Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
No. 22    Friday    June 16, 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 Twenty-Two
by Andrew Roller 

Chapter Twelve

         "Thank you for coming, Tom, help me get these girls over the 
trestles," the count said.  
         "'Course," Tom said merrily, and grabbed me by the arm.
         "No, no," the count said, and indicated Elle and Erica.  The two men 
quickly overpowered the women and led them tottering to their fate.  In 
very little time they were bent head down over the trestles, arms and 
legs tightly tied.  The count let them keep their cotton panties on for 
protection.  At least they were blessed with regular-sized panties, not 
micro-undies like Julie and I wore.  Then the count told Julie and I that 
we were to cane the womens' bottoms until the seats of their undies 
were "properly threadbare," as he put it.  I said that would take a lot of 
whipping but he said the panties were actually fairly fragile and it 
should not require too much time.
         So, still wearing wet panties, naked otherwise, Julie and I were 
invited to select our choice of whippy canes.  I swung mine through the 
air several times for practice and then advanced on Elle.  I felt sorry 
for her but I could not disobey the count, or he would put me right in 
her place.  Or add me to the lineup.
         "No!  She doesn't know how to use it!  She'll kill me!" Elle 
screeched.  
         "There's always a first time for everyone," the count replied.  
"You're a big girl.  You should be able to take it."  Tom laughed.  Julie and 
I couldn't help giggling at these grown women and their fear.  They 
seemed so self-confident the night before in the dungeon, reassuring us 
even as they whipped us.  Now the tables were delightfully turned.
         The count told us to begin.  Julie and I swung, and both missed.  
We tried again.  Julie hit home, but I struck Elle's thighs.  She cried out 
an angry complaint.  Finally we both got our aim right, and increased 
the intensity of the blows under the count's watchful encouragement.  
Gradually I got a zest for the thing.  I stung away, relishing the 
bouncing of Elle's full, womanly arse.  Tom and the count spent as much 
time admiring Julie and I labor away in our wet panties as they spent 
gazing at the alluring reactions of Elle and Erica.  Of course our undies 
bunched in our ass cracks and there was no chance to adjust them.  
Perspiration ran down my nimble form as I worked on, Julie huffed and 
puffed and sweated too.  Nimbly we learned some of the art of it, the 
all-important wrist action, how to skate the crop over the bottom, 
imparting a distinct sting but not injuring the flesh.
         I scored my first tear after a bit.  Elle's panties were beginning 
to crumble under the beating.  Julie too was soon tearing up Erica's 
undies, which were even thinner than Elle's.  When we finished, panting, 
both girls had seats in their panties which were practically useless.  
The cotton stretched over Elle's lovely bottom was shredded beyond 
repair.  Her own ass' bulging as she shifted her twin globes threatened 
at any moment to send her entire bottom right out the back of her 
panties.  Erica's hiney was in a similar predicament.
         The women were let up then, and stood ruefully rubbing their 
butts, which only served to further ruin their ripped up undies.  In 
front, of course, their panties were perfect as ever, modestly covering 
their pubises.  The count then announced that it was time for Julie and I 
to have our panties undergo a similar treatment.  We looked in 
astonishment at each other and quickly made to get our panties out of 
our ass cracks, so they could provide at least some small modicum of 
protection.  We were ushered up to the trestles and bent right over, 
making desperate adjustments in our bikini bottoms until the very 
moment our wrists were bound.  Even then I had to hold still and try not 
to wiggle, lest my squirmings send my panties into my crack.  The 
count had ordained that Elle and Erica receive at least 50 "judicious" 
strokes of the cane, and I knew we would get no less, regardless of the 
condition of our panties; ripped, shredded, or hiding within the fold that 
creased our bottoms.
         Happily Elle and Erica took up canes of their own and advanced 
upon us.  The count had to warn them not to strike too harshly.  "You 
were not caned by them, but by me, with them acting only as my 
agents," he reminded them.
         Elle took a few practice strokes and then laid into my seat with a 
real whistler.  "Yipes!" I cried, lurching up, and instantly felt my 
panties slip into my ass.  To my surprise, Elle apologized and smoothed 
out my panties again with her hand.  She said I deserved as much 
protection as I could get.  Again she struck, this time more lightly and I 
bore it like a soldier.  She promised she would try to concentrate her 
strokes on shredding the seat of my undies, but added that this was 
difficult since they abruptly ended at the summit of my hams, leaving 
the rest of my ass absolutely bare.
         "It's tough to make the cane hit on the inrolling slopes of your 
fanny and avoid the summits," she explained gently.  "Perhaps the tips 
of a well-placed cat would work better."  I knew not to what she was 
referring, and said nothing.  The count gave his permission for "cats" to 
both girls and Elle and Erica fetched them.  When, down between my 
wide-spread legs, I saw what was coming for me, I mewled out a 
protest.  Julie, trying ever so hard again to be the obedient slave, the 
faithful wife, told me to hush.  "We're better off if they get absorbed in 
the art of ripping up our panties than just laying it on bare," she 
whispered.
         Elle returned to her station behind me, though in a more directly 
facing position, due to the change in implements.  She unleashed the 
little tips and they went screaming right into the center of my bottom, 
sending me bounding up toward the ceiling, howling in pain.  
         Calmly Elle strode forward and fished my panties out of my crack, 
smoothed them, checked them for tears.  A similar process began for 
Julie with Erica.  This slowed the whipping immensely, but they seemed 
to enjoy giving Julie and I time to savor each sizzling strike.
Gradually our panties ripped apart in back until our butts shone through 
the few remaining fibers like rising moons.
         "Ah, excellent.  Well done, girls!" the count exclaimed, clapping 
his hands.  "Release the girls, please."  Elle and Erica undid us from the 
trestles and helped us stand.  I felt a new kinship with Elle.  Yet, I felt, 
she did not want me to be her equal.  I could tell she hoped the rest of 
the night was devoted to my bottom, not hers, and not both of us 
alternately either.  This was not merely for the obvious reason of 
wanting to avoid pain, but for ego reasons as well.  She styled herself 
(in this environment, at least) as domme or independent observer, not 
as victim.  As I stood beside Elle she adopted an attitude of 
remoteness.  The feeling she had shown for me over the trestle was, 
indeed, in her role as domme.  I looked away from her, for she only 
stared ahead at the count, awaiting orders.  He picked up a little bell 
and tinkled it. 
         "Now, girls, I wish for all four of you to remove your panties," the 
count smiled.  "Such works of art must be preserved."  A look of dismay 
swept over Elle and Erica's features.  Reluctantly they reached down 
and took hold of the elastic waistbands of their undies.  Elle in 
particular, as dungeon doctor, was accustomed to taking off her panties 
when she chose to, and not before.  
         "Now Elle, those failed investments I bailed you out of are 
certainly worth a pair of used panties, are they not?" the count grinned.  
With a huff of displeasure Elle shoved her panties down her long, 
slender legs and stepped out of them.
         "Collect the panties, Tom," the count ordered.  
         From the gloom of the dungeon Burton emerged.  "You called, sir?"
         "Take these panties and have them delicately washed.  The red 
swimsuits have matching tops which are lying on the floor near the 
dungeon's entrance.  Fetch the tops and wash those also.  They belong to 
Kimmy and Julie, here.  The slightly larger bra is Julie's."
         "Yes, monseigneur," Burton said earnestly, bowing slightly, and 
removed the collected panties.
         "Ah," the count smiled at the four of us as we stood before him, 
hands at our sides to allow him to observe the beauty of our bushes.  
"Which do you prefer, Tom?" he asked.
         "Well, I cain't rightly say, sir," Tom replied.  He was a British 
citizen, but had spent his entire youth in, of all places, Iowa.  He 
naturally retained the midwestern accent and demeanor.  He rarely 
called the count by his title and showed little deference, save the 
deference that all midwesterners have bred into them.  Now he showed 
no more (or less) deference to the count than he would have shown to, 
say, a proprietor of a feed lot in Iowa.  Whether this was by design or 
not I could not tell.  "I fucked Elle and Erica last night, and they wuz 
good, so's I got to say right now if I had my choice I'd want to take 
either Julie or little Kimmy there for a ride on the big pego."
         "I meant for whipping, Tom," the count said quietly.
         "Oh!" Tom ejaculated.  He glanced at the count.  "You have a more 
sadistic mind than I do sir, I must say.  But I am doing my best to learn 
the darker side of pleasure from you.  I been readin' those books you 
done given me, though I must confess I still cain't grasp the point of it 
all."
         "I was musing on that this evening, in my bedroom," the count 
said.  "Let us say you have just been ambushed by bandits.  You fight 
valiantly, of course, but they outnumber you and gun down your friend, 
your only companion.  You put your wounded mate on your horse and take 
off down the road to seek medical attention for him.  If you spur your 
horse, will it run faster?"
         "'Course it will," Tom said.  "Ever'one knows that."
         "And if you whip its rump will it run faster?"
         "Ah, now your meanin' begins to appear to me," Tom said, a gleam 
in his eyes.
         "In fact, the spur and the whip might make the difference between 
your friend living and dying, might it not?"
         "Indeed it would, sir."
         "As for the horse, he gets a fine run, probably exceeds both his 
and your expectations as to his ability, and is improved by the 
exercise."
         "Yessir."
         "Now, which female would you prefer to whip if I allowed it?"
         We four females stood listening to all this, feeling like mares in 
some horse show.  I must admit it did give me a certain erotic thrill, to 
be discussed like this.  Would I measure up to the men's expectations?  
I almost yearned to be put to the test.  Especially by Tom.
         With a hand now placed thoughtfully under his chin, eyes 
squinting in thought, Tom observed the four of us.  "Well, there's Elle, 
dignified, a doctor.  It would be quite a thrill, sadistically speaking, to 
rip off her professional garb and give her a sound thrashing.  But she's 
already standin' there nekkid, whereas I would have wanted her to have 
just ordered me out of her office or somethin.'  And then there's Erica, a 
fine woman, and she fucks lustily, I must say, enjoyin' ever' minute of 
it, too.  Somethin' about a woman who enjoys it, you know, it's fun 
while it lasts but afterwards you got no sense of conquest.  It's like, 
'Hi!  Fuck me!  Fuck me again!  I'm available!" Erica frowned at this.
         "Now Julie there, the loyal, obedient, wife.  Yet skittish.  Her I 
would like to whip sometime.  And then there's lil' Kimmy.  I don't think 
she knows quite what she wants in life yet.  Sometimes she resists 
like a tiger.  Other times she tries hard as she can to be dutiful and 
obedient.  Yeah, I guess its Kimmy's lil' ass I'd most like to punish, if 
only to help her make up her mind about bein' in this here dungeon."  I 
smiled, bowed my head, and felt a sudden sense of dread.  Tom had 
picked me!  Over the other three, over even Elle.
         "Ah, an excellent choice!" the count said.  "It is her very 
willfulness, her utter unpredictability, which I too find so alluring.  
Kimmy, you have no panties on that we must worry about now.  Before 
we had to be careful to tear your undies just right...artfully, as it were.  
But now we are presented with the canvas of your bare bottom, where 
any mistakes will heal, naturally.  Your bottom has not suffered much 
tonight.  Go to the rack and pick out something for Tom to spur you 
with."
         Shaking visibly, but still happy at having won the contest, I 
approached the awesome display of instruments of flagellation.  There 
seemed to be a dizzying variety.  I gazed up at them, teetering back and 
forth on my spiked heels as I tried to find something innocuous.  Even 
as I searched I was still rubbing my behind from my previous 
punishment.  "I-I don't know, sir," I said at last.  "There are too many.  
They are all too wicked."
         "Tom, perhaps you can help her," the count said.  Tom strolled up 
beside me.  I couldn't help but shoot a glance at his lovely, upstanding 
glans.  He patted my bottom reassuringly.
         "We'll find you somethin', missy," he grinned.  "Say, I jus' been 
readin' about this here," he said, taking down a martinet.  It looked a lot 
like a cat o' nine tails, but the thongs were all stiff, not flexible.  "Now 
the French favor these," Tom said.  "Unlike a cat, whose business end 
consists of knotted strips of leather, this here is knotted strips of 
whipcord.  Boilin' 'em in starch is what makes 'em stiff like this."
         "Kiss your master's choice, and thank him for his wisdom," the 
count admonished me.  I bent my head and placed a soft kiss on the 
martinet where the cords joined the handle.  With deep, liquid blue eyes 
I looked up at Tom.
         "Thank you, master, for your wise choice."
         "Gosh darn ah almost came when you said that!  Y'are a bewitchin' 
little lady," Tom exclaimed.  "Well, ever' witch I know was ultimately 
tied to a stake.  Lil' girl, we're gonna settle for a whippin' post!"  He 
grasped me by my blonde locks and led me forcibly over past the 
trestles to an ominous thick post set in the floor.  Manacles dangled 
easily from its crown, down to just about where a girl's upraised hands 
would reach them.  I'd seen it earlier, going down on the trestle, hoped 
I'd never be put to it.  Now I would be.
         Tom made quick work of chaining me to the whipping post.  Only 
my wrists were bound.  I felt like a cowgirl in some old western.  He 
told me to stick out my bottom.  He slapped it once and told me to stick 
it out farther.  The other three girls and the count gathered round to 
watch.  The count had Erica fetch them some drinks from the bar.
         "Now, lil' lady, I cain't but say this is gonna hurt.  But a tight lil' 
ass like you got should handle it jus' fine."  He squeezed me, as if 
testing horseflesh.  "Mmm, yeah.  Feel the resiliency in those soft 
cheeks.  They should bounce very cutely indeed."
         "Please," I whispered soulfully, almost conspiratorially, gazing up 
at his square-jawed, high plains countenance.  "Not-not too hard.  Just 
enough to make the count happy."
         "Ah cain't promise nothin', miss.  You'll get as I give you, based on 
my readin'," Tom said.  He remained close to me, would apply the 
martinet from the side, rather than from behind me, as with a whip.  He 
turned so as not to hit his naked penis.  I tried to keep this prize in 
view as I braced myself.
         Tom began by caressing my bare hiney with the stiff cords.  They 
felt strict, remorseless.  Then he gave me a warning tap with them.  I 
flinched.  At last he drew his arm up to his shoulder.  I held my breath.
         "Oooch!" I cried, as the first strike splayed itself across my 
upturned peach.  It was riper now.  Again he struck.  Streaks of bitter 
heat imparted their prints on my tushy.  Again, and again, making me 
jump and wriggle my ass now, shamelessly.  
         Splack!  Splack!  Splack!  Rudely I shook my hiney at the count and 
the assembled ladies.  I flexed the cheeks, contracted them, tried to 
spread them to throw off the burning heat.  I shook my head, tossing my 
hair like a mane, heedless of how badly I might muss it.  My boobies 
leapt, tossing my nipples about in front of a nearby mirror.
         "Th-that's enough, Tom," I cried.
         "Shucks, miss, I done barely warmed you up!" he replied, and gave 
me a good hard one next.  I bucked up my bottom like a bronco and 
yelped a high-pitched scream.
         "Wouldn't she look just lovely in cowboy boots?" the count asked 
his female companions.  They nodded.  He halted Tom in the midst of a 
downswing, telling him to lay off my bottom until boots could be 
fetched for me.  The count and the women came forward and "oohed" and 
"aahed" over the marks already delivered, the women tracing the pink 
and red lines with their sharp-nailed fingertips.  Burton, meantime, 
summoned by the count, went about getting the boots.
         I was let down for a moment's respite and led gently by Julie and 
Elle over to a wickerwork chair, the only kind of furniture in this bit of 
the dungeon.  Sitting down in this was hardly better than being whipped.
         "Oooch," I said softly, plaintively, as my sensitized bottom spread 
its cheeks upon the interwoven network of rattan stems.  This was the 
sort of chair that when you got up from it, the chair left its imprint on 
your bottom.
         "Poor girl," Elle said, stroking my tousled blonde locks.  I felt 
sorry for myself and tears ran silently down my cheeks.  Julie knelt 
alongside me and kissed me compassionately, first on the cheek, then 
on my throat, then on the upper swell of my right breast.  Erica 
playfully toyed with my erect nipples and told me to hang in there.
         Burton presented a pair of smooth leather cowboy boots a few 
minutes later.  They were lined with felt.  The girls helped me put them 
on.  They were brand new.  The count bade me stand in them and I did.  
They came to just above my knees in front, flared downward to just 
below my knees in back.  At my ankles they were drawn in snugly, 
giving them a very stylish look.  They had high, blunted heels.  
         I was ordered to parade myself back and forth in front of the post.  
Bottom wobbling, I presented myself as gracefully as possible in my 
new boots.  They were very impressed.  The count unlocked my collar 
and tied on a red neckerchief.  "Any other accoutrements you girls can 
think of?" he asked.
         "A little vest would be nice," Julie volunteered helpfully.
         "Cowboy gloves?" Elle asked.
         "Ah, enough!  Put her to the post!" the count ordered.  The girls 
laughed.  With helpful efficiency they led me tottering back up to it, 
and Tom reigned me in.  A moment later I was chained as before, but the 
tushy I stuck out now was smarting badly.  I wiggled it in the air to try 
to cool it.  Tom thought I was inviting him to begin.

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

MEDIA WATCH
Newsweek Damns ÒCyberspace PedophilesÓ
by holy joe

         Describing the pedophile as Òvery manipulativeÓ and Òa phony 
friend,Ó Newsweek warns in its June 19th issue, ÒDonÕt ÔChatÕ to 
Strangers...Danger Online.Ó (pg. 42)  (On sale through Sunday.)
         This is the usual shit from Newsweek, which has been irresponsibly 
dumping this cultural poison on America for years.  You can just imagine a 
Hitler-era Newsweek warning of ÒRacial Violators (Jews) Online,Ó or a 
Salem Newsweek warning of ÒWitches Online,Ó or a Roman Newsweek 
warning of ÒChristians Online!Ó  And one can very easily imagine a 1950Õs 
Newsweek warning of ÒCommies Online!Ó  In the process the lives of men 
and boys are destroyed.  
         The ÒmenÓ who authored NewsweekÕs article are Marc Peyser, 
Andrew Murr, and Rob French.  They can be reached at 
NEW150A@prodigy.com  or  letters@newsweek.com  or  
cscope@newsweek.com

         ÒNow is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the 
pedophile.Ó  -- anonymous

D R E A M G I R L S  L E T T E R S

E-MAIL NEWSWEEK!
hereÕs one from Roller:

         After commenting that Newsweek is only published weekly, while 
Dreamgirls is published daily, Roller writes:  ÒI notice you canÕt even get 
out a CD of your past issues, like Time Magazine has.  Perhaps it is 
because what you write is best wrapped around fish at the end of the 
week.Ó

FREE minicomics!  Send a greeting-card SASE to:  Jim Corrigan, P.O. Box 
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