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Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
A Taste of Mortality
Chapter One
ÒTo record, in loving detail, the throes of death,Ó Lilith said. She
tossed back her black hair. It was a casual gesture, as if she might be in a
cafe along the North Pier, describing a particular flavor of tea. Angela
looked at her. She watched as the dark-haired womanÕs eyes left her own
and trailed down the gently curving line of her nose, past her open-
mouthed lips, the soft jut of her chin, to her throat. To the side of her
throat. Watching the pulse of life beat in her neck.
Angela had been studying existentialism in college. It was a
freshman course, honors. Perhaps she had been reading too much of it, she
thought to herself, as she gazed around the photographerÕs studio. She
knew nothing of this woman. She had met her along the pier as the fog
rolled in, as the night came on, as the moon peeped out beyond the
inrolling mists above the hills that lay to the east of the city.
ÒOf death?Ó Angela managed to say, realizing the woman was
waiting for her to answer. She fidgited in the metal frame chair the
woman had offered her, getting a cushion for her so the seat would not be
too hard for her bottom.
ÒYes,Ó the woman replied. ÒIÕve recorded frogs, small bugs, even
butterflies. All dying,Ó she said. Then she giggled, slightly, lifting her
hand to her mouth but not covering it, as if at the last moment the
boldness of her hobby pleased her more than it offended her. ÒPerhaps I
enjoyed high school biology too much,Ó she said. Her eyes returned to
AngelaÕs. ÒIt was difficult for me at first,Ó she said. ÒBut they made me
do it. Absolutely made me,Ó she said. Her eyes seemed to glitter. ÒMy
father and mother wanted me to be a doctor,Ó she explained. ÒSo of
course, whether biology made me throw up or not, I was going to take it.
My fatherÕs a doctor. His idea of starting a family tradition,Ó she said.
Angela gazed into the young womanÕs eyes, felt transfixed by them, a
butterfly caught on a nail, waiting for the first slice of the scalpel. She
shivered. ÒBut youÕre not a doctor, are you?Ó Angela asked. The dark-
haired woman smiled.
ÒNo,Ó Lilith said. ÒNo. I lost interest in the healing part of the
profession. If I ever had any at all,Ó she said. ÒI majored in photography
in college. Won some awards. And then I combined my love of photography
with my newfound love of injury, and death,Ó she said. ÒThereÕs something
so all-powerful and all-consuming about it. To take a life, to snuff it out,
and yet, at the same time, to record it forever, to immortalize it.Ó
ÒYes,Ó Angela agreed, feeling herself in a kind of trance-like state.
It sounded like something in her existentialism course, what the woman
was saying. Lilith gestured toward the unlit photographerÕs lamps, tall on
their stands, silvery in the half-light of a lamp glowing dimly in a corner
of a room, near the metal table they were seated at. The table top was
glass. Angela felt her fingertips tracing nervous lines on its smooth
surface.
ÒAnd you would like to take my picture?Ó Angela felt herself
murmur in a frightened whisper.
ÒYes,Ó Lilith smiled. She tossed back her hair again. Her voice was
confident. Her hand glided across the table and touched AngelaÕs.
Impulsively Angela tried to retract her own but Lilith was too quick for
her, too quick even for her reflexive response, gripping her hand abruptly,
like the inclosing legs of a spider, clutching her and holding her. In a
soothing voice, as if she had perhaps already injured her, Lilith said,
ÒI would not hurt you, of course. Not permanently, I mean. I would
be simply a photo-essay, an experiment. To see how far you could be
pushed, challenged, how close you could ride to the edge, to the abyss, and
yet come back. I think the photos would be very beautiful, and very
honest,Ó Lilith said.
ÒHonest?Ó Angela, echo-like, as if already smitten by some ancient
Pan, replied.
ÒYes. So many photos are artificial,Ó Lilith explained. ÒThey donÕt
even begin to get near the personÕs soul. Of course that is what matters,
donÕt you think? That is what brings true immortality. Like in my photos
of my butterflies, I capture them at their honest essence, facing their end.
Even photographs in pornography do not do that,Ó Lilith said. ÒPerhaps
they think they are getting closer, by aiming for such strong emotions, for
such bold, naked statements and gestures. Closer to the reality of the
human condition, I mean. Sex and all that,Ó Lilith said. ÒBut I have
studied pornography, both menÕs and womenÕs, and there is too often a
pro-forma quality to it. Here I am, for a hundred and a half, or whatever
they pay... go ahead and show them how beauiful I am so I can go have
lunch.Ó
ÒOh,Ó Angela said. She was not in the habit of looking at naked
pictures of people. Although, at the 7/11, she remembered with a sudden
red-faced guilt, she and her junior high girlfriends had had a few
indulgences.
ÒIt would be an excellent foretaste of sex, I think,Ó Lilith said. Her
eyes sparkled. AngelaÕs widened and then quickly lowered. Lilith let a
smile betray itself on her lips. Yes, the girl was a virgin, as sheÕd begun
to suspect, talking to her on the pier, and now in her studio beneath her
apartment. ÒYou would be naked, of course. To help arrive at your
essence. And then I would assist you, in producing emotion,Ó Lilith said.
ÒAnd we would, of course, as I said, ride out to the horizon of life, to the
brink.Ó
ÒYou would not hurt me?Ó Angela asked in a frightened voice.
Already she could feel the tug of the womanÕs words in her soul,
exorcising her, bringing forth emotions of which she herself had barely
been aware.
ÒI admire you a great deal. I would not want anything to happen to
you,Ó Lilith said. Angela blushed, turned her head away, rapidly, as if a
sudden impact had flung her neck to one side. Still sitting rigidly in her
chair, on the soft pillow, the metal frame pressing up from beneath
through the thin cushion, she said,
ÒOh, it would be better if you did not like me at all!Ó
ÒI did not say I liked you,Ó Lilith quickly interposed. AngelaÕs eyes
darted once again to LilithÕs, felt themselves held there. ÒI admire you
but I do not like you,Ó Lilith said. ÒI am like a slave master, wishing to
enslave you, to use you, for my own purposes, admiring you and hoping you
see my point, even agree with it, perhaps, and benefit from it, but not
liking you. There is a difference between admiring and liking.Ó
ÒWh- what is the difference?Ó Angela asked. Her voice quavered.
Her neck felt stem-like, wobbling slightly with the weight of her head,
her thoughts, being cut by LilithÕs thoughts as if by the blade of a
guillotine.
ÒThe difference is this: Your friends at college like you. Your
girlfriends, your boyfriends. I am older. I am 26. I will be slipping away
past the age of 30 when you are still genuinely young, pretty, dashing,Ó
Lilith said.
ÒYou are very beautiful,Ó Angela said.
ÒThank you,Ó Lilith replied. ÒIt makes my job easier.Ó
ÒThen you have done this before?Ó Angela asked with a kind of
sudden terror.
ÒNot with a female,Ó Lilith assured her. ÒBut with a man. He was a
strapping young college quarterback, cocky, full of himself,Ó Lilith said.
ÒI tested him. Showed him parts of himself he had never known existed.Ó
ÒOh,Ó Angela said.
ÒHe has since finished college and fathered a child,Ó Lilith said. She
smiled. ÒAt two in the morning, when his wife is worn out and itÕs his
turn to change the diapers, IÕll bet he wishes he was back with me. Even
with my curious desires,Ó she said. There was a silence. Outside, the dim
drone of the traffic passing on 59th Street could be heard. The hubbub of
life was there. In this small room it was, when no one was speaking,
except for the distant sounds of the traffic, deathly quiet. At last Angela
gave a little cough and Lilith said,
ÒI would like for you to undress. Your clothes are very pretty but I
need you naked, so each fall of the whip, each touch of tongs and hot
steam, can be intimately recorded,Ó Lilith said.
ÒYou mean I would be...?Ó Angela asked. Her voice was like the
gentlest of breezes, stirring reeds on the beach under the pier.
ÒYes. Tortured,Ó Lilith said. ÒIt is the only way, IÕm afraid, to
approach true feeling in my photographs. Of course I would hold back from
what I do to my bugs, to my butterflies. The final blow, I mean. We would
wander around the edge of the abyss rather than plunging into it.Ó
ÒYes,Ó Angela said. She did not mean for it to be taken as consent,
still feeling the grip of LilithÕs hand on her own, warm flesh to warm
flesh, but that is how Lilith took her answer.
ÒI have a small changing room,Ó Lilith said. She stood up. Her hand
lifted AngelaÕs and, with it, the girlÕs whole body, for Angela was
curiously unresisting, feeling herself drawn upwards as a swift-flowing
stream might tug on a corpse. Steadying herself in her high heels, she felt
herself dragged across the studio floor, past the unlit lamps, to a small
curtained doorway. Beyond was a cubicle, recessed in the wall. It was the
size of a broom closet.
There was a stack of clean towels sitting on a chair outside the
room, next to the curtain. Lilith picked up the topmost towel. It was pink.
She handed it to Angela, the girl taking it with her free hand, her other
hand still being held by the photographer.
ÒGo in there and change,Ó Lilith said. ÒIÕll set up my equipment. I
have a friend who lives upstairs. If you donÕt mind, IÕd like to call him.Ó
To AngelaÕs look of shock the woman replied, ÒDonÕt worry. HeÕs gay. But
he does a lovely job with hair and makeup. Not that youÕre not already a
treasure to look at, otherwise I wouldnÕt have picked you,Ó Lilith smiled.
ÒBut he will touch you up a bit, as you sit for him in your pink towel.
Then, with him still here, if you donÕt object, to look after you in ways
that I cannot, taking my pictures, we will do our photo essay.Ó She
squeezed AngelaÕs hand. ÒI promise you that I will be the only one who
touches you.Ó Lightly her hand passed down AngelaÕs back and with a
sudden gesture she slapped her, on her bottom, not too hard, but propelling
her into the curtain, the towel clutched in her free hand. Lilith let go of
her other hand. Angela gave a small whine but a moment later found that,
the curtains having parted under the pressure of her forward driven face
and bosom, she was in the broom closet. There was no mirror in this
ersatz dressing room, just a wooden stool and a bare hanger, hung from a
peg on one of the walls. There was also one other item, lying
meaningfully, or so it seemed to Angela, on the clean-swept floor. It was
a leash. Attached to it was a collar. Both were of leather, fairly narrow,
black like the black hair flowing down from LilithÕs head to the midpoint
of her back. Angela bent over and picked up the leash. As she did she felt
the swish of her own long hair, which was blonde, and hung all the way
down past her waist to the midpoint of her butt. She held the leash in her
fingers. Beyond the curtain a voice called out,
ÒPut it on,Ó Lilith said. ÒAnd the towel. Then come out and my
friend will do you.Ó
Her hands trembling, not knowing why she was going through with
any of this, Angela hung the leash carefully over the hanger. Beyond the
curtain she heard the sounds of a zipper, of rustling clothes. She realized
that Lilith was undressing. With quivering fingertips Angela reached up
and unbuttoned the collar of her blouse. It was starched, white. She had
worn it yesterday to her class in existentialism and then, after washing it
this evening, because she liked the look of it, she had worn it to go out for
a walk on the pier. Now she should be home, in her dorm room. It had
grown cold outside and if she were to leave now she would have to ask
Lilith if she could borrow a sweater or jacket. But instead of doing that,
she was undressing. She wished there was a mirror so she could look at
herself and ask herself what she was doing. Her hands undid the buttons
of her blouse. She hung it on the hanger, letting the leash drop to the floor
as she took the hanger off the peg on the wall.
ÒPut it on!Ó Lilith called out from beyond the curtain, hearing the
leash hit the floor. ÒDonÕt play with it.Ó
Angela heard, but did not obey. Instead she sat down on the stool and
took off her shoes, which were gently spiked with modest heels, and then
rolled down, with shaking hands, her nylon stockings. Finally she stood up
and undid her skirt, then her bra, and finally, gulping anxiously, her
panties. She hung all of these on the single hanger on the wall, except for
her shoes, which she stood in a corner. Then, bending down, she picked up
the leash. She put it around her neck. She buckled it, letting the leash
hang down between her naked breasts. She considered putting her shoes
back on but realized that their straps would rub her ankles uncomfortably
if she did not wear her stockings, and she didnÕt think Lilith wanted her
wearing her stockings. So, barefoot, she knotted the pink towel around
herself and went back out through the curtains, into the studio.
Lilith was waiting for her. She smiled. Two of the photographerÕs
lights were on now and they illuminated her from behind, the dim lamp in
the corner casting a half-shadowed light across her face. LilithÕs hair
hung down around her like a garment, but stopping halfway, not covering
her all the way down past her waist as AngelaÕs did. She turned slightly.
The photographerÕs lamps, brightly lit, caught the peaks of her impressive
breasts. They were naked, twin sumptuous cones, each nipple rigid, as
AngelaÕs were beneath her towel, with the prospect of impending
excitement. Angela gazed at the cherry tips. The little stems grew longer
as Angela watched them. In response her own nipples, already thorn-hard,
grew stiffer beneath her towel. Her pussy wettened. She saw LilithÕs
hips move and guessed the woman was suffering the same ache of sudden
desire within her own softly rolled lips.
ÒYou look delightful,Ó Lilith said to Angela. ÒMy friend will be here
any minute.Ó
ÒThank you,Ó Angela answered, not sure why she was thanking the
woman for what was sure to be an alarming, if not quite uncomfortable
evening. There was a knock at the studio door. Lilith whirled. Confidently
she strutted to the sound. Angela was aware of her bare ass and how it
moved with such sexy certainty. Her own bottom tightened beneath her
towel, feeling like a quivering mass of tautly round flesh, like a
playground ball just kicked by some rude childÕs foot.
ÒHello,Ó Lilith chimed, opening the door to her studio. A man
entered. To AngelaÕs surprise he was not white, like herself or Lilith. He
was black, slave black, dark like the night-shrouded landscape of Africa
under the stars. His eyes twinkled as he took in the sight of LilithÕs
nudity and, beyond her, Angela clutching her towel. He was slender but his
hands were large, artistÕs hands, dextrous, yet workmanÕs hands at the
same time, in their largeness, and he let his hands pass across his face as
he let out a delighted squeal.
ÒHoo boy! You have found a way to entertain yourself THIS evening,Ó
he said to Lilith. Despite seeing Angela he did not address her. He spoke
only to Lilith, and she answered in a murmur Angela couldnÕt hear, and he
spoke again, softly this time, still only to Lilith, until at last she turned
and introduced him to Angela.
ÒThis is my pet for this evening,Ó Lilith smiled to Joe, for that was
the black manÕs name.
ÒYour pet or your specimen?Ó Joe asked. He regarded Angela as one
might gaze upon an innocent new to some holy church. Angela saw lines at
the cornerÕs of his eyes, crowÕs feet. He was older than herself or Lilith.
ÒBoth,Ó Lilith said. Awkwardly Angela responded as Joe extended
his hand, letting him take her small white hand in his big black one,
clutching madly at her towel with her other hand, aware of his colorful
clothes and her single, simple swatch of cloth that kept her from being as
naked as the natives from his African past.
ÒDo her lips, her eyes, her hair,Ó Lilith said to Joe as he held
AngelaÕs hand in his own, not letting go of it even after they had shook
hands. ÒCheck to see that each hair of her pussy is properly brushed.Ó
ÒYes. Of course. I know how to make a girl look special,Ó Joe said.
Big white teeth showed in his face as he grinned at Angela. He noticed her
collar. She was already blushing but her blush now deepened profoundly
under his gaze.
ÒRouge her nipples,Ó Lilith said, her voice still commanding, not
trusting Joe to know without being told. ÒA touch of baby powder on her
bottom,Ó she added. Her eyes traversed AngelaÕs legs. They were white,
perfect, Roman columns of flesh, but thin, oh so thin, with just enough fat
on her thighs to keep her from looking sickly. ÒThen we will be ready,Ó
Lilith said. She reached out and took hold of AngelaÕs towel. She tugged
on it. The girl gave a scream for the gesture caught her unawares, JoeÕs
hand holding her own, her other handÕs grip loosening on the cotton, the
comfort of it suddenly being torn from her grasp, leaving her white flesh
exposed, her nipples traitorously hard and her pussy immodestly moist up
between the flanks of her thighs.
ÒYes. We WILL have fun tonight,Ó Joe said. His voice seemed self-
congratulatory, like a hunter having captured a deer. He took AngelaÕs
hand, which he was still holding, and led her back to the metal-framed,
pillowed chair, the one she had been sitting in earlier. He made her sit
down. The metal of the chair pressed uncomfortably against her back, but
she did not say anything, for everything seemed to be planned out for her
now, right down to the sweeping gesture made by Joe which brought her
legs up and the chair, on the other side of the table, under her heels, so
that her feet rested in the pillow of LilithÕs chair while her bottom sat in
her own chair, at the table where the subject of phtographing death had
first been broached.
Lilith lit the remaining studio lamps in the room. She adjusted a
large black camera on a tripod. She focussed it into the glare of the
beams, the studio lamp beams, where they intersected. Joe, meanwhile,
took a small black bag from under the table. Angela had not even noticed
it before but now, as he lifted it up and opened it, she saw that it
contained all that a girl could want. Nail polish, lip gloss, eye liner, a
small brush. Joe took one of AngelaÕs small bare feet in his hands. He
began with her littlest toe, painting it carefully, changing its pale color
to a paler pearl, a more perfect pearl, Angela feeling her fingertips
pressing into her thighs, waiting for their turn under the delicate brush.
There was a sharp crack. Angela looked up, startled. Joe did too. He
laughed when he saw what had made the sound. It was a black leather
whip, taken by Lilith from a dresser pressed to the opposite wall. Angela
shivered. Lilith walked over to her, her large breasts quivering, a soft
chiffon scarf tied about her neck, pink like AngelaÕs towel had been, which
now lay crumpled in a corner. LilithÕs breasts loomed. Their nipples
beckoned. She wore a simple t-shirt, but one that had been severely cut,
so that it hung on her body like some destroyed manÕs undershirt, but with
the delicacy of a femine fabric, soft fluted strips of cloth forming the
essence of the shirt, the scissors that had cut it showing off her tits,
baring her upper arms, her shoulders, the expanse of her ribs beneath her
breasts and the softness of her smooth flesh above their jutting presence,
the fabric too short to cover her navel, too cut up to cover any part of her
except a small space of flesh beneath, well beneath, her hanging tits.
LilithÕs pubis was bare. Her pussy showed, a neat soft triangle of hair,
flanked by her naked hips, supported by her naked thighs. Her legs were
bare too, all the way down to her ankles, where she wore small black
calfskin boots, the same boots she had worn on the pier where she met
Angela.
Thrusting out her hips, her tits quavering boldly above AngelaÕs head,
Lilith reached down, keeping her back straight, her black whip in her hand,
her other hand reaching out to the girl. She caught AngelaÕs collar with
one of her fingers. She inserted it between the collar and AngelaÕs throat.
ÒIt is too loose,Ó Lilith said. She laid the whip down on the table.
Beneath its glass surface, off to one side, JoeÕs hands continued to paint
AngelaÕs toes. Lilith took hold of the girlÕs collar with both her hands.
She tightened it. AngelaÕs eyes widened. She made a gagging sound. Joe
swore; his paint brush daubed polish accidentally on the flesh of one of
the girlÕs toes.
ÒNow look what youÕve done!Ó Joe said to Angela. Lilith loosened the
collar slightly. Angela breathed a thankful sigh, her breasts quivering
with her relief.
ÒShe messed up my work!Ó Joe complained to Lilith, still gazing at
AngelaÕs feet.
ÒHurry up and finish. I want to get started,Ó Lilith said. She turned.
She strutted back toward the center of the room, leaving her whip on the
table. Angela stared at the womanÕs retreating figure, then at the whip,
then at Angela again, who was now taking a pair of old manacles from the
dresser. They were rusty, made of iron. As soon as Angela saw them she
gasped.
ÒDonÕt move,Ó Joe warned. He continued to paint AngelaÕs toes.
Meanwhile Lilith, who was taller than Angela, and wearing boots, stood on
tiptoe. She slung the rusty manacles over a hook hanging from the ceiling,
in the juncture made by the beams of the studio lights. When she took
away her hands Angela watched the manacles gently swinging back and
forth, their jaws open, waiting. She shivered again and clutched herself
closely, putting her arms around herself, across the cushiony jut of her
breasts. Joe finished painting her toes. He replaced the brush, the bottle
of polish, in the black bag. He took out a hairbrush and, parting AngelaÕs
bare thighs, he touched it to her pussy. Angela gave a sudden laugh.
ÒThat tickles!Ó she protested sudeenly, giggling quite involuntarily
at the feel of the stiff bristles in her dell.
ÒYouÕre wet,Ó Joe answered. Angela blushed. Lilith, returning to the
dresser, took out a jar of KY jelly. Then she pulled out a big black dildo,
thick as a banana, but with a curiously tapering end.
ÒDonÕt worry, I wonÕt break your cherry,Ó Lilith smiled to Angela,
beyond the glare of the joined beams of light, where the manacles hung.
ÒHowever there are other parts of you that I want. What youÕre sitting on,
for instance. ItÕs very pretty,Ó Lilith told Angela. The young girl gulped,
visibly, her throat tightening, releasing.
ÒMy - my bottom?Ó Angela asked.
ÒShe catches on quick,Ó Joe said, luring another involuntary giggle
from the girl as he passed his brush again through her pussy.
ÒYes, your lovely, perfect bottom,Ó Lilith said. ÒI saw it as Joe led
you to the chair. What beauty! It will be mine tonight, and donÕt bother to
protest,Ó Lilith said, seeing a frown come to AngelaÕs brow. ÒA master
must have his reward, his prize, and the same holds true for female
masters. There is a price to be paid in everything.Ó
ÒWh- what are you going to do?Ó Angela asked in a suddenly quite
high-pitched, childish voice, like a toddler finding itself suddenly in a
doctorÕs office, itÕs toys put away and a vaccination needle in the doctorÕs
hand.Ó Lilith made an obscene thrust with the dildo.
ÒThis is going as far up you as possible,Ó Lilith told Angela. ÒIt will
hurt. I am not going to lie to you and tell you it will be easy. It will come
at the end of the night, as the final triumph, perhaps to bring you back
from the edge, even, although, if it is inserted too rapidly or abruptly it
could, of course, do the very worst sort of damage.Ó She stood it upright
on the dresser, the intervening lights of the studio lamps obscuring it, yet
at the same time giving it a kind of otherwordly distance, as if it were
something glimpsed far-off, in heaven. She placed the bottle of KY jelly
next to it. ÒHere it will stand until the end of our night together,Ó Lilith
said to Angela. ÒI want you to contemplate it. It is very beautiful, like
your bottom.Ó
ÒAnd itÕs BLACK,Ó Joe said, brushing harder with the brush now, so
that Angela said, in a loud annoyed voice, ÒOw!Ó as the brush scraped
across her lovelips.
Ignoring AngelaÕs cry, Lilith reached into the dresser again. She
brought out two steel clips. They were not rusty like the manacles, but
new, with jagged tong-like mouths. ÒI have two other treats IÕd like you
to become aquainted with in the course of our evening,Ó Lilith said.
ÒNipple clamps. The ends of them are quite sharp,Ó she remarked, running
a fingertip across the pointed surfaces of them. ÒNot sharp enough to cut,
perhaps, but very close,Ó Lilith said. ÒThey will restrain your wiggly
breasts. The teats, the tips, flesh compressed and held by metal. I want
you to be very obedient when these are on you, so that you are not
permanently injured by them. The same will hold true for the dildo, when
it is up your bottom. You will need to relax and offer yourself, truly and
boldly to it, even as your nipples are stiff in their clamps and your
lovelips are unruly in their wetness. Your bottom will have to be soft and
obedient, open, so open, accepting whatever is driven into you and taking
it with all the fullness and receptivity of your soul, right up into the very
depths of your guts. Complete surrender. To me,Ó Lilith said. ÒBut first
we will have our games,Ó Lilith continued. ÒNaked games. You will not be
asked to surrender immediately. First you must be challenged. You must
feel the lightness and quickness of your limbs, the heaviness of your
newgrown breasts, the sway and fullness of your hips, the bold, bare
presence of your lovely naked bottom.
ÒWh- what would you have me do?Ó Angela asked, nervous fingers
pressed to her thighs, Joe replacing the brush in the black bag and taking
out the brush and nail polish again. He lifted his hand to take hers,
extended her finger tips, stretching them like slim strips of beef to be
hung up on a rack.
ÒThere is a room beyond this one,Ó Lilith said. She gestured toward
a folding screen, one that might have concealed a dressing area in the
studio but which, Angela saw, peering more closely at it, stood up against
the wall, and against a door set in the wall. ÒI call it my playroom,Ó Lilith
said. ÒWe will see what sort of tests you can survive there. And when you
fail, you will be brought here, periodically, to taste the whip, to learn to
do better, hanging from the manacles, your body exposed to the disclipline
of leather.Ó
ÒOhhhh,Ó Angela said. Her breath escaped her like that from a dying
corpse. She shuddered. Joe commanded her to be still so that the paint,
the deathly pale funeral pearl-colored paint, could be applied to her
fingernails.
[Insert your imagination here.]
The dark alley stood close on either side of her. The bricks were
clean but forbidding, as if hiding something, she thought, beneath their
freshly painted and gentrified walls. She rounded a corner. Of a sudden,
the sun washed over her face. It gleamed brightly in her blonde hair, a
breeze catching it and blowing it as she felt the warmth of it on her body;
pigeons, pecking the sidewalk beneath her feet, took sudden wing, startled
from a morningÕs forage by her unexpected approach. She felt the breeze
on her face and her clothes. She gazed up at the pigeons, at their white-
grey bodies, imagining them to be doves, because of the spring in her step,
of the confidence with which she now carried herself. She was suddenly
afraid of nothing, ready to face everything, feeling the warmth of the day
and the breeze and knowing that she was, despite all she had suffered,
very much alive!
30
--------------------------- Dreamgirls! ------------------------
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----- Other providers:
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Usenet Newsgroup: alt.sex.stories.moderated
----- Great books by David Hamilton: The Age of Innocence, A Place
in the Sun, Twenty Five Years of an Artist. By Jock Sturges:
Radiant Identities Need a book? http://www.amazon.com
----- Great sites:
http://www.nambla.org
http://www.AlessandraSmile.com
-----Naughty Naked Dreamgirls (Library of Congress ISSN: 1070-1427)
is copyright 2000 by Andrew Roller. Naughty Naked Dreamgirls and
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-----END OF story EMISSION