IÕll
make sure you pay for it, right here, in front of the audience.Ó She grinned
and I knew, I think everyone knew, what she meant. Our bottoms would
wish for cool cream to soothe them when she was done correcting any
fouls.
Rose lifted her whistle from its resting place between her boobs.
She put it to her lips. She drew in air, her breasts lofting upwards as her
lungs filled. ÒReady, girls?Ó she asked. And then she blew her whistle as
loud as she could.
WHACK! Before IÕd even taken my eyes off Rose, Polly was already
giving me her best shot. It was, in fact, a feeble first effort, her hands
wielding the pillow with much less skill than sheÕd soon have after a few
more swings. The pillows were awkward. Big and bulky, with a weight
that shifted around because the feathers were loose inside and lightly
packed. I found my first try almost sent my pillow flying from my hands.
IÕd held it too easily. I gripped it tighter. I caught my breath. IÕd almost
disarmed myself on my first attempt! I tried again. The pillow swung
past Polly, who ducked. This time I almost lurched from my pole, with the
weight of the pillow swinging round at arms length, taking in nothing but
air, pulling with me as a shot put thrower is sometimes pulled by his
metal ball.
Just as I recovered my balance, Polly retaliated with a blow much
more certain than her first. It caught me right in the head, making me
dizzy. I slung my pillow at her again, aiming for her boobs.
OOF! Polly bounced backward as I slammed my pillow right into her
bosom. Her young teats protected her, yet she arched backward, nearly
falling. She steadied herself, then swung at me just as I tried to deliver a
death blow. Our pillows crashed together in mid-air. Rose laughed,
watching us. SheÕd escaped the mud pit, stood to once side, so that if
either of us fell we would not splash her with muck.
My hair tumbled in single locks from atop my head as I strove to
dismount Polly. My coiffure, so neatly pinned up and curled, was coming
undone. PollyÕs pigtails flew about her as if she were trying to catch the
cow as it leapt for the moon. Our breasts bounced around within our
nighties. Our bottoms worked hard to keep us aloft, our cheeks churning
atop the poles, oblivious now to the cream which squished ever deeper
into our buttcracks and cunts.
ÒFor a pair of well-brought-up schoolgirls, they certainly fight like
stray cats,Ó I heard David said. He had come up upon the stage, stood close
to Rose now, caressing her in front of the audience. She tried not to
notice as he placed a hand beneath her skirt, standing behind her, and felt
up her bottom.
THWAP! THUMP! My pillow whammed into Polly, hers hit me. I
swung again. I was a year older. My aim was more correct, my blows
harder. She fought like a child, all wiggly and full of emotion. I was a
teen, cool despite my imbalances, my precarious hold upon the pole,
gripping it with my thighs. The cream was slippery on my inner thighs,
making my hold all the more difficult. I had to clamp my legs to the pole
as if I were a prostitute milking a client. The squishiness between my
legs made my sex hungry. Polly, striving to unseat me, nonetheless smiled
a little to herself, amidst her exertions, loving the wicked pleasure of a
pole thrust between her legs and slick with cream.
ÒEEEEeeeekKK!Ó Polly announced suddenly, and I knew she was going
down. Mightily she fought to stay up, wiggling like a fish in its death
throes, caught on the fishline but still hoping to evade its fate. The mud
loomed like a browning skillet to receive her. ÒNooooooo,Ó she cried, and
then there was a loud SPLOOSH! beneath me as she tumbled straight into
the mud soaked pillows. I cringed. I hoped no mud would splatter me.
Polly, full of dismay, swam about in the mud, trying to stand up. I
looked down at my legs. A little mud had hit them. I flicked it off my
with my fingers. I was triumphant. Except for the cream between my legs
I was as neat and clean as when IÕd mounted the stage. I gazed out at the
audience and smiled at them. I lofted my pillow over my head, like a boxer
lifting up his trophy belt. I was the world lightweight champion of the
mudpit and creampole.
Rose crossed over to me, avoiding the hapless Polly. Lightly she
took my hand and helped me up off the pole. I put my hand to my pussy and
tried to wipe off some cream. It was hopeless. The stuff was all over my
crotch, the underside of my bottom. I hoped my nightie would keep me
modest, but it hardly could. It was too short and the audience, sitting
close, had a beaverÕs eye view from down below, looking up to the stage
and straight between my legs. Mirrors hung above us gave them a view of
PollyÕs misfortune. She sobbed as she realized how silly she looked. She
was the loser, and she didnÕt like it at all. Little kids always hate losing
at games. But they usually do, anyway.
I felt a mudball land right between my legs. In shock, I looked down
at myself. It looked like I had a turd clinging to me between my thighs. I
realized the mud had been thrown by Polly.
ÒHey! You canÕt throw mud at me! IÕm the winner!Ó I shouted.
She giggled. ÒI can too,Ó she insisted. ÒWatch!Ó She threw another
mudball, and it hit me right on my tummy.
ÒRose!Ó I cried. Polly was ruining my appearance. IÕd be as messy as
she if she didnÕt quit. But instead of helping me, Rose slapped my bare
bottom.
ÒYouÕre entitled to the winnerÕs spanking!Ó she grinned. David had
followed her across and he was fondling her from behind again. I think it
had addled her mind. Suddenly he pinched her, right between her legs.
ÒOooh!Ó Rose cried. She turned serious, not wanting to be humiliated
like that in front of everybody. ÒPlease, David, donÕt!Ó But he pinched her
again, harder, just as another mudball grazed my pretty coiffured hair.
ÒOh, thatÕs IT!Ó I screamed in frustration. ÒNow we really will have
a fight, Polly!Ó I stomped toward her, sending, I think, a little shiver of
fear down her spine. She was smaller than me, after all, and a whole inch
shorter. I figured I could step into the mud pit, bend down, and neatly
grind her head right into the pillows before she could retaliate. Then IÕd
escape from the stage, and be done with this nonsense.
Behind me, David made Rose sit down on the pole. He forbade her
tucking her skirt under her, which she tried to do, but which proved too
short in any event. But I had no time to worry about the loss of our
referee. I knew I could take on Polly and quickly avenge myself, then
perhaps quit this whole place entirely, leaving her and Rose to figure out
how to escape the ever-randier crowd.
With a cautious step I entered the mud pit. Polly cowered before me,
sinking into the mud, mouthing words of repentance, softly, as if afraid to
even raise her voice before me. Just as I tried to get my balance on the
pillows, so as to bend forward and seize her, she leapt at me like a cat
catching a parrot.
ÒPolly!Ó I cried, but realized too late her fear had been faked, to fool
me. She yanked on my nightie, hard, catching the hem where it tried to
keep my pussy from showing and dirtying it with her hands. My nightie
pulled taught. Only one of my straps was on my shoulder. The other was
constantly falling off. Polly yanked again. Somehow my remaining strap
held. Desisting, she grabbed up a handfull of mud.
ÒHere, you have to go to the bathroom!Ó Polly announced. She took
the big clump of mud in her hands and and jammed it right up between my
thighs, reaching back to stick it within my ass.
ÒPolleee!Ó I shrieked. As she worked the mud into my heinie I felt
myself lose my balance. I crashed down into the mud. She squealed with
happiness and, taking more mud in her hands, opened the front of my
nightie and dumped mud into it, smooshing it all over my breasts.
We were both messy now. But her hair was still golden, and I saw a
chance to wreck it for her.
ÒNo! Not my hair!Ó Polly cried. I grabbed her closest pigtail and,
scooping up some mud for her, I smashed it right into her lovely blonde
locks. I rubbed the mud all over her hair so she would, truly, be a dirty
blonde.
ÒOh, Boo! Hoo!Ó Polly wept. IÕd gotten the better of her now. But not
for long. She overcame her grief very quickly, and picked up mud and
smooshed it right into my face.
ÒNo, Polly!Ó I yelled, but in opening my mouth I found myself actually
eating the mud which now covered us.
WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! I heard. Polly and I both ceased our
fighting and looked up. There, on the pole, was Rose. She had leaned
forward until her belly was pressed to the pole as well as her face, her
bosoms crushed and squeezed out on either side of it. She held on tight as
David, standing behind her, gave her an impromptu licking on her bottom
with his belt. Her lovely hair had cream in it. There was cream on her
face. She burst into tears as David gave her a particularly nasty blow
with his belt. Yet, clamping the pole with her thighs, I saw that she was
wiggling to and fro upon it, rubbing her clit into its sensuous slickness.
The audience applauded wildly. I thought I heard people disrobing
out beyond the floodlights. David ceased beating Rose. She sobbed a
little, then quietened. Awkwardly she stood up from the pole, her whole
front messed with cream. She straightened her shiny dress. It was caked
with cream, just like her bare bosoms. There was less on her face. She
tried to wipe it off. Then, still sniffling a little from her spanking, she
walked over to Polly and I in the mud pit.
Rose tugged at the neckerchief round her neck and straightened it.
Wiping a tear from her eye, pushing back a loose strand of hair from her
face, she lifted her chin. Her eyes took on their imperious gaze once more.
Her tits were bare and smeared with cream, her nipples poked through the
stuff like cherries topping ice cream, but her face was serene, composed.
Goddess-like. Helen after being raped by Paris.
ÒBathtime, girls,Ó Rose said to us. We ignored her. I spit out mud
and molded it in my hands. Playdoh, colored brown. It was fun. I would
make dinosaurs with it.
ÒCome, you two, we must get offstage before the audience joins in
the fun,Ó Rose told us. We gazed up at her with childrenÕs eyes, happy now
in our playpen of mud, two girls suddenly free of the adult world, reduced
to toddlers in a sandbox. ÒUp,Ó Rose insisted. We could not stay. WeÕd
find ourselves joined by men with penises if we did. Reluctantly we let
her pull us up. We got out, tried to brush off the mud, found we only
smeared it over what little whiteness remained of our bodies. As a last
act of vengeance Polly yanked down my nightie.
ÒPolly!Ó I blurted, but my nightie was down round my ankles before I
could stop her. She smeared her mudcaked hands over my still unsoiled
tummy, protected before my my nightie.
ÒLook! Tic Tac Toe,Ó Polly said gleefully. She drew XÕs and OÕs on
my belly with her muddy fingers.
ÒCome, Polly,Ó Rose said, and gave the girl a slap on her naked behind
to get her attention.
ÒOwww!Ó Polly moped. She rubbed her heinie, despite the fact that
she would make herself messier still back there, hoping to assuage the
sting. I took her hand other hand, squeezed it. Together we walked
offstage, she rubbing her butt, me just walking casually, knowing the
audience watched my clinging cheeks jiggle about as I made my exit. Rose
was more circumspect, her bottom a red pattern of stripes, making her
sway her hips more than she wished. Together we stepped from the stage.
Looking behind me, just once, I saw David unzip himself. I heard him
announce to the audience that the show was over. He presented his penis
to them and, as I looked away, he peed on them. I heard several women
scream as his stream gave them an impromptu shower.
With careful steps we descended the staircase back into the safety
of the dressing room. I felt the floodlights of the stage as they slipped
away, one moment illuminating me for all to see, the next unable to pierce
the curtain that closed behind me. A small, but effective curtain, at the
top of the stairs. Beyond it we could clean up, pee, eat, whatever we
wanted, without being offered as entertainment to public view. David
tromped down the steps behind us. He pulled up his zipper. Even he was
through, though perhaps in a more basic way than we were.
Turning, I spotted a small glass shower stall. A woman was just
finishing up cleaning it. She plunked her mop into a bucket. I saw that the
stall was set upon wheels, and could be moved, perhaps out onto the stage,
or anywhere else one pleased. A hose ran from the shower head to a sink.
It was a sink used for washing hair, as in a beauticianÕs parlor, except
now, with the hose attached, it could provide water to the portable
shower.
ÒWell,Ó the woman harumphed to herself, dropping her sponge and
cleaning fluids back into a little cart in which she carried her bucket and
mop. ÒI do hope I donÕt have to scrub this shower stall down again
tonight.Ó She did not see us coming. She was a woman who appeared to
just be arriving at middle age. Her face was careworn, and I guessed she
must be a single mom, working her way through life to support children
left to her by a lover long gone. She stood, put a hand to the small of her
back, grimaced a little.
ÒOho, honey, you ainÕt even begun to start workinÕ,Ó the lady whoÕd
done our hair piped up. The cleaning lady turned her head, saw us
approaching.
ÒOh, shit!Ó the cleaning lady swore.
ÒThey got a little muddy, IÕm afraid,Ó Rose said politely to the
cleaning lady of myself and Polly.
ÒHow could they BOTH lose?!Ó the cleaning lady asked.
ÒTheyÕre just little girls. You know how little girls are. They find
mud irresistible,Ó Rose smiled.
ÒWhat, you didnÕt know they was puttinÕ on the mud show tonight?Ó
the beautician asked the cleaning lady? The beautician was laughing and
slapping her thighs. ÒYou cin forgit about strippers with boas, honey.
DavidÕs into REAL entertainment now!Ó
ÒDamn, IÕll be here all night cleaning,Ó the cleaning lady answered as
we stepped past her and inspected the shower stall.
It was old. The glass was yellowed and it was cracked in the upper
corner of one of the panels. Significantly, there was no door or curtain to
the stall. Just three glass walls, with the front utterly open, perhaps so
an audience could see inside. I guessed it was used mostly on stage.
ÒGet in, girls,Ó Rose said. She placed her small palms on our
bottoms and urged us to step up into the wheeled stall. ÒIÕll go after you.Ó
ÒWhat happened to you, honey?Ó the cleaning lady asked Rose. She
took a lesbianÕs interest in RoseÕs injured heinie.
ÒShe gave David his moneyÕs worth, and the crowd too,Ó the
beautician opined.
ÒIs that sperm or just whipped cream?Ó the cleaning lady asked
Rose, taking some amusement now in our plight.
ÒIt isnÕt your concern,Ó Rose murmured. She blushed a little. The
beautician laughed again, a harsh laugh. She and the cleaning lady lacked
all culture. But they were, at least, not caked with mud or ass-whipped.
They at least had clothes on.
Polly and I huddled into the shower stall. Rose fitted us into it,
pressing upon us with her hands. It was a tight fit. Rose nodded to the
beautician. The beautician turned on the sink and a moment later a spray
of ice cold water blasted down onto us.
EEEEEEK! Polly and I both shouted in unison.
ÒA little warmer, please,Ó Rose told the beautician.
ÒA LOT wamrer,Ó Polly said somewhat inarticulately, her speech
garbled by the shivering cold water. We clung to each other under the
spray. Our nipples poked at each otherÕs bosoms like thorns. I felt the
water sleet down my belly and gather like snow in my pubic curls.
The water warmed. David settled into a chair and opened his fly.
Rose turned and watched him as he took out his cock and began stroking it.
He was huge and hard and a gleaming drop of pre-cum formed on the tip of
his penis. Rose stepped away from the shower so he could watch us. She
offered us soap, no washcloth, no sponge.
ÒDo each other,Ó Rose told us.
ÒI can wash myself,Ó Polly protested.
ÒDo as youÕre told,Ó David said. His voice brooked no disobedience.
We still wore our platform pumps, with our calves and ankles bound
by their straps. We still had on our fingerless mittens, and wore scarves
round our neck. Light pink pastel scarves, that once had matched our
nighties, and made our t-shirts look alluring before that, but now hung all
by themselves. Polly still had barrettes in her hair, and it was pulled into
pigtails.
I lifted my leg up behind me and reached back to undo the lacing of
my shoe.
ÒDonÕt bother,Ó David told me. ÒJust soap each other where it
counts. Use your hands.Ó
ÒBut IÕve got mud between my toes,Ó I said. I looked at him, the
water streaming down on me, warm now, breaking up my coiffure and
pushing my hair down into my eyes. I saw he would not allow me to do as I
wished. I was bathing for his erotic entertainment only.
ÒCome and suck my cock,Ó David told Rose. Trippingly she went to
him, her feet encased in her heavy cowgirl boots. Her dress hid nothing,
arched up in front and back by her responsibilities, showing her pubis, her
bottom. Quickly she knelt and put her mouth to his cock. She began to
service him. He sighed, relaxed more in his chair. The cleaning lady and
the beautician laughed.
As we washed, Polly and I found pleasure in each otherÕs hands. My
fingers explored her slit. She swooned, fingering me in turn. In his chair
David strove to poke his organ deep into RoseÕs throat, even as he fought
to retain his seed within the confines of his balls. Such were the games
we played with each other.
At last DavidÕs passion ran its course. Rose stood up from him, her
cheeks bloated with his sperm. David told her she did not have to swallow
it. She went to the sink and spit out his essence.
ÒIÕm sorry, but I prefer only to swallow the sperm of men I love, and
you, sir, are just a client,Ó Rose apologized to David when sheÕd emptied
her mouth. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand.
ÒItÕs okay. I donÕt love you either, or the girls,Ó David answered.
There was a satisfied look on his face. ÒI just needed to cum, and you
were available.Ó He zipped himself up. ÒI care nothing for females
anymore. However beautiful they may be, to me theyÕre just a gentlemenÕs
way of relieving himself. I might be gay, or just jerk myself off, but that
would hardly be proper. ItÕs sort of like going to the bathroom to me. Just
as I have to poop and piss, I have to shoot now and then too,Ó David said
with a glowering smile to Rose. ÒYouÕre a walking toilet, my dear, nothing
more. Despite your pretty legs. Sorry. I just have no feeling for you,
thatÕs all. Or any woman.Ó
ÒWell, the feelingÕs not mutual,Ó Rose replied. Tenderly she touched
her bottom. ÒIn my case, IÕll be feeling you for the rest of the night, sir.Ó
ÒAnd tomorrow too, at breakfast, IÕll bet, sitting on extra cushions,Ó
David laughed.
ÒCome on, girls,Ó Rose told Polly and me. ÒWeÕre done here.Ó The
beautician turned off the shower. She detached the hose from the sink.
She turned on the faucet and rinsed away DavidÕs sperm. The cleaning lady
passed her mop over the floor outside the shower stall and wiped up the
water that had exceeded its bounds. Polly and I waited, watching her.
When she was done, the cleaning lady took a big fluffy towel and spread it
out on the floor for us to step on.
Wetly Polly and I emerged from the shower. Our neckerchiefs
dripped. They were sodden. Our mittens retained a little soap. Our feet
were mostly clean, with perhaps a trace of mud between our toes. The
cleaning lady gave us a towel to share.
ÒThank you,Ó Polly and I both lisped in unison to her. We were shy,
quiet, domesticated. We both wiped our faces on the towel. Then I took it
and dried Polly. She dried me afterward. David rose and poured himself a
drink, watched us absently, as if wishing he might stroke himself, but
also glad that heÕd rid himself, at least for now, of his need to cum.
Polly and I stepped off our bath mat towel to give Rose room to take
a quick shower herself. The beautician reattached the hose to the sinkÕs
faucet. As David cleared his throat impatiently, sipping his drink, Rose
rinsed off under the shower.
We rode in silence back to the castle. There was just Rose, myself,
Polly. The driver was in front, separated from us by smoked glass. The
moon gleamed overhead, a miniature spotlight. In a normal car, passing
vehicles might have looked in, their occupants seeing our dishevelment.
But behind the tempered privacy glass nothing could be seen. I felt
squishy between my legs. I know Polly did too. The leather stuck to our
bare bottoms. We were damp. We had nothing now, save our scarves and
our shoes. And our little mittens, hiding nothing, letting even our fingers
show. Polly sat uncomfortably. I knew the sting of DaveÕs belt still
blazed deep into her flesh. He had hit her hard. Had she wanted him to? I
wished to ask, could not find the courage to do so. We were three females,
adventuring in the world. We met men, on their terms, daring them, paying
for it a little, perhaps. I wondered what else Rose had planned for us. Did
I wish to stay with her? Should I disobey my lover and find a way to leave
her? I looked at Polly. She sat twiddling her thumbs. She seemed
entertained by it. I do not think the night affected her the least, now that
it was past. She was like a toddler, crying one moment, content the next,
sleeping in the cradle of her motherÕs arms. Her blonde hair hung down
round her face, over her shoulders. SheÕd been allowed to undo her pigtails
in the car. She seemed shrouded in innocence now, her hair forming a kind
of veil, keeping her modest. I wanted to reach out and pinch her bare
bottom but I did not. She was sweet. I wished I was still like her,
unknowing, even as I experienced love, kept innocent somehow by the
imperviousness of my youth. A year ago IÕd been like her. But IÕd grown.
My experiences had eventually taken hold and changed me. Lying that first
night on the beach, pulling down my panties, IÕd been a babe still, hoping to
be splashed by an unexpected wave. A wave rising above the tide-mark,
wetting me, bathing me in its overpowering love. And then IÕd met Barbi,
and Lord Shaftsbury. How he had loved me! And lastly I remembered Max,
brutal and direct, prying apart my ass and making his love felt within me.
And so many experiences in between. Yet I was only 14. I had still so
much to see. IÕd stay a little longer with Rose, I decided, at her spooky
castle.
ÒWhat are you thinking about?Ó I asked Polly at last, nudging her.
ÒDonÕt bother me,Ó she replied, not looking up from her twiddling
fingers. ÒIÕm making up a new song.Ó She hummed a few bars, her head
still down, her hair still blocking her eyes from my view.
ÒWhat sort of song?Ó I asked.
ÒPink Panther,Ó Polly replied. She looked up. ÒRose, do you have T.V.
at your castle?Ó she asked. Her hair fell back and I saw her face, her nose
upturned, her lips puckered as if inviting a kiss.
ÒYes,Ó Rose answered. ÒWhy do you ask?Ó
ÒI like the Care Bears, and Pound Puppies,Ó Polly declared. ÒThey
come on every day, during the week, when thereÕs school. And then on
Saturday there is Pink Panther, and on Sundays I sometimes like to watch
Captain Doom.Ó
ÒWeÕll see,Ó Rose answered. ÒIf youÕre good I suppose you both can
be permitted certain liberties.Ó She had glanced at us but now she turned
and looked out the window, as if lost in her thoughts. Was she thinking of
past lovers, or making plans for us?
ÒI donÕt need to see cartoons,Ó I said aloud. I straightened my back,
feeling mature by my declaration.
ÒWell, who cares about you?Ó Polly said. She went back to her
finger-fiddling.
ÒLouis,Ó I said to myself. ÒLouis cares about me.Ó And my parents,
sort of, but they didnÕt matter. Your parents always love you. In their own
way, of course, trying to keep you a child. So it was Louis, I guess, who
loved me most of all. And I decided to keep him happy by staying with
Rose, just a bit longer, at the Castle whose name I dared not say. Even to
myself.
The castle seemed different when we returned. A man in a black
robe waited and watched us as the limo pulled up the drive. I did not see
him until the last minute, then realized that he must have been there all
along, vulture-like, watching our car approach. He opened the door for us,
from PollyÕs side, and we spilled out. Our eyes widened as we saw him.
His hood was thrown back. His head was bald. It gleamed in the
moonlight. He did not smile. He showed no emotion.
Rose scooted herself out behind us, using our door. ÒBranson,Ó she
breathed, seeing our new visitor. He perhaps smiled a little at her. I
could not tell.
ÒIÕm finished with Miss Pettance,Ó Branson said to Rose. His voice
breathed with intelligence, yet was low, growling, brooding.
ÒHer two weeks are up already?Ó Rose asked.
ÒThey are,Ó Branson answered. ÒShe will serve her husband better
from now on.Ó
ÒIt is good that you are finished, then,Ó Rose said. ÒI have two new
guests. WeÕve played a little, but their training hasnÕt really begun in
earnest yet. Show each of them to a room of their own. Have them bathed.
They are not to do anything by themselves. Assign a female attendant, for
privacy. Make it two. They are young, and might prove wilful.Ó
ÒYes,Ó Branson said. He turned to Polly and I. We shrank back,
looked with wondering eyes at Rose. She tossed her hair back. She
seemed not to see us, yet she was thinking of nothing else. ÒThe potty,
wiping, all is to be done by their attendants. Have them fed. Then see that
they are put to bed properly.Ó
ÒYes, mistress,Ó Branson breathed. His breath seemed to flow out
like a dragonÕs at rest. Hot, tense, waiting.
ÒPolly, Fleury, stand up straight!Ó Rose told us. ÒBe proud of
yourselves. Arch your backs, lift your bosoms.Ó We obeyed, knowing not
what else to do. I wished for a bikini at least, standing nude before
Branson. ÒAll is being done according to your loverÕs wishes, so donÕt
fight it, please. You will be well cared for by Branson. I have other
responsibilities right now. WeÕll meet again in the morning. Until then,
behave, act your age, and remember that trouble can be easily repaid. I
intend to make you both grown-up girls, and you can both be grown-up
girls, I can tell, because you already have the right demeanor and
attitude.Ó We stood quite alertly, our backs rigid, gazing at her in the
moonlight. I felt the moonlight caress my bosom and bottom, my flesh
jutting out to intercept it. ÒThere! Such perfect bodies,Ó Rose
complimented us. ÒTruly, it is like curating delicious new works of art,
working with both you girls. You are living museum pieces, the best of the
new, the avant-garde, fresh from Andy WarholÕs studio, or some new
artist, perhaps, unknown yet to the larger world. When you are finished
here your lovers must hold coming out parties for you, in my opinion. You
will be perfectly formed then, not just in body but in mind too. How youÕll
delight men, and twist them round your fingers. YouÕll have Louis, Andre,
or any others you choose. But first you must learn to be submissive. To
submit, yet control, that is the trick of it, for a female. To control by
submitting. DonÕt worry, IÕll show you how. Take them, Branson, and make
them do just as you say. Bye, girls. WeÕll meet again soon!Ó She turned,
and her bottom gleamed in the moonlight. As she walked away from us,
she tugged down her too-short skirt to try to hide it. We were left
watching a slim leather bib flap haplessly over her tush, hiding nothing,
really, given how her hips wobbled. She had a bold derriere and such a
small skirt could not compete with its fullness. Her bottom was
womanly, complete and round and yet firm and trim. It swayed and jiggled
with a life of its own, though, tossing her bib-like skirt to and fro,
catching even BransonÕs eye, though I guessed heÕd seen it many times
before. She retreated into the darkness, leaving us, going someplace in
nothing but her skirt and boots, perhaps to fuck out back on the haystack
with the help. As for myself and Polly, we were hastened up the castle
steps and within its doors.
Upstairs I found myself placed in a small but hospitable bedroom. It
had no windows. None had seen Polly and I as we entered the castle, and I
was thankful for it. We both had had quite a night.
I felt someone enter the room behind me. I turned quickly on my
heels. It was scary, being alone suddenly, without Polly beside me. She
had been taken elsewhere, by Branson. I did not know where.
ÒHi!Ó two female voices chimed at me. They looked like college
girls. Their hair was piled atop their heads, one blonde, the other
brunette. The brunette introduced herself as Joanne. The other said her
name was Sylvia.
Both girls wore long, flowing dresses. But seeing them, I was
immediately struck by how their dresses had been forcibly altered. In
front, the dress of each girl, despite binding her closely about the waist,
had been pulled back to show off her bosom. Their breasts were young and
bare and they had obviously been chosen because they had lovely bosoms,
high and finely tipped by rouged nipples.
Their dresses were pulled apart below the waist. Their legs showed,
right up to their muffs. Their skirts were rolled up in back, letting their
bottoms bulb out. Uncovered, their derrieres shone with youthful dignity,
white and soft and cleft in the middle.
ÒWhy- why are you dressed that way?Ó I asked, gulping as I spoke.
They giggled. For a moment I thought of Tweedle-Dum and Tweedle-
Dee. ÒYou are dressed more conservatively?Ó they asked me. I flushed
crimson.
They walked up to me and took up a position on either side of me and
gently guided me with light-touching hands on my shoulders and back
toward a room next door. ÒItÕs for convenienceÕs sake,Ó they said, their
voices soft and melodious. ÒWe donÕt have to lift our skirts when we pee,
or when we poop, and, of course, men have ready access to us, which is the
main point of it. Branson ordered it. Otherwise we would not dress this
way. But our lovers enjoy it and Branson offers us to them, and other men
too, dressed like this to kill, you might say, or, rather, to fuck and show
off our all bodily functions, which some men enjoy seeing.Ó Each of them
spoke a line or two, contributing to the otherÕs thoughts. It was eerie.
They seemed like twins. They were mentally bound into BransonÕs world,
and that of their lovers, as fully as any two girls could be.
The adjoining room proved to be a private bath. Like my bedroom, it
had no windows. I found there was a tub already waiting for me, a big
claw-footed tub, old-fashioned, with hot water and bubbles filling it to
the rim. Gratefully I let the maids undress me and I sank into its warmth.
The two girls, older sisters it seemed, with me as their darling baby sis,
knelt down on either side of my tub. Carefully, trying not to get their
boobs wet with bubbles or spray from my splashing, they washed me
completely. I tried to push them away at first. But they insisted on doing
me.
ÒRelax,Ó they said. ÒYou will have plenty of chances to do things
later.Ó Their eyes twinkled. ÒJust let us do this. It is mundane. You are
to be spared such silly things. WeÕll bathe you, and wipe you when you go
to the bathroom, and weÕll even spoon-feed you, howÕs that? Relax and
enjoy it. We ourselves were once like you...Ó They spoke on, easing my
fears, though never entirely. Joanne had been studying Law. SheÕd been in
her first year, toiling away, buried under seven classes worth of work.
Then, one day, sheÕd met a new lover (after abstaining to get all her
studies done). He brought her to Castle Cunt, and sheÕd never left. She
was a ÔveteranÕ now, here for a whole month, perhaps staying forever, she
didnÕt know. Law school was forgotten. Life was forgotten. She was just
Joanne now, the brunette sex pet in the lovely but too-revealing robe. She
did as she was told, she explained, and thought of nothing else. She began
like me and, when her initial training was done, she decided to stay on to
help out with the new girls, while undergoing more advanced training
herself.
ÒBut the delightful thing about it,Ó Joanne assured me. ÒIs that you
donÕt have to plan. They tell you everything. ItÕs hard sometimes, but
never from the standpoint of responsibility. You have no responsibilities.
You get to sink completely within your body and let them love and admire
you.Ó
ÒDonÕt you have responsibilities now?Ó I asked her. She sponged
down my tummy and on into the cleft between my legs.
ÒNot really,Ó Joanne answered. ÒI mean, I donÕt have to obey. IÕd be
punished, sure, but they would do that. And they would care for me as they
punished me. ItÕs not like real life, where you have to worry about rent, or
eating, or getting here or there. My lover sees to everything. Even if IÕm
being punished, itÕs his responsibility to see that IÕm fed, and watered...Ó
She looked at Sylvia and they both giggled.
Sylvia had been a nurse. SheÕd been a new nurse in the Air Force,
just done with MIMSO and ROTC. No boot camp for her. To be an officer
and a nurse one had only to attend a two-week training, with doctors. But
working the night shift at the hospital, trying to keep up, and keep
everyone happy, had burned her out. SheÕd gotten a chance to leave the Air
Force, and jumped at it. Downsizing had saved her. Now she was just her
boyfriendÕs sex pet. He commanded, more thoroughly than any general, but
she could obey or not, as she wished, though sheÕd be punished most
indiscreetly and intimately if she chose to disobey.
ÒWeÕre planning to have me branded at the end of the month,Ó Sylvia
told me, sending a shiver down my spine. ÒIÕm trying to prepare myself
for it. It makes me very scared. But I want to wear his initials within the
cleft of my bottom, much as I wore rank in the Air Force, except these
indications of status would be much more intimately placed. Already IÕve
met two girls who have similar marks. Imagine going to a party where
everyone had such rank and comparing each otherÕs brands!Ó SylviaÕs face
glowed at the possibility.
ÒYes, its exciting, but I think IÕm too frightened of something like
that to ever do it,Ó Joanne replied, in a rare show of disagreement
between the two.
ÒMaybe IÕll convince you by my example,Ó Sylvia offered.
ÒDonÕt feel you have to,Ó Joanne answered.
ÒI would never do that,Ó I breathed. I touched my bottom cheeks. I
parted them a little, beneath the safety of the bathwater. I felt the water
flow against my anus.
ÒYouÕd be surprised at what youÕll do once youÕre properly trained,Ó
Sylvia assured me. I listened, said nothing in reply. My stomach had
butterflies flying within it.
30
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-Naughty Naked Dreamgirls (Library of Congress ISSN: 1070-1427) is
copyright 1998 and a trademark of Andrew Roller. Work by others
copyright 1998 by the respective copyright holder.
-END OF story EMISSION