Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
FREE! Internet Edition June 1, 1995
D R E A M G I R L S S T O R I E S
Chambers of Love
Part Seven
by Andrew Roller
Chapter Four
Helga handed Julie and I our visas and passports. A well-placed
friend at the French embassy had gotten them expedited to us. We
boarded a 747 at John Wayne Airport. The flight was pleasant enough,
but the Concorde less so. Two loutish tourists, young pimply athletes
named Jim and Steve, drooled over us the entire trip. Whenever one of
us got up they used it as an excuse to follow us and try out some of
their juvenile pick-up lines. I was glad to get off that flight, to be
sure. Thank God it hadn't been subsonic.
Paris! We took a whirlwind tour of the place; seeing the Eiffel
Tower, buying all the trinkets, eating in the famous restaurants and
visiting the shows. After about a week, dragging a bit, we asked Helga
about the friends she'd mentioned having in the area.
"Couldn't we visit them, please?" Julie asked.
"This tourist crap is starting to get me down," I said, flopping on
my hotel bed. "I think I've taken a picture of everything but a French
toilet."
"Well, let me see what I can arrange," Helga replied. "They're
somewhat private in their entertainments. You'll have to promise to be
on your best behavior." She shot a glance at me, as I lay trying to pull
the tassels out of the end of my bedcover. "And you may be asked to
dress up, to fit in, you know."
"Oh, I can buy an evening gown!" Julie said.
"Not only that, but what goes underneath as well," Helga said.
"The parties here are less restrained than in America." Julie gulped,
said she looked forward to attending some parties. I said that I wanted
to attend some too.
Helga rented a beach house the following Sunday. Julie and I took
full advantage of being her guests, running topless on the beach and
splashing in the waves and flirting with all the assiduously polite
foreign men. But, depressingly, Helga wouldn't let us keep our tops off
for more than a few minutes. She said French men preferred white
breasts and we mustn't brown them in the sun. After dark, though, we
got to be more liberated.
On Saturday night we were invited by some friends of Helga's on a
gondola ride, sans tops. We danced, wearing just our little panties,
with men who were fully clothed in shorts and polo shirts, khaki and
knee-length designer swim trunks. Most of the girls were bare-
breasted (save for a few older women), so we didn't feel the least bit
put out. We drank too much and "partied our pussies off," as Helga put
it, though except for a few kisses and furtive touchings we didn't make
out with anyone. But our presence was roundly appreciated and we
were promised future invitations.
"Well," I said happily to Julie afterward. "I think we're moving up
in French society."
"I'd like to meet someone really wealthy," she said dreamily. "A
man...in a castle!"
"Now you're just fantasizing," I said. "There aren't any princes in
castles anymore, not even in France."
"I'd settle for a king, then."
"How about Count Dracula?" I asked.
***
Helga came back to the beach house late one afternoon and
ordered us matter-of-factly to undress. "We've been invited to sample
the hospitality of the French with a certain gentleman," she explained.
"I have not met him before but I am told he throws terrific parties. The
only catch is that we must not be inhibited about what we wear."
Helga explained that, just as Julie had heard from her friend, we
were not to wear our undies or anything else below the waist.
"What?! I would never go to such a party," Julie protested. I
agreed that there was no chance I would accept such an immodest
invitation. Helga scolded us and told us to remove our clothes
immediately.
"You had no trouble spending whole days at the beach in nothing
but your skimpy panties, did you? Every time I went out looking for you
your tops were lying discarded on your blankets and I had to force you
to put them back on." Glumly we nodded that this had been the case.
"Or partying in the evening, on that gondola, in nothing but your little
bikinis, still topless? You were the sexiest girls there, and not simply
by accident."
"But-but this is different, Helga," Julie whined. "This time they
want us to show our pussies." I looked at her and she at me and we
burst into peals of laughter. At Helga's insistence, still giggling, we
disrobed completely. I did not know what the night held for us but it
sounded very exotic, very European. We both knew we'd lie awake
nights wondering what we'd missed if we didn't go.
"We're on vacation, after all," I reminded Julie.
"I suppose we can make an exception for that," she said quietly.
***
It was a warm Paris night when the horse-drawn coach arrived at
our beach house.
"Oooh! How romantic!" Julie exclaimed. Our anonymous host had
sent ahead fur coats for us to put over what little we wore beneath.
Bundled in our coats, which just covered our bottoms, we were helped
up into the coach by a smartly dressed footman. "Maybe he IS a prince,"
Julie said, gazing up at the beautifully carved interior of the coach.
Helga, dressed identically to Julie and I, commented that there were
many wealthy men in Paris who longed to cater to females such as
ourselves, sparing no expense.
We were whisked off by the coach, to the mysterious party on the
edge of town. Helga reminded us that since Julie and I were new, we
might feel a bit awkward at first, but that any seeming "hazing" was
just in good fun and by way of introduction.
I watched through the carriage window beside me as the stately
old buildings of Paris trundled by. Their plastered white walls gleamed
in the evening's glimmering lamplight; above, the overhangs of their
slate roofs shone darkly. I thought, as we passed a more ornate
building, that I saw a stone gargoyle staring down at me, mutely. As a
little girl I'd seen an episode of Johnny Quest where the gargoyle in
the story had once been a person. Was the one I'd seen, I fancied, a
former tourist? It had seemed somehow female in its bearing. A
former female tourist, a young American girl, perhaps, who went to one
party too many? The horses' hooves kept up a steady clatter, almost as
if measuring time, like a metronome. "Like sands in an hourglass,"
slipping away as I rolled toward my fate.
"Kimmy, you seem gloomy," Helga offered.
"Just wondering..." I said. "I mean, we don't know anybody..."
"You didn't know your own mother when you were born," Helga
laughed. "Did you know that? It's true for all babies. So everyone you
meet in this world first steps into your life as a stranger."
"Beware of strangers," I repeated from the first grade.
"Then you would have to beware of everyone, and live like a
hermit in a cave from day one."
"Venturing out only after dark," Julie said with an intentionally
creepy grin, mimicking the pose of a stalking vampire. We laughed at
that. My melancholia eased.
The buildings of the city gave way to a forested park. Dimly I
saw romantic couples strolling through the moonlit shadows of the
trees. A small group of picnickers that had remained past sundown
lingered by a shimmering lake. Gaily they toasted someone, did they
look in our direction? Trees rushed in to block my view.
Verdant rolling hills unfolded beyond the park. Farming country,
rich with the smell of evening dew. I spotted daffodils sprouting in the
gravel by the side of the road. In the distance a shepherd was herding
his flock of sheep homeward. The moon wheeled into view as the
carriage turned. Big, bloated, how many other girls going to parties
tonight, or sharing moments with a lover, were looking up at it now
just as I was? It smiled back at me reassuringly. The moon was
always reassuring on the subject of romance. The night was its
domain. It smiled with approval on all the activities of the night, I
thought.
We pulled up before a large brick-faced chateau. It was set well
back from the road, as if wanting privacy, insisting that it not be
disturbed. A ponderous, ancient stone wall rimmed its border, setting
off its neatly clipped lawn from the roadside heather. Rose bushes in
full bloom clustered near the front of the house. We rode through an
iron gate, which a uniformed servant opened for us and then closed
again as we passed within. The carriage wheeled up a cobblestone
driveway and stopped before the mansion. A flight of broad agate steps
led up to its front door. Disembarking from our elegant conveyance, we
paused to admire the roses, then mounted the unusually expensive
steps. I noted that they were centuries old, not an investment anyone
of recent memory had made. Milky and clouded now, much worn from
the comings and goings of many people (other girls, perhaps?), I
imagined how they must have once been. Radiantly striped with forest
green and burnt umber, the yellow of the rising sun and a touch of
orange, to compliment the sunset. I stepped lightly, not wanting to
wear down the poor steps any further. The front door opened for us as
we approached the top step. We slipped within.
A woman greeted us. Her name was Yvonne. We stood upon a
polished marble floor, in a cavernous entryway. A statue-lined hall
stretched out before us. Briefly I studied the architecture of this inner
portico. Its walls were of old stone, yet with assiduously polished
wood paneling covering them almost entirely. Above, wooden beams
supported a roof that seemed newly refurbished. I wondered if we
weren't in some restored ruin, a monastery, perhaps, that had fallen on
hard times under the onslaught of science and materialism. Strange
that it should live again now, as a house of Bacchus. For, given our
clothes, it could serve as little else.
Yvonne took our coats. She showed no hint of embarrassment at
seeing us to be wearing only lingerie underneath. At our host's
instruction we wore tight, frilly white sleeveless blouses. A narrow
front stretched across our ample bosoms, barely wide enough to contain
them. The sides of the garment had big, gaping holes for the arms. The
effect was that one's nipples threatened to pop out at any moment. Yet
the garment had a certain graceful elegance. Tight little collars
contained our necks. The blouses were tied snugly at our waists, by a
bow that was knotted at our backs. Our host had sent us these little
shirts, with a note that he always provided everything a girl needed to
party with him. We were to bring nothing but ourselves, no purses, no
accessories, no money or I.D.s. Nothing save what he provided.
Beneath our tightly-cinched waistlines our host demonstrated a
certain appealing forgetfulness. We had been supplied with neither
skirts nor panties. Bare hipped, bottoms and pussies utterly exposed,
we nonetheless endeavored to appear as ladylike as possible. Our
female greeter beckoned us down the statue-lined hall. Clad in black
booties, our legs otherwise bare, we trod along behind her, our heels
clicking loudly on the marble floor.
We were ushered into a room where, to our surprise, a half dozen
fully clothed men and women awaited us. In their hands they each held
a springy little birch rod, each one tied at the handle with a decorative
pink ribbon. Our host laughingly stepped forward and introduced
himself. He was a handsome man in his early 40's.
"I see I overlooked several items in your attire," he chuckled,
admiring each of us in turn. "No matter, you would have had to take
them off sooner or later anyway." We stood blushing but otherwise
silent. "You must be the one with whom I corresponded," our host said
to Helga. "Had I known you had such a magnificent bosom I would have
forgotten to send you blouses also."
"We thank you for your invitation to display ourselves to such a
handsome host," Helga said demurely.
"This is your first visit, and as such you must pledge to do as
you're told," our host said. "Is this acceptable to you?"
"It's your party, sir," Helga answered. Julie and I nodded quietly.
"The girls, you mentioned that they sought to be opened more
fully?" he asked, winking at me as he spoke, as if to palm off the
question as a joke.
"Yes. They've been dutifully fucked in America but are still quite
tight," Helga said naughtily. "I'd hoped the men of Paris might be more,
ah, generously equipped."
"Of course, of course. Come and meet several manfully endowed
friends of mine, and their female companions, who can attest to their
prowess," our host said with a churlish grin. We were invited to mingle
with the other guests. Drinks were placed in our hands by our newfound
friends and they gathered round us. They gazed approvingly at our firm
bottoms and snug little cunts. We were told to stand with our thighs
well spread and hips thrust forward. I felt tremendously indecent
doing this, but we'd promised our host to obey him in all things, and
this was how he wished for our posture to be. My high breasts, barely
contained by my little shirt, thrust upward at whomever was speaking
to me, their stiff rosy peaks indenting the nearly sheer fabric. Thus
displayed, I answered my admirers' many probing questions about my
sexual experiences. Helga and Julie suffered through similar
interrogations. Not a stone was left unturned as we were made to
describe our every amorous episode in life. Whenever our friends
thought we were being untruthful or concealing something, a light cut
with a birch rod was applied to our bottoms. Each guest found at least
one excuse to smarten us up. Otherwise we were not touched, despite
our provocative poses. Our host complimented our obedience. But more
was to come.
We were returned to the coach, but without being allowed to
fetch our coats. Our host accompanied us. We were made to sit with
legs spread blushingly wide in the coach. He sat across from us and
admired our cunts. Our breasts shook as we trundled down a maze of
backcountry roads, some unpaved, some even of cobblestone or old
flagstones. Now and then one or another nipple would break loose and
have to be restored behind the taut but flimsy blouses. Our host
seemed to enjoy our chagrin at having to constantly worry about our
nipples. Helga wanted to just leave hers sticking out but our host
insisted she re-cover them. It was rather like having a bra whose
straps are constantly falling off your shoulders. The poor condition of
the roads we traveled didn't help matters any. They seemed to have
been specially selected to jostle our titties.
We arrived before a rustic looking restaurant. Cows malingered
along one side of it, nonchalantly dropping their dung within feet of
what looked to be the kitchen. Chickens scattered before our carriage.
This was far off the beaten path of the guidebooks, I mused. A young
girl in a smock stood out on the wooden front porch of the place,
sweeping. She wore a peasant's bonnet.
"You know of Jean Castel? Owner of Castel-Princesse?" our host
asked Helga. He was referring to Paris' very private night club, run by
Mr. Castel mainly for his friends. Helga nodded. She had told Julie and I
of it. "He owns this also," Our host said, gesturing to the tumbledown
restaurant.
"I'm glad you chose the better of the two," Helga replied.
"No, no, this is yet more discreet," he said. "I could never take
lovely young ladies like you, dressed as you are, to the Princesse.
However, here there will be no problem. We shall enjoy a nice, quiet
dinner together. However, to keep the peace, Castel does allow in some
of the local population. Some will be bumpkins. Ignore their
comments, please." He took Helga's arm. Our driver appeared beside the
coach and opened the door. One by one we stepped down into the cool
evening air, feeling it rustle through the tight little curls of our
pussies. The sweeping girl looked up once, returned to her task,
oblivious.
D R E A M G I R L S N E W S
[Please disseminate this where newbies can find it. IÕm only posting
it here since I donÕt want to irritate the commercial online services.
However, you may copy it and post it wherever you wish.]
Where the Hell are the Sex Stories on AOL?!
by holy joe
Okay, letÕs face it, son. You like sex. Well, maybe you donÕt GET to
like sex itself (since it requires more than one person), so you take the
next best thing: you like stories about other people having sex. Oddly, NOT
having sex and only reading about it makes you a Òpervert.Ó The people
who are actually WALLOWING in sex (doing it), are Ònormal.Ó They are
even trying to get the Government to ban all the stories about sex from
the Internet.
Why would the ÒnormalÓ people want to perpetrate this injustice
upon us? Because...there are MORE OF THEM. ThatÕs right. There are more
of THEM than there are of US. This is why the Jews were killed in Nazi
Germany. This is why the Blacks were enslaved in the ÒLand of the Free.Ó
(Otherwise known as America.) When there are more of THEM, anything
can happen to YOU.
Be that as it may, a ÒglobalÓ search of the word ÒsexÓ will not bring
up alt.sex.stories, alt.stories.erotic, or alt.sex.stories.d. They wonÕt
appear on AOL, Compuserve (or, presumably) the other commercial entities
(Prodigy, etc.). This is so that the ÒnormalÓ people, in their snoopy
moments, can happily assure themselves that WE do not exist on the
Internet.
Several people have sent me e-mail, saying that they cannot access
alt.sex.stories (etc.) from America Online. I was under a similar
impression. However, since then I have discovered the ÒExpert AddÓ icon.
It is located underneath the ÒRead My NewsgroupsÓ icon. In ÒExpert Add,Ó
I entered the exact name of each newsgroup. I did this ONE AT A TIME,
exiting ÒExpert AddÓ each time, then re-entering. Once you ÒsubscribeÓ to
alt.sex.stories (etc.) using the ÒExpert AddÓ icon, you can enjoy the sex
story newsgroups.
Another person, a Compuserve user, cannot locate any sex STORIES in
the sex stories newsgroups (using Compuserve). Well, I canÕt either (on
Compuserve). I donÕt know what is going on with Compuserve, but as an
unbiased observer I would suggest that you switch to America Online.
ÒHow,Ó you ask, ÒDo I find out WHAT newsgroups to type into ÔExpert
Add?ÕÓ (Not only the sex story newsgroups, but all the other hidden
newsgroups that the ÒnormalÓ people donÕt want me to know about?) You
can only know of their existence if you buy a book at the bookstore like
THE INTERNET YELLOW PAGES. (Which itself does not have all the
newsgroups, due to newsgroups constantly being formed and being
consolidated, killed off, etc.) There is a possibility that you can download
a list of newsgroups on Compuserve, however this is just something that
somebody uploaded, and I myself cannot ÒunzipÓ it in order to read it. It is
located somewhere in their ÒInternetÓ forums, along with an ÒunzippingÓ
utility (one for PCÕs, one for Macintosh). I have not bothered to get all
this accomplished.
If you have Stuffit Deluxe you can find, download, and unzip the list
of newsgroups on Compuserve.
Okay, so now youÕve got all your hidden newsgroups properly
ÒsubscribedÓ to. You are ready to read, for example, Naughty Naked
Dreamgirls.
It will be almost impossible to locate Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
alt.sex.stories. There are simply too many people posting in that
newsgroup, 24 hours a day, for you to be able to go in there and find
anything. Instead, go to the Òlibrary sectionÓ of the sex story newsgroups.
It is called alt.stories.erotic. There you will find all the issues of
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls very easily.
It is recommended that if you wish to discuss stories (or whatever)
in the sex story newsgroups that you do it in the new newsgroup,
alt.sex.stories.d. This is why I call alt.stories.erotic a Òlibrary.Ó DonÕt
post there unless you are posting a Òbook.Ó Something substantive that
you have worked on, that has taken you time to compose, that you have
spell-checked, etc. It should include a STORY that features something
EROTIC.
If you have any trouble subscribing to the ÒhiddenÓ sex story
newsgroups, just e-mail me. My address is: roller666@aol.com (ROLLER
666). If you should have trouble getting your e-mail to actually mail out,
try eliminating the matter in parenthesis. In other words, try mailing to:
roller666@aol.com. (Ignore that last period. It just shows that I am
ending a sentence.)
In this way there will someday be more of US than THEM. Then
everything but the sex story newsgroups will be Òhidden.Ó
ROLLER PUBLICATIONS Free for a greeting-card SASE (or $1.00) from:
Jim Corrigan, P.O. Box 3663, Phenix City, AL 36868. COMIC UPDATE
(Library of Congress ISSN: 0894-5195): small press comix. NAUGHTY
NAKED DREAMGIRLS (Library of Congress ISSN: 1070-1427): sex stories.
(Include an age statement-18 or over.) DREAMGIRLS WITH SHAMAN:
poetry. This is online issue number 7 END OF TRANSMISSION