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Subject: {ASSM} How to be a Slut
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How to be a Slut
Back in the early 1970's, when I was in junior high, they
showed us a film. It was about Australia, or perhaps New Guinea. In
this film aboriginals tied vines to their ankles. Then they jumped off
a cliff. As the natives plunged to certain death, at the last moment
the vines tied to their ankles yanked taut, and they were saved. One
consequence of this death-defying plunge, however, was that the natives
often dislocated their ankles. In addition, it was not uncommon for the
natives to get the length of the vine wrong, and go splatting to the
floor of the cliff, either injured for life or dead. Despite the fact
that I was living in Guam at the time, which is not too far from either
Australia or New Guinea, there was universal agreement among my
classmates that this vine-jumping was the most mind-bogglingly stupid
thing we had ever seen.
Another thing we agreed was stupid was the bodily mutilation
that various African tribes committed upon themselves. We would watch a
movie where, from out of the bush, would come half-naked pierced and
tattooed negroes. Stupid, stupid, we would mutter to ourselves. Only
illiterate negroes in Africa would do something so dumb.
It came as rather a surprise to me then, some years later, when
bungee-jumping came to America. For the record, I have never
bungee-jumped, despite its enormous popularity and its relative safety
in America. I just can't get those dumb aboriginals out of my mind.
Another shocker for me was the trend, among otherwise highly
attractive white girls in America, to tattoo and pierce themselves.
Today I got Playboy's Natural Beauties magazine and was struck by the
fact that nearly every young woman in the issue has her navel pierced.
Girls, don't do this. It is stupid. Piercing your ears is one
thing, piercing any other part of your body is another thing
altogether. I've never seen a girl naked in real life but I have seen
plenty of girls naked in magazines, and I can tell you that, from a
photographic viewpoint, nearly any kind of bodily alteration does not
show up well in print. Let's go through each of these mutilations in
turn to see what they really mean.
First, generally. A tattoo or a piercing means you are used
merchandise. Most guys still dream of getting a virgin for a
girlfriend. If you have a piercing or a tattoo, this tells guys that
you have already belonged to somebody else. I always imagine tattoos
and piercings being done by a girl to commit herself more deeply to her
boyfriend. Like in the Story of O, where O gets a brand on her bottom
to show Sir Stephen how much she loves him. If you've got some other
guy's mark disfiguring you, don't expect me to take you out. After all,
there are new younger girls coming up in the world all the time. Why
should I bother with you and your stupid tattoo when I can have your
little sister instead?
Tattoos look really, really bad in print. I can't emphasize
enough how awful they look. A girl in a magazine who has a tattoo looks
like a whore. No matter how pretty she is, her tattoo ruins the shot.
Photographers try to get around this to some extent by posing the girl
with her hand or some part of her body covering her tattoo, which only
makes a worse mess, since the whole aim of photography is ultimately
rooted in creativity. It's not how naked the girl is that arouses the
viewer, it's how interestingly she's posed. If a pose has to be altered
to cover a tattoo, it cuts down on the options a photographer has in
posing the girl. This makes her less attractive, since it's the
sexiness of the posing that ultimately determines how popular a girl
will be. The perfect example is Mayfair's Claire Cass. She is nothing
but a normal girl, with tits that are too small and an ass that's a
little too fat. Yet because she has been so cleverly posed, she strikes
me (and many other guys) as endlessly interesting. Good posing can make
you marvelously beguiling; don't blow your chances of impressing guys by
forcing the photographer's hand with your stupid tattoo.
Tattooing involves two stages. Apparently girls never realize
this. The first stage involves choosing the design, and having it
painted on your body. At this point you can in fact get up and walk
away. The design that has been painted on you will last for several
weeks, and by the time it finally washes off you'll probably be sick of
it anyway. It is the second stage of tattooing that does the actual
damage. That is where the tattoo "artist" (read: loser drug addict)
uses a needle to repeatedly prick your skin, making the tattoo a
permanent part of your life.
Ask yourself this question: if the tattoo you're getting is so
great, would you hang it up on your wall? And for how long? Most
tattoos do not exactly fall into the category of great art. They are at
best kitschy designs. Think of it on your wall, and you'll quickly
realize how stupid the thing is.
Something even stupider is a home made tattoo. I've seen
otherwise gorgeous girls with tattoos that have obviously been put on by
their boyfriend. This sort of tattoo makes you look like you live in
the ghetto.
If you are actually smart enough to have your tattoo painted
on, without being permanently implanted with needles, remember that you
aren't wearing watercolors. If anyone pokes you with anything over the
next few weeks, you'll be permanently marked.
Another thing to keep in mind is that if you'd been born with a
mark on your body, you would have been highly embarrassed by it. I've
known kids who were born with red splotches on their skin. They were
not the most popular kids at school, let me tell you, and it was all
because of their unfortunate disfigurement. So why would you grow up
beautiful and then mar your skin?
Remember that tattoos can't be removed. Some (very painful)
efforts can be made by dermatologists to decrease the contrast between
your surrounding skin and the tattoo, but a tattoo is by its very nature
made to be permanent. That's why they use needles, and permanent ink.
A tattoo that looks new on your young body today will look old some
years from now, when, absent suicide, you'll still be alive. And
everyone significant in your life that you ever meet will of course wind
up asking you about the damn thing. Do you really want to tell every
man in your life (not to mention all your women friends), that the
tattoo on your belly was put there to remind yourself of your first
boyfriend, who turned out to be a bum and and a jerk and who cheated on
you?
Moving on to piercing, I want to address each type of piercing
in turn:
Ears - A necessity. A girl has to have her earlobes pierced,
and there's no getting around it.
Other parts of the ears - Stupid. It tells me that you're some
girl who's adopting a punk look because you can't get a boyfriend.
Tongue - Apparently very painful. It makes your tongue swell
up for a month or more. Sometimes the stud can come apart in your
mouth, in which case you can enjoy the fashionable act of choking to
death. With a stud (and hole) in your tongue you speak with a lisp. I
know girls like to project an air of submissiveness, but can't you do it
without jamming something through your tongue? What if you want to be a
news announcer later in life? Unless you plan to be locked up as a sex
slave in a brothel for the rest of eternity, don't pierce your tongue.
And by the way, even if you think you're going to spend the rest of your
life as a sex slave, think again. Someday you'll be over 30, and you'll
get kicked out of the sex slave business in favor a girl who's 18. (Or
younger.)
Nose - this strikes me as something that black chicks do.
Either that, or stupid punk chicks. Don't stick anything through your
nose, unless you want to make a statement that you were born in Rwanda.
The nipples - This is slut central. I know it's a rather
popular motif of the bondage culture to talk about pierced nipples. But
no matter how sexy it may look in some movie or book, it is stupid in
real life. Whores and male faggots have nipple rings, and unless you
want to be seen forever in that light, don't pierce your nipples.
The belly button - this seems to be vastly popular, but I have
yet to see what it adds to the beauty of a girl. All it tells me is
that she must certainly not be a virgin, since who would pierce their
belly if they haven't even lost their hymen yet? Remember, most guys,
no matter what they might say otherwise, secretly long to have a virgin
girlfriend. That's the girl who will get the royal treatment, if they
find her. Your pierced belly only tells the guy that you're worth less,
since you're obviously not a virgin.
The labial lips - Again, it sends the message that you're a
slut. If you're willing to pierce your cunt, what else have you been
willing to do? And just how many boyfriends have you had, young lady?
Maybe I'm interested in a quick (condom protected) lay with you, but
that's about it.
The clitoris - This must be quite painful. Again, it tells
every guy you're a slut. Don't do it unless you're interested in
getting fucked, and not called in the morning.
The toes, eyebrows, and other parts of the body - Stupid.
Somebody who does this sort of thing has piercing on the brain. it
cheapens you and tells guys you're easy.
The bottom line is, if you can't wash it off in the morning,
don't do it. Obviously a broken hymen can't be washed off in the
morning, but unless you're planning to be a nun, this is something
that's unavoidable. The same goes for anal sex: some tearing may
occasionally occur, but unless you want to forgo the activity altogether
it's unavoidable. However there's nothing unavoidable about tattoos or
piercings. They aren't necessary, pure and simple. Even if a guy comes
on to you by asking about your tattoos, don't think he's seriously
liking them. I myself have been known to chat up a girl, asking about
her tattoos, but it's just a ruse to get a cute girl to talk to me.
Secretly, I'm thinking, "God what a dumb bitch she is to get tattooed
like that." So don't fall for the "guys like me because I'm tattooed"
myth. Guys will use any excuse to talk to a cute girl. It doesn't mean
they actually like your tattoos, even if they say they do.
Some girls get a tattoo or get pierced simply to piss off their
parents. They feel it makes them look more mature, sexually, if they're
pierced or tattooed. Plus, the tattoo or piercing is generally of a
permanent nature, unlike sexy clothes, which means an irate parent can't
force you out of it immediately. However there are many ways to piss
off your parents, and the drastic measure of getting pierced or tattooed
is not the answer. Why alter yourself for life just to annoy your
jealous mother? She's already pissed that you're young and beautiful,
while she's old and out of date. And as for dad, zealously guarding
your (probably already lost) virginity, what he's really concerned about
is not your sexiness, but how it turns him on. So you see, you've
already got both parents cornered. Your mom can't stand the fact that
you've replaced her in the sexual marketplace, and your dad can't stand
the fact that he wants to go to bed with you. Adding a tattoo or a
piercing is actually overkill.
These are my thoughts, then, or tattooing or piercing. Don't
do it. I address this article only to girls since, as far as guys are
concerned, they can all cut their dicks off and tattoo their eyeballs as
far as I care.
30
- NND ---------------------------------------------------------
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Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
Intimate Acts
Chapter One
The streetlights gleamed on the wet street as Emily approached
the house. It was a big old mansion. Vines had long since crept up its
brick-faced front and covered it, so that now, in the dim glow of the
lights, she seemed to be approached a green building when, in fact,
under the foliage-covered front it was dusty red. Emily knocked. She
waited. A light went on in the front window, behind the curtains. Then
the door opened and a woman's face appeared.
"Mrs. Brown?" Emily asked, looking up at the remarkably
attractive face that was peering down at her. The woman was taller than
Emily, a head taller, but that was due less to a difference in breeding
than a difference in ages, for Emily was only 15.
"Yes. Are you Emily?" the woman answered.
"Uh-huh," Emily nodded.
"Do come in, please, darling," Mrs. Brown said to this young
girl she'd never seen before, standing like a lost waif on her front
porch. She let the girl into her house. She helped her out of her
coat, rumpled by 10 hours on a train from St. Petersburg. Hanging the
girl's coat in a closet, she said, "I trust your trip went smoothly?
Including the cab ride?"
"Uh-huh," Emily answered. Mrs. Brown smiled at the girl.
Taking her small waif-like body by the shoulders, she said,
"Emily, this is a proper English household. Although your
duties here will be... exhausting, you must not let yourself slip into
simplistic colloquialisms. Here it will be 'yes sir', and 'yes ma'am,'
spoken distinctly. Do you understand?" Emily looked up at the woman's
warm smile and said,
"Uh-huh."
"That's yes, ma'am," Mrs. Brown corrected the girl.
"Yes, ma'am," Emily said. The woman patted the girl's head
with one of her hands.
"Very good," Mrs. Brown told Emily. She reached for and took
one of the girl's hands. "Now if you'll come with me, I'll take you
upstairs and show you your bedroom." A blush immediately spread over
Emily's pretty young face. Mrs. Brown, leading her by the hand, looked
at her and said, "There will be no festivities tonight, Emily. I would
never hear of it after such a long trip as you've had. Plus it is only
Tuesday. Friday night will be your coming out ball."
"Oh," Emily breathed. Her flush lessened, as they reached the
stairs, then increased again as they started up it. "Will I be expected
to--" Emily asked, her voice breaking off as a man appeared at the top
of the steps.
"Yes of course, dear," Mrs. Brown told the girl. She motioned
to the man at the top of the stairs. "This is my husband. You will
call him at all times Mr. Brown, however intimately you may become
acquainted." Emily nodded.
"Hello sir," Emily said to the man when they reached the top of
the stairs. Like his wife, he had dark hair. He nodded to the girl,
betraying only the hint of a smile.
"Have you examined her?" Mr. Brown asked his wife.
"Of course not dear, she just arrived," Mrs. Brown answered.
She looked down at the girl whose hand she held, leading her now away
from the top of the stairs down a hall. "I'm sure she will prove
suitable," Mrs. Brown smiled.
"Our guests have exacting standards," Mr. Brown warned.
"Yes, dear. Which is why you'll accompany me and we'll see if
she's as pretty under her clothes as she appears to be." Mr. Brown
turned and followed the two women. When they came to a bedroom,
decorated, as Emily saw when they entered, in a little girl motif, Mrs.
Brown said, "Emily, I realize you've had a long trip, and it is rather
an imposition for me to request this so soon. But I'm afraid it's quite
necessary." The girl looked up at her with big eyes, blue as the sky
had been before the night settled over this part of Europe. "Since
we've arranged for your services to be of a physical nature, it will be
important for us to examine, how shall I put it?"
"The quality of the merchandise that's been sent to us," Mr.
Brown said gruffly, finishing his wife's sentence.
"'Kay," Emily said sweetly. She began undoing the buttons of
her starched white blouse. Mrs. Brown leaned forward and helped her.
Mr. Brown went round behind the girl and unceremoniously pulled down her
skirt from behind.
"Yeek!" Emily cried, feeling her pantied bottom exposed.
"Arnold!" Mrs. Brown scolded.
"Mmmm. A nice high 15-year-old ass," Mr. Brown said,
completely ignoring Emily's cry at being so rudely unclothed. Mrs.
Brown finished with the buttons on Emily's blouse and, drawing the
starched halves of the girl's shirt apart, she brought to full view the
girl's ample tits. A white bra cupped them, demurely. Emily put her
hands to the cups, fearful that Mr. Brown would undo her bra from behind
as quickly as he'd pulled down her skirt. Suddenly there was another
cry from Emily, as Mrs. Brown was trying to urge the girl's hands off
her tits so she could get her out of her unbuttoned blouse. It was Mr.
Brown again, and this time he had yanked down Emily's panties.
"Arnold, you are too quick with her," Mrs. Brown scolded her
husband, as the man examined the newly presented white schoolgirl
bottom.
"Mmmm. Perfect for whipping," Mr. Brown said.
"Oh please," Emily begged. Mrs. Brown managed to loosen the
girl's grip on her tits and slipped the blouse off her. Emily found
herself standing naked down to her knees, where her panties ringed her.
Mr. Brown reached around her waist and placed a hand on her flat white
belly. With his other hand he patted her naked bulbing behind.
"Ooooh!" Emily cried at his touch.
"Nice, very nice," Mr. Brown said. "I believe you pass the
test, little girl."
"Of course she does," Mrs. Brown said to her husband. She
stepped back and looked at Emily, who was holding her titties again,
over the cups of her bra. Her bush showed, she seemed to understand
that it had to be seen, letting Mrs. Brown and then Mr. Brown circle
around her. When they had found her lower parts satisfactory, Mrs.
Brown urged the girl's hands off her breasts again. Then Mr. Brown
undid the girl's bra, and her titties sprang forth, Emily now nervously
cupping her previously exposed bush with her hands. Both Mr. and Mrs.
Brown looked at Emily's tits as she stood there covering her private,
her bottom bulbing nakedly behind her, her panties still around her
knees, her white stockings and her black polished shoes still
unremoved. Her stockings, which were schoolgirl stockings that matched
the rest of her clothes, only came up to her ankles, hiding so little of
her legs that Emily hoped they didn't have to be taken off.
"Very nice tits," Mr. Brown said to his wife, looking at
Emily's endowments. He reached out and touched the girl gently, on the
tips of both her nipples.
"Oooooh!" Emily sighed.
"Better even than I imagined," Mrs. Brown said to her husband.
"Yes. Fine quality," Mr. Brown agreed. "Our guests will be
delighted." Mrs. Brown, who had been bending to have a close look at
Emily's tits, straightened up.
"Emily dear, as I said, your coming out party with our guests
will be this Friday. Until that time you are welcome to an advance on
your earnings, if you wish it, and of course you may have the run of the
house. My only request is that you limit your contact with others in
the neighborhood, such as children your own age. Your duties here will
allow you to meet many fine men of means, who of course will care
nothing for you beyond your physicality, but who will pay well for your
pleasures. The age of consent in England is 16, so you're a bit shy of
that, and we must be careful."
"Uh-huh," Emily said, nodding, then corrected it with a smart,
"Yes ma'am." Mrs. Brown smiled approvingly, as did Mr. Brown.
"If you should wish to have some enjoyment before Friday--,"
Mr. Brown began, in a low voice.
"Arnold!" Mrs. Brown snapped. "Our only concern was her
physical attractiveness, which she has passed with flying colors."
"I'm sure I'll be fine," Emily said with a blush to Mr. Brown,
cupping her pubis now with her hands, hiding her pretty blonde bush.
She tingled with apprehension, and with something else too, something
she was almost to embarrassed to admit to, down between her creamy white
thighs.
"Your coming out ball with give you plenty of opportunities for
fun," Mrs. Brown said to Emily. "I suggest you rest until then."
"Yes," Emily agreed.
"We will both be in the house to assist you in whatever you
require," Mrs. Brown said. "And of course we'll be present during the,
ah, festivities."
"Thank you," Emily said.
"Of course," Mrs. Brown answered.
Friday night came more quickly than Emily had imagined it
could, and when it did, the sun setting outside, Mrs. Brown appeared at
the door to Emily's bedroom. The girl had had a wonderful three days
shopping in the neighborhood stores, and generally exploring what sights
she could, taking a cab or on foot, but now the business end of her stay
here in London had finally arrived, and she trembled as she watched Mrs.
Brown step into her room.
"Emily, dear, we must get you ready to meet our guests," Mrs.
Brown said to the girl.
"Yes ma'am," Emily answered. She smiled as she thought she
heard a touch of English accent in her voice.
"I have a gown for you. It is here in the closet," Mrs. Brown
said to the girl. "Perhaps you've seen it?"
"Yes. It's beautiful," Emily admitted. She had held the gown
up to herself earlier in the day, when she'd first discovered it hanging
in her bedroom closet. It was very pretty, pink pastel in color. It
was a gown like any girl might have worn to any ball who was 15 in
London, except that, when Mrs. Brown helped Emily into it, after first
having the girl bathe and doing her hair and makeup, Emily found that
the gown didn't cover her breasts.
"Oh my. They will see my titties!" Emily gasped.
"Yes," Mrs. Brown smiled. "You have lovely breasts. No sense
in covering them. I'm glad to see that the measurements we took of you
were accurate," Mrs. Brown said to the girl. "Now lets have your dress
off again, so we can get you into your pretty underthings that I also
bought for you."
Emily soon found herself dressed in polished white high-heeled
shoes, long white stockings that rose to the tops of her thighs, a white
garter belt, and a corset that Mrs. Brown pulled tight around her
middle, until she could hardly breathe.
"Oh my!" Emily gasped.
"Relax. You'll get used to the corset in a minute," Mrs. Brown
advised the girl. The tight garment around Emily's middle stopped short
of covering her breasts. However they lifted the high-perched boobs
even higher than they already were, offering them like ripe fruit to
whoever might want them. Emily blushed when she remembered that her
dress wouldn't cover her booby display.
"What about panties?" Emily asked within the confines of her
tit-lifting corset.
"Panties?" Mrs. Brown laughed. "My dear Emily, you must
remember that this is a ball where you will be presented to London's
gentlemen in every sense of the word."
"Oh yes," Emily said, a blush washing over her pretty cheeks.
"Now let's get you back into your dress," Mrs. Brown said. And
they did, Emily looking at herself in a mirror when it was done,
contemplating her corset-lifted tits, her dress hiding the corset but
not what it offered, her breasts and especially her nipples, twin
treats, which Mrs. Brown now took several minutes to rouge.
"There," Mrs. Brown said, when Emily's nipples were
sufficiently reddened, no longer pink like a girl's but red like a
woman's. Mrs. Brown tied a dance card to Emily's wrist with a ribbon
that matched her pink dress. "You needn't look at the card," Mrs. Brown
told the girl. "Every dance is already taken, the men assigned their
number, which was drawn previously by lot."
"Oh," Emily said, fiddling with the card. She thought she was
ready to leave her little girl's bedroom when Mrs. Brown abruptly lifted
her dress, first in front and then in back, and spritzed perfume on her
bush and her bottom.
"There," Mrs. Brown said, when she was finished. "Now you are
beyond perfect." Emily gulped. "Be good," Mrs. Brown told the girl.
She took the 15-year-old's hand. "Come to my bedroom and wait while I
dress," Mrs. Brown said. Her makeup was already applied, her hair
elegant. She led the girl to her bedroom, down the hall, where Mr.
Brown waited. He gave a low whistle when he saw Emily. Then, as Emily
sat waiting on a chair, fiddling again with her dance card because she
couldn't think of anything else to do, Mr. Brown helped his wife into
her corset and gown. It was a black gown, leaving her breasts bare just
as Emily's did, with her corset offering her titties in a similar
fashion. When Mr. Brown had finished dressing Mrs. Brown, himself
already dressed in a tux for the party, Emily suddenly said,
"Sir? I have to go to the bathroom."
"It's in there, dear," Mrs. Brown pointed. Emily left the
couple's master bedroom and went into their bathroom. She lifted her
skirt and sat on the toilet. Mr. Brown leaned in past the bathroom door
to check on her.
"I hope it's only number one?" Mr. Brown asked.
"Yes," Emily said.
Emily and Mrs. Brown went downstairs, hand in hand, Mr. Brown
trailing. There was an audible gasp in the room set aside for the
coming out dance when Emily and Mrs. Brown entered it. The men, there
were four of them, gazed with approval at Emily and Mrs. Brown's naked
tits. But although Emily feared an immediate descent into carnality,
the guests were perfect gentlemen. They offered Emily and Mrs. Brown
seats, and the two women sat at the edge of a wooden dance floor that
Mr. Brown had put in just the previous month. A chandelier glowed down
from above. A trio of live musicians played in one corner of the room,
lending true elegance to the festivities that would have been as fine as
any in London were in not for the rude fact of the two women's nakedly
bared tits.
An interval obtained, in which a maid served refreshments.
Emily blushed anew at the sight of the young girl, who she had never met
before. Mrs. Brown reached for Emily's hand and held it.
"That is Sue Ellen," Mrs. Brown told Emily. "She helps out
sometimes."
"Oh," Emily said. The girl looked 19, to Mrs. Brown's 30
years. She was fetchingly dressed in a blouse that was tested by the
size of her tits, the back of her maid's dress striking Emily as
unusually short. When the girl bent over, the white creaminess of her
bottom showed. She wore no panties, like Emily. The girl realized
that, although she might have the fancier dress, she would not be alone
at this ball in attending to the guests. It caused her to breathe a
sigh of relief. The men were quite handsome but she'd noticed, on
coming into the room, that they were quite aroused too, their crotches
pressed hard into the fronts of their pants. A man came over to where
Emily sat with Mrs. Brown.
"May I have this first dance?" the man asked. He stood over
Emily and reaching down for her hand, the one that Mrs. Brown wasn't
holding. His need was obvious in his pants. The luxury of his attire
couldn't hide it. Emily's blush deepened as she rose. The trio of
musicians began playing. Emily found herself whirling around the room
in fine English style, lured on by the music.
"You have nice tits," the man dancing with Emily said after a
while. Emily blushed and looked down at herself. Her own arousal was
obvious, in the form of twin pebbled nipples atop her gently heaving and
bobbling breasts. "May I touch them?" the man asked.
"Sir, it would be indecent," Emily answered.
"Then all the more reason to," the man said. He reached for
Emily's left breast and let it bounce into his hand. He squeezed it.
"Ooooh, not so hard, sir," Emily gasped. In response the man
leaned down and kissed her left tit. When he had wet her nipple
thoroughly with his tongue, their dance barely continuing though the
music played on, he went to her right tit and accorded her nipple there
the same thing. Then he led her back to Mrs. Brown, and Emily found
herself reseated beside the woman.
"A fine child," the gentlemen said, by way of thanks to Mrs.
Brown. Then the man, who so callously had just sucked Emily's ripe tits
on the dance floor, gallantly took her hand and lifted it up and bent
forward and kissed it.
"Oh, thank you sir," Emily said.
A new man appeared. Despite Emily's saliva wet tits, he asked
her with the same gallant grace to dance. Blushing, Emily accepted.
They danced around the room, the other men and Mr. and Mrs. Brown
watching, the maid sitting in her too short dress in a corner near the
musicians.
"I hope you don't mind if I enjoy your fine young titties, as
my companion did," the man said after a few minutes to Emily.
"If you insist sir, I can't stop you," Emily breathed.
"No. You can't," the man said. "I paid well for this."
Handling her more roughly than the first man had, he sucked her tits
vigorously. He even mouthed her bosom flesh, beyond the circles of her
rouged nipples, sucking her lovely cones into his mouth as if he were
trying to swallow them. Emily gasped. Inside her dress, between her
legs, she felt her slit wetten. The man was ignorant of it, of course,
concentrating solely on her boobs. When he had satisfied this part of
his lust he returned Emily to Mrs. Brown.
"How was the dance, sir?" Mrs. Brown asked the man, as primly
as if Emily had been a debutante at a real ball.
"Her dancing was good, but her tits were better," the man
answered, smiling at his rudeness. Emily felt her blush deepen. As
much as she might like to imagine that she was an ingenue at a fine
English ball, she was in fact just a poor Russian girl, a whore, newly
arrived in England and trying out this profession for the first time.
Emily was seated again next to Mrs. Brown. The man kissed her hand,
with less of a gallant flair than the first man. Then the third guest
appeared, his need as strongly showing in his pants as the first two
men's had been.
"Dance?" the third man asked Emily. The girl lifted her dance
card hand to her mouth and giggled. The man was the handsomest yet;
despite her embarrassment at her naked tits and his tool pushing into
the front of his pants, she rather liked him. Suddenly she liked, too,
the fact that she wasn't a real English girl at a real English ball, for
it would have slowed down her getting to know such a gorgeous man.
"Hmmm. A dance," Emily said, remaining seated as if she might
in fact decline this man's offer, just as she might at a real ball.
Then looking up again from the man's crotch to his face, both
wonderfully hard and demanding, she asked, with childish frankness,
"Would you like to taste my tits too?"
"Emily!" Mrs. Brown scolded. "Do not offer yourself in such
manner. You are a well-brought up girl."
"And my tits are well-brought up too," Emily remarked to
herself, as the third guest took her hand. He pulled her out of her
chair. Emily's high breasts attracted his eyes, she was aware of his
gaze below her face and square on her chest. She bobbled before him,
her nipples wet with the previous men, and he took her out to the dance
floor. "I don't think I ever consented," Emily breathed, as the man led
her into the steps of a dance.
"Where are you from?" the man asked her, ignoring her protest.
Emily gazed into the man's eyes. He tore his own gaze from her chest
and looked into her face.
"You mean, for real?" Emily asked.
"Yes. For real," the man answered.
"I- I'm from Liverpool," Emily said, hastily thinking of the
name of an English town.
"No. I mean really for real," the man answered. Emily was
surprised at this man's interest in her. The other men had simply
treated her as a body, something to be admired and used. But this man,
despite his rudeness in getting her to the dance floor, seemed genuinely
to want to know her. And not just her tits.
"R-Russia," Emily said.
"Ah. Russia," the man answered, speaking the word aloud to
himself. After a minute or so of dancing, still moving in time to the
music, he said to her, "You are newly arrived in England?"
"Yes," Emily said, speaking truthfully now, not wanting to play
games with the man, hoping he would in fact like her as much as she was
beginning to like him.
"When did you decide, for lack of a better word, to become a
whore?" the man asked Emily.
"About- about a week ago," Emily said.
"Are you a virgin?" the man asked Emily.
"N- No," Emily answered. "I- I had a boyfriend in Russia."
"And what happened to him?" the man asked her.
"He went into the army," Emily said.
"How long did you know him?" the man asked.
"A year," Emily said.
"And how many penis strokes did he give you in that year?" the
man asked Emily.
"Huh?" Emily answered.
"How many times did he fuck you?" the man said.
"Oh. Only three times," Emily said. "Once in the mouth, and
twice in my... in my... I only did him when I knew he was going to have
to go into the army, as a going-away present," Emily said. "Then I
decided that since I wasn't... you know... a good girl anymore that I'd
answer the ad I saw in Pravda."
"To come to England?" the man asked.
"Yes," Emily answered. Feeling the man's tool rubbing against
her belly as she dance close-pressed with the man, she asked,
"Sir? May I ask your name?" The man smiled.
"You may, but I will instruct you to call me Mr. Leather."
Emily giggled.
"Why Mr. Leather?" she asked. She had not entertained much
hope of learning these men's real names, but she had liked this man
enough to wonder what he was called. Now he seemed to be joking with
her, trying to impress her with his creativity.
"When you are whipped, and you will undoubtedly be whipped, it
will be me who will do it," Mr. Leather answered. Emily blanched.
Again she had fallen into the notion, rather trance-like in nature,
perhaps induced by the music, that she was a real English girl at a real
English ball. To be brought so rudely back to reality, and with such a
frightening remark, caused her to feel faint.
"Why- why must I be whipped?" Emily asked after a little while,
the man still leading her in a sprightly dance in time to the music.
"Because I wish to do it," Mr. Leather told her. "If your
bottom is anywhere near as ripe as your tits it will prove irresistible
to me."
"Oh," Emily said, feeling her blush return.
"If it's any consolation to you, I only whip the prettiest
bottoms in England," Mr. Leather told her. Emily pouted and leaned
close to Mr. Leather. Suddenly she kissed him on the chest, feeling
frighteningly submissive, like a small animal waiting to be shot.
"As a whore you can expect to be whipped regularly," Mr.
Leather told Emily, ignoring her kiss, feeling harder than ever against
her dress-covered belly. "The interesting thing is, many of the men
will care nothing for you, liking you only for the way your body
responds to whip, the way you scream, the way your pretty young flesh
reddens. But remember too that you will have done nothing wrong; they
will not be hating you or disciplining you, no matter what they may say
to you. No, they will simply be whipping you because they enjoy it.
Remember that when I bring the whip to you this evening. It is out of
lust that I do it, neither loving nor hating you."
"You- you do not love me?" Emily asked the man plaintively. In
response, gazing down at her, he seemed both excited and disturbed by
her display of innocence.
"I love your tits," Mr. Leather told Emily. He squeezed her
right breast, making her nipple extrude between his clasping fingers.
"And I'm sure I will love your bottom also, and that my belt will love
it too. If you'll excuse me," he said to the girl. He bent his head
down. As they continued dancing to a lively number he began to suck her
right tit. Emily gasped. The man began biting her tit, gently,
impressing his teeth into her flesh. When his mouth and teeth
concentrated on her nipple, she felt a sudden increase in the moisture
between her thighs. He was rude and rough, yet gallant at the same
time, still dancing with her as he suckled her right breast. Then he
moved from her right to her left, and once more she felt his teeth
pushing her to the limits of what she might bear, biting her but not so
hard as to produce actual damage. Emily gasped aloud. She threw her
head back. Her natural moisture increased within her thighs, up amidst
the close-pressed lips of her slit. In the background she heard men
unzipping their flies.
Emily was returned to Mrs. Brown. She seated herself again
beside the woman, her face flushed, her tits achingly wet with Mr.
Leather's saliva, tingling at what had been done to her, by three men
now, the third the most handsome and the most difficult to bear.
"Are you enjoying your coming-out ball?" Mrs. Brown said to
Emily, as if they might have been at a real affair, her demeanor as prim
as before, seemingly unaware that the girl beside her had gleaming bare
saliva wet tits.
"Y- Yes," Emily answered, gazing over at Mrs. Brown's bare
chest as she answered. The woman's breasts were magnificent. Emily felt
a strange desire to bury her face in the woman's motherly cleavage, to
hide from the men there, to forget what Mr. Leather had told her about
whipping her bottom.
"Are you comfortable?" Mrs. Brown asked Emily. The girl's
eyebrows lifted at the question, trim little lines of hair above her
luminous blue eyes. Her long lashes fluttered.
"Comfortable, ma'am?" Emily asked. Mrs. Brown reached over to
Emily and took her hand.
"All is safety and comfort here, Emily," Mrs. Brown told the
girl. "I want you to remember that during your next dance, even if it
proves that you will be unable to sit down after it."
"Oh!" Emily gasped.
"Remember that whatever is done is done for erotic purposes,
dear, not to harm or hurt you," Mrs. Brown told Emily. She looked at
the maid, still seated on her chair near the orchestra, her bottom
pressed nakedly to her seat because her skirt was too short. "Sue
Ellen, would you kindly see to the comfort of the men?" Mrs. Brown said
to the girl. The 19-year-old nodded. She rose from her chair and
disappeared behind the orchestra for a moment, returning with a bottle
of oil and a handful of condoms. She went to the first man Emily had
danced with. He was seated in a chair, enjoying the last of a drink
that Sue Ellen had previously served him. The maid knelt down in front
of him. Instinctively he opened his legs, like a king waiting to
receive a summons from a petitioner. What Sue Ellen had in mind
required no words. She reached for his zipper and undid it, Emily and
Mrs. Brown watching. The man's tool was pulled from his pants. The
others clapped at the sight of it. It was long and rigid. Emily,
finding Mrs. Brown clapping her hands next to her at the sight of the
prick, felt obliged to applaud as well, despite the fact that such
rudeness would never be tolerated at a real coming-out ball.
Sue Ellen mouthed the man's naked cock. When her head ceased
bobbing on his tool, drawing him deep into her throat, she squirted oil
all over his tongue-wettened prong. Then she applied the condom, deftly
unrolling it down the length of his penis. When she was done she
flicked his hard cock with one of her little hands, using her fingers,
and he wiggled in response, stiff and ready for action. Emily squirmed
in her chair, feeling again the arousal within her slit. It was
exciting to watch, however lewd it might be, this freeing of the men's
penises and their preparation in such luxurious surroundings for sex.
Sue Ellen's bottom showed in all its naked glory as she knelt before
each man, her skirt too short in back to cover her properly. All the
while the orchestra played on, as if in accompaniment to a real
debutant's ball, rather than to an impending orgy.
His cock freed and tongued and oiled and covered with elastic
rubber, the fourth man slated to dance with Emily appeared. He was as
gallant as the rest, despite his stiff penis bobbling in front of her
face as he reached for her hand. Emily stood, and was led onto the
dance floor. The man surprised Emily by saying to her, after a few
rounds on the floor, "It is rather indecent, don't you think, for you to
be displaying your tits?" Emily didn't know what to say in response.
She wanted to say, "Sir, your cock is out and is bumping endlessly
against me, the whole nine inches of it," but instead she merely gulped
and answered,
"If you say so sir."
"I have something to cover you up," the man suggested. Without
missing a step in their dance he drew a small parcel from his coat
pocket. It was wrapped in fancy paper with a satin bow. Emily gasped
at the sight of it, it was so pretty. The man made her take it. They
stopped dancing and Emily opened it, there on the dance floor, in front
of everyone. She let out a little moan when she saw what was inside.
It was a pair of gold clamps, connected by a chain as thin as a string.
"They are for your nipples, to cover them up and make you decent," the
man with the exposed penis said to Emily, about the clamps.
"Oh! Won't they hurt?" Emily asked, looking at the twin little
jaws.
"Yes. Of course. They're meant to hurt," the man answered.
"A girl should not walk about with her tits hanging out like yours are.
Perhaps the clamps will teach you a lesson."
"I- I," Emily stammered.
"Do not speak," the man told her. "Remain quiet while I suck
your tits." He did it, then, Emily holding the little clamps in one
hand while the man mouthed her breasts. The dance was forgotten, though
the music played on. Emily stood with an increasingly wet slit in the
middle of the dance floor, her dress fortunately covering her, while the
man sucked at her naked tits. When he had gorged himself on her boob
flesh he applied the clamps, taking them from her hand and putting them
on her nipples. Emily gave a little scream as each of the clamps was
clipped on. She had never felt anything like this before. It was lewd,
it was painful. The clamps hung from her tits when the man had stuck
them on her, and he pointed out to her, with a kind of boyish sadism,
that the small hooks under each of her clamps could accommodate
weights. "To more thoroughly abuse your breasts," the man told Emily.
Then he danced with her some more, Emily constantly aware of the clamps
on her boobs, pinching her sensitive nipples, wiggling with painful
annoyance. When they stopped dancing the man returned Emily to her
chair. Thankfully Emily sat down. But her relief was only momentary,
for she saw that the man who had introduced himself to her as Mr.
Leather was removing the belt from his pants.
"May I have this dance?" Mr. Brown asked Emily. The girl
looked up at Mrs. Brown's husband. His cock was out, having been
serviced and prepared by the maid after she had done the four other
men. He seemed to be the largest male present, clocking in at nearly 12
inches of cock flesh. Emily gasped. She let Mr. Brown lift her by her
hand out of her chair, aware all the while of his cock, the clamps on
her tits, and Mr. Leather's belt, which the man now whisked through the
air.
"I- I think I'm tired of dancing, sir," Emily protested to Mr.
Brown as he led her out onto the dance floor.
"Don't worry. We have other activities planned," Mr. Brown
said to Emily, leading her into a dance as the orchestra played behind
them.
"What- what sort of activities, sir?" Emily asked, all too
aware of her pained titties and Mr. Leather's belt. Mr. Brown smiled
down at the girl, his cock pressed hard to her belly.
"Before the night is through your titties will be squeezed in a
tit press and, being bent over, you will have something rammed up your
behind," Mr. Brown told the girl.
"Oh my God!" Emily gasped. She trembled in Mr. Brown's grasp,
her jiggling tits feeling the pain of the clamps on her nipples.
"Or you may have a hood placed over your head, and feel every
man in this room, including myself, force himself into your bottom. Not
to mention my wife, who loves to wear fake cocks," Mr. Brown added.
"Oh God!" Emily cried, her whole frame trembling now, nervous
right down to the toes on her feet.
"Am I frightening you?" Mr. Brown asked the girl, feeling her
press even closer to him, despite the stemming of his cock against her
soft dress-covered tummy.
"YES!" Emily cried, without reservation.
"Good. Then we'll start with a simple flogging, in a moment,
courtesy of Mr. Leather's belt, and you'll be grateful that a
belt-spanking is all you're having to endure at the moment," Mr. Brown
told the girl. "But first I have something for you," Mr. Brown said.
"What?" Emily gasped, feeling his cock pressing hard to her
belly. Mr. Brown took something out of his coat pocket. Weights! He
displayed them to the girl, who watched as he hung each of them in turn
from her vulnerable tits. The clamps were heavier now, dragging
painfully at Emily's nipples. She moaned. Mr. Brown flicked the
weights, making them wiggle, increasing Emily's tit agony. Then he led
her into a new dance, Emily gasping at the way each movement she made
caused her bare weight-hung titties to dance, in tune to their own
nipple wrenching movements. Just when Emily thought she could bear the
strain on her tits no longer, Mr. Brown danced her over to his wife.
They stopped in front of the woman. As Emily caught her breath, Mr.
Brown reached down and lifted the back of her dress. There was
applause; Emily's bare bottom was on view. Pins came out of Mrs.
Brown's hair and the woman applied them to Emily's uplifted dress. When
she was done, Emily was forced to show her behind, by the upsweeping of
her dress, still covered in front but quite naked in back. Mr. Brown
led Emily back out onto the dance floor. The sound of Mr. Leather's
belt passing through the air was heard. Trembling, Emily fell once
again into Mr. Brown's arms. They began to dance. Suddenly, Mr.
Leather's belt leaped out at Emily's bottom. He was much closer, having
come out onto the dance floor himself; his belt just barely missed
Emily's ass.
"OH MY GOD!" Emily cried. Mr. Leather stepped closer. He
swung again.
Crack! The sound of the belt connecting with Emily's ass
echoed through the music-filled room. Emily's weight-hung tits bounced
painfully. Her asscheeks contracted at the awful sting of the belt
hitting her bottom. There was applause. Emily screamed and pressed her
face into Mr. Brown's chest. The man led Emily onwards in the dance.
The music continued. Emily squeezed her bare bottom, trying to throw
off the sting of the belt. Eyes watched with interest, including Mr.
Leather's.
Crack! The belt swooped in again. Emily's mouth opened in a
rictus of pain. Her tits shook, the weights making their bouncing more
difficult to bear. Emily's bottom squeezed itself inwards, a red line
marking her jiggling white flesh, joining the previous line that had
already been left there. Emily heard laughter. She was forced by Mr.
Brown to continue dancing. Then Mr. Leather's belt fell again, catching
Emily by surprise with its fierceness. The girl screamed. Tears sprang
to her eyes.
"There, there," Mr. Brown said, reaching down and patting the
back of Emily's head, stroking her lovely long hair. "Don't cry." But
Emily did, for with unexpected savagery Mr. Leather tormented the girl
at random moments, hitting her again and again with his belt, until she
was literally dripping with tears, her crying wetting Mr. Brown's coat.
And then, in her misery, something happened which the bottom-squeezing,
tit-tortured Emily found utterly humiliating. As the whip hit her ass
yet again, she felt a sudden rush of wetness between her legs. It ran
down the insides of her pretty white-stockinged thighs. It watered her
lovely white shoes. She was peeing! There was applause at Emily's loss
of control. The girl cried more profusely than ever as she realized
what she had done. But the whipping ceased. Mr. Brown, seeing and
feeling her teary distress, bent down and kissed Emily on the lips. He
led her back to Mrs. Brown, who still sat primly seated in her chair at
the edge of the dance floor.
"Oh my. She has peed!" Mrs. Brown announced, in a voice louder
than necessary. Then she added, "I think perhaps I should put something
up her behind, in case the rude girl gets the notion to shit!" Emily
was bent forward by Mr. Brown. Mrs. Brown yanked the girl's
whip-reddened bottom cheeks apart. She intruded a finger into Emily's
nether hole, making the girl's weighted tits bounce, causing her to jerk
and buck at the intrusion of her finger. It was oiled; the maid had
cleverly left the bottle of oil with Mrs. Brown when she finished doing
the men. "Bend your knees a little, dear," Mrs. Brown urged Emily. The
girl, still crying, complied. She felt her bottom cheeks widen behind
her. Before she could think what her new stance might bring, she felt a
sudden sharp poking, right in her anus! "Oh my you're tight," Mrs.
Brown remarked as she sat behind the girl. Emily screamed at the
feeling of something hard being shoved into her ass hole. Too late she
realized it was an anal plug. Mrs. Brown got it into her and then Mr.
Brown urged Emily to stand up.
"Oooooh!" Emily cried, as she felt the pressure of the thing in
her virgin bottom. Mr. Brown popped off the clamps on her tits. Emily
shouted and screamed and danced, oblivious to her ripe tit-shaking
display as she endured the return of her circulation to her nipples.
There was more applause. When at last Emily caught her breath, and
looked down at herself, she saw that her nipples were fine, except for
slight indentations that still remained as a result of being held so
long in the clamps. Mr. Brown sent Emily into new bouts of screaming by
tonguing the girl's injured nipples. Emily, even in her most dire
distress at feeling the mouth on her breasts, remained aware of the
implacable fact of her bottom's condition: she was plugged, in her
virgin ass, for all the world to see and remark upon, the thing jammed
up her causing her endless discomfort.
"Oh, GOD! I can't stand being a whore!" Emily managed to blurt
between her screams.
"It is only the beginning, dear. You are young and healthy and
can take much more," Mrs. Brown assured the girl. As if to emphasize
this fact she provided Emily with a sudden jolt, right where it would be
felt most deeply, in the girl's plugged-up bottom. And that is how
Emily, screaming anew, learned that there wasn't just an ordinary anal
plug in her ass, but an electric one, that could deliver an electric
shock to her rectum. As Emily realized, through her screams, that there
was a wire trailing out of her bottom, or rather from the end of her
bottom-hole plug, she became aware of something even more embarrassing,
thanks to mirrors on the walls of the ball room: whenever Emily was
shocked by the plug, Mrs. Brown pressing a small button on a console, a
light would illuminate at the back of Emily's anal plug. It was a red
light, prompting the maid to declare that Emily looked like "Rudolf the
red-bottomed reindeer."
It was more than Emily could bear. She reached back and,
amidst her screams, she attempted to pull out the anal plug. There was
laughter at her distress. The girl looked like she was trying to yank a
turd out of her ass. But Emily succeeded, despite scolding words from
Mr. and Mrs. Brown. When she had pulled herself free of the plug she
dashed it to the ground. The red light went off as the anal plug
clattered upon the floor.
"Ooooh! I want to go home!" Emily managed to yell, amidst her
tears and incoherent cries.
"You have been well tested for tonight. Perhaps a little too
well tested," Mrs. Brown said to the girl. Then she delivered a slap to
Emily's bare ass with her hand, sending the girl into new spasms of
hip-waggling pain. Emily was led into the Brown's dining room, still
crying, clutching now at her bottom with her hands as Mr. Brown led
her. He laid her upon the dining room table, placing a small pillow
from a nearby chair under her whip streaked bottom. Mrs. Brown,
following the pair, pinned up the front of Emily's dress. She sprayed
the girl's pubis with whipped cream.
"Time for dessert," Mrs. Brown announced to the male guests,
who had followed her into the room along with the maid. Mr. Brown
yanked Emily's thighs apart, showing the men her cunt. As the girl
struggled to close her legs, Mr. Brown holding her open by her ankles
with the help of another man, the first man to dance with Emily went
down on her. He licked away the cream that Mrs. Brown had used to
decorate Emily's blonde pubic curls. Despite her previous agonies,
Emily found this exercise to be the most distressing of all. For no
cream had been squirted between her legs, only on her pubis. As the man
tongued Emily, he offered her slit no soothing strokes, only avidly
cleaning her pubic thatch directly above her cunt. When he was finished
he went away, leaving Emily wet and helpless, sexually aroused and
unable to please herself because two other men were now holding her
hands, keeping them stretched above her head. Mrs. Brown returned.
Again she squirted the girl's pubis, leaving her bare cuntlips
undecorated. The second man to dance with Emily appeared between her
wide-spread legs. He tongued her too, quite eagerly, but again he left
Emily's cunt untouched. This agonizing process was repeated by the
third and forth men, Mrs. Brown redecorating Emily's pubis for each man
in turn. Then Mr. Brown took a turn, but again he did not so much as
offer a single tongue stroke to Emily's wet little cunt. Then Mrs.
Brown decorated the girl again. But this time she didn't do Emily's
pubis. Instead she did the girl's cunt, exclusively, the first squirt
if cream nearly sending Emily into a orgasm.
Emily trembled, as Mrs. Brown hovered over her hips. The woman
smiled at Emily.
"Only I am left, except for the maid," Mrs. Brown told Emily as
she lay stretched and spread-eagled on the table, the men holding her
down. "Guess where I'm going to lick you?" Mrs. Brown said to Emily.
"Oh God! No! Please, you're a woman!" Emily begged the lady.
"You've never done it with a woman before?" Mrs. Brown asked,
tickled at the girl's resistance.
"No, of COURSE not!" Emily gasped.
"Then enjoy," Mrs. Brown said. She went down on the girl.
Avidly she licked the girl's cunt. From almost the first touch of her
tongue, Emily was thrown into an orgasm. Her hips shook, her breasts
heaved and bounced on her chest, despite her just-stated aversion to
girl-girl sex. Mrs. Brown didn't stop until she had completely cleaned
all the cream out of Emily's cunt, stabbing the girl with her tongue
between her pretty near-virgin lips. Emily came and came, and when Mrs.
Brown invited the maid to go next, Emily orgasmed some more as the
whipped cream was squirted into her sex. Then the maid went to work,
and Emily heaved into yet more orgasms. The maid's too short skirt
showed off her bare bottom. The men took advantage of this, each
putting himself to the maid's cunt, from behind, as she tongued Emily.
This increased the avidness with which the maid tongued the girl,
getting it from behind as she gave it to her in front. Emily came and
came, crying out as the maid brought her to near-endless bliss. When it
was finally all over, the maid having bravely taken each man, Emily was
helped up from the table. She blinked; the men were all soft and
bedraggled looking now, between their legs, their cocks no longer the
source of wonder that they had been before. Only Mr. Brown remained
hard; he had not fucked the maid. Feeling giddy despite all her
previous pains, Emily reached out and grabbed Mr. Brown's cock as he
pulled her up from the table. Sitting on the pillow he had earlier
provided her, her long white pee-stained stockinged legs dangling over
the table's edge, Emily began frigging Mr. Brown. She looked at him in
a challenging way, daring him to stop her. He did not.
"You must cum, sir. All the other men have," Emily urged Mr.
Brown. The man's wife giggled at how this young girl, who had insisted
earlier on going home, was now so forward. When Emily felt Mr. Brown
was on the verge of spending, she suddenly pulled the condom off his
penis. She bent forward and opened her mouth. Her aim was a little
off; when Mr. Brown exploded in a spermy salute to the girl's
hand-jobbing talents, he sprayed her tits. Emily bent lower to try to
catch what was shooting all over her breasts. But it required her to
bend her back deeply; she couldn't quite manage it sitting upright as
she was. So in compensation she re-aimed Mr. Brown's still spurting
cock between her legs. Spreading her stockinged thighs wider, she fired
him all over her slit.
"Mmmm. I hope you don't make me pregnant," Emily told Mr.
Brown afterward, when at last his spermy tribute was exhausted. They
both laughed. The others applauded. In fact Emily had only shot the
man off on herself, she had not been penetrated by him. Not yet,
anyway. The maid re-appeared and offered to lick Emily clean.
Surprised at herself, the girl agreed. She laid back and spread her
legs. This time nobody had to hold her as the maid licked all Mr.
Brown's sperm off her breasts and her mouth and her cunt. As the maid
worked, Mrs. Brown went and got a strap-on dildo. To Emily's surprise
the woman insisted on giving the brave little maid yet another fuck,
this time with the fake penis she was wearing around her waist. The
maid took the thing as courageously as she could, licking Emily all the
while. When at last the maid finished, Emily having been sent several
more times into the throes of bliss, Mrs. Brown helped Emily sit up
again. The woman was still wearing her dildo, strapped around her
waist. Emily looked at the fake organ with curiosity.
"Would you like some?" Mrs. Brown asked the girl. Emily
reached out and touched the end of the thing with the tip of her finger.
"You would give me that?" Emily asked.
"Yes. Inbetween your legs. For as long as you like," Mrs.
Brown said. Emily blinked and lay back. She opened her thighs. Her
curiosity increased as Mrs. Brown grabbed her hips and dragged them to
the table's edge. Then Emily felt a sharp stabbing pain inbetween her
legs as the thing entered her. It was big, as big as Mr. Brown. It
split her wide and filled her. For the next 15 minutes Emily lay
gasping and screaming on the table as Mrs. Brown fucked her. The
friction of the moving dildo strap between Mrs. Brown's legs worked in
her slit. She came at last, even as Emily came, both of their cunts
gushing blissfully. "You have done very well for tonight," Mrs. Brown
assured Emily when at last she pulled the fake cock out of the girl's
twat.
"Thank you," Emily answered. Her vision was bleary. Her body
ached all over. But she was also wrapped in a kind of breathtaking
bliss, and as she sat there, on the pillow on the dining room table, she
decided that she might rather enjoy being a whore.
30
- NND ---------------------------------------------------------
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Click, or put the address into your browser. All my stories are there.
---------------------------------------------------------------
Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
Intimate Acts
Chapter Two
Word soon spread of Mr. and Mrs. Brown's eager new acquisition,
and orders flooded in for a chance to meet Emily. Her next party took
place not in the home of the Brown's, but at the nearby home of a
wealthy aristocrat and his wife.
"You will be spending the night, dear," Mrs. Brown instructed
Emily as she brushed the girl's long blonde hair to a glorious lustre.
"What- what do you think they will have me do?" Emily asked,
gazing at her made-up face in a mirror, still naked, her nipples rouged,
waiting for Mrs. Brown to finish with her hair so that she might choose
a dress for the evening.
"You must be prepared for anything, which is why I am sending
you to these two next," Mrs. Brown said to the girl. She addressed her
reflection as she brushed her hair, and Emily was aware of the woman
looking not so much at her hair, tumbling down her naked back, as the
vision of her bare breasts presented in the mirror. Teasingly Emily
opened her legs. She gave Mrs. Brown a view of her bush.
"I think you might want to brush my pubic hair too," Emily said
to Mrs. Brown. She still remembered well how the woman had tongued her
to bliss two nights ago on the dining room table.
"Tch. A quick brush maybe, but you must not be too much in
earnest when you arrive at their house," Mrs. Brown answered. A brief
tremble passed through Emily.
"Ohhh, Mrs. Brown. I don't really want to go," Emily sighed.
"Can't you just put me on the table downstairs again and do me? It was
so delicious! I never thought a woman could be so wonderful." Mrs.
Brown smiled.
"You are to be trained, dear. Keeping you cooped up in the
house and fucking you for my own enjoyment will not broaden your
horizons." Emily pouted.
"Oh, pooh!" she said. Mrs. Brown stopped brushing her long
golden locks. She went round in front of the girl. Immediately Emily
wettened. She spread her legs like an eager puppy and watched with
fascination as Mrs. Brown lowered the hairbrush to her pussy.
"Ooooooh!" Emily gasped, as a quick swipe of the brush made her even
wetter and more excited.
"There. That's enough. I want your panties to be dry when you
greet the Aaronson's," Mrs. Brown said to the girl. "They might inspect
you, you know," she added.
"You mean, feel my panties?" Emily gasped, keeping her thighs
apart in invitation for another pass of the hairbrush.
"They are dominants, dear. They're going to do much more to
you than just feel your underwear," Mrs. Brown said to the girl. She
checked her makeup, smiled, and added, "The man's nearly 60. I doubt
you'll find yourself attracted to him. Which is exactly why I've
picked them to be your next clients. I want you to be able to do
whomever I choose, without reservations." Touching a finger to silence
a gasp from Emily, Mrs. Brown said, "However the woman of the house is a
young bitch. I think you'll like her. She's 23, very lovely, and has a
wicked sense of fun. She can be quite demanding, and I've told her to
be sure to challenge you this evening."
"You're mean!" Emily gasped.
"No, I'm making sure you're properly trained," Mrs. Brown said.
Emily was taken to the home of the Aaronson's by Mr. Brown. He
took Emily to the door and knocked for her.
30
----------------------- Dreamgirls! -----------------------
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Change "standard" archive to "complete" archive.
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IFLC: http://assm.asstr-mirror.org and http://asstr-mirror.org
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Silver: http://www.mr-yellow.com/goodies
The Backdrop Club: http://www.backdrop.com
Usenet Newsgroup: alt.sex.stories.moderated
-- Great art books by David Hamilton and Jock Sturges are at:
http://www.amazon.com http://bn.com (photos of naked little girls)
-- Naked little girls/politics: http://www.AlessandraSmile.com
Man/boy love: http://www.nambla.de Politics: http://www.lp.org
http://www.isil.org http://www.fear.org http://www.fija.org
http://www.aclu.org
-- Naughty Naked Dreamgirls (Library of Congress ISSN: 1070-1427)
is copyright 2001 by Andrew Roller. Dreamgirls, Naughty Naked
Dreamgirls, and NND are registered trademarks of Andrew Roller.
All rights reserved.
-- Visit me at: http://home.earthlink.net/files/Authors/Roller/www666/index.html
Or at http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Roller/www/index.html
(It is case sensitive, i.e. type Roller, not roller).
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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