Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
No. 27 Wednesday June 21, 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-Six
by Andrew Roller
Chapter Fifteen
"Welcome to Chateau Havenhurst," a Swedish woman's voice said
quietly to me. She surprised me. I had not known she was there. A
smile was in her tone. As if she had once been in my place, had long
since accepted her existence here. "Your master will be with you
shortly. Your training will begin at once. Do you need to relieve
yourself?" I shook my head yes. "Good. He will take care of that for
you. You may rely on him to supervise all of your bodily functions from
now on. When you eat, when you sleep, and yes when you go to the
bathroom. You will do nothing without his permission. You will do
everything on his command. Please enjoy your stay." She undid my cape
and took it away. I heard a closet door open, shut.
I shivered, and not from cold. Another fine mess I'd gotten myself
into. Still, I wondered who my master would be. Was he handsome,
ugly? A gentleman? A sadist? (Not that the two necessarily came in
separate, discreet packages.) Would he be harsh with me or gentle?
Was he married?
"I'll be leaving now," the female voice said. "The main chateau is
down the road. Your master is coming now." She slipped away. I tried
to listen for her departure but could not follow it. I listened for the
driver, the footman, heard nothing. I was alone. My master was coming.
Someone I'd never met before. A stranger. And I was handcuffed,
naked, wearing a shroud over my head.
The front door creaked open, letting in an icy shaft of wind. It
banged shut. A heavy tread. Man's boots. A large man's large boots.
The sound of a winter coat being removed, hung in a closet. Smoke. A
cigar had been lit.
The approach of footsteps on a plush carpet, barely audible. They
stop nearby. The sound of a tawse being snapped, bent double, to test
its resilience. A swift sharp slapping, on a nearby chair. Again. Again.
I jumped at each thwacking sound of it. The poor chair sounds like it's
having the stuffing beaten out of it.
Silence. Only the sound of his breathing, the smell of his cigar.
Then, softly, almost inaudibly, a slithering sound like a snake uncoiling.
Then a cracking in the air. Again. A whip has been tried. I shiver, try
to control myself. I do not want to face this man as a quivering little
girl.
Other sounds. A martinet? A cane? A rattan cane? A riding
crop? Always they are beaten against something, or used to slash the
air.
Silence. Cigar smoke.
Footsteps come right up to my chair. Wordlessly rough hands
settle on my bare shoulders. They seem to feel out the frailty of the
bones. They stroke the flawless skin lovingly a moment. Then I am
hefted to my feet by my gloved upper arms. He sits in my chair,
admires me a long moment, then urges me back down. I think to sit in
his lap but he wants me draped over his knees, bottom up. My bare tits
dangle down like lost fruit, underneath me. He rubs my ass, the lily-
white flesh upon which I felt snowflakes fall outside. Would those hurt
me, an hour from now, if they touched me there? I don't suppose we're
here together to discuss Shakespeare, though it would be nice.
My bottom quivers involuntarily. I feel apprehensive. I can feel
his risen member pressing through his trousers into my tummy. He
seems to take the quiver in my ass as some sort of consent on my part
to begin. His hand comes down upon my hiney full and hard, walloping
the jiggly bare cheeks and making me kick up my heels and toss my chin
aloft. I scream, it is discreetly muffled by my gag. I am only a body to
him. I have no face. I could have a goat's head for a face for all he
knows, or the Virgin Mary's.
I am fraught with distress now. My pulse races. My heart pounds
with fear. The unknown is a little less unknown now, I think. But more
fearsome. He slaps me again, resoundingly. I lurch and scream. Only
my hands cannot respond, still tightly cuffed behind my back, so
awkward now as I lay head floorwards, feeling my dangling boobies
dance, nipples traitorously stiff.
Again the ravaging palm, the juicy splat of the calloused palm. He
means business. The session promises to be long and painful. Three
slaps and my bottom is already aflame. I can feel his sinews rippling
beneath me in his thighs. He is a powerful man, full of vigor. He will
go all night. He will rend me like a rag doll and then root around in my
stuffing.
Inside my hood I am beginning to sweat. Beads of sweat on my
forehead, though I was comfortably cool a minute ago. My hair, so
expensively done, will be drenched with sweat. My waterproof makeup
will run anyhow.
A fourth slap. "YEEEOWPHW!" I cry, writhing like an eel upon his
lap, my hind cheeks rudely part and show the inner portions of my cleft
as I splay my booted legs wide in a vain attempt to let in more air on
my burning bottom. Tears well in my eyes, run down my cheeks. I taste
their saltiness upon my lips.
My trim bottom, of which I am so proud, is bright red now. I can
feel it in the way the heat wells there, hot, raging.
A fifth slap. I buck like a bronco, lost in my screaming.
Somewhere my tushy rises and falls. I flex my juddering cheeks
repeatedly, brazenly, trying desperately to discharge the excoriating
heat. My tears run freely now.
A sound of swift unzipping. Suddenly my hood is off. Then my
gag. He grabs my hair to turn my head even as I look over my shoulder
towards him. Our eyes meet, my mouth open, tongue just lolling out
with a bead of saliva on its tip. My eyes wide, terrified. He is dark,
rugged looking, broad shoulders. Dressed like a skier. Perhaps a
professional skier.
"You are beautiful," he says, and drags my face up to his and
kisses me. My bottom rubs painfully against his woolen sweater.
"Forgive my harshness. I wanted you to know what I am capable of.
Plus I love seeing a girl walking around with a sore bottom,
particularly at Chateau Havenhurst. Now, down on the carpet, by the
fire. Quickly!"
He eases me to the floor, to my knees. My wrists are still
handcuffed behind my back. With painful, awkward steps, resting
upright on my knees, boobies wobbling, I knee my way across the few
yards of carpet to where he has indicated. My rump protests heatedly
at my every movement.
I glance back over my shoulder. He is getting something from an
armoire. I feel weak and let my head keel over slowly until my
forehead rests upon the carpet. My bottom I keep high, in the cooling
air.
He sets a pole down behind me. I look back, trembling, still
recovering from my spanking. It is an I.V. pole, with an enema bag
attached. He is oiling the end of the tubing that hangs from the bag.
"Your bottom must be cooled," he says. Then he puts an oiled
finger to my anus. It is too tight for him to go inside. He marvels at
my luscious tightness. He says that must be corrected. I must not deny
any man. He says he will supervise my development in that area. I
don't know whether he's just talking or dead serious.
My puckered rosette is thoroughly greased all about its snug
circumference. Then, gently but firmly, he noses the tip of the I.V.
tubing into my clenching rectum. He tells me to relax. I say I cannot
relax, he is about to flood me with a liter of fluid. He says it is for my
own good. I ask him if he wouldn't like me to fix him a cup of coffee
first so we could talk about it. He laughs. "Women," he remarks.
The bag's spigot is open and my tight ass begins filling up. The
fluid is cool but not cold. I lay there panting, afraid, not knowing what
to do. I decide not moving is my best option. I tell him I am full
several times but he ignores me. Finally when I plead with him to take
it out he does so. Then he takes the smallest butt plug he could find
while I was filling and pushes it with determination into my anus. This
is a new toy to me. I did not imagine anyone could even think of such
awful things, let alone make them on an assembly line.
When I am sealed in back he lifts me gently by my hair to my feet.
He turns me to face him. My bare uninhibited nipples graze his sweater.
I am still handcuffed. He presses my soft white naked body to his
clothed one, kisses me. He says I can go make him a cup of coffee now.
I tell him my hands, my feet are shackled. In that case, he says, we
shall go visiting instead. They will have coffee in the other cabins. I
am horrified, mortified.
At the door to the cabin beside us a young woman answers. She is
holding a sweater over her breasts and is obviously topless. I glance
down. Jeans hug her hips but the fly in front is unbuttoned. She wears
red panties. My cape is tied over my bosom with a little pair of strings
but the cape is not long enough to cover my pubis or my bottom. The
woman suddenly notices my barewaisted condition. Smiling she admits
us.
Inside I see another woman, as young and beautiful as the first,
but I see no sign of any man. One is blonde like me, the other a
brunette. The blonde is utterly nude and lying on a bearskin rug facing
the fire. Wordlessly she turns her head when we enter and regards us
over her diminutive shoulder. The blonde's hips are resting atop the
head of the bear, on a soft pillow which the animal is wearing as a kind
of crazy hat. On the underside of her bottom I notice several rosy pink
lines. They stretch straight across the pearl-white flesh, as if
deliberately imprinted there by some object. They are at angles to each
other as if applied with no special purpose in mind as to how they
would look. As if the immediate effect of their application was more
important than the mark that might be left behind. The blonde's eyes
sparkle at us in the candlelight which bathes the room. It is then I
notice the several large candelabras scattered about. I am amazed at
how much light they give.
My new boyfriend turns me around and shows off my bottom to our
hostess. She has dropped the sweater and stands easily with her large
cherry-tipped breasts swaying. Her eyes widen when she sees my
punishment, bright red and almost glowing. I rub it yet again as she
looks and she asks if she may touch it. My boyfriend allows her to and
she flinches when she does because she says it needs salve rubbed all
over it so it can heal. Then he unceremoniously bends me over and
shows her the butt plug rammed up my ass. She gasps, says she did not
know of such things. She admits she thought I was walking rather
funny. He tells her how much fluid I have sealed behind that plug. She
says it must come out soon, for the bowels are not used to this and
must be allowed to undulate inside me. She says he has induced a sort
of constipation in me. He replies that I will not be at all constipated
when he pulls the plug. Our hostess says she will have to try such an
enjoyment with her own companion.
My boyfriend asks if we may stay awhile and enjoy their company
and our hostess says they are quite busy but we may. He unties my
mink cape and my breasts spill out to the admiring wonderment of our
host. "You have many treasures," she tells my boyfriend. "Come and
share one of mine." We pad over to where her little friend is posed
bottom-upwards over the bearskin. Poutily she regards us, as if caught
between nonchalance and indecision. I see that the lines decorate the
entire space of her bottom, though there are not many of them. Then I
see in a corner a long yellowish cane leaning upright. My boyfriend sees
it too and asks if he may inspect it. Our hostess says he must wait. We
interrupted little Amy's lessons and she must finish. Amy's arms lie
outstretched in front of her and are cuffed in soft fur-lined handcuffs.
A rope connects the handcuffs to the iron grill on the fire about a foot
away. Amy's legs drape easily off either side of the bear's head, over
his shoulders, spread in a bold vee. They are not tied down or bound in
any way. Her charming fig shows brazenly between the tops of her
creamy thighs.
Our hostess fetches her cane and stands over poor Amy's exposed
hiney. Deftly she slips a hand into the unbuttoned fly of her jeans.
Then she raises the cane with her remaining hand and brings it down
with amazing swiftness upon the naked flesh of Amy's upturned tushy.
The blonde cries out lustily when it hits and rolls to and fro atop the
bear, flailing her legs and wiggling the sweet little mounds of her
bottom cheeks.
My boyfriend asks the hostess if he may pleasure himself with
such a wonderful sight and she says only if he doesn't spend himself,
that she is not wont to have to clean up after a man. My boyfriend
promises that if things get out of hand he will use my mouth as a
receptacle. I thank him for elevating me in the presence of our new
friends.
Amy shrieks and hollars beneath us as we watch. After a bit my
boyfriend asks our hostess how much longer she will be at this. Both of
them are rubbing themselves. My boyfriend's prick sticks out through
his fly. Our hostess has undone her tight jeans and peeled them down to
the mid-point of her thighs. She looks like a flower blooming from a
stem, with her rose-colored panties. Assiduously she massages herself
through her panties. I find it erotic, thrust my hips forward, watching
her. I feel a yearning to have the sting of her cane upon my bottom.
"Do you mean how much longer will we be at the caning or at
Amy's lessons?" our hostess replies. She pauses to catch her breath.
Her chest gives a lovely heave, setting her breasts a-jiggle. I am
entranced by that also, how her boobies bounce about as she whips her
little friend. I want to do that also. Swing my breasts about freely,
uninhibitedly, while performing forbidden acts. True liberation. You
are most alive, it suddenly occurs to me, when you are doing something
like this. Every moment is noticed. Every second has its own sharp
place in your mind. You long for it to be over yet know that as long as
it lasts you are fully aware, fully engaged, fully among the living. And
young and beautiful and sexy. So very sexy, like the little blonde with
her legs spread, her cunt on display, wet, with the inviting little gap
between the lips. And her bottom bravely presented.
"Both, I suppose," my boyfriend says. "I'm getting close to
spending but I don't want to do it until you're done with her
punishment." Our hostess laughs. She says in that respect they are
just getting started. She says Amy is quite the little trooper and she
will be beaten all night long, but my boyfriend can have a look at the
cane in a little while when she switches to a different implement. She
says that in the morning Amy's white, pink striped bottom will be
bruised and wealed and black and blue. She says it will take some time
for it to heal. I feel my stomach tighten. No! I cannot allow this. She
is too pretty. I should throw myself down on top of her, a voice tells
me, but I don't move.
My boyfriend asks whether her bottom will ever be then as it is
now, for it looks the very height of perfection to him now, even with
the scattering of cane-imprinted lines upon it. Our hostess replies that
she tries never to draw blood, though the birch rod might prick here and
there occasionally, with no adverse effect. And she does not discipline
a bottom that is still recovering. She says that Amy has never gone all
night before but she has had some fairly exacting punishments at our
hostess' hands. This is going to be Amy's first all-nighter, and she will
spend the rest of the weekend as a sore-bottomed slave. They will go
their separate ways sometime next week after some sightseeing but
meet again when her hiney has healed. She says Amy is still in high
school so they are limited in how much contact they can have. Our
hostess explains that she is 25, but is new to sex because she was a
virgin until just this year.
"My parents were very strict Christian fundamentalists. Yet they
sent me to an all-girls Catholic school, to keep me chaste. I think
that's where I developed my interest in other females. When I finally
went with a man this year he proved to be an absolute beast.
Fortunately, Amy and I met one day in the mall. She's not a lesbian like
me, just a kinky, sassy little brat who can't get enough of anything that
has to do with sex, hmmm, Amy?" A swift crack on the bottom, a
plaintive howl. "We came here for the privacy, but also to possibly try
some swinging, with other couples who share our interests. I'm just an
amateur domme, really, reading a few Victorian novels and making it up
as I go along."
I am amazed at how casual and matter-of-fact the conversation
is because the entire time our hostess has her hand down the front of
her panties and is rubbing herself, while my boyfriend massages his
bursting dick. I myself wish someone would caress my breasts and
nipples, as I watch Amy yelp and scream under the demands of the cane.
My pussy is hot and I yearn for it to be touched also.
My boyfriend announces that he would like to be able to treat me
to an all-nighter and our hostess replies that he should get me started
right away then, before she and Amy get too far ahead. I gasp at this,
do not know what to say other than "No," which of course punishments
such as this are specifically designed to correct.
My boyfriend says he is a novice compared even to our hostess,
and would she lend him guidance so that he does not ruin my lovely
bottom. She says she is not in business to ruin bottoms but to take
sexual ecstasy to new heights, for both slave and master. She says she
will be glad to assist him in learning how to dominate without injuring,
teaching him what little she knows. And she will help me learn the
thrill of being a slave.
D R E A M G I R L S N E W S
ÒZERO TOLERANCEÓ POLICY ADOPTED AT NND
Toward Those Who Would Trample on the First Amendment
by Andrew Roller
There is a big spread in the Monday U.S.A. TODAY regarding ÒThe
InternetÕs seamy side (pgs. A1-A2).Ó Despite the highly biased headline,
the various articles are well balanced. U.S.A. TODAY gives an overview of
ÒsexÓ on the net, and promises a full treatment of additional aspects of
the Internet in TuesdayÕs paper.
Some flaws: U.S.A. TODAY is obsessed with photos. You would think
the entire world is illiterate. Also, one of their reporters posed in the
ÒchatÓ rooms as ÒJailbait79.Ó This, of course, perpetuates the hypocrisy
that there are even any virgins left in the world by age 16. Sure, there are
a few Òminus 10Ó virgins in the world, but these types tend to still be
virgins at age 34. At least one 34-year-old virgin that I know regularly
publishes "obscene, lewd, lascivious, filthy and indecent" matter on the
Internet. Too bad that particular virgin was ÒprotectedÓ as a child, eh?
Of course, the whole hubbub surrounding ÒsexÓ on the Internet is
prompted by the U.S. SenateÕs passage of Senator eX-ONÕs ÒDecency in
Telecommunications Bill.Ó I personally consider passage of this bill to be
a Declaration of War on the First Amendment. I always said that if you let
them get away with censoring Òchild pornography,Ó they would come after
ÒpornographyÓ next. Of course, no one believed me. In fact, the bill under
consideration has gone much farther than even I imagined. It proposes to
ban matter that is Òindecent.Ó In other words, donÕt publish Beverly Hills
90210 online after this bill passes.
Forget the bullshit in yesterdayÕs article about disks by mail
(although, presumably, if $5.00 shows up in my mailbox I wonÕt turn it
down.) Everybody else is online: the Nazifeminists, the Republicans, and
the Ògas them allÓ right-wing Christians. In todayÕs world, if you arenÕt
online, you arenÕt anything. Simple as that. I pledge to you, dear reader,
that I will remain online for as long as possible. If Roller isnÕt online,
Roller is dead. Count on it.
NOTE to ÒlawÓ enforcement. Do you remember the Alamo? Good.
[The article on Òdistribution rights,Ó scheduled for today, will be
published tomorrow. Ed.]
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