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Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
WANTON WINTER
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Chapter Two
We travelled in Helene�s private car. A young man I had not met
before drove it. We sat in back. Helene sat with us. I was in the middle
of the back seat and my aunt was to my right. Helene sat to my left.
I watched the young man as we drove. He was large, quiet. Helene
told him where to go and he obeyed. He was like a horse, I thought, like a
stallion. Big and handsome but without much to say, except an occasional
nod. I wore a black fur coat over my bikini outfit. I was tempted to let
the halves of my coat fall open, to show him how I was dressed. But I kept
a gloved hand to the front of my coat, holding it closed.
My aunt wore a black fur coat also, as did Helene. Their revealing
dresses lay concealed under their pelts; they might have been going to a
game of cards, or a tea party. The driver would not know, unless Helene
told him. I wondered if he had. I turned and looked out at the passing city.
Snow was falling, thick and white, as if to insure our purity. Pedestrians
huddled in knots on the sidewalks, hurrying bent shapes bowed over by the
force of winter.
I was warm in my coat. I wished for a lollipop to pass the time
with. I touched a finger to my panties. They felt wet against my skin. I
was excited. My nipples protruded against the zippered-up cups of my bra.
My aunt shifted in her seat. I saw her coat widen, below her waist.
She was spreading her legs. Did she yearn for something to put between
them? I imagined having a lollipop in my hand and poking her with it.
We arrived at a modest home. It was near the city�s center. I
guessed it must be expensive to live so close to all Paris had to offer. Our
car drew along the sidewalk. Our driver hopped out; he opened the right-
side door and reached in for Rebecca�s hand. She let him draw her out, into
the snow. I clambered out behind her, the driver clasping my hand in turn
to help me. Helene came last. We stood close together on the walk, the
snow falling fast. I put up the hood of my coat, over my head, to shield
myself from the snow and the cold.
�Yes, this is it,� Helene said, gazing at the number bolted into the
brick facing of the house, next to the door. She walked up onto a small
porch and pressed a doorbell. I heard nothing. I guessed the sound was
muffled by the home�s thick brick walls. A moment passed. The snow
gathered in the fur lining of the hood of my coat, that was pulled up over
my head. I stuck out my tongue and caught a snowflake.
My aunt, standing beside me, did not pull up her hood. She stood with
her head exposed, her hair beautiful in the late afternoon light. I admired
how she looked with her hood boldly thrown back, so that the snow fell
directly onto her. But I was cold. I did not reveal myself to the falling
snow, even though I wished to. Helene was like me. She had pulled up her
hood and she looked like a monk as she stood on the porch, waiting for the
door to open.
The driver waited beside the car, unmoving. He stood erect, his arms
crossed behind his back. He wore a small leather cap with a bill, that kept
the snow out of his eyes. His face was unshaven. His neck was thick. He
wore a leather coat with the collar turned up. It fell to his knees, like a
trench coat. He had it buttoned against the cold but otherwise it might
have been a spring day, so oblivious did he seem to the buckets of snow
falling around us.
�Cover your head, auntie. It�s cold,� I said to Rebecca. She looked
down at me and smiled. I saw happiness in her eyes, mixed with fear.
Tentatively she reached up to catch at her hood, to pull it up, but suddenly
the front door of the home opened. At once she forgot, letting her fingers
drop down again, leaving her head exposed to the snowfall. I looked with
her toward the opened doorway. A woman stood there, middle-aged. She
was dressed in a maid�s outfit. She looked fat. Her hair was pinned up
tightly; too tight. A bomb would not have unloosed it. I wondered if she
had always worn her hair so, when she was young and still slim.
�Yes?� the woman in the maid�s outfit said to Helene. She was
holding a scrub brush.
�This is 1619 La Fessee?� Helene asked.
�Yes,� the woman said. Then, seeing there were three of us, and that
we were elegantly dressed, she added, quickly, �Pardon, mademoiselle.
Please come in. I do not wish for you to catch cold.�
We entered. The house was quiet inside. The street noises were
shut out as the door was closed. Our driver did not follow us in. He had to
stay with the car, I guessed, and find a more suitable place to park it. We
had pulled up alongside the curb between two signs labelled �No Parking�
in French.
�May I take your coats?� the maid asked, having put down her scrub
brush. She wiped her hands quickly on a cleaning rag that was lying on a
small hardwood table. There was a vase of fresh flowers standing upon it.
Helene nodded. She turned her back to the maid. The maid drew off
Helene�s coat and complimented her dress.
�Did you get it at Hermes?� the maid asked.
�No, Hennessy,� Helene answered.
�Very nice, mademoiselle,� the maid replied. She hung up Helene�s
coat as I exchanged glances with Rebecca.
�And yours, mademoiselle?� the maid asked when she took my aunt�s
coat.
�Versace,� my aunt replied.
�Daring,� the maid said. She hung my aunt�s sable and then reached
for mine.
�Oh! I should prefer to keep my coat on,� I protested.
�You will sweat if you do,� the maid said. �It is warm inside. Let
me have it.�
�Oh--!� I gasped. She had my coat before I could stop her.
�Good heavens!� the maid gasped. Rebecca put her hand to her mouth,
her eyes widening with embarrassment. Helene�s eyes danced mirthfully.
I tried to tug my cape over my front but it would not cover me, it
was too small. I blushed. The maid gazed at me in my leather bikini, my
boots, my elbow-length gloves, my fishnet stockings that were visible
above my boots� cuffs.
�You look as if you are going swimming, but my master does not own
a pool,� the maid said to me.
�I-- I forgot my dress,� I said limply.
�Turn around,� the maid told me. I obeyed, cringingly, as her eyes
widened upon seeing my bottom half-revealed by my leather undies.
�Your panties do not even fit!� the maid scolded me. She
remembered my bra and added, �Nor does your brassiere. You are a most
impertinent young lady. And I thought miniskirts were bad.�
�My auntie--� I began.
�Do not blame your aunt,� the maid said. �You are the one who is
wearing such an outfit, not your aunt.�
I heard footsteps in the hall beyond the entryway where we stood.
The maid looked up from me. A voice that was male and deep, said, as if
speaking to another, �Pampered females tend to have a problem with
punctuality.�
Helene turned her head toward the sound of the approaching
footsteps. Rebecca did too, but the contrast in their faces was a study in
experience: Helene confident, almost bored, wondering if the approaching
male would meet her high standards; my aunt nervous, her hands slipping
up her dress and tugging at the separated halves of it, where the inner
curves of her bosoms showed. It was a fruitless gesture, my aunt�s dress
was too tight to be drawn together. He skin glowed whitely, her stomach
showing all the way down to her belly button, and nothing to keep one�s
eyes admiring the pallor of her skin all the way from her navel to her neck.
I saw my aunt gulp, quickly, the collar around her neck moving slightly.
The diamonds on it flashed. Her earrings shuddered.
In fact it was not one man who appeared before us, but two. He had a
beard, this second male, and was dark-skinned. His eyes fell first upon
Helene, for she was standing between us and the men. I watched as his
gaze drank in the decollete cut of her gown. Then his eyes slipped past
Helene to my aunt, who showed even more of herself in her gown that was
open all the way from her neck to her navel. But no sooner had the man�s
eyes settled on my aunt than they, with a look of surprise, turned to me,
catching sight of me in my too small bikini.
�Good evening, girls,� our host, whom we�d met in the department
store, said. �I see you are late, but that can be remedied. I have a special
friend with me from Algeria.�
�We cannot stay long,� my aunt said. Her voice was meek. I looked
at the sun-bronzed friend of our host and shivered. There was a hardness
in his eyes. He wore a trim mustache above his upper lip. His chin was
clean-shaven but showed a black five o�clock shadow, a vestige of his
manliness that could not be got rid of no matter how sharp and close his
razor. His arms appeared muscled and thick beneath the trim suit he wore.
I looked again at our host; taller, his eyes gentler.
�My friend works in a prison in Algeria but presently he is on
vacation,� our host said. He turned to the man. �Is that not correct?�
�It is hard work,� the dark-skinned man said. His features softened
slightly. �I am looking forward to a break.�
�We just met this afternoon,� our host said of the man. �He
mentioned he wished to be introduced to some French girls, and I told him
I had several coming to visit me.�
�This way, mademoiselles,� the maid said to us. She gestured in the
direction of our host and the man from Algeria. Turning to them, urging us
forward, she said, �They are rather provocatively dressed, sir. Is it now
the fashion?�
Our host smiled. �Sometimes, when girls are wishing to impress,�
he said. He flicked an eyebrow up and smiled first at us and then at the
Algerian.
�Girls would be punished if they tried dressing like this in my
country,� the Algerian said.
We were ushered down the hall and into another room. It was an
elegant sitting room, complete with a wet bar. Our host gestured for us to
sit. I looked at the couch he pointed to. It was made of leather. But it
appeared wet, as if something had, just minutes before, been liberally
doused over it. I saw that a window was open and wondered why; cold air
was rushing into the room, despite a small fire in a fireplace in the
corner.
My aunt tried drawing her dress tighter across her exposed middle.
Again, it proved fruitless, but she tried anyway. She walked briskly to the
couch, Helene following her. She turned, began to bend her knees, but
Helene stopped her. I saw a twinkle in Helene�s eyes and she looked at our
host and the Algerian.
�Raise your skirt first,� Helene said to my aunt. I wondered if
somehow Helene had made contact with our host before our arrival. Yes,
she must have, I realized; perhaps my aunt had even given her his name and
address so that she might check him out before our visit. Helene knew
many people in Paris. The ones she didn�t know, she often could find out
about from friends.
My aunt turned to Helene, oblivious to all save her wish to sit.
�What?� my aunt asked.
�Raise your skirt first,� Helene said again. My aunt blushed and said,
�But you know I cannot. I have no--�
Helene bent and pulled up the back of my aunt�s gown.
�Oh-- not in front of the other man!� my aunt declared. But before
she could say more her tight dress had been raised, baring her bottom
while, in front, her uplifted gown just barely touched her thighs.
With a firm but delicate press of her hand on my aunt�s shoulder,
holding up her dress with her other hand, Helene made my aunt sit.
Rebecca white rump could be seen descending down to the couch. As soon
as her bare skin connected to the leather my aunt let out a loud �OH!� Her
lips pursed into a pretty imitation of the letter. Her well mascara�ed
eyelashes flew wide; she looked at our host, who laughed and traded
glances with the Algerian.
�You should have arrived earlier, before I spilled a bottle of whiskey
all over my couch,� our host smirked. My aunt looked at him.
�It stings my bottom to sit here!� she said. She tried to rise, but
Helene pressed hard on her shoulder and kept her seated on the ice-cold,
wet leather couch.
�Chloe, come and sit,� Helene said to me.
�I don�t want to sting my bottom!� I protested.
�You have no choice, girl! Sit!� our host barked at me. I looked at
him with big, frightened eyes.
�Do as you�re told,� the Algerian said to me. �In my country girls
obey when a man addresses them.�
I shuddered. I did not like our host�s hard demeanor. With a flick of
my eyes at Helene, wondering if she might rescue me, I walked in my tall
heels over to the couch. All the way I worried I might fall; would our host
catch me if I did? My boots were comfortable, at least, even if I was
unsteady in them. They were very expensive, fitted inside with soft fur
that kept me snug and warm from my toes to my thighs.
I reached the couch. I turned.
�Oh! I can feel the alcohol seeping into my pussy,� my aunt, seated
on the leather, complained.
�Pull down your panties in back,� Helene said to me.
�What?� I cried.
�She is still wilful,� the Algerian said.
�Pull down your panties and sit like your aunt,� Helene told me.
�Her dress is pulled up!� I said, protesting. �I can�t pull my panties
up any higher.�
�Bare your bottom,� Helene said. She did not wait for me to do it.
She walked briskly over to me and yanked hard on my undies. She pulled
down the back of them. My asscheeks, so tightly encased, sprang free. The
chubbiness of my cheeks was accentuated by my panties, which Helene
left ringing the tops of my thighs. �Now sit!� Helene said, as if addressing
a dog. I plopped down onto the wet couch.
�YOOOOCH!� I shouted. The alcohol stung my heinie. The leather felt
like ice against my warm skin. At once I tried to spring up but Helene�s
hands stopped me. She forced me to remain with my bottom wet and bare
against the leather.
Our host watched, his eyes showing little emotion. We might have
been girls late for Sunday School, my aunt and I, taking our seats quickly
and awkwardly so as not to miss the lesson. Our host betrayed no sign
that we were present for any illicit purpose. He lit a cigar and puffed on
it casually. He offered the Algerian a cigar but the man declined. I found
myself admiring the Algerian for that; he was big and strong, broad-
chested. Smoking would have cut into his wind and his ability to exert
himself.
Helene took a cigarette from her purse. She fitted it into an ivory
cigarette holder that was long and elegant. Then, instead of searching in
her purse for a lighter, she walked over to our host. She placed the
cigarette holder in her mouth and asked our host for a light. He obliged. I
watched as she sucked upon her cigarette holder, our host pressing his
lighted cigar and against her unlit smoke.
�Would you girls care for a drink?� our host asked when he�d lit
Helene�s cigarette.
�I think we�re sitting in one,� my aunt replied ruefully.
�Ah yes,� our host said. �Nonetheless I should like to see you both
enjoying my wine.� He smiled. �With your mouths.� He turned to the
Algerian and said, �Open a bottle of my finest Chardonnay.� Then, looking
at us again, he said, �If nothing else, the wine will act as a soporific.�
My aunt flinched. I didn�t know what soporific meant but I could feel
the tremor of fear run through her and it made me nervous too. The
Algerian fetched a bottle from the wet bar. He filled two glasses and
brought them to us. The fire in the corner made our glasses sparkle. My
aunt took her glass with an unsteady hand and brought it to her lips. She
sipped it. I was given the other glass; I didn�t like wine and merely daubed
at it with my tongue, through parted lips, like a cat tasting uncertain
water.
�Did you girls know that I own my own vineyard?� our host asked.
We said nothing and he continued, �It allows me to control the quality of
the wine. I must admit that I am something of a �control freak�, as it is
known these days. I figure, if I can control it, it will be to my liking. I
have very high standards. Why should I permit substandard things in my
life when I can have the very best, simply by doing it myself?� He looked
at the Algerian. The broad-chested man nodded. Our host smiled. �And
when, on rare occasions, I meet those who share my values, I invite them
to partake of life with me.� He looked at us. �You see, I do not believe it
was fate, or mere chance, that brought us together, girls. You desire
something, but you desire to have it from the very best. You sensed that in
me, without perhaps even knowing it. That is how we met; your desire to
be fulfilled, in a certain way, connected with my demand that those whom
I bring to fulfillment be the very finest girls.� He smiled and said, �And
you are the very finest; how elegant you both look! Rebecca, is it?� he
asked my aunt, asking her name. My aunt nodded. �Yes,� our host said. �It
is a lovely name, but I shall not call you �Rebecca� during your stay here.
You will be called, instead, �Two�. A number. I do not believe in being
intimate with the girls who visit me, because they are all quite beautiful,
the ones I permit to visit, and I would quickly marry one of them and
become a respectable dud of a man.� He laughed. �I cannot have that. So
you will be �two�, and your daughter, whose name I cannot quite remember,
despite it being a pretty name, as I recall, when it was told to me in the
mall, she will be �three�.�
�She is not my daughter,� Rebecca found the courage to say,
immediately taking a deeper draught from her wine glass.
�I�m her niece!� I piped up. �And I�m 13, not three.�
Our host cleared his throat. �Nonetheless you shall be called
�three�,� he said. �I have picked your name, and that�s that. I am glad to
see you are only her niece, though. I wondered how a girl so young as �two�
is could have already given birth to and raised a 13-year-old.�
I squirmed in my seat. I didn�t like being given a name that was a
number. �I should be �two� if I�m to have a numeral as a name,� I said
disconsolately. �I�m the littler one.�
�Yes, you are,� our host answered. �And I�m sure your aunt, or
whatever she is, I�m not good with figuring out who is what when it comes
to relations... I�m sure your older sister or your aunt is used to being the
more mature one, is she not? But here she may find that my hospitality is
so... thorough... that she becomes the younger, the more immature one. I
have a reputation for causing even the most sophisticated young ladies to
regress to their infantile selves. Beautiful young women visit me for that
express purpose, to cast off the maturity of years that they�ve layered
upon themselves, often at too young an age, and be once again a mere child,
an irresponsible thing, carefree in their bondage to me.� He arched his
eyebrow. He looked at my aunt but she avoided his gaze.
�I want to be MORE mature, not less mature,� I told him.
�That is because you are 13, �three�,� our host replied. �When you
are 19 or 20 you will find yourself longing again to be as you once were, a
simple girl, a simple young thing.�
�I-- I grew up rather fast,� my aunt, sitting beside me, confessed. I
looked at her. Did she really want to be little again? I was dying to be
older, to be able to drive, and to drink too, whenever I wanted, not just
when someone like our host indulged me. I put my wine glass to my lips
and took a big gulp.
�I�m three but you�re only two!� I blurted. Suddenly, I liked the idea
of my aunt being younger than me. How fun it would be to see myself as
the bigger one, and she in my place!
�In my vineyard I not only grow grapes, but also various types of
wood,� our host said. �Some wood I grow outdoors, like birch. Other wood
requires a warmer climate than we have here in France, so I grow it in a
hot house. Bamboo, for instance.� Our host went to a shelf. As my aunt
and I sat drinking, he took down a bundle of twigs. They were bound at one
end with a ribbon. It was black. Each spray in the bundle was of an almost
uniform length, as if having been chosen and trimmed very carefully. Our
host walked over to me and asked me to put out my hand. I did,
tentatively, and he passed the nubbed rods across my palm.
�These are birch twigs, from my vineyard,� our host told me. �How
do they feel, against your hand?�
�They�re rough!� I exclaimed. I wished to withdraw my hand but he
reached out and grabbed my wrist. Holding my hand, he passed the twigs
repeatedly over my palm. They scraped me. I did not like them. �You will
notice that each branch is replete with small buds,� our host told me.
�Each branch must be cut at exactly the right time of year, in order to
catch the buds before they flower, so that their roughness is preserved. In
addition to the roughness of the buds the branches themselves are, of
course, quite whippy and slim. I also have sprays of birch which have been
immersed in sea salt, so that each bud and every inch of the branches are
coated with brine. Do you know why I go to such trouble to cut and prepare
rods like this, �three�?� our host asked me.
�No,� I answered. He let go of my wrist. I wanted to withdraw my
hand but some strange impulse kept it upraised, held out, so that he
continued to lightly flay my soft palm with the sticks.
�It is to correct spoiled young women,� our host said. He flicked his
eyes at my aunt. She was holding her palm out, as I was, though our host
had yet to give her a feel of the twigs. With her other hand she brought
her wine glass to her lips and drained it, sip by slow sip, her neck
contracting each time she swallowed.
�We have such women in Algeria,� our host�s companion said. �They
think because they are wealthy they can do as they please. But really,
when I go to work on them, I find that what they really want in life is a
firm hand, someone to actually say �no� to them. When they depart from
my custody they often thank me, even kiss me, for I am the first person in
their young life who actually gave them some discipline.�
�I don�t need any discipline!� I blurted, though I still kept my hand
offered, under the twigs, letting them pass back and forth, again and
again, until my arm ached and my palm felt like it was being rubbed raw.
�Girls who refuse discipline are often the ones who need it most,�
our host told me. His voice was like a whisper, deep and resonant, yet
softly spoken. I looked up at him. The smoke from his cigar was trailing
up over his head and mine, as if to give us halos. I felt a wetness in my
panties and my breasts pushed thorn-like nipples into my bra. I did not
deserve a halo.
�Oh! I wish to feel,� my aunt said. Her hand, uplifted, moved closer
to mine, seeking the birch held in our host�s hand. Her voice was like that
of a child, grasping for candy. Our host grinned.
�Unfortunately, the hand is not the most effective place for one to
feel the birch,� he said.
�I- I know,� my aunt said. Her voice was a murmur, low and soft,
beseeching and yet afraid. Our host continued to abrade my palm with the
twigs and refused to let her feel them.
�And this is not the proper place, not for ones so fine as
yourselves,� he said. �At my vineyard, however, where I grow my grapes
and my wood, I also have a small... facility. It consists of a well-
appointed house, connected to an outbuilding by a portico. The outbuilding
once served as a place of detention for the Church in the Middle Ages.
Heretics and others were confined there, amidst the grapes, to be assisted
in finding repentance. They would work in the muddy fields during the day,
finding solace in Nature. At night they would be kept in the outbuilding,
where overseers would break them of sin. Many a heretic left there with a
renewed love of the Church, and with a feeling of complete obedience
toward it.�
�Oh!� my aunt cried. She reached for the twigs that were chafing my
palm and grabbed them. She gripped the bunch of sprays tightly, despite
the hard nubs on them, and the slender knife-sharp quality of the branches.
Our host watched her with eyes like steel, glinting, hard, drilling into her
soft features, as if to find her true essence. Suddenly, still holding the
branches, which she had to lean forward to do, my aunt pressed her face to
them and kissed them.
�Auntie!� I shouted. I was worried she might poke her eyes on the
branches� sharp tips.
�Very well,� our host said. Some silent agreement must have passed
between them in that act, for at once he withdrew the twigs both from my
palm and her mouth, and my aunt, looking flustered, sat up again, and put
her wine glass to her lips, but it was empty.
�You can have some of my wine, auntie,� I offered. �I don�t like it.�
I showed her my glass. It was nearly full. But she declined, and looked
quickly at our host, who had turned his back to us and was taking his
insidious twigs back over to the shelf from which he had gotten them.
Helene, standing in a corner and smoking, gave a wan smile.
The maid was summoned and our coats were brought. We were
allowed to rise from the couch. I wished to pull up my panties but Helene
told me not to. She took pins from her hair and arranged my aunt�s dress
so that her bottom remained bare, her skirt pinned up to show it off. Our
host insisted on putting our coats on us himself. I felt like a doll being
dressed. When my coat was on, my bottom at least was covered, but I felt
awkward, for under it my fanny was naked and wet. For my aunt, it was
the same; with her coat on she looked demure and civilized, but underneath
her dress was pinned up and her ass was bare.
�How-- how long will we be gone?� my aunt asked. Her voice was
squeamish. Helene took her by the elbow and guided her out into the hall.
I followed. Our host and the Algerian came after me. I could feel their
eyes pasted to my behind. I was glad for my coat, but the panties ringing
my thighs made me walk with an exaggerated wiggle.
�Shhh! It may take some time,� Helene said.
�But--� my aunt said. Her voice failed her. We were wealthy, or at
least my aunt was, and our hosts knew it. We had nothing really important
to do with ourselves. A lost day, or even a lost week, would not matter.
Helene led my aunt down the hall as if taking her out for an evening of
shopping. When we reached the front door I saw it was dark outside.
Night came early in Paris in winter. The street lamps glowed feebly
outside, shrouded by flurries of fast-falling snow. There was a limo
waiting for us by the curb. We hurried down to it; my aunt put up her hood
to hide her hair from the snow.
30
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