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Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
PRIVATE PLACES
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Chapter Two
The rainstorm had passed when we went downstairs for brunch.
Barbi and I hung our bikinis out on the clotheslines. We found we were the
only ones in the house, save for master. The other girls, seeing master
was busy, his bedroom locked, had gone out shopping.
�More of my money going down the drain for females,� master
whined. He was dressed now, we�d helped him. Barbi and I strolled about
naked, wearing just heels. She�d found some that fit me. Master,
apparently, had gotten a pair for me yesterday, just in case I stopped by
again...
�Sell more drugs, dear. Then you can buy us nice things all the
time,� Barbi answered. Her eyes were careless. I think she knew a little
bit what we were getting ourselves into. I saw that she drank more
champagne at brunch, even offering me some, but I just sipped a little. It
didn�t taste very good to me, to be honest. Master insisted it was the
highest quality, which I�m sure it was. He seemed not to mind that I didn�t
drink more of it, though. Barbi, for her part, seemed intent on getting
downright drunk. �And don�t think our trip to your lady friend�s is going to
be inexpensive,� she told him. Master frowned.
�I�m trying to cut back expenses,� he mused. �But for you, there can
be no curtailment, at least in respects to your training.�
�No gaoler from the central prison, for a few pesos an hour?� she
asked. She poured more champagne into her lips and tossed her hair, as if
trying to forget, or not speculate.
�Would you prefer that?� he asked. He glanced at her. They were
like a couple, having a spat.
�It would get it over with quicker,� she replied. I felt like I should
leave, and let them finish their little argument alone. Yet, wherever Barbi
was going, I was going too! It was downright scary, now that I was
thinking about it. I�d heard a story now and then at school, of a woman
who pampered and �trained� young females. Of course, I�d dismissed it out
of hand, thinking it something the boys had dreamed up in the locker room.
But could such a place really exist? I was like the Curious Cat, willing to
court danger just to find out.
�I�ll go check on our bikinis,� I announced, rising from the table.
Master glanced up, nodded. Barbi drank again from her champagne.
Out in the sunshine I let the bright rays fall upon my skin. I felt
warm, happy. I was free of my mother and (truth to tell) my father too,
and their endless watchfulness. For the first time in my life I was
experiencing the world on my own terms. And I had a man in my life, self-
selected, with whom I could tryst, or argue, as Barbi seemed to
sometimes do. We might dream together, or plan together, or he might
just Take me, and use me as his lust required.
I watched two birds, a male and female, flitting back and forth from
their nest. One leaving, the other staying awhile, then the second leaving
when the first returning. Yet, even apart, they were together somehow,
thinking of each other. I crept closer and saw a baby bird, chirping madly,
with two powder blue eggs nestled beside it, waiting to hatch, slumbering
still, waiting to meet mom and dad, not knowing yet that their parents
even existed, or that they would one day wish to be free of them, no
matter how religiously they were fed.
Tip-toeing back into the house I heard Barbi sobbing softly. I
entered the kitchenette and saw them sitting there, breakfast done, with
Barbi just regaining her seat as she served master and herself some
strawberry pie. There was a slap mark on her right cheek. Her hair was
tousled, but she brushed her fingers through it, straightening it.
�Are you okay?� I asked Barbi. She glanced up at me. It was as if I
was just her child, inquiring, half-ignored.
�Yes, dear,� she answered. �It�s all part of growing up,� she said
mysteriously. Master surveyed her with a newly acquired sense of
ownership. Sitting down now, with the pie in front of her, she impulsively
leaned over to him and kissed him. He seized her breast and squeezed it. I
felt uncomfortable, unwanted. I almost made a scene, doing anything, to
get the attention back on me, but I controlled myself. At last they parted.
�Come, eat your pie,� Barbi told me. I saw there was a piece for me
as well as for the two of them.
�Are your bikinis dry?� master asked me.
�Almost!� I answered. My voice was high, sweet. Wriggling
delightedly now that I was back at the center of things, I sat down in my
chair and ate with feigned self-consciousness as master stared at my
jiggling breasts and my long, silky-soft mane of hair, so neatly combed, so
free and uninhibited, a girl�s hairstyle, falling down over the sides of my
breasts and threatening to cloak my nipples. I brushed my hair back so
master�s view wouldn�t be blocked. Barbi was as naked as I. I preferred
that, given a choice of breasts, he chose mine to admire.
We fetched our bikinis from the washline after breakfast. We left
the plates on the table; a maid would come in the afternoon to clean them,
tidy up, find panties behind chairs and (perhaps) a condom or two on the
floor.
Master made us tie on our bikinis with the greatest care. �You must
look your very best,� he told us. �This lady doesn�t just accept any girls.
Only the fairest are allowed. Do your hair and nails now too, and see that
her makeup is done, Barbi, not much, just enough to highlight her features
and let everyone know she�s an older girl now, ready for love.�
I blushed. Barbi led me into a bathroom. There were always makeup
things in each of the bathrooms in master�s house, even his rented homes,
lest girls needed to tidy up to keep looking their best for him. Of course,
since he seemed to prefer only the finest girls (at least in my opinion!)
such things as makeup were little more than frills, but who was to deny a
pretty girl her indulgences? We did our makeup in our bikinis, closing the
door so we could tantalize him with the enforced privacy. When we
emerged, he beamed at us. Two girls in nothing but bikinis, with their
nails impeccable and their faces freshly painted, their hair glossy and
glowing, are a sight to behold! He ushered us out front to his limo before
he succumbed to the need to take us right there, outside the bathroom
door!
Master drove us himself. He had lost his chauffeur in the war with
Ms. Tuppence. We sat obediently up front with him, bouncing along in our
bikinis, causing a stir at every stoplight we passed. At last we gained the
countryside, where we could travel in peace amidst quiet two-lane roads.
We came to a little village. Master drove in amidst its neat streets
and well-clipped lawns. �She�s moved since last I visited her,� he
mumbled, glancing around. At last he found her house. There was a drive
that allowed us to pull back behind it, so we wouldn�t be seen going in.
I emerged from the limo and found myself amidst an apple orchard.
The big trees cast dappled patterns on my white skin. Barbi got out behind
me, took my hand, squeezed it.
�We�re here!� she said with feigned brightness.
�Have you been here before?� I asked her.
�No, silly! I got my training...elsewhere,� she answered. She lifted
her chest, seemed to walk with newfound poise. I did my best to imitate
her. The blush on her cheek from her slapping was almost gone. Master,
locking the limo, trailed behind us, caught up at last. We walked some
distance through a small forest of trees. I wanted to pick an apple and eat
it but master told me not to.
�From now on, don�t say anything, and try to keep your eyes
lowered,� Barbi said quietly to me. We followed a little path of glazed
rock, a kind of futura-stone walkway, through the hushed forest of trees.
At last, quite suddenly, the house emerged. Perhaps we�d walked no more
than a minute, but it had seemed much longer to me, with each tree
seeming to stand in warning against my treading further. Yet I�d gone on,
my master behind me.
There, sitting quietly at a table, reading a book by Emily Post, was
the proprietress of Abandon Gardens, as it was called. Apparently some
Spaniards had named it. They�d made a last stand here against rebelling
Indians. The Indians had won, the Spaniards, despite all their finery, their
guns and knowledge, had fled back to the sea in the face of the naked
Indian onslaught. I think the next day the Spaniards returned, reinforced,
and slaughtered all the Indians for their insolence to their masters, but
ever-after this place, as Barbi had whispered to me in the car, was known
as �Abandon Gardens,� as a warning to those who would try to paper over
their primal urges with refinement and civility.
Lady Highbourne put down her book. She glanced up at master, did
not look at Barbi or myself at all. I found her imposing, yet I wished
perhaps to be like her someday. Master seemed almost a boy in her
presence.
�I hear your credit is not what it used to be,� Lady Highbourne said
calmly to master. She took a puff on a cigarette that she held in a long
ivory holder. Her hair was blonde as summer, with glorious breasts set
high on her chest, yet she wore a dark, severe dress, as if about to embark
on a funeral procession. Her neck, I saw, in contrast to ours, was free of
any collar or adornment.
�I�m good for this,� master answered. He fidgeted. Barbi and I did
the same, except we felt doubly naked under her steely eyes, for we wore
nothing but the tiniest, most alluring bikinis. Master at least had his
elegant business suit on. Her eyes looked him over, up and down. Then she
flitted her eyes across our tummies, our hips, our breasts, as if examining
meat, skipping our faces, as if to look at us face-to-face would be like
God deigning to greet Eve.
�Have them turn around,� Ms. Highbourne told master. With flushing
faces, perhaps even blushing right down to our bottoms, we turned about
and let her see our asses. They were covered by just the flimsiest of
seats. Panties aren�t what they used to be. But they weren�t thong
bikinis, instead they seemed naughtier, trying to hide our tushies and
failing miserably. Instinctively, after we�d turned to face her with our
behinds, we each reached back and checked on our panties, pulling the
material out of our buttcracks. Our little walk through the woods had left
us with bunched swimsuits.
�Hmmm, their manners could be better,� Ms. Highbourne observed. I
guess its not the most polite thing to be yanking your panties out of your
asscrack when you�re greeting a dignified lady! �Have them turn back
around,� she said. �Their derrieres are certainly well-made, even if their
owners can�t keep their panties on properly.�
Master indicated for us to turn back to face her. We did so with a
new sense of self-awareness, feeling her eyes as she fixed them on our
breasts. I lifted my hands and nervously straightened my bra, though it
didn�t need it.
�Come closer, girls,� Ms. Highbourne instructed. We approached her.
I felt like a supplicant before some Mother Goddess, except this one was
extraordinarily beautiful, perhaps even as beautiful as Barbi and I. �Do
you know what pain is, girls?� Ms. Highbourne asked.
�It�s,� I began. Barbi nudged me, as if I was not supposed to speak,
not ever, but simply to listen and obey. Still, I answered her anyway,
trying to catch her eyes as I spoke. �It�s being hurt,� I said. She gazed
resolutely right at my crotch, which was now just inches from her face. I
sensed her breath exhaling onto the little pulpy mound between my legs,
where my secret place lay, as yet all mine, untested, untried.
�Pain is liberation,� Ms. Highbourne answered. Taking her cigarette
from her lips, holding it twixt her fingers, she reached toward me with
both her hands. She took hold of the drawstrings of my bikini and, without
untying them, gently lowered my panties down my thighs. She pulled on
them until even the little snatch of fabric between my pussy lips gave
way, springing down to join the rest of my suit at mid-thigh. With the
moist tip of her cigarette holder, the part normally held by her mouth, she
probed the pussy-mouth of labia lips. I watched with anxious eyes as the
burning tip of the cigarette came close to my thigh, while with trembling
knees I felt her open me where it counted. She inquired gently, not prising
me open much, and indeed I kept my thighs as close together as I could,
though not daring to press them tightly together to exclude her.
From me Ms. Highbourne turned to Barbi. Her undies were lowered
too, and Ms. Highbourne pointed out to each of us the little impression the
drawstrings of our bikinis had made across our hips.
�You must not allow yourselves any disfigurement, however slight,
unless it is truly necessary, girls,� she told us. �Panties are not needed in
summer. Do you feel chilly with them around your knees?� she asked us
frankly.
�No, ma�am,� we chimed in reply, sensing an answer was wanted in
this particular instance. It seemed to serve her needs to have us answer
rhetorical questions, for which there could be only one answer.
�So let us have no more of panties while you are here, girls,� Ms.
Highbourne announced. �Take them right off. You will not wear anything
while you are here below the waistline, save boots, perhaps. Your pussies
and bottoms are to be kept utterly free, so my friends when they visit can
admire you. Here girls are admired for what really counts, their wombs,
and the entrances to them, not for silly things like grades or poetry. We�ll
practise the arts a little here, to keep you alert, and teach you good
manners, but your bodies come first always.� As she spoke, with master
looking on, Barbi and I freed ourselves of the bikinis, pulling them the rest
of the way down our legs and over the spikes of our high heels. Ms.
Highbourne directed us to a nearby grill. We walked over to it and tossed
our bikinis into the coals, as requested. With our bare, hind cheeks
twitching nervously we watched as the hot coals burned our panties to a
crisp, leaving nothing but ash.
�Stir the coals,� Ms. Highbourne announced, still seated at table
behind us. �Make sure there is nothing left of such needless attire.� Barbi
unhooked a poker from the side of the grill and jabbed at the coals. A
breeze plucked at the ash of our suits and wafted it up. A moment later
there was nothing, just coals, bright and hot and scary.
�Your tops too, girls,� Ms. Highbourne said. �Untie them and toss
them in. Then we shall go inside and begin our lessons.� With trembling
fingers, almost unable to get hers undone, Barbi loosed her top, as I did
mine. We chucked them into the grill, watched them quickly burn, and then
Barbi stirred the coals again to mark their passing.
Ms. Highbourne stood and beckoned us to follow. Utterly nude,
feeling queasy in my stomach, as I know Barbi did, I let her escort us into
the dimness of her home, through a sliding glass door, into a living room,
then down a hall. She opened a door and led us down steps into a chilly
cellar. Master, when I turned, was nowhere to be seen. I glanced back
over my shoulder, was shocked he had not followed.
Mistress gained the floor of the cellar and turned. Barbi descended
the last few steps and mistress, as I sensed I should call her now, took
Barbi�s hand and lightly drew her from the last remaining step. I
followed, feeling like a bride as mistress offered me her hand and I
accepted it.
�We will begin with a simple caning,� mistress said. I gulped. Barbi
reached out, took my hand. Quickly mistress began undressing herself.
�Barbi, you have been caned before, but perhaps not strictly,� mistress
said. I watched as her clothes fell away, revealing a figure Anna Nicole
Smith would have been proud of. Tall, well-formed, with sleek limbs and
sumptuous breasts that men would die to pillow their faces or their cocks
in. She had few things on under her dress, despite its Puritanical color
and cut. In moments she was naked before us. She drew back a curtain
along the basement wall, just feet from where the steps let out. There
upon the wall, to my gasping surprise, was a collection of whips and
paddles and other implements of bodily harm.
Mistress picked up a long, swishy cane and flexed it. Her fingers
were narrow, delicate. It seemed odd to see such a horrid thing as a cane
between her fine hands! I felt my bottom cheeks clenching. A torrent of
butterflies rose up in my tummy.
�Oh why?� I asked. Barbi squeezed my hand tighter.
�I can go first if you like,� Barbi whispered, still facing mistress,
but intending her words for me.
�Don�t worry, I won�t draw blood today,� mistress told us. She
smiled a possessive smile. �It is quite important that you both submit to
me in this way. We�ll do it on a daily basis. You know yourselves how
competitive we girls can be. Well, that won�t be tolerated here. I am the
mistress, and you shall call me such. Perhaps you already are, internally,
without even noticing it. Hmmm?� She directed her gaze at Barbi, looking
at her quite directly now, eye to eye, now that master wasn�t amongst us.
We were just girls, alone. Yet I had to believe that master, somehow, was
watching me, loving every intake of my breath as it made my frightened
titties jiggle. �We will be naked together a lot,� mistress continued.
�After all, I�m as beautiful as you are, just a few years older, that�s all. I
have no reason to loathe my appearance. I relish the feel of my body in the
cool air, with nothing between me and whatever might happen! Of course,
as mistress, I�ll be clothed when we entertain guests, and I control
everything that goes on here. Now, who shall it be? Do you see that
sawhorse there? Get a pillow if you wish it for your tummy, and bend
right over, for I don�t intend to wait all day. I am being paid by the hour,
girls!�
Nervously, obviously wishing this all could somehow be avoided, but
knowing it was her master�s wish, Barbi let go my hand and walked slowly
to an innocuous (to me, at least!) wooden trestle set near a corner of the
room. When she reached it she stooped and picked up a leather pad that lay
at an angle beside one of its legs. She put the pad on top of the trestle
and, after taking a moment to brush back her hair, bent over so that her
bottom mooned us.
I almost broke out giggling. A girl like Barbi, showing us her ass
like that! Then I watched as mistress approached Barbi with an ominous,
cat like prance in her step, stalking garden robbins and their little
nestling eggs. Mistress swished her cane once. Barbi spread out her hands
and took hold of a post that ran way down between the legs of the trestle.
I saw her hair touch the floor, then fall on it even more completely as she
bowed very low, her legs straight and her ass high.
�Open your legs, girl!� Mistress scolded. �I must see your cupcake,
and you must feel its total vulnerability. Pray that the tip of the cane
doesn�t catch you there!�
�Oh, please don�t!� Barbi begged, obediently opening her legs so that
all she had to show was exposed to us. A sweet fig, plump and perhaps
already juicy, hiding within the incurved cheeks of her lowest bottom-
parts. Had I a penis I would have leapt up to her and jammed myself into
her. As it was, my finger felt suddenly, mischievously itchy. I had never
felt such thoughts before! Is this what my master meant by �training?�
�Fury, have you ever seen a girl caned before?� mistress asked me,
turning casually to face me, brushing her hair back and enjoying the
prominence of her naked, quivering breasts, her nipples totally hard now.
�Noooo,� I answered softly.
�Well observe closely, my dear, because you are next,� mistress
said. �And don�t think of running up the steps. The door locks upon being
shut, and only I have the key. If I have to chase you around the cellar and
catch you when it�s your turn you will not sleep tonight from the pain of
it.�
Mistress turned to Barbi. �I do hope you�re old enough not to require
tying,� she said.
�I-I hope so too,� Barbi replied in a quavering voice. She was clearly
scared about what was about to happen. Her bottom was creamy white,
flawless. I sensed it might be a different color in a minute.
�I want you to think of all the bad things you�ve done,� mistress
said. Idly she whisked the cane close to Barbi�s bottom, watching merrily
as the girl flinched at every near-miss. �Think of how naughty you were
this morning, for instance, telling master you didn�t want to come. How
rude!�
Suddenly the cane swished right in against Barbi�s seat and the girl
yelped and jumped. A moment later she was standing, her hands at her
bottom, rubbing it protectively, feeling the newly injured flesh in her
hands.
�Hurt, didn�t it?� mistress asked her. �I thought you hadn�t had a
proper caning before. �You�ll note this switch is nice and thin, to give
long fiery marks that a girl can take back to her husband with her when
she�s done. You�re not married, of course, but you may as well be, seeing
how close you are to your master. Don�t you think you deserve this, you
spoiled little brat, making him work so hard for you, to buy to jewels and
treasures and things, even risking his life to save you from your whoring
ways?�
�I�m sorry,� Barbi sniffled. She lowered her eyes, but kept her hands
over her heinie.
�Of course you aren�t,� mistress answered. �Or you�d be back over
the bar already.� She advanced, took Barbi by the hair, and with a yelp
from the girl put her right over. �Grab the post, or I�ll tie you to it,� she
ordered. At last Barbi took hold of the crossways post that was provided
as a kind of handhold for girls, the trestle�s one concession to them,
besides the pillow for their tummies. How I wished the pillow was for
one�s bottom instead! �You are special,� mistress said to Barbi. �We�ll be
having a party in a few nights and I want you to be ready for it. I�ll whip
you harder then, for the pleasure of men, who enjoy seeing a saucy,
privileged girl�s hinds jump under the cane. Yes, and there will be women
too, who delight in seeing someone so young be brought to heel, after
having to put up with the likes of you outdoing them at the beach, in your
little nothing bikini.�
SWIIICK! In came the cane again. Barbi shouted, jumped up. �Oooh, I
really can�t do this!� she declared, her hands flying to her hiney again,
assuaging it with quick, brisk rubs. She kept her eyes lowered, knowing
she had failed.
�Very well, it�s handcuffs for you then,� mistress answered. �I�m
sorry that you�ve made me have to play the policewoman, but what is to be
cannot be helped.� Mistress walked with sedate, easy steps to the wall,
where she plucked a pair of handcuffs from a little dresser that stood just
in front of it. I saw the dresser for the first time now, hardly noticing it
before, with all the awful instruments of flagellation hanging from it.
Upon the dresser were such obviously necessary items for a place such as
this: ointments, suppositories, and condoms in a flowered bouquet. It was
quite a pretty arrangement, I thought, given the dire purpose of such
things. To penetrate girls, and help them get over awful punishments on
the trestle.
Mistress took a policewoman�s hat from the wall and set it atop her
head with a look of renewed determination. She walked back to Barbi, her
tits jiggling as she went, healthy and free. I wished to bury myself in
them and beg forgiveness, forestall my own promised fate over the
trestle.
�Perhaps your master is watching, waiting to see you properly
disciplined for all those trifling little things you�re always doing, any
female is always doing, to the man she loves,� mistress told Barbi.
�Insisting too much, whining, complaining. You�ll be better behaved when
you leave here. Much better!� Mistress made Barbi hold out her hands,
both palms up, wrists together. She buckled the handcuffs onto them, then
screwed them with a special key that ensured Barbi�s palms remained
facing up. She turned Barbi to the trestle once more, and put her over
again. Barbi did not resist, seemed to take the whole procedure with a
sense of resignation now, perhaps accepting at last that her beloved
master had ordered this for her. I heard a click, and Barbi�s ability to
move was no more. She might howl, or wriggle her buns, or even kick back
at mistress if she dared, with her spiked, still unbound feet, but as for
standing, it was quite impossible.
Mistress smiled to herself. She stepped back, measured off the
distance needed to begin. And then, without further ado, the cane sliced
in, and Barbi felt all her past naughtiness come stinging home.
When we finally came back up the steps, master was waiting for us.
We greeted him with our hands on our fannies, rubbing them, wincing at
their suffering. Both our cheeks were stained with tears. Our hair was
quite unkempt now, our wrists were marked where the handcuffs had held
us tight to the pole. I�d discovered its ingeniousness: the cuffs had a
little clip at one end which, stretching between the wrists, the palms
facing out, could be attached to a clip on the crosswise post beneath the
trestle. It was downright nasty. Your arms were wrenched out and away
from you; any jumping in this position, bound over the trestle, threatened
to dislocate your shoulders. How awful it had been! I had thought I might
at least fight my bonds, strain against them, but even over the trestle I
had to strive to exercise restraint, for I could feel my shoulders wanting
to separate from the rest of me, and knew how terrible that would be.
When I met master again, I burst into tears, his punishment of me had been
so wicked. My shoulders almost dislocated, my wrists burning, and my ass
on fire, my breasts feeling like sacks of blubber that had been bounced all
over the place, without even a bra to contain and protect them! That at
least I knew now my mother was right about: a girl should wear a bra at
all times, lest her breasts sag. But, looking into master�s amused face, I
knew the chance of getting a bra for myself was about as remote as
retrieving my poor panties from the ashes of the grill.
�Some men just bring their wives for an afternoon whipping, a quick
one like you�ve had, girls, an hour, no more,� mistress said gaily to us,
knowing it would make us feel even more degraded. Before bringing us
upstairs she�d tucked a towel around herself, to discreetly hide her nudity
from master. I did not know if he�d had a chance to watch us somehow,
suffering in the cellar. Even if he had, mistress at least was clothed
again, her beautiful body only available to his eyes when she was being
paid to punish us. As for us, we were naked as newborns, and I felt like
one, my bottom smarting at my first introduction to adult sex. I was still
a virgin, though, both vaginally and anally. How strange! My bottom
burning, my legs quivering, my bladder starting to feel the effects of my
breakfast sips, yet I was as pure as a nun as yet. Barbi, for her part,
instantly asked master, despite her tortured heinie, if she could relieve
herself someplace.
�Why, you are just a female animal now,� mistress announced.
�Sobbing, crying, your bikini quite gone. Just crouch here in front of me
and pee. Your master will not mind.�
�Ohh, I can�t!!!� Barbi gritted. Her hands held tightly to her ass as
she stood wobbly-kneed before all of us.
�Kneel and pee,� master replied. �Do as your mistress tells you.
Why do you think I�m paying her? Look, here are some other people coming
up just now, through the trees, they will not mind. Anyone who comes
here knows girls are being trained, including potty training. But you do
not deserve a potty yet, just as you do not deserve to have your neck go
free, or Fury to wear your collar.�
Barbi knelt then, awkwardly, her hands trembling as they touched
the living room rug. Mistress, sensing the time was due (the playing done)
fetched a small empty flowerpot and shoved it under the small space left
by Barbi�s crouching derriere.
PISSS! I heard suddenly, as through the glass doors that led into the
living room came a pair of couples, each elegantly dressed, not in bikinis
as Barbi and I had been.
�See? It is for training, my love,� a man told his wife, or perhaps
she was just his mistress. �You will be well cared for here. But
reservations must be made. Ms. Highbourne is kept quite busy with all the
wayward wives in the city, and perhaps even here in this small town,
where she keeps house. I�m sure there are schoolgirls too, like that one
there, holding her bottom, who are brought to her. Girls who have been
expelled to often from school, or run up their parent�s phone bill chatting
on the Internet. All these females must be brought into line, but a man
can�t do it, not really. He�d just hit her, brutally, like O.J., or worse, do
nothing, and be henpecked all his life. It takes a woman to properly train a
woman, one who herself was broken in by a husband, or lover, or father,
when she was an undisciplined lass. Is that not right, Ms. Highbourne?�
our modern Hamlet wannabe asked, interrupting his soliloquy to address
us.
�Most certainly,� Ms. Highbourne answered. �Barbi here is just
learning that she pees at her master�s permission and request, and not
otherwise. She will learn to hold herself in when it is needed, so that
long trips across the continent can be accomplished without frequent
stopping. Or she will have a very red bottom, if she cannot learn to train
her peehole. Stand up, Barbi! I don�t hear any more pee coming out. Do you
think you are going to slip your whole self into the hole in that pot? I
think not! But your holes will have things slipped into them! Stand and
greet our new guests and tell them how grateful you are to have been
given a most necessary caning. There is no need to hold back. Explain it to
them and show them your once-fair ass, so these wives can begin to think
of their need for proper obedience to their husbands, instead of just
obeying when they are flattered by being taken out, or being bought
expensive trifles.
Hesitantly Barbi stood, walked forward, turned, neatly, on her still
perfect heels, strapped so nicely to her ankles. Slowly she drew away her
hands and offered them a view of her wiggly bottom.
�Ohhhh!� one of the wives gasped, her breath quick, indrawn, her
hand flying up to her mouth. There were welts on Barbi�s ass, deep red,
that would take time and patience to heal. A week, perhaps less, no
lasting damage, but certainly more than she�d ever had before. I was much
luckier, I�d been told by mistress, having just bright red marks. My cane
had been a thicker one, less severe. But it hurt just as much, in my
opinion! I did not even want to think about getting what Barbi had gotten.
She leaned forward a little at mistress� instigation and spread her hiney
cheeks to show how the cane had been used insidiously, brought down
parallel to her ass crack, to leave burny red marks within her parted
cheeks. It had been my job, weeping as I did it, to clamber onto and lean
upon Barbi�s back, so that I could yank her ass open for mistress� �special
cuts,� as she called them.
�I do not care to whip the bosoms, although, on girls as fine as
these, it is tempting,� mistress mused, tracing meanwhile the lines
within Barbi�s wide-apart cleft. Her finger traced each ass-stinging line
most delicately, as if the slightest touch would have somehow harmed
Barbi, which, from the looks of her trembling face, it would have. �Men
like bosoms being whipped sometimes, but asses are always the favorite,�
mistress said. �See how I place the cuts vertically, as well as
horizontally? That takes some technique, let me tell you. Most
whipmistresses simply strike there with the tip of the cane, which is
unbearable, and leaves unsightly marks afterwards, deeper than the
overall flagellatory pattern. I prefer everything perfect, each slice equal
in weight, so I avoid using the tip and instead have the girls hold
themselves open at the end, or let a friend do it, and I give them several
within their bunching bottomhalves to remind them that even their most
intimate, recessed parts are under my domination and control.�
�How wonderful!� one of the husbands present exclaimed. �This is
my mistress. She has threatened to see other men if I don�t spend more
time with her! Certainly I needn�t spend more time with her if she�s
thinking of me every moment I�m gone, because I�ve had her marked with
hot stripes up her ass!�
�Exactly,� Ms. Highbourne answered with a smile. The man peeked
into her towel-top, excited at the prospect of getting to see her nude, no
doubt, were she to undress to punish his mistress.
�Sir, your eyes wander from your lovely lady,� Ms. Highbourne teased
him. �Has the necessary payment been made to my account, per our earlier
discussion?�
�Indeed, indeed,� the man replied. �I, David Jacobson, may not be a
man of honor, but I do keep all my accounts current!�
�I�m sure you do,� mistress said, with a glance at master. He turned
his eyes ceilingward, a prince down on his luck, but certain, I was sure, to
regain it, and to avoid death from my father too, if I could keep him
occupied with my �training.� Dad would never find us here. A little town,
out amidst the veldt, shrouded in this spot by innocent-looking apple
trees. And Ms. Highbourne so proper, so excellently refined, so
impracticable a candidate for keeping little girls locked up in a basement.
One of the women made to speak.
�Just a minute, Maria,� Ms. Highbourne interrupted. �Please undress
yourself first. You and your friend Sara are going to help these two girls
heal their bottoms. David, Jeffrey, fetch some towels for our young ladies
here, would you? Two for Barbi and Fury, who have just been punished,
and two for your own wives, who will need them after they too are
punished in turn!� Ms. Highbourne seemed to delight in calling the men�s
mistress� wives, or, as I thought, Sara was in fact a wife of the man who
brought her, Jeffrey, for she wore a wedding band. They undressed with
nervous hands as Barbi and I stood wonderingly, still rubbing our poor
bottoms. Jeffrey and David gallantly got towels for us and laid them out
on two coffee tables for us. Two more were put on sofas for their wives,
whom they begged to be hit with a riding crop so that they might be
bruised. For this reason the men elected to give the girls places on the
couch.
�Well, if you�re going to give your wives the couches, then get more
towels for these two,� Ms. Highbourne ordered. �I�ll not have them
uncomfortable!� More towels were fetched, laid out on the tables, until
each had a thick pad of towels upon it. The men�s wives, not knowing what
to do with themselves when they�d finished undressing, laid down on the
towel-covered couches that had been prepared for them. Sara was a
brunette, with long, wavy hair, tied up neatly with ribbons into a pile atop
her head. Maria was dark-haired, but with porcelain-white skin, her body
light, her features frail. She lay down on her own towel with a kind of
resignation. I saw her shaking a little. She feared what was ahead.
The two men�s wives or, if you wish, mistress and wife, had barely
lain down on their towels when Ms. Highbourne scolded them and told them
to get up. �We share everything here, girls, including our necessary
troubles,� she told them. �Please be kind enough to get some cream and
salve for these girls� bottoms. You�ll be needing them to repay you quite
soon!� The two wives got up and scurried from the room. Soon they
returned, under the watchful eye of their husbands, with creams taken
from the nearest bathroom. Barbi and I stretched out on our towels on the
cocktail tables. We lay face down, still rubbing our sore bottoms. With
gentle hands the pair of wives, Sara and Maria, sat lightly down beside us
on the tables, Sara actually sitting, while Maria contented herself with
squatting beside me. They lifted our hands from our bottoms and replaced
them with squirts of cool, rich cream. Then, to flinching squeaks from us,
they began applying their own palms to our butts. The cream was
wonderful, but every fingertouch sent shivers of reawakened pain up my
spine, as if I were being whipped again. It was different having someone
else touch you. Their mind controlled where the next touch would fall, and
it felt uneasy, being so scorched in back, and having someone else play her
hands over my nether cheeks. I whimpered. Barbi mewled like an unhappy
kitten.
�Poor babies!� Sara, who wore a wedding band and seemed the most
confident, her hair all pinned up in preparation for her whipping, said
aloud. She rubbed her hands with girlish determination over Barbi�s
welted ass. Her boobs, hanging down most deliciously, wiggled like ripe
gourds, or fresh apples on the trees outside, big and plump and ready to
fall. I endured a bit more stoicly, I think, my bottom not as badly
punished. But Maria�s hands were much less confident. She feared her
husband-lover�s wishes. I could sense her fearfulness right upon the skin
of my creamed bottom, as her fingertips danced upon it, lightly,
uncertainly, her palms sometimes cupping my hinds as if to protect them.
At last she bent and kissed me right between my parted thighs. She stuck
out her tongue, teased my slit with a little flick.
�You are so sweet,� I heard her whisper, more to my bottom than to
me, I thought. �Please help me when I need it.�
�I will,� I answered. Then, impulsively, I arched my bottom up a
little, hoping she�d stab me with her tongue again. She did not. She lifted
her face, perhaps afraid she�d be punished more if our brief intimacy were
repeated, noticed by the others. She sat silently on her heels, waiting for
instructions. My bottom was done, all creamed. I lay my face more
comfily in my towel and sighed. At least my ordeal was over, though hers
had yet to begin. Men! They are so terrible, yet so necessary I think, for
otherwise bikinis and long well-brushed hair and new shoes and short
dresses would all be for nought. We�d all wear one-piece swimsuits for
the rest of our lives, and not care. We�d lie on the beach in the morning
and no one would come. No one save another one of us, and what point was
there in that, in the end, if there wasn�t one of THEM, with his iron will
and his iron schlong somewhere, watching, waiting to pounce on a pretty
young girl like me and make me his own. Or at least THINK he�d made me
his own. Men never really owned women, I think. We girls just let them
imagine they do, though sometimes they can be quite intolerant, and
demanding too.
�May we undress also?� Jeffrey, who was perhaps as vivacious as
his wife, asked mistress.
�No, dear,� mistress replied. �You men must stay properly dressed
at all times. We girls are never to see your genitals. What you do with
them is, of course, your own affair. There are silk handkerchiefs and such
there on the table. Use them freely as you wish, but please do dispose of
them afterward. I do not consider it polite for my gentlemen guests to
leave remembrances of themselves lying about. I often clean up myself,
after a little party like this. Sometimes one must be discreet. Not all
men wish to have it known that they or their wives were here, seeing me.
An embroidered pair of panties might lead to dissolution of the
government, if it fell into the wrong hands. Such is life with politicians.�
�Well, we are on the other side of all that,� my master answered.
�So you are indeed,� mistress said. �A failed drug lord, a banker
who does more laundry than even I do, with my impeccable discretion, and
a cop who crossed the line and can�t possibly go back, hmmm, David?�
�Just hit her good and hard with a riding crop,� David answered. �I
felt like beating the shit out of her this morning when she told me she
wanted to see other guys. Some idiot at the bowling alley who�s 20, big
muscles, and she met a nerd too, the other day, studying to be a doctor,
whom she thinks will give her a gold-plated future. So you see, I�m not so
bad. Instead of beating her up like any normal cop would have, being, as I
am, above the law, I brought her to you. I�m a gentleman-rogue, or crook,
or whatever you want to call it.�
�A man,� mistress said dismissively, with a wave of her hand. She
sat down on the edge of a sofa and addressed us four girls. �Now I don�t
want you to hate me for what I�m about to do,� she said. �It�s to train us,
all of us, to love our men more completely. When you�ve been trained
you�ll not think the slightest thing about cleaning the bathroom for him, or
washing his clothes, or giving up your career. It will seem as nothing
compared to what you underwent here. Come, stand up! Let�s begin while
my wrist is still eager to do its work.�
Shuddering, their limbs stiff and hesitant, Sara and Maria were led
downstairs by Ms. Highbourne. Barbi and I dutifully followed, glad that we
had had our licks and weren�t due for any more. The men disappeared, no
doubt to watch from somewhere, or perhaps to simply play cards round a
table, waiting for our return to them, spoiled with the crop for being
spoiled little princesses at home. The basement door shut, locking itself.
We descended into the cool basement air and smelt the waiting leather and
wood.
Maria was dealt with first, for she was clearly uncomfortable. I
watched with awed eyes as mistress hastened her to the trestle, strapped
her down without asking, and gave her six heinie-splitting whacks on her
bottom after shedding her towel. Mistress still wore her sexy police cap.
David had admired it wordlessly upstairs, wishing he could somehow make
her his partner in his patrol car on long, lonely nights. I wondered if he
were peeping now, rubbing himself to distraction as he watched mistress�
bouncing tits. Each inward stroke of the crop sent them flying, for
mistress used a vigorous approach to discipline, not sparing, when she
thought it appropriate. Maria, clearly, had misbehaved and needed
punishing so she�d be loyal to her man. Sara, in front of her, kept kissing
her face, her back, her long hair that flew about with every blow. Sara
tried to console her as best she could, for she knew she was next, and
would get it almost as bad, though more for her husband�s entertainment
than for punishment.
Gasping for breath, the girls were returned to their husbands. Each
kissed his wife, admired the welts, and then directed them to lie down so
that Barbi and I could attend to them. I noticed that the men�s trousers,
which had bulged perceptibly upon their arrival, were now placid. Master,
though, still held a stiffness, as if he�d been enjoying torturing himself as
much as watching us suffer. Mistress noticed his bulge also.
�Lord Shaftsbury,� she said, her voice almost kind. �It is time. She
will be staying with me, and there will be a party tomorrow evening. It
must be done now. It cannot wait.�
�After dinner then,� master said. He cleared his throat. He looked
at me. His eyes fell to the juncture of my thighs.
�No. Now,� mistress said. �The girls and I will be dining alone. The
maids will be here. Tomorrow night, you may return, to observe the party.
I will not keep her in my house this way. And you know it must be you.
You would never tolerate another taking her first.�
I glanced from my master to mistress. What were they talking
about? My hand fluttered at my throat. I tugged at my leather collar.
�It�s time for you to earn your dog collar,� Barbi said meaningfully
to me. She moved close, touched her finger to my throat.
�Get down, down on the rug, I want you from behind, so I can go as
deep as any other man will,� master told me. I gazed at him. I was
standing, my hands wet with cream. I�d been leaning right over to rub
Maria�s bottom, my legs straight, standing up, enjoying mooning the men
with my small, pert behind. Now my laughter, which had been free and
easy as I massaged Maria, watching her jerk as I had not long, under her
touch, slipped away. Mistress came, touched my arm.
�Have her on a towel at least,� she said. �I don�t want blood on my
rug.�
A towel was laid out for me, from the cocktail table. With mistress
and master and Barbi all at me, urging me down, I knelt, then finally bent
over, pressed my face to the towel, and presented my bottom.
�Will it hurt?� I asked. My voice was meek.
�No more than your caning,� mistress answered. �It is good that you
had it.�
�mommie...?� I mewled to myself, deep in self-pity, as I felt master
descend behind me and unfurl himself. He would take me vaginally, of
course. That was my most precious prize. And with a stab, and much
work, he did. I felt like a butterfly, pinned down, him over me, big,
demanding. When it was done they helped me up and each of them, even the
men, kissed me, complimented me. Then the girls helped me to the
bathroom and took care of me.
We ate that night by candlelight. The trees rustled above us. Maids
came, the men being gone for the night, and served us a light meal. We
could eat no more than that. Our day had been too exhausting. My cunny
hurt. It was open at last, after 13 long years of waiting. I would not
return to my mom and dad the same as when I�d left them.
�Girls, tomorrow evening, with your marks still showing from your
punishment, you will entertain men. Your husbands may be present,� she
said, using �husbands� generically, to refer even to Lord Shaftsbury. �Or
they may not, you will never know.�
�Do you mean?� Maria gasped.
�You of the least should complain,� mistress snipped. �Other men
you wanted, other men you will get. Except, to prove your true love to
your husbands, these men will be quite ordinary. Nothing to write home
about.� She glanced at me. �Even for you, Cornslip,� she added. �Cornslip,�
that was my new slave name, bequeathed by her, for use in her house.
Because I was young, decidedly underage, and had long, silky blonde hair.
�Cornslip.� I kind of liked it, kind of hated it, but it was my new name,
because, in her house, I was hers. �Yes, your husbands do not want
competition,� mistress continued. �They do not want to see you dally
with men whom you might actually like. But they do wish to see you, shall
I be discreet? Worked. How�s that? By other men. Noncompetitive men.
They want to see you in action, and they just might, too, but you will be
oblivious to it. They may not even see it until later, on videotape, or there
may be someplace special they can watch from, in the house. I will not
say, and you will not know. Now eat up! You�ll need energy for your labors
tomorrow night!� We ate in silence then, gulping down our food.
Afterwards mistress took us upstairs to bed and tucked us each into a
separate bed, in a separate room, chaining us to the bed so we would stay
there all night, and giving each of us a pill, so we�d drop off to sleep and
not spend all night worrying.
30
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