Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
No. 58 Saturday July 22, 1995
alt.stories.erotic alt.sex.stories
D R E A M G I R L S S T O R I E S
Bubblegum Bondage
Part Twenty-Six
by Andrew Roller
Epilogue
"Were we his love slaves?" Melanie asked, swerving to miss a
school bus.
"I guess so," Susie said. "God, what a time I've had on my first
trip away from home!"
"Yes, and we're going to stay with you to make sure you keep
having a great time...even when you get home!" Melanie squealed. "Right,
Anna?"
"I guess so," Anna said. "Although I am starting to miss my
husband."
"Are we still gonna raise bulls when we get to Nebraska?" Melanie
asked Susie.
"I imagine we could, if we sold Anna's Porsche to buy them," Susie
said.
"Sell it," Anna said. "My husband only gets me back, not his
Porsche. I don't want to go to easy on him for fucking my butt."
"Mmmm, thankyou, Anna! You're the best!" Melanie crowed, nearly
crashing the car into a tree as she paid Anna the compliment.
"Keep your eyes on the road," Susie said to Melanie.
"Will your grandaddy give us some of his land for our steers?"
Melanie asked Susie.
"Sure," Susie said. "If you get us there in one piece."
"Now I only want, you know, steers with BIG ones," Melanie said.
"I know, I know," Susie said.
"Very big ones," Melanie said. "So they'll make lots of milk, of
course."
"Milk comes from cows, silly," Susie said.
"Whatever, I still want steers with BIG ones."
"And a few men with big ones too?" Anna asked, looking over at
the girl.
"Those are okay too," Melanie said.
"And if the men with BIG ones want to spank you?" Susie asked
Melanie.
"Oh, I'm sure I'll be naughty once in a while," Melanie said.
"And if they want to tie you up and whip you?" Susie asked.
"Um, I'm sure I'll be very naughty once in a while," Melanie said.
"And if they want to stick their BIG ones up your butt?" Susie
asked.
"I'm sure they'll need to do that to get practice for sticking their
BIG ones up your butt," Melanie said. "And especially Anna's." The 16-
year-old broke into giggles.
"And what if these men with BIG ones want to make you their
little love slave, hmmm?" Anna asked Melanie.
"Then I'll sit them down, and I'll take out their very, very BIG
dicks, and I'll tell them all about our adventures," Melanie said. "About
Elaine's wicked mansion, and the time Susie threw my bra in the trash
can, and your swimming pool that we never got to swim in, Anna, and
your husband's splendid reaming of your ass, and that stupid spaghetti
we got all over us, and the killer who did all sorts of totally exhausting
stuff to us and then left us lying naked on a bearskin rug in a dungeon
with strawberries and cream. And if, after all that, if the men with
the very big things haven't ejaculated from excitement, then I'll let
them put a collar on me and make me their little love slave for as long
as they wish!"
"That sounds like a decent deal to me," Susie said. "And if you get
turned into a love slave, I'll come along with you to make sure the men
with the very big things don't wear out your pussy and your anus by
fucking you too much."
"Oh, you don't have to worry about that," Melanie said with a sigh.
"It's their very big things that will probably get worn out."
"That's true," Susie mused. "All the same, I want to come too."
"We'll all come together," Anna smiled.
"Yes!" Melanie cried. "We'll all come together...when we come!"
She began singing the phrase, and Susie and Anna joined in. Susie didn't
feel the least bit ladylike as she happily hollered the familiar refrain,
but, for the first time in her life, she felt an absolutely exhilarating
sense of freedom.
THE END
D R E A M G I R L S S T O R I E S
watermelon moon
Part One
by Andrew Roller
Chapter One
It was 1:00 in the morning, but Willette didn't care. She pumped the
horn of her car, creating a bleating noise that reverberated through the
neighborhood. The car's horn would have been annoying enough on any
street lined with homes, but this neighborhood consisted of closely packed
apartment buildings which lined an alley like so many sardine cans
waiting for cats to pry them open.
A figure opened the blind of his window. He peered out at the
silver-grey sports car with the well endowed horn. As the man stared
Willette defiantly gave several more bleats with her horn. This was, after
all, Friday night or, technically speaking, Saturday morning. Who was this
man to be holed up in his apartment on Party Night anyway?
Willette jumped out of her car and ran up to the bank of apartments.
If she couldn't get her guests to come to her, she would, after all, have to
go to them. Impatiently she rang the doorbell of her friends' apartment.
Finally the two young boys tumbled out, and Willette directed them to the
back seat of her car. As she slipped back into the drivers' seat of her
sports car she saw that the man was still staring out his window. Still
staring, when her horn hadn't gone off now for several minutes? For a
moment she sat staring back at the man, while her two boyfriends in back
busied themselves unwrapping joints. This man may have opened his blind
in anger at the horn, but now his anger wasn't motivated anymore by the
noise. It was motivated by loneliness. He really had no interest in being
in his apartment at all. He wanted to be in the car with the loud horn.
With the girl who was making the noise with the loud horn.
Willette stuck her hand out the window of her car and, with a smirk,
waved at the man. She hit the accelerator on her car. With a loud squeal
of her tires she sped off, leaving the lonely man behind to while away
Friday night in his little apartment. "Goodbye, lonely man," Willette
called.
"Suck on this stuff, it's great!" Peter crowed, passing a lit joint up
between the seats to Willette. Lola, Willette's best friend, who occupied
the seat beside her, was already enjoying the controversial benefits of
hashish.
"I want some Scotch," Lola whined, even as she took a drag on a
marijuana cigarette. "John, did you bring some Johnnie Walker?"
"Too expensive," John replied, sharing a toke with Peter in the back
seat. "Got some Bud, though."
"Plebeian bullshit," Willette scoffed. Tentatively she inhaled on
Peter's homemade cigarette. At least he had finally learned to roll the
paper right. But the sweet smell of the hash made her sick enough without
having to inhale it directly. She passed the weed cigarette on to Lola, who
took it greedily, adding it to the one already in her mouth. Then Willette
rolled down her window.
The party proved to be less than Willette had hoped for. The football
players were big enough, and eager to show off those large parts of their
bodies that they were unable to show on the playing field. But Willette
wanted something more. Perhaps it was only because Lola surrendered
herself so quickly to the jocks. Willette found herself minding Peter and
John, while Lola, who was supposed to be John's girlfriend, retreated to an
empty upstairs bedroom with three of the football players. John, who did
not share Willette's contempt for Budweiser beer, seemed too drunk to
notice.
"Hey, let's ride that new motorcycle of yours, Biff!" John suggested
jubilantly. His speech slurred with every syllable.
Biff lifted his head and shook off his drunken stupor just well
enough to reply, "Sounds great! Hit the road!" He surveyed the roomful of
high school seniors. "Which of you girls wants to come with us?" A girl
no less drunk than Biff and John agreed to accompany whichever of them
rode first.
"You're too drunk to go cruising," Willette hissed at John.
"Aw, no way I'll get caught driving drunk," John snapped. "I can just
outrun those fucking cops if they come after ME. I didn't do dirtbiking for
five years for nothing."
Willette grabbed John's arm. "John! I'm not worried about your
getting a damn ticket. I'm worried about you not coming back!"
"Hey, man, don't razz John!" Biff called out to Willette. "If he wants
to join the cast of Night of the Living Dead, more power to him!"
"You don't even care if he wrecks your motorcycle?" Willette cried.
Biff laughed hysterically, drunkenly. "Night of the Living Dead is a
good cause."
"And you're both dead...dead drunk!" Willette cried. She stormed
from the room to a titter of laughs.
Willette found herself cruising the streets in her little silver sports
car. Now she was alone...just like the man in his little apartment. A
patter of rain began to fall lightly on her windshield. Would John kill
himself? Would Biff? Would Lola kill herself getting gang banged by
three football players? Willette wondered if she cared anymore. She was
18 now. The Senior Prom was approaching, but after two Junior Proms as
a freshman and and sophomore and a Senior Prom as a junior, she was
beginning not to care. It would be the same top ten list she'd been hearing
all spring, the same slow songs that the boys considered a license to
molest her, the same dumb speeches by the coach and the principal and, as
always, the lecture on showing their school spirit by not leaving a mess in
the cafeteria at the end of the night.
Willette dreamed of college. Of holing up in the library with
gourmet popcorn and bottled European water. Of parties with real men,
not little boys flush with testosterone trying to pass themselves off as
men. And Willette dreamed of law school. Now there was a profession
worth pursuing! No glass ceiling there! She could argue with the senior
partner in a law firm if he didn't promote her to the top. And if he still
didn't, well, by then her reputation would be so great that she could just
set up a law firm on her own. She wouldn't even have to go solo. Freshly
minted young law grads would flock to work for the law firm of Great
Attorney Willette Means.
Willette sidled up to a nightclub. It was growing late, 3:30 in the
morning, but she knew she'd hate herself if she let the night pass away
without any fun. Willette parked and sauntered up to the club door.
Predictably, the bouncer let her in without paying. Her great looks almost
always got her past the front door without a fee. Did the silly hunk who
manned the door think by letting her in without paying the $4.00 tab he
could get some sex off her? He looked like he did. Absolve Willette of a
$4.00 debt and get $200.00 worth of sex in return. Not a bad bargain, if
Willette was stupid enough to fall for it. But she snubbed the bouncer's
eager looks and continued on her way into the smoke filled recesses of the
club.
Willette found a round stool near the back of the club and daintily
seated herself. She knew she wouldn't be alone for long. Sure enough,
soon a young man with oversized biceps came up to her and attempted to
make small talk. Apparently he was of the mind that he deserved a
beautiful girl like Willette. She disabused him of his notion. Then, a
minute after the first boy had scurried away with his tail between his
legs, a second boy showed up. Willette dismissed him as easily as she had
the first. The boy hurried back to the comforting sanctuary of his friends.
"Maybe she charges," the boy suggested. Willette frowned. It was
one thing for a boy to make light of his loss, another to accuse her of
being a whore. She decided to make use of the third applicant when he
arrived.
As luck would have it, the third male to approach Willette's
makeshift throne looked like he had missed the boat on evolution. He was
fairly short, but with big, heavy shoulders that looked like they could have
lifted the roof of the dance hall off Willette if an earthquake struck. He
had a low, sloping forehead and a prematurely receding hairline. But he
would be great for taking out the boy who had called her a prostitute.
After several slow dances, in which Cro-Magnon man turned out to
be a perfect gentleman, Willette complained that a boy was teasing her
behind her back. Cro-Magnon man welled up with chivalrous intent. Was
his Queen being insulted? Cro-Magnon man would put things right!
Willette pointed out the boy in question and Cro-Magnon man waddled over
to where the boy was dallying with his friends.
Willette stayed just long enough to see the fight. "Whore boy," as
she thought of him, was unlucky enough to have his back turned when Cro-
Magnon came up to him. When Whore boy responded to a tap on his shoulder
he got decked in the face. Naturally, his friends jumped to his rescue, and
Cro-Magnon was quickly wrestled to the ground. Last Willette saw Cro-
Magnon was receiving a series of brutal kicks to his body as he lay
writhing on the danceroom floor.
The rain was heavy now, and Willette had to run to reach her sports
car without getting too wet. At least no policeman had stopped to ticket
her for parking in the handicapped stall. She hopped into her little grey
sportscar and cut the engine to life. She flicked on the wipers. She
headed for the road.
"...a rather cruel, headstrong young girl," Willette found herself
reading two days later in the high school library. English Literature was
one of her favorite classes, even if it did sometimes provide disturbing
summations of her own personality. Well, if Willette ever wanted to be a
District Attorney she had to learn to be even tougher than she was now.
She had to learn how not to just manipulate one stupid low-browed boy,
she had to learn how to manipulate an entire jury. She intended to have
the highest conviction rate of any prosecutor the world had ever seen. And
then, when she retired from that and inevitably turned to criminal
defense, she intended to have the highest rate of acquittals.
Willette's mind drifted back to the man in the apartment. Now there
was a true loser. Probably some nice, humble guy who had long since given
up on women or career advancement. He would just plod through life doing
what he was told, getting his little paycheck, and then he would die.
Perhaps if he were lucky he would find a divorcee with three children who
needed a man with a steady income. Willette laughed. That woman might
be her, in another 20 years.
The following Friday night Willette found herself once more in front
of Peter and John's apartment. This time, though, it was only midnight.
Would the lonely man come to his window again if she blew her horn? He
should know that Peter and John had just moved into their new apartment
on what she thought of as Sardine Row, and unless she found something
better she'd be blaring her horn outside their door every Friday night from
now on. In fact, if Willette was especially unlucky in her search for a
better senior year spring, she might well be outside Peter and John's on
more nights of the week than just Friday.
"Beep! Beeeep!" Willette began pressing on her horn. Lola, sitting
beside her, was already giggling. "Beeeeeep! Beeeeeeeeeep!" Surely that
would bring the man! And it did. The blind didn't just open this time, it
went straight up. And there stood the dark male figure again. This time
his arms were crossed. And this time Willette had a little surprise for
him.
Willette flicked on her headlights. She had angled her car so they
would shine right into the man's window. Suddenly his anonymity was
stripped from him. Surprisingly, he turned out to be younger than Willette
had imagined. No more than 30. He was only of a medium build, about
5'11", and his face was not unhandsome. But his eyes returned a glare that
was ten times brighter than the glare of Willette's headlights. Yet, at the
same time, he looked sad.
Willette began tittering to herself as Lola broke into guffaws. The
man couldn't see them this time, thanks to the headlights in his eyes! But
they could see him very well. They could sit and judge, he could only stand
there, stolidly staring back at their lights.
Peter and John skittered out of their apartment and dashed to the
car. As usual, John had a small brown paper bag which Willette knew was
stuffed with as much hash as John had been able to earn money for that
week with his job at McDonald's. Peter carried the Bud. Lola opened her
car door and John rudely pushed her seat forward and climbed in behind
her. Was he trying to exact a little revenge for her fling with the football
players? Peter hopped in behind John and Willette hit the gas. Again she
waved at the lonely man in the window as she broke for the street.
No prearranged party was to be had this week, and the girls and John
and Peter sped off to a nearby nightclub. After a few too many drinks
Willette found herself being persuaded to go backstage and offer herself
as a dancer. The prize was a case of Bud, and John and Peter were quite
eager to save their money by having Willette win the Bud for them by
dancing on the club's stage.
Willette unwrapped her leather vest, giving the club's owner a better
look at her ample cleavage. The man smiled, obviously quite pleased at
what he was seeing. His pencil thin mustache twitched spasmodically.
"Nice, nice," the owner breathed in a reedy voice that exuded
cigarette smoke with his every word. "If you dance well you may very
well win the prize. And don't forget, that will qualify you to compete for
an even bigger prize."
"Don't tell me. The couch in your office," Willette snapped. She
unzipped her lambskin skirt as she spoke.
"That we can do right now, without the dancing, if you're interested,"
the owner rasped. His eyes glowed bright, competing with the tip of his
stubby cigar.
"I'm just in it for the beer for my friends," Willette answered. She
kicked her dress off her spiked heels. In fact, Willette was in it for
herself. She had ended last Friday miserably, alone and wondering if she
should go knock on the door of the lonely man in the apartment building.
Tonight she would have fun. She would strut herself before the randy boys
in this club and know when she went to bed that they were all at home
masturbating over her performance.
D R E A M G I R L S L E T T E R S
The reason the yuppies are so big on ÒvaluesÓ these days is
because they have suddenly realized they are mortal. Their ÒvaluesÓ
will die with them unless they can manage to infect a younger
generation with them. -- Joe Emeritus, Professor of Facts
Free Naughty Naked Dreamgirls e-mail subscriptions: send (18 or up)
age statement to: roller666@aol.com Free back issues: send e-mail to
nnd.inf@backdrop.com Free minicomics: send a stamped, self-
addressed envelope & age statement to: Jim Corrigan, P.O. Box 3663,
Phenix City, AL 36868 U.S.A. Naughty Naked Dreamgirls (Library of
Congress ISSN: 1070-1427) is copyright 1995 and a trademark of
Andrew Roller. Chat: alt.sex.stories.d END OF 58 EMISSION