Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
No. 18    Monday    June 12, 1995  
alt.stories.erotic  alt.sex.stories

D R E A M G I R L S  S T O R I E S
Chambers of Love
Part Eighteen
by Andrew Roller 

Chapter Nine

         A man knocked Julie to her knees and brusquely prised apart her 
bottom cheeks.  His pants were already down, coiled with his 
underpants about his thick calves.  "Kimmee, help me!"  Julie cried, like 
some distant voice beyond my orgasm.  Quickly the man entered her.  
Julie's marital training paid off then, as did my enema.  The man thrust 
quickly but she was able to open herself, just in time.  He began rodding 
her, but now it was her turn to go on the attack.  Using the control she'd 
learned from Dan, she clenched down fiercely, harder than even she 
thought possible.  The man yelped.  His cock was suddenly within a 
living vise.  It felt like it would literally have the life squeezed right 
out of it.  He knew then his breach of manners.  He apologized for taking 
Julie so quickly, begged her for mercy.  Julie looked back at him, saw he 
was just an eager (if large) boy, no older than herself.  She smiled, let 
her bottom ease.  He gasped, relieved, still in awe at the tightness that 
remained.  He went more slowly then, and Julie slipped over into bliss.
         My pussy arcing in the air was hardly a treat any man could miss.  
At first they were afraid to touch me.  Afraid of their wives, afraid of 
the count.  But a juicy twat so fully (if innocently) offered is not long 
resisted by any man, or even quite a few women.  Before I knew it my 
orgasming pussy was set upon by a threesome of men.  They spread my 
legs wide, almost to the breaking point.  A woman and a man set upon 
my tits.  The woman lay on the grass and thrust a hand down her own 
panties.  A cock offered itself to my mouth and, wedging my teeth 
apart, made its entry.  Gagging, I finally sought to take it, if only in 
order to better regulate its conduct so I could still breathe.
         A rapturous series of orgasms coursed through me.  All around 
soft sighs and desperate grunts filled the air.  I saw Julie on her knees, 
through an orgasmic haze, rocking back and forth on the stiff rod of her 
paramour, who turned out to be a virgin.  He came powerfully once in 
her, and was instantly ready again.  Julie collapsed to her face for the 
second round, cooing, keeping her bottom high.  He thrust up her again 
as vigorously as he had at first, but she was fully open to him now, and 
once lodged inside she complimented his thrusts with squeezings of her 
trained rectum.
         A farmer's haywagon trundled past on the road below, the clip-
clop of the horses' hooves heard intermittently amidst the louder 
sounds of copulation.  I wondered idly what he thought of the spectacle 
of our bacchanal.  In any event he did not stop or interfere.           The 
lowing of cattle drifted across from the distant fields.  Did shepherd 
boys pause in their chores to masturbate over what they saw?  There 
were too many hands groping at me, demanding a turn, for me to look up 
and survey the scene in more than brief glimpses.  The smells of male 
and female fertility, randily released, wafted over me with each gentle 
breeze, mingling with my own contributions and those of my suitors.  
The morning sun illuminated all, hid nothing.  Every crevice, portal, 
orifice, brightly lit.  Last I remember a man was pressing the slit on 
his stiff cockhead against my upstanding nipple, fucking his own penis 
with my teat.  This out of desperation, for my cunt and ass and mouth 
were already jammed full of cock.  "No Vacancy" here.  I passed out 
from pleasure then.  Later I was carried, oozing and dripping, into the 
house, by men known only to me by their genitals.  Thoughtfully some 
women bathed me, put me to bed.  The same was done for Julie.  We'd 
proven to be exemplary guests of honor, they whispered.  Julie and I fell 
into a sound sleep, full of cum, our wombs impregnated with their 
husbands' seed.

Chapter Ten

         Upon waking we were given RU486, to abort any pregnancy.  
Despite the men's zest to inseminate us, it was for pleasure only.  A 
woman fed Julie and I the pills.  I remember her large bosoms, just 
covered across the nipples by a low-cut blouse.  I fell back to sleep 
then, shifting my aching thighs in the cool sheets of the bed.
         It wasn't until early evening that I finally woke up completely.  
We'd had only a limited sleep the night before, what with the "grave 
digging," but now I was finally fully rested.  I rose, stretched, winced 
at the few remaining twinges of discomfort.  Julie was humming in the 
lavatory, applying makeup to a face that needed none.  I skipped into the 
lav and relieved myself on the toilet.  She smiled at me.  
         "Did you know that, except for what the count has provided for us, 
we don't have any clothes?  Or money?  Or passports?" she asked.  I 
considered this.
         "I suppose we can tell him at dinner that we want our stuff, what 
little is left of it.  Supposedly Mistress Pussy (we both laughed), 
supposedly Mistress Pussy gave it to him when he..."
         "Bought us?" Julie asked.  She was standing on tiptoe before the 
mirror, utterly naked, ravishingly beautiful.  Her big bosoms swayed 
gently with her every slight movement.  She reminded me of Helga.
         "Unwillingly," I said, meaning Julie and I.  We had not put 
ourselves up for sale.  We were not whores, as she feared we might be.
         "Are we unwilling now?" Julie asked.
         "How much money do you have?"
         "Nothing."
         "Me neither."
         "Then we are not trollops," she said, relieved.
         "Do you think about Dan much?" I asked, curious.  She had always 
prided herself on being a faithful young wife.  Julie thought a moment.  
I couldn't tell whether she was considering whether to apply more 
makeup or how to answer me.
         "I do, now and then," she said.  "But when he deserted us, and I 
saw him with those LITTLE girls, well..."
         "You sort of put him out of your mind?"
         "Yes.  It wasn't love, or hate.  I just sort of put him away for 
awhile.  I guess when we get back to America Dan and I will pick up 
just where we left off, as if nothing else ever happened."
         "He might find you a slightly easier fuck," I said, my tongue-tip 
sticking out sexily between my teeth in an absent-minded display.  
Julie giggled.  Her breasts wobbled.  
         "He might," she said, blushing.  "If this keeps up."  I stepped up 
behind her and pressed my nudity into her bottom.  I stroked her bare 
flanks with my hands.  There was no purpose to it, no meaning, just the 
atmosphere of the moment, of our strange surroundings.
         "The count hasn't had us yet," I said.  
         "He wants you badly," Julie replied, touching up her perfect eyes 
with eyeliner.
         "He scares me," I said.
         "Me too."
         From the bedroom doorway Burton called us to dinner.
         "Girls, are you up?" Burton hailed us.
         "Yes," we replied together, our voices happy, high-pitched.
         "The count requires your presence at dinner."
         "Okayyy," we called back.  We were captive doves, song birds, 
controlled by another.  Yet I felt special, spoiled.  Being a prisoner 
wasn't entirely disagreeable.  It all depended on who the warden was.  
Ours, at least, strove to be a gentleman, though I sensed an inner 
wildness in him, an uncontrollable passion and rage.  It drew me toward 
him even as every fiber of my body screamed at me to flee.
         We skipped downstairs and flounced poutily into our chairs.  The 
count observed us from the head of the table, outfitted in an expensive 
tux.  A girl pranced out then, dressed in a tightly-stretched tee that 
was stuffed into a daringly short miniskirt.  She wore sneakers.
         "Hi!  I'm your waitress for this evening!  My name's Mandy!"  She 
oozed youthfulness and childish enthusiasm.  Too much of it.  "The count 
is sooo nice.  He gave his staff the night off and let ME be the serving 
girl!  Would you like shrimp salad or antipasto as your appetizer?"  I 
didn't hear the question.  My mind was reeling, confused, still focused 
on the girl herself.  I knew what she was, even if she didn't.  
Competition.  The count wanted her not for her serving skills but for 
her body.  Instantly I wanted the count for myself.  I felt my resistance 
to him melting.  I would be his lover, not she!
         "Whatever the count wishes I will have," I replied pertly.
         "I also," Julie said, with a submissive glance toward our host.
         "Very well," Mandy said, screwing up her features and writing 
something on a pad with a number two pencil.  She turned to the count.  
"Sir?"
         "The antipasto, please," he replied.  He looked very pleased with 
himself.
         Mandy skipped back to the kitchen.
         "You two proved yourselves most worthy this morning," the count 
addressed us as we sat with heads bowed.  "Outwitted even me, then 
showed yourselves to be every ounce females."
         "Thank you, sir," we said.  We knew not what else to say, gazed at 
our place settings.  I hoped he would change the subject.  Girls do not 
like to boast of their sexual escapades as men do.           After a bit I 
looked up, felt a boldness overcome me.  My mind had drifted back to 
Mandy, my rival.  "Did you enjoy yourself this morning, sir?"
         "Indeed I did," he said.  "However, I should like to have disported 
with the guests of honor.  But it would not have been seemly for the 
host to deprive his guests of the opportunity."
         "Meaning..." I said, sassy as ever.  "That we were so popular you 
couldn't get near us?"  He cleared his throat.
         "In a manner of speaking, yes.  I'm very jealous about the girls I 
like, actually.  Events got out of hand, I lost control.  I don't like losing 
control," he said, his voice growing darker.
         "Then you must find yourself stupider girls," I said tauntingly.  
Mandy skipped out from the kitchen and I shot a knowing glance toward 
her.
         "Yes, yes," the count said, dropping his gaze to his place setting, 
aimlessly fiddling with a fork.  I had pushed him onto the ropes yet 
again.  How many more times could I get away with it, bearding this 
lion?  Not many, I knew.
         Mandy brought in two plates, balanced precariously in her small 
hands.  She made to serve the count, but he gestured to Julie and I.  
Then she did a little cheerleader's pirouette on her tennies and 
scampered back to the kitchen.  Her shapely bottom peeked out from 
underneath her mini.
         "Lovely girl, don't you think?" the count asked us, following her 
ass with an admiring gaze.
         "She's nice," Julie said.  She sat with her hands folded in her lap.
         "If you like kindergarten girls," I said, poking at my salad, not 
waiting for the others.
         "Now, now, Kimmy," the count said with a voice of disapproval 
that rang false.  He was enjoying my jealousy.  "Mandy is a full fourteen 
years old, only a year younger than you.  She showed herself to be quite 
the Olympian this morning, in our outdoor games."
         "I hadn't noticed," I said, forking lettuce and a strip of cheese into 
my mouth.  Julie waited for the count.
         Mandy trotted back in, served the count, then set the remaining 
antipasto at her own place and joined us.  We sat on one side of the 
table, she on the other, the count at the head observing all.
         "May we play again after dinner, sir?" Mandy asked brightly after 
forking down her salad.
         "Why yes, dear, whatever you wish."
         "Oooh, goody!"  She leapt up and took her own plate, asked the 
count for his.
         "I'm not quite done yet, honey," he replied.
         "Oh, I'm sorry!  Does that make me a bad girl?" Mandy asked.  She 
made as if to prepare herself to go over his knee.
         "No, no," the count said dismissively.  Now was not the time.  
"Bring forth the main course while we finish."
         "Yessir!" she scuttled away, her skirt flipping up with her every 
bouncy step.  Her panties were white cotton and too small.
         The dinner, at least, was delicious, roast beef sliced by Burton 
and served with horseradish sauce; baked potatoes with chives and sour 
cream; fresh, snappy string beans from the count's garden; and much 
more.
         "You'll make us into three fat little pigs," Julie laughed.
         "Mmm, fatten you up, will I?" the count considered.  "Indeed I will 
if I don't start you girls on the pill."  Mandy laughed abruptly into her 
hand, like the little girl she still was.
         "Oh, monseigneur, you can be sooo funny!" she said delightedly.  I 
longed to toss her over my knees and wallop her until she cried.  Smack 
that insufferable cheeriness out of her tight little bottom, with its 
chubby cheeks that hung so alluringly out of her undersized undies.
         Desert followed, strawberry shortcake.  Mandy gave herself a 
creamy moustache just as I knew she would.  Lustily she drained a full 
glass of milk.  Wiggling, she asked to be excused to pee.
         "When the others have finished, dear," the count said.
         "Oooh, but I have to go NOW," Mandy begged.
         "Learn to hold it," the count said.  His voice countenanced no 
dissent.  Mandy squirmed uncomfortably in her high-backed chair.
         "Burton, see to the dishes," the count commanded finally, 
indicating that our evening meal was at an end.  He invited we three 
girls to accompany him downstairs.  There was no possibility of 
declining the invitation.
         The count took Mandy by the hand, ignoring her needful gyrations.  
Julie and I held hands and followed.  Down the hall we went then, 
coming to a door, we were admitted by the count who locked it behind 
us.  Standing in darkness, we waited.  He flipped a switch.  Torches 
burst into flame, gas fired.  They illuminated a small landing, upon 
which we stood.  Beyond they glowed upon the walls of a descending 
staircase.  Tentatively Julie and I took the first step.  The count and 
Mandy followed, pushing us ahead by their presence.  I had a sinking 
feeling about where we were going.  Julie and I exchanged glances.  We 
wore only short, collared midriffs, mine with sleeves and hers without.  
Below I sported a pleated tennis skirt and she narrow-legged jeans.  We 
both wore our heels.  Julie had a charm bracelet on one ankle.  The 
appearance of our dangling earrings teetered between sporty 
functionality and dressiness.
         Clip-clip-clip went our heels, businesslike, as we descended the 
stone stairs.  At last we came to the bottom, facing a wooden door.  The 
count pushed past us, unlocked the door, admitted us to an alcove with 
yet another door at the far end.  Reaching it first, he bid me open it.  
There was naught but darkness inside.  He urged us forward anyhow.  
Following, he locked us all inside.  A girlish gasp went up as he flipped 
on the lights, torch-light.
         We stood in an awesome chamber, dwarfed by torture machines of 
every shape and variety.  Racks, ladders, spits (for roasting what I 
know not), crosses, and "seats" with upright dildoes placed menacingly 
right where the bottom hoped to find purchase.  Dan's little homemade 
place looked like a sunday school compared to this dungeon.  
         "I thought you girls might like to see an authentic dungeon," the 
count said happily.  He strode forward, gestured widely.  "This was 
actually used during the inquisition to procure confessions.  I've added 
a few items of my own, some actually of my design, built by carpenters 
to my specifications."  We stood stock still, huddled together like three 
lost lambs.  Even Mandy had ceased her wriggling.  The count took down 
a whip from an open-work wooden armoire.  He turned it thoughtfully on 
his palm.  "Only the finest of implements are kept here," he assured us.  
"All perfectly balanced.  Precisely carved.  They are all works of art in 
their own right.  As are the girls whom I invite to partake of them."  He 
eyed us.  Was his look savage, or was it only my terrified imagination?
         "There are hooks on the wall behind you for your clothes," the 
count said.  "Disrobe yourselves, and I will show you around."
         "Sir-" Julie began, plaintively.
         "One cannot experience the true nature of a dungeon all suited up 
and protected," the count gently explained.  "You must be as they were, 
naked and vulnerable.  Come now, you wished to tour France, did you 
not?  You must get off the bus and experience it first hand."
         Mandy danced an impromptu jig, spurred once more by her bladder.  
"Do they have a bathroom here?" she asked plaintively.  The inevitable 
question of every tourist.
         "ALL your needs will be attended to," the count replied.  He 
uncoiled his whip and it cracked the air.  "Undress!" 
         Hurriedly we stripped ourselves of our clothes and hung them on 
the hooks provided.  The generosity of the count knows no bounds, I 
muttered to myself as I hung up my skirt.
         "Must we take off our panties too?" Mandy asked.  Sans shirts, we 
were instantly topless, for we all had taken to dinner without bras.
         "Yes!  Off with those too!" the count said crisply, as if directing 
valets.
         Soon we stood shivering in the cool air of the dungeon with 
nothing on save our pumps and earrings.  Julie had even taken off her 
anklet.  
         "I'm chilly now, and have to pee more than ever!" Mandy piped up.

D R E A M G I R L S  N E W S

Miss Lady Asstor333@aol.domme writes:  ÒDear Guerilla Joe.  What do you 
mean that you will Òplaster your stories all over the goddamn Internet!Ó  
You wouldnÕt dare shoot your stuff up to the feminist newsgroup, would 
you?  Or to our junior nazis newsgroup here at feminist elementary?Ó

Guerilla Joe:  Yes!  We will inseminate EVERY newsgroup with our illegal 
emissions.  There will be so many impermissible ejaculations on your 
little nazi newsgroup that you will get pregnant just logging on!

(Alas, Guerrilla Joe is given to spasms of hyperbole now and then.  Ed.  (At 
least I hope itÕs hyperbole!))

***
         Dear America,

         We are so glad you are able to have modern-day heroes.  First the 
pilot who got shot down in Somalia, and now the pilot who got shot down 
in Bosnia.  You should let ALL your pilots get shot down.  Then you could 
have a whole ARMY of heroes, all bawling their heads off and running for 
their lives.
         Yes, America certainly is a ÒheroicÓ nation.  Never mind Hercules, or 
Horatio at the Bridge.  In ClintonÕs ÒfeminizedÓ America, it is the losers 
who manage to get themselves shot down who are the heroes.
         We tremble in our boots that you might perform more ÒheroicÓ deeds 
in our lands.
         -Serbian Joe 

FREE minicomics!  Send a greeting-card SASE to:  Jim Corrigan, P.O. Box 
3663, Phenix City, AL 36868.  NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS (Library of 
Congress ISSN: 1070-1427): sex stories.  (Include age statement-18 or 
over.)  DREAMGIRLS WITH SHAMAN: poetry.  COMIC UPDATE (ISSN: 0894-
5195): small press comix.  Chat:  alt.sex.stories.d  END OF 18 EMISSION