We were each permitted to finish our croissant. I felt so awkward, sitting there, munching on a pastry and sipping tea wearing wet diapers. Yet I was hungry. Too hungry to pass up the change to eat. When we’d each finished the croissant we held, the maid fetched our teacups from our hands. We were offered nothing more. Rose stood and said we must have our diapers changed.

The men each took one of my arms. I was forcibly squired, with Polly drawn ahead of me, into an adjoining room. There I saw a baby’s plaything hanging from the ceiling, one each over two closely matched tables. There were little clowns and birds on the plaything, as if Polly and I might compete with each other, batting at our playthings while the men changed us.

A soft towel covered each table, much as one finds in a massage studio. The tables themselves were made with cushioned tops.

“Up, girls!” Rose told us. With help from the men, feeling ridiculous in our wet diapers, we each got up on a table. “Lie down, girls, on your bellies.” Rose instructed. I lay on my tummy and felt the eyes of the two men who’d accompanied me fix on my pretty tushy. As soon as I was flat they undid the pins to my diapers. With Rose advising them, they carefully drew my diapers out from under me.

The maid came in with a trayful of steaming towels. The men each took one. “That’s right. Wipe her bottom,” Rose told each of the men regarding Polly and me. I mewled at the heat of the towel as it was applied to my bare fanny. Slowly and carefully they wiped me clean, using a dry cloth on my bottom after they’d finished with the moist one. Then I was rolled over.

“Goo,” I said playfully to my two paramours as they gazed with delighted eyes down at me. My titties jiggled on my chest. I felt happy, aroused. They fingered my pussy, found it wet with more than my pee.

“Don’t be naughty, gentlemen. She’s just a little baby,” Rose warned them. They took hot towels and wiped up my pee from my pussy. Then they dried me (as best they could)! I felt deliciously happy.

“You can pee in your pants if you want. I won’t mind,” I said to the men. My eyes were seductive. I’d be the first infant to rape her daddies. Twin daddies, I had, and I longed now to see the tools they’d used to father me. I drew up my knees and let my legs fall apart, showing my sex with its newly grown fur.

“With pregnant wives, it’s sometimes hard...” (Rose paused, suppressed a giggle) “...sometimes hard for a man to find relief,” she told me. “Would you mind, Fleury, if these nice men used your mouth a little?”

“I thought perhaps--” I began, hopefully, letting my hand pass between my legs and tickle me where I suddenly needed it.

“Shhhh,” Rose said. She put a finger to my lips. “Let’s not make Louis jealous, shall we?” There was a bruise on her cheek, I noticed. “Suck, darling. Let them sperm your mouth. It’s the most I can offer you right now. And please do take your hand away from your pussy. It’s not nice to masturbate yourself in front of strange men.”

I heard Polly issue a burbling shriek and knew her to already be entertaining her gentlemen. My own quickly unzipped themselves and presented their penises. I let out a little cry when I saw them.

“Oh, Rose. Where DO you find men with such large ones?” I asked frankly. I touched my fingers to the two tools which presented themselves, one on either side of my upturned face.

“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies,” Rose replied. My gentlemen, sensing permission from Rose, undid their pants completely and dropped them to their ankles. She placed her palms lightly upon their buttocks and urged them both to spear me at once. I saw, to my amazement, two nosy cockheads cross my vision and compete to get into my mouth. Within seconds of their approach I was stretched and filled with both. I felt like a girl with two giant straws in her mouth, and I knew my milkshake would be vanilla for sure. In desperation at being gagged by the organs, I reached out and grabbed for the men’s balls. I’d better empty these boys quick, I reasoned. They were too much for me, much as I liked them!

“Oook Oooof!” I heard, and knew it to be my own voice as my loves forced themselves more deeply into me. With Rose tickling their hams, inquiring into their clefts, I squished and squeezed and groped at their balls. Both of them were very huge and tight with excitement. It was like squeezing a pair of hairy wrecking balls. Meanwhile, their smooth tools drove ever more deeply, and try as I might with my tongue I could not keep them back.

“Hey! What are you faggots doing fucking our chicks?” I heard suddenly from somewhere behind me. My loves, though I could not really alter my gaze to see, both looked up.

“Hello Louis, Andre,” Rose said with warm affection. Then, to my loves: “Don’t worry, boys. You have their complete permission to cum in their girlfriend’s mouths. Don’t drown them with your sperm, of course. But a little taste would be okay, wouldn’t it, Louis?”

I guessed Rose had planned the whole thing to shock the men who now probed Polly and I so fully with their manhood. It had its intended effect. As soon as Louis’ words had boomed across the room, my two newest loves, their bottoms bared to my boyfriend, no doubt fearing the return of Odysseus himself, began jetting into my mouth.

“Oh, God,” I heard one of my lovers moan. I tried to imagine his feelings. Here he was, a grown man, his pants around his ankles, about as vulnerable as a man could be. And then, as if in some gay fantasy, in walk two other men, not at all disabled, ready, it seemed, to fight to the death. To be interrupted so, it must have been horrible, and yet wonderful, in a way, something few men ever attain, actual vulnerability. Permissible vulnerability, something that jolts a man and yet is not too embarrassing once its over. After all, these men had their cocks firmly planted in my mouth. They were violating Louis’ girlfriend, and Andre’s too. They were fucking us, as Andre and Louis were forced to watch.

I think my lovers fathered a thousand children in my mouth that afternoon, or tried to. Spume after spume of their spunk shot into my mouth, filling me, swamping my tongue and my ability to swallow. My cheeks bulged out with their fertility. Their sperm overflowed and spilled from the corners of my mouth. Like milk it ran out over my chin. I felt it even invading my nose, their was so much of it. I had two of them, after all, within me. It was an impossible job to swallow all they gave me.

Rose stood over me, watching my throat work as I battled to down as much sperm as I could. I was afraid she’d scold me for wasting it. Somewhere, I heard Polly shout as she thought herself finished, only to find more sperm shooting from the pricks that gorged her mouth.

Just as the sperm first began to gush forth, there was another development, even naughtier than the rest. I felt an expert pair of long-nailed female fingers take to my cunny. I was too overwhelmed to see who it was. Later, when all was done, I learned it was Sylvia. She touched my spot and diddled with it, most openly, not asking permission or even speaking to me. I was too high strung from my adventures to close my legs to her. She twirled and twirled and twirled within and around my clit. I bucked once, shivered. Placing a palm on my thigh she eased my hips back onto the table and continued her work. I heard a moan from Polly and later learned Joanne had attended to her. We needed it, I think. We’d been on tenterhooks since we almost creamed ourselves pillowfighting at the saloon, on the slick wet post with its invading, sugary froth.

At last the pricks were withdrawn. They were shrinking now. Their deed was done. With some coughs of self-consciousness the lovers who had so lustily spermed our mouths now drew up their pants. They made a manly joke or two, directed at Louis and Andre, to restore their much prized masculinity. Our true loves watched them, then came up to greet Polly and I.

“Hi, Louis,” I said with bright eyes. My tummy still heaved a little from my exertions under Sylvia’s finger. Politely she desisted, though I wouldn’t, I think, minded if she’d continued. Sperm ran all down my cheeks and even somehow had gotten into my hair.

Louis beamed down at me. “You are doing well,” he said to me. “Tonight you will have your first good whipping. Branson will deliver it.”

He saw my eyes widen as he spoke. I could not bear to hear such words. I really didn’t want to be part of this!

Louis touched a finger to my navel. He pressed harder and harder until my eyes finally relaxed. Then he withdrew his finger and reached between my legs and sought my clit.

“Yes,” he said, rubbing, seeking. I gasped as he found me. “A good, long, thorough whipping, one that really works your bottom. Didn’t you tell me when we first met that you’d try anything once?”

“Yes,” I confessed, my breath rapid now that he’d found my essence. He put a finger candidly into my cunt, kept at my spot with his thumb.

“A judicial whipping is what I wish for you,” he said. “Branson used to work as a jailer down in the government prison before he retired. He knows how to bring a girl fully within the world of the whip, until she is utterly shattered. You will have no ego left when he is through with you.”

My heart was beating fast in my chest. I could feel it. I thought it might burst out at any moment. Was Louis the Mayan priest come to stab my bosom and lift out my still-throbbing heart?

“All your life you’ve been a bratty, snotty little girl,” Louis told me. “Admit it. You have. You’re a teen runaway, and you’ve never obeyed, not really. Tonight you will. For the first time in your life. I require it if you’re to be my wife.”

My eyes bugged. My head popped up, then lay back again on the soft table. “Your wife? You’ll really marry me if I let you have me whipped?”

Louis smiled. And somewhere, deep within that smile, I knew he’d never marry me. Yet we girls are foolish, aren’t we? In a millisecond I convinced myself that yes, he really would marry me. My puppy love dreams of being with him forever, just he and I, no others, would be fulfilled. He would cut wood for us and we’d live in a little log cabin and our son would be Abraham Lincoln and save the world.

“Yes,” I said, and thought it was him saying ‘yes’ to me, or told myself it was. Louis pushed his finger deeper into my cunt. His thumb stopped over my aching clitty, waiting. “Yes!” I gasped. “Do whatever you must to me to make me yours!” And he began his cunning work on my clit again, and I swooned with pleasure at his touch.

I rolled over on my belly. I spit sperm into a paper cup held under my chin by Rose. Louis patted my bare bottom. It was white as snow, and he savored picking up baby powder and sprinkling it on my heinie. Polly found Andre equally engaged by her bottom, though I know not what they spoke about while Louis propositioned me about Branson. I think Rose had placed her hands over Polly’s ears and let Joanne finish her off between her legs. There had been a lot of happy screaming from the other table as Louis told me of his plans for me.

Our bottoms were made all silky with the powder. Louis and Andre themselves applied it. Their calloused hands on our rears were a bold contrast with the powder. Sylvia and Joanne wiped my face and Polly’s with hot cloths as the men powdered us. They stuck their cloth-draped fingers in our mouths to let us lick off some of the sperm that was sticking to our tongues.

When Louis and Andre were finished with us, they left. I lay on my table, my hands down by my thighs, my bottomcheeks huddled together like worried sheep.

“Don’t fret so. It’s still several hours ‘til evening,” Rose said. She spoke leaning close to my face, so Polly wouldn’t hear.

We adjourned to ‘the sitting room,’ as Rose referred to it. ‘My outdoor one,’ she added confidentially, as if she might have many of them, like the parlor near the front door, or the one that lay almost as a secret chamber next to the little girl’s bedroom that Polly and I had first been fucked in. My hands were brought behind my neck as I lay on the diapering table and reattached to the back of my dog collar. I did not fight it. I was too scared, too confused, and yet too excited, somehow, at my submission, to protest. Sylvia did me, Joanne did Polly. She blurted something, was ignored. Rose put her pacifier back in her mouth and Polly sucked on it wide-eyed, like a trembling child wishing to pronounce upon something but enjoying her pacifier just a little too much to take it out of her mouth.

We strolled through the castle. There was little hurry in Rose’s walk, and none in mine. Yet, watching her smoothly rolling hips, I let my own sway more, feeling the nakedness of my bottom and wondering if someone might see me. How strange I would look to them! My hair done up perfectly, then mussed a little by my exertions on the diapering table. My bottom glossed with silky baby powder, white as snow, yet my hands bound severely to the back of my neck, showing my submission. Before me my breasts wobbled with naked elegance, so high, so round, the tips hard with anticipation and fright, freely offering themselves like stemmed fruit to whomever might wish to pluck at them. Polly allowed herself the same sexy gait. Indeed, we almost could not help it. The binding of our hands, with our elbows upraised over our heads, made our naked bulbing bottoms somehow freer. We were all bottom, it seemed, with our smooth bellies offering themselves up as vacant wombs, ready to be filled and bloated; our breasts were but udders on which future infants might suck, our pussies so mysteriously dipping into our legs, where their unseen cleft provided entrance to the burrowing male. Our legs were but columns upon which we bounced the hemispheres of our bottoms, transporting them, as it were, to the scene of future delights and depravities.

I heard a gasp. “Oh!” a female voice said behind me. I wanted to turn but found it difficult with my hands bound up behind me. There was a shuffling of feet. A laugh, as if a girl’s, then the deeper, more mature, knowing laugh of a woman. I blushed. I could not see those who had found me. Lovers, playing in the castle. One of them knew at least what my fate was. I heard a man laugh last, he seemed to straighten his sleeves and his cufflinks as he did it. Pipe smoke reached my nose from somewhere off behind myself. I had been seen. My plight was known. They would whisper of it in the castle and know my screams when they heard them that night. I must vow not to cry out. I did not want to embarrass myself. If I must serve Louis’ wicked delights, let it be, but God I did not want to entertain others with it. Polly, I think, was too far ahead of me to hear. I brought up the rear. Sylvia and Joanne walked ahead with Rose, through the castle’s labyrinthine hallways, as if walking point in the jungle, spreading out at the spearhead of our column to check for enemy entrapments. With my hands imprisoned it was impossible to think of escape. I knew those laughing at my predicament would never permit it. No one would, here at the castle. Girls were expected to resist and were ‘helped’ merely to obey, nothing more. I watched Polly’s backside. It jigged with youthful eagerness, quite taut and pretty, as if she might be going to a backyard pool to swim with friends. We passed by a collection of whips on the wall, amidst the decorative paintings and tapestries; I saw her bottom cheeks tighten apprehensively, her pace quicken, then she slowed again as the hideous display of whips receded behind us. Our bare feet slapped noisily upon the floor. We were gollums going fishing in our cave.

We passed at last through a door that led us into the open air of the backyard. A white-columned sunroom beckoned. I stepped onto its brick floor. The bricks were warm from the sun. Gauzy white muslin swags hung like tremulous female panties beneath the sunroof’s glass ceiling, providing us with a kind of nebulous shade underneath. We collected around a patio table and sat down on white wicker chairs with generous cushions. A vase of fresh-cut flowers was placed on our table by the old woman maid. She surveyed Polly and I with eyes that knew too much. Had she witnessed our struggles on the diapering tables? Did she know what the evening promised for us? Her bottom was large, long past its prime, rolling with her accumulated flesh of many years. Ours, perched a bit anxiously on our cushions, were small and tight and white and squeamish. I could not tell whether she envied us, pitied us, or only mocked us in her mind. Sylvia received a key from Rose’s hand and unlocked my hands, then Polly’s. Gratefully I brought them down from behind my head and felt their freedom. They hurt from being bound up, but I knew the discomfort would pass quickly. I turned my wrists and inspected them. I still wore the steel manacles, but they were so light I hardly felt their presence anymore. Our dog collars, like our manacles, were left on. We would need them again, I knew, but I tried not to think of their purpose. My collar hugged my neck. It provided certainty. Though my bottom trembled beneath me, my collar reminded me of my place and showed me that there was no changing it. I must learn to simply understand and accept. I must say ‘yes’ to it, I knew, and nothing more, like a woman finally must when she wants a child. She must accept the man, and the changes that come. She must accept the enlargement of her body, the pain at birth, and rising at midnight to feed and diaper. And then, when the baby is my age, she must accept letting it go. There is no good in keeping it penned up, like an animal, for its ‘protection’ until 18. This I knew. My mother had known it once too, but she’d forgotten. She did not want to grow old. She did not want to be replaced in men’s minds by me. She wanted me small always, too young to kiss, to young to draw men’s eyes away from her. She had accepted having me, but she could not accept letting go of me. I was young now, not her. She must let go of the idea that she was forever young, and I was forever too young. She was old now. I was the one who was young. Springtime was for me now. Springtime and summer. She must resign herself to fall and winter; to menopause, then gray hair, finally wrinkles and old age. It would come whether or not I grew up, or stayed ‘protected’ in her house. It would come as surely as the passing of summer into fall. Yet she fought it, making trouble for both herself and me. It did not help. It only made things worse. It had made me run away and now, perhaps, it brought me to the castle whose name I dared not say to myself. Or maybe, this time, I was on my own journey. Discovering, exploring. Could I blame my mother for this? I looked at Rose. She let her eyes pass over me without seeing me, or so it seemed, yet I knew she drank me in with a passion, consuming me with her gaze. Polly and I were like her little pets, puppies at Christmas. She had tied collars round our necks to keep us. I had traded my mom for Rose. Yet mom offered nothing. Only homework, studies, and ‘goals.’ Sexless goals, of course. Here, sex lay parturient within the very walls, the table we sat at, the cushions we sat on. The flowers bloomed with it. It was everywhere, all encompassing, yet always just about to come forth, never bursting in as one might think, except at special moments. Here I could feel myself right out to the ruby tips of my breasts, my naked breasts, and my boldly naked bottom sitting on the white cushion beneath me. I opened my legs beneath the table. I felt the wantonness of my bare clitty and loved the way my pussy seemed to part just a little with my legs, offering itself. There was nothing to protect me. Nothing. I was nude, Venus-like, and I would rise from the seabubbles of innocence into the open air of knowing, seeing all. From the depths of Ocean, mother-like, shrouding me, I would spring upon the beach of life and confront the lifeguard men who ruled there, the women who strolled there, the other girls. ‘Look!’ I would say. ‘I’m here. Me! Fleury. I have a body with tits and a bottom that sits and a cunny that wants it. Give me what is mine. Don’t hold me back or keep me from it. I have the password now, called ‘breasts.’ See? Here they are. Now show me what this world is all about, and let me take it within myself.

Joanne and Sylvia did not sit with us at table. They sat on hassocks in front of vacant chairs by the wall, perhaps to more readily serve us, yet they had enceinte demeanors, pregnant, as if awaiting something that must happen yet unable to control it. Royal peonies spilled abundantly from hanging baskets. Rose sat down with us at table, casually, and told the maid to bring us summer drinks. They arrived with their straws thrust through fruit. Mine had a lemon speared by a straw, Polly’s drink had a cherry. Crushed ice coated the surface of our drinks. I sipped mine. Vodka, I think, watered down, made pleasant with a sampling of fresh lemonade. Polly removed her straw and ate the cherry. Then she gulped her drink.

“Mmmm, good!” Polly pronounced, setting her glass down at last, quite empty. Rose lifted a linen napkin from the table and wiped a cherry-frosted mustache off Polly’s upper lip. Joanne, finding garlands on the chair behind her hassock, rose and placed them on our heads. They were made of daisies and dandelions. Had they been left by other partiers? They were freshly woven. Perhaps their party had been interrupted by life’s other necessities. Polly received hers without noticing, as if she were the Mayfair queen, entitled to such a crown. I touched mine, felt the pliancy of the stems and their budding flowers.

The maid with her heavy burden of flesh shrouded in an apron and dresses brought Rose a Bloody Mary.

“Oooh! What’s that?” Polly inquired as soon as it had been presented at Rose’s place. The woman let Polly take it and sip it. Polly held the glass with both hands.

“Yuck!” Polly declared, giving Rose her glass back. Polly, perhaps remembering her lesson in manners from the linen napkin, wiped her mouth but, seeking to retain her youthful indulgences, perhaps, used the back of her hand. Rose took back her Bloody Mary and drank it with confidence, in long draughts. The maid asked Joanne and Sylvia what they wished to have.

“A screwdriver, please,” Joanne replied.

“A stinger,” Sylvia said. Joanne shifted on her hassock a little, glanced at Sylvia. They were as bare-bottomed as Polly and I, though permitted to wear dresses. Clothes seemed to be worn as a kind of rank by the girls here at the castle. The newest, like Polly and I, must go naked, and with our restraints freely showing and freely used. Girls with some experience, like Joanne and Sylvia, were allowed clothes, but they were worn so as not to interfere with their use as sexual objects. Men might simply bend them over and take them from the rear, or have them sit on their laps, with nothing protecting them from the penis which sprung up there. Their breasts, too, were kept on view, as statues offer their loins and bosoms, hiding them from no one, displaying their form and function to all comers. Maria our maid brought drinks for the girls. I learnt her name because Sylvia used it, telling her to add extra brandy. “Do not dilute it too much,” she said. “I want it raw.” Maria said nothing, did not nod, but when she brought the drink she waited while Sylvia sipped it and found it met with her approval.

Polly requested another drink. I don’t know if she knew it was alcoholic. She had downed the first one like a glass of punch. Rose did not object. It was brought. Polly gulped her drink, ate the cherry, much as before.

“Polly,” Rose said, waiting until the girl had finished her second drink. “Tonight, when you are asleep, I’m going to have someone come and whip you.”

Polly’s eyes bulged and her head shot up from the rim of her glass, where she’d been sucking up the remains of her drink.

“Whipped?!” Polly announced. “Oh, I don’t like that!”

“It is necessary, Polly,” Rose said quietly. She looked at Joanne and Sylvia. “Stand up and show me your bottoms, girls. Have you two been put to punishment lately?”

Joanne and Sylvia rose. For a moment Sylvia lost her brash, almost over-confident demeanor as they both bowed their heads and turned their backs to us. With a quickening heart I saw their derrieres, nude as my own, but plumper, fuller. They reminded me of myself. I could see their tan lines where their bikinis would normally be, if they sunned by the pool when the workmen were present. Here, in our sheltered sunroom, there was no need for such modesty. Well trained, both girls bent forward and mooned their mistress. Not to do so would have been an offense, just the opposite from conventional society. Their figs showed between their legs, soft and neatly cleft and inviting. Their bottoms had not a mark upon them, despite a month of training at the castle.

“Sylvia, you are to be branded soon, are you not?” Rose asked with cool aplomb. She sipped at her drink. The maid, moving about and between us, had given her a new bloody mary. She lit a cigarette for Rose and Rose accepted it between her fingers, holding it, letting the smoke curl up like daydreaming thoughts on a summer afternoon. Somewhere in the distance I thought I heard the roll of thunder. The air seemed suddenly oppressive.

“Yes, ma’am,” Sylvia replied. “With your permission.”

Rose flicked ash from the end of her cigarette. She took a puff on it and then replied, as the girls remained bending, “Not with my permission, love. With your boyfriend’s permission. Or should I say your fiancee?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sylvia answered.

“You wish the brand to signal your complete commitment to him?” Rose inquired.

“Yes,” Sylvia answered. A little shudder ran down her spine and her bottom waggled invitingly.

“In the old days, I won’t say in my day, but in the old days,” Rose confided aloud to Polly, as the girl watched her puff again on her cigarette, “In the old days girls saved themselves for marriage. Now, of course, girls hardly save themselves beyond the seventh grade. So new ways of showing commitment are necessary. Piercing, tattooing, branding. I suppose it’s preferable to abstinence, eh, Polly? Have you saved yourself for marriage, Polly?” Rose asked.

“Noo- Not quite,” Polly gulped. Her titties were shaking at their tips, perhaps from nervous apprehension of what Rose was promising for her evening’s entertainment.

“You may turn around and sit back down, girls,” Rose told Sylvia and Joanne. “It’s obvious I haven’t been rough enough with you. Your boyfriends will want a refund if I don’t break you both in more thoroughly. A sound whipping for you both tonight. No more drinks, either. I want you to feel every bite of the leather. Then, tomorrow night, you’ll both go dancing downtown without underpants, in short skirts. That’s how you were both brought to me. Do you remember? Without panties, fresh from club-hopping. Well, tomorrow night we’ll see how much enthusiasm you have for leaving your undies off, when every little twist of your body threatens to show everyone at the disco how you’ve been whipped.”

“Please,” Joanne began, fidgeting a little in her chair, although Sylvia seemed to take a certain masochistic pleasure in the thought of what would happen.

“For that, my dear Joanne, you will enjoy a slim dildo up your behind when you go dancing, in addition to your whipping. Such entertainment you’ll provide, if you don’t keep your skirt very proper-like! But I’ll insist you both wear the handkerchief-sized numbers you were brought to me in. Smile, Joanne. Have you ever read Story of O?”

Joanne gulped. “My-my boyfriend made me read it before he brought me here. Aloud. To him, and once to him while he was playing cards with his men friends on Friday night.”

“So, you see? Did O get to go dancing? I think not. But you do, my dear. So be happy. A nice whipping will put some color into those white cheeks of yours!”

“Will-” Polly spoke up, lifting her chin, as if to intrude into the conversation that she might not be forgotten. I think, like me, she had a craving to be the center of attention. It’s the undoing of many beautiful girls, and despite her tender years she was surely one of the most promising 13-year-olds I’d ever seen in the beauty department. Save for myself, of course. I wasn’t about to let the thought that my pipsqueak pal might outclass me intrude into my head. “Will my whipping be a quick one?” Polly inquired.

Rose took another drag on her cigarette and laughed. It was full, hearty laugh, shaking her breasts. Despite her modest attire, she wore no bra underneath it. “Quick? Quick?! No, dear, it will take as long as Branson can manage it, or his assistant, whoever it may be, seeing as I’m having four of you whipped tonight. No, it is exquisite to feel pain in such a forbidden place; on your bottom and, if the cheeks are offered properly, within its crack. How often do you feel pain in your bottom, hmmm, Polly? Your teeth might hurt, or your arm, or your foot, but not your bottom, I’ll bet. Tonight Branson will help sensitize that part of your anatomy. Your pretty tail will be awakened and blessed with the sharp kissing of the whip.

“Will Andre be there?” Polly asked. Her face had a resigned look to it yet her questions kept popping out, like a child asking about a test in school, or a shot.

“He may, or may not be, dear. It is of no matter to you,” Rose answered. “You are to concentrate entirely on yourself. Think of nothing but your bottom. Think of how you wish to be a good girl and serve Andre always, and will do anything to submit to his wishes, whatever they may be. And, in married life someday, you’ll find such an attitude inspires the male to serve you. Divorce is prevented, and children do not wind up shuttling between two pairs of parents who both hate and denounce the other. Bridal whippings are quite necessary, Polly, and I expect Andre to say “upsy-daisy!” to you quite frequently, if you do eventually marry him, perhaps even once or twice in front of company, just to keep you on your toes. Selfless service is so important in marriage, and I do think modernly it’s been almost completely forgotten!”

“Well, I don’t want to get married, if that’s the case,” Polly said snippily, and quite sincerely. Yet she did not hop up from the table, or run away, as I feared she might, perhaps even causing me to do the same. Instead she sat right there on her bare tushy, keeping it planted in the deep white cushion that felt so nice now but promised to be a discomfort, despite its utter softness, in the morning. Oh, why did the night have to come? Surely this day in all its pleasantness might last forever! Our little tea party was so nice, just us girls, with the maid attending to our every need. Even as I reflected upon my current happiness Rose asked us if we wished to drink Purple Slurples and, just as we nodded yes, the maid appeared, laden down with them, huge glasses filled with Orange sherbert and Lemon-lime soda and Cranberry-grape juice, their straws stemming tall, a wedge of pineapple stuck into the icy depths of each one to give it a tropical flavor.

“Mmmm, with a bendy straw too!” Polly said, her eyes widening happily. She put the straw to her mouth and filled her cheeks with the fluid. I tasted great, I admitted to myself, quickly devouring my own glass. I drew my thighs a little closer together, realizing I’d soon have to pee. Should I pee right here, on this cushion, with my bare tush perched atop it, my thighs all sleek and naked and my pussy exposed? It would be fun, I thought naughtily. It would probably totally ruin Rose’s little party. I felt guests step out on the deck of the sunroof behind us.

“Oh, what have we here?” a cultured woman’s voice asked. Polly and I looked over our shoulders, lifting our glasses as we turned so we could keep right on sucking at our drinks. Two women had entered our little hideaway, accompanied by a man. He was dressed in a sportcoat and slacks, no tie. He was tall and had bold eyes. I liked his frame. Broad shoulders, long legs, hands that spoke of an iron grip. And, letting my eyes fall immodestly to his crotch, I saw that a bulge was forming there even as he looked at me!

Coyly I turned back around to face Rose. More than ever I felt the nakedness of my pussy between my legs. The women approached. One, dressed in a very slick dress that molded her figure right down to her last curve, put her hands on my shoulders. I had small shoulders, almost too narrow for someone my age. When her hands settled possessively on my shoulders it caused my breasts to quiver. They were almost too big for me, big and round and perched high up, but with a protruding fullness to them that made men like Louis seek my company.

The male took up postillion beside her, standing over me and gazing down at my chest, while the female who had been with them drifted over to Joanne and put a hand to her lovely pinned-up hair.

“May we share her?” the woman behind me asked Rose, indicating me, and speaking with an artlessness that I found made me breathless.

“A threesome?” Rose asked, drawing upon her cigarette with pursed lips that made her look like Marilyn Monroe posing for a picture.

“What else?” the woman behind me answered. “When do you need her back?”

“By nightfall,” Rose replied. She lowered her eyes to my level and looked at me frankly. “Fleury, I should not let you take your pleasure so soon in your training but...” A loud clap of thunder interrupted the rest of her sentence. There was a flash of lightning. As if to protect me, the woman behind me bunched her hands over my shoulders, squeezing them together, making my tits protrude all the more.

“I-I suppose I could,” was all I said in reply. It seemed that no more was needed for, as soon as I spoke, the woman snaked her fingers under my armpits and drew me up.

“God, what an ass!” her male friend exclaimed as my heinie was lifted from the cushion. Outside it began to rain in a sudden burst. I wondered if he would come as quickly as the rain had.

“May I take my drink?” I asked suddenly. I reached for my Purple Slurple. The woman laughed quietly. She said I could. I picked it up from the table, looked at Polly, and said, “Bye, bye, Polly.” She gazed at me like a little girl watching a friend called away from a specially important game for dinner. Her straw even popped from her lips, depriving her of the taste of her Purple Slurple.