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Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
DESIRE ISLE
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Chapter Eight
The three girls slept soundly that night, their heads finding refuge
on each other's shoulders as they snoozed away the remainder of the
waning evening, ensconced in the big honeymoon bed. The next morning
they were up bright and early, eager to continue with their trip. After
tickling their fancies by ordering room service to bring them breakfast in
bed (which they ate in the nude, beneath their sheltering covers), they set
about dressing.
Reluctantly the girls split up. Melanie and Candy promised to write.
Then separate cabs whisked them away, Melanie headed back to her
parents, Melanie and Kimberly back to theirs.
After a week with Gwen home seemed somehow out of place to
Melanie. She was glad to be back in her own bedroom with her stuffed
animals, prom photos, and boyfriend's letter jackets, but it all seemed so
staid now, so boringly normal. Even for a good girl like Melanie, who
always tried to do the right thing and please her parents and teachers,
there seemed a sudden dullness to life. Was the senior prom and cheap
dates on the weekend really all she could look forward to from now on?
Not to mention the homework, the ever more stale cheerleading practice,
and her lessons on her flute for band. Everything that had always kept her
totally happy before seemed hollow now.
Melanie stripped off her clothes and stepped into the bathroom for a
shower. Afterward, towelled off, a blowdrier in her hand fanning out her
long locks, she looked in the mirror. Suddenly she had a new awareness of
her beauty. Just look at that face! Even without any makeup it would have
charmed a legion of barbarians. And her body, so slender, yet with a pair
of tits that looked like twin juggernauts hell bent on piercing the nearest
ship--or the hearts of the sailors onboard. And then there were her long,
long legs, supporting trim hips that had just enough flare to them to let
every man know she must be legal. Melanie spun about and looked at her
bottom. She cupped the twin halves of jutting flesh. They looked like
mounds of powder, they were so white. She had felt the riding crop there,
thanks to her little sister. What would it feel like to be hit by a whip
there, though? Or, as she had seen in a book at Gwen's house, by a birch
rod? Is that what the men who always leered at her on the street really
wanted to do with her? Was that what was expected of a woman, to
pleasure her husband by bouncing and writhing under his punishment?
Melanie shivered.
Kimberly knocked on the bathroom door. "Hurry up!" the girl yelled in
a demanding voice. Melanie sighed. She opened the door and Kimberly
bustled inside. "Some of us have a date tonight," Kimberly said primly.
"Who cares about dates?" Melanie said. "I'm sick of them. Haven't
you seen enough back seats of cars by now?"
"Just because you don't have any," Kimberly said, and stuck out her
tongue.
"It's not that I don't have any, it's just that I don't want any," Melanie
protested. "It's always the same. A back seat that smells like the
football team threw up on it, even when the car's a Porsche. An empty
beer can or two rolling around under the front seats, somehow missed by
the "professional" vacuuming the guy did an hour before the date. I mean,
it's just sooo romantic. A touchy-feely movie, then a "romantic" dinner at
Denny's with the gang, then the all-important trip to inspiration point
where the boy tries to get me undressed before he creams his pants."
"Well, I like it," Kimberly replied, pulling off her taffeta top for a
shower. Her breasts jiggled in their bra cups.
"Suit yourself," Melanie sniffed, and turned and left. She felt queer.
She wanted to go out, but it all seemed so childish to her after her trip to
Aspen. Kimberly had obviously been too young to be affected by their
experiences. And Gwen had not used her as a whore. To Kimberly the
whole thing had just been a lark. A chance to play her electronic space
game without some parent or teacher interrupting.
A letter from Candy arrived a few days later. Unfortunately,
Kimberly was the one to bring in the mail. Kimberly was not always one
to pry into her sister's affairs, but some intuition told her that this time
a little snooping might be in order. She set a pot of water on the stove
and, as it boiled, she steamed open the envelope. Inside was a
butterscotch scented letter from Candy. After pedestrian preliminaries,
the letter recounted in somewhat vague terms the account Melanie had
given Candy about her first job as a whore, with Earl paying her $2,000.
Candy ended the letter by saying, "If you'd like to be a tart again, I think I
may have a client."
Kimberly's father walked into the kitchen while she was busy with
the letter. She had thought he was out, but in fact he had just been in the
laundry room taking measurements for some shelves Kimberly's mother
wanted installed. Kimberly heard her father's footfalls about two seconds
before he stepped into the kitchen. She stuffed Candy's letter underneath
a pile of papers. Her father stopped right in front of the pile and picked up
the phone, which was hung on the wall right next to the papers. Kimberly
poured the hot water in the teakettle into a bowl of Top Raimen, and
glided around the kitchen bar to sit down at the family's dining table. No
sooner had Kimberly taken two mouthfuls of soup than she heard her
father rummaging in the pile of papers for a note he had made on the price
of shelving.
"That's ridiculous!" Kimberly's father said testily into the phone.
"Somebody at your store quoted me a price on shelves there just last
weekend. I have it written down write here--" (A sound of papers
shuffling.) "No, I don't know the name of the clerk who told me the price,
but it was $20.00 a unit, not $40--" The man's last words were eclipsed
as he came across Candy's letter. A moment later the telephone
conversation ended on an abrupt, awkward note. With shaking hands,
Kimberly's father brought the letter over to her. "Kimberly...do you know
anything about this?" he asked.
Melanie was met by her father when she arrived home from school.
His face was grim. "Hi daddy," Melanie said fearfully, guiltily. He only
looked as he did now when she had done something very wrong. Like when
she had drunk his wine at 10. Or made out with a boyfriend at 12 on her
parents bed, accidentally leaving his size 28 underpants under the sheets.
Or when she had borrowed his Audi last summer without his permission
and then returned it with a dent she hoped he wouldn't notice, but had.
"Please come into my study," Melanie's step dad said as she tried to
whisk past him and up the stairs to her room. She set down her books and
he took her hand. That he never did anymore, unless she'd been very bad.
"What's wrong, Daddy?" Melanie asked, but her father said nothing.
The study seemed dark and foreboding to Melanie. There was nothing
here but books, and she didn't like reading much, except for her school
textbooks, which she studied assiduously. Melanie hardly ever came in her
father's study, though she had smooched with a few boys in here. But
except for the occasional foray with a boyfriend the study held little
attraction for her. And it was where her father always took her when he
was angry with her.
Melanie's father ushered her into his study and closed the door
behind them. He told her to sit down in one of the big leather chairs that
fronted his desk. Then, standing over her, he handed her Candy's letter.
"What's this?" John (for that was his name) asked. Melanie looked at the
letter. As she red it she blushed, then gulped. She was groping for some
way to dismiss its credibility when her step father ordered her to stand.
"I've never searched your room, but today I did take a little tour,"
Melanie's step dad said. I saw a bank deposit slip sticking out from under
the bottom of your stuffed Koala bear. I think you'll forgive me for being
unable to restrain my curiosity." He presented her with the slip. It was
from her trip to the bank last Friday. It contained only the date and two
words, but they were enough: "Deposit: $2,000."
"Daddy, I-" Melanie began.
"Your mother and I adopted you," Melanie's father said. "Your natural
mother may have been poor, but she was a God-fearing, hard working
woman. I didn't take her from you only to tell her that I raised you to be a
whore!" the last few words came from Ivan's mouth at a very high decibel
level. John was trembling now. Beads of sweat had appeared almost
instantly on his forehead. "Is this what a good upbringing has taught you?"
"No, daddy," Melanie quivered.
"Is this what your mother and I, working hard every day at our jobs
to provide a home for you, have accomplished?"
"No, daddy," Melanie said, tears brimming in her eyes. She looked
down at her lap.
"Good schools, expensive clothes, a fine neighborhood, your mother
an engineer and myself a doctor, and you wind up a whore?!" Again Ivan's
voice threatened to knock down the walls of the study. All at once, like a
lull in a thunderstorm, his voice became very quiet. "You're too old to
spank." He paused. Melanie breathed a sigh of relief. "By me." The blonde
looked up.
The study consisted of a main room, where her father's desk was,
and a smaller room, separated by a sliding door, which held his prized
books. He stepped over to the smaller door and slid it back. Melanie gazed
beyond the doorway and saw a woman dressed in black rise from the
room's only chair. She put down a leather-bound book on a deal table
beside the chair. She was dressed in a tight black gown that hugged her
hips.
"I think you'll be needed now," Melanie's father said to the woman.
Looking very demure, the woman swished into the study's main room.
"Is this the errant child?" the woman asked of Melanie, speaking to
her father. Melanie felt like a puppy being spoken of by its owners.
"I was too lenient with her in my upbringing," John muttered, more
to himself than anyone in the room.
"A common mistake among the better classes of society," the woman
breathed. Melanie thought she could almost see flames ushering from the
woman's mouth. Scented steam seemed to rise from her gown.
"Your father tells me you've been naughty," the woman said, turning
to Melanie. The blonde only looked at her. "Please stand," the woman said
to the teen. She obeyed. "My name's Ivana. I used to be a whore, but I've
mended my ways now. I look forward to the opportunity to help a girl like
yourself stay on the straight and narrow." Melanie was shivering now. Her
step-dad was a big man. Ivana, too, loomed large, tall and lean, with a
prominent bust. Ivana opened her purse. She drew forth a little switch. It
had a collapsible handle, which she pulled to its full length with a click
that sounded with a note of finality in the otherwise silent room. "Bend
over the desk and lift your skirt," Ivana said simply. Melanie could barely
control her fear. Her father gazed at her dispassionately.
Melanie walked with light, mincing steps to her father's desk.
Perhaps this was the best way. She had felt ashamed about her
assignment with Earl. Perhaps this would exorcise her humiliation and
drive any further thoughts of prostitution from her mind. Perhaps then
she could get back to school and studies, and friends, with a clear,
unfettered mind. Melanie bit her lip and leaned forward. She upped her
plaited skirt. Her girlish white undies were displayed for all to see. "She
will need to be held," Ivana said to Melanie's father. He strode around to
the rear of his desk. Reaching past Melanie's head, he took both her wrists
in his hands. Then he lifted them up into the air. Melanie winced at her
father's roughness, intended or not. Her arms were straight, her wrists in
the air above the small of her back. Her father raised her wrists into the
air swiftly, nearly yanking Melanie's arms off her shoulders. Her father
was so big that he only needed to lean forward a little as he held her.
"Bend over more," Ivana instructed from behind. Melanie knew the
words were intended for her. She leaned forward, her father's hand
coming to her back to help press her down. She was made to bend until her
face bumped against his desk. Melanie turned her head on its side and
pressed her cheek against the coolness of the desk's laminated surface.
Melanie heard rustling behind her. "Forgive me, the gown hinders my
work," she heard Ivana say. Melanie found she had a direct view of her
father's crotch. It was only inches from her face now. Even as she set
eyes upon it a protuberance formed within it. Melanie heard Ivana's gown
slither to the floor. Suddenly, in the glass of a family portrait, she caught
sight of the disrobed Ivana. The woman wore a corset that lifted her
ample breasts, leaving the nipples bare. Beneath the arch of the corset
Ivana's navel twinkled, and some distance below that a skimpy pair of
panties stretched across her hips. Taut garters stretched down to keep
fishnet stockings tightly clasped around Ivana's upper thighs. Just when
had this woman stopped whoring? Melanie wondered. Last week?
A rustling in Ivana's purse caused Melanie to turn her head. That was
the place from which the pony-lash, now lying idle beside her on the desk,
had come. Ivana drew forth an ivory hair brush with a flat back. Melanie
felt sharp-nailed fingers come to her buttocks. Her panties were drawn
down, left to bunch beneath the juncture of her thighs. Ivana let out her
breath. "I always love the sight of a young girl's naked bottom," Ivana
murmured. Then, more loudly, "Your money has not been wasted on your
daughter's behind, at least. This is the finest bum I've seen in years."
John cleared his throat.
"Please begin," John said. "The wife will be home shortly."
"Of course," Ivana said. Once more she fished in her purse, this time
taking from it a crystal flask containing perfume. The little bottle had an
attachment protruding elegantly from it which allowed the perfumed
contents to be sprayed onto the body. Ivana aimed the tiny nozzle sticking
sideways from the top of the bottle at Melanie's heinie. She squeezed
gently, and Melanie felt a shower of perfume spray her bottom.
"I asked you to begin!" John said angrily, still holding his daughter
down.
"A whipping on a wet bottom hurts more," Ivana said simply, and
continued spraying here and there until Melanie's entire ass was coated
with a light film of liquid perfume. Then Ivana set the bottle aside,
saying that it would be needed again later when Melanie's heinie had dried
from the initial series of blows.
Ivana lifted the ivory hairbrush. She studied Melanie's bottom for a
moment, like a wolf apprising its prey. Then, suddenly, she struck the
back of the brush hard against Melanie's bottom.
Melanie flinched. She bit her lower lip and left teeth marks there.
Melanie's father, sensing the movement at her mouth, parted her lips with
his free hand and inserted his index finger between her teeth. The full
effect of this gallant move was somewhat lost on Melanie as she winced
from the sharp pain at her bottom. Again the hairbrush came down.
Melanie bit into her father's finger. Her hips flinched.
Surely she could take this, Melanie thought. Her father did not know
of Kimberly's caning. A hairbrush, even one wielded by a dominatrix, was
no match for a jealous sister with a cane! But the brush did hurt all the
same, and Melanie was quivering with tension over the pony lash, still to
come.
Blow after blow rained down courtesy of the hair brush. Melanie
bumped her flanks against the edge of the table. She bucked. And she bit
ever harder into her father's finger. Before her the crotch of her father
loomed large now.
John urged Ivana to hurry and finish. Melanie wondered if this
urgency on the part of her father was because he felt uncomfortable
administering this punishment. Did he worry that the domme would take
things to far? Melanie knew her mother was not due home for another
hour, yet John acted as if she might walk into the study at any moment.
Ivana picked up the squirt bottle to apply more perfume prior to the
application of the pony lash. "Never mind that," John growled.
"I'm going to do the job right or not at all," Ivana replied. John
groaned. Once more Melanie felt the perfume spray her behind. The little
jets stung as they hit her injured bottom. They also cooled her. Then
Ivana picked the pony-lash up off the desk. She whipped it downward.
Melanie cried out as it slashed across her bottom.
SKRAACK! went the little lash a second time, then a third. Melanie
felt tears well in her eyes. A fourth slash brought them sliding down her
face. Each stroke of the whip seemed ever more painful. Soon Melanie
was wailing at every new searing strike of the leather. When her petulant
lips did close they brought her teeth down hard upon her father's finger.
As the last strokes fell Melanie tasted blood. Her father made no
movement. If he felt the pain, he did not show it.
Finally Melanie's father released her wrists. Crying, Melanie stood
straight up and her hands flew to her burning bottom. She rubbed the red
hot cheeks vigorously. It seemed a toss-up as to whether her hands were
soothing her or actually making the pain worse.
"Tch, tch, if she can still stand to touch there she has not had
enough," Ivana remarked.
"She's just a schoolgirl," John said gruffly.
"I have a cat o' nine tails in my purse as well," Ivana offered.
"Enough!" John roared. "Now get out!" Then, realizing his
impoliteness, he softened. As he issued his last sentences he had rounded
the desk, coming up next to Ivana. Gently he asked her if she needed help
getting back into her gown.
"Yes, if that is what you wish," Ivana purred. John put a hand across
the front of Ivana's tummy and touched her far hip. He stroked it.
Trembling slightly, he looked at his daughter.
"Go to your room!" John ordered Melanie. The blonde stared back at
her father. Her crying lessened to sniffles. Her eyes were wide.
"You're going to fuck her!" Melanie said suddenly in a shrill voice.
John leapt at Melanie and raised his palm to slap her. Melanie cringed. At
the last moment John thought better of himself, dropping his hand
harmlessly away.
"Yes," John said. "She's not a retired whore. She's very much still in
the business, and I see her on a regular basis." His face stiffened. "And I
don't want you following in her footsteps!" Melanie turned and ran to the
study door. Crying, she opened it, and ran to the stairs that led up to her
room.
Melanie woke to find her father sitting on her bed. She had fallen
asleep upon it after her whipping, still in her clothes. Melanie lifted her
face, her tears dried to barely visible streaks now. Her step father looked
down at her. For a long moment they just stared at each other. Then
Melanie dropped her face into her arms, which lay crossed beneath her tear
stained cheeks.
"How's your bottom?" Melanie's father asked.
"Hurts," Melanie whined.
"That and much more will be done to you if you take up whoring,"
Melanie's father said. "Especially while you're still young. Whores exist
for men's pleasure, not their own."
"Do men like beating girl's bottoms?" Melanie asked in a small voice.
"Some men like having their own bottoms beaten," John replied. He
patted his daughter on the head and rose. Then he lifted the tail of her
skirt. Her panties were still round her thighs. Much of the blush on her
cheeks had already faded. Only a light texture of pink lines from the pony-
lash remained. "It is best," John said, seeming to console himself aloud
for his actions. His next words surprised his daughter: "You would make a
delightful little whore, and that's why I don't want you to fall into it. Be
an engineer or doctor instead." Melanie snuffled in the cradle of her
enfolded arms. She heard her father's footfalls on the carpet as he left
her room.
30
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