I sat obediently with my lover at dinner. I sipped my Chardonnay but said nothing. We'd met just last month. I'd taken several male lovers since my "sinful sojourn," as my mother called it when holding tea in the parlor for her friends. She had taken to relieving her mortifaction at my not turning out "her way," as she liked to call it, by publicly humiliating me in front of her friends. But I'd culled a few secrets from her old photos and letters that told me the 60's weren't the placid decade of civility and conformity that she now claimed they were.

"Well," she would say, over her teacup. "We did have to protest the social injustices of the time. Vietnam, civil rights. But otherwise we went to class and did our homework and trained ourselves to be modern working women," my mother would patiently explain to me. "Styles are styles, my dear, and the media is always full of hype. Now go do your homework, and that doesn't mean Ôgo chat up men on the Internet.' I can read your e-mail now, so don't think I won't catch you."

And she'd nod to her friends and they'd all chime in on how important it was to "protect the safety of a child," namely, me.

I'd taken back my old name, "Fleury," short for "Fleurette." But I'd changed it a little in my 14th year of life. "Furry," I was known as now, and you can probably guess what my boyfriends thought of when they called me that.

I was no longer trying to grow up. I felt dreadfully mature, in fact. Trying to keep my various men friends and boyfriends from killing each other while still actively liking me was no easy job. That's why I was so happy when I met Louis. He was French, full of money, and with a sly, overpowering manner that absolutely guaranteed a girl she'd bear at least one of his children, whether she wished to or not. He made it possible for me to forget my other boyfriends, gorgeous as they all were. He expected me to focus fully on him, to think of him all the time, even if he skipped asking me out and I knew he was making love to another woman just to force me to pout and see other men. And, of course, the whole time I'd be with some other man I'd be thinking of him, spoiling to get revenge. When we'd meet I'd be eager to wreck his hopes, but find myself embraced in his arms instead, melting like butter.

And so it was I sat at dinner now, in one of Montevideo's best restaurants, watching the moon rise over the sea and the homely fishing vessels as they trundled out for a night's hard work amidst the waves. My panties were tucked into the breast pocket of his $1400 dollar jacket. He'd dared me to take them off and, infuriating me at last with his teasing, I'd slingshotted them at him when the waiter's back was turned and the other diners seemed occupied. I think a middle-aged lady saw me, but no one else. Except, of course, our dinner guests, Polly and Andre.

"You should send her to Traflangier," Andre chuckled, still amused that I'd shot my panties at my boyfriend.

"Eh, you know what they call that place," Louis replied. He dabbled with the plastic sword sticking up from his Daiquiri. He leaned close to Andre, speaking low, but not so low that I couldn't hear. "Cunt Castle."

"Hmmm?" Andre asked. He looked pleasantly startled. Polly shot me a look of disgust and rolled her eyes, as if to say, ÔMen!' That one word said it all. But I didn't mind. I was enthralled with Louis. Polly was just 13. She reminded me of myself a year ago, except she was more like my mother, always trying to be prim and proper. I think she loved Andre despite herself. She still had her panties, though from the length of her dress you'd have wondered whether she intended them as underwear or outerwear.

"It was intended as a place of sexual liberation in the 60's, run by an old pharmacist who used to hand out his homemade drugs to the kids like they were candy. Then, in the 70's, as his flock grew a little older, it became a Ôsex for health' place, for people who weren't into jogging 20 miles a day but didn't mind spending lots of time each day humping in bed. ÔSexual therapy and then sexual recovery' came into vogue in the 80's, with everyone in the final days disavowing their sexual past as they feared their newly-born children might one day walk in their ways." Louis took a deep drag on his cigarette and exhaled. "He died about then, Ô87 or so. For awhile the place lay dormant. Then his estate was finally settled and his niece took it over. Nowadays she runs it as a place where girls can be taken to Ôreceive instruction,' as she puts it. Men take their wives there, or their lovers." Louis shot a glance at me. "Or a girl might take her manly boyfriend there, it makes no difference."

Louis lifted his hand from his drink and fiddled with my panties. Part of them stuck out the top of his pocket, and I was wishing he'd stick them all the way down in so no one would see. "And so the place is alternately called ÔCunt Castle,' or ÔCock Castle,' depending on which version of the eroticized estate most suits your fancy. As for me, I propose a suggestion. You and I might send Polly and Furry there for two weeks, and then later, they might send us."

A shiver ran down my spine. Immediately I knew somehow he'd pull it off. And I knew something else too. Despite his words, I knew he'd never let me send him there. No, it would just be me. My mind swirled. What must it be like to be taken someplace by your husband, or your lover, and made a love slave for a week? How long was it? Did he say a week, or was it two weeks? I'd found a book once in my dad's dresser, when I was snooping around. It was under his underpants. Probably a fitting place for it, too. Story of O'revoir, or something. O? Au revoir? I couldn't remember. Maybe it was the book version of 9 1/2 weeks. I'd seen part of the movie once, late at night, after Leno. Well, this was 2 weeks. Yes, that was it. Two weeks. Polly looked not the least amused, but I found myself a little intrigued. And I could hear a little voice somewhere inside me warning me away. Ôno, furry, and change your name back too, you can't go there, your mother will report you missing and...'

That's why I liked Louis. My other men friends worried constantly that they might get in trouble seeing me. Louis absolutely did not care. He knew my mother had her Ôsurveillance radar' on me 24 hours-a-day. He knew if I disappeared for two weeks there'd be no way to hide it from my mother. And now here he was, smoking his head off, not caring the least about the Surgeon General, and proposing sending me to some weird castle or something where I'd get to play Geisha Girl for two weeks. Polly was right. Men!

"Alright," I heard Andre agree. And I realized I must have missed some crucial bit of their conspiratorial conversation, the words spoken just quietly enough to force Polly and I to strain forward to find out what they had planned for us. "The price is steep, but it would be worth it to make this bitch more agreeable." He pinched Polly's thigh. She flinched, frowned. She looked like a cat who, seeing a canary, wants it but remembers the last one had given it indigestion. My cat ate a bird once, one that had eaten pills intended for pigeons. Only a fast trip to the vet had saved her. My mother insisted on giving her away a year later when we moved. I wanted to run away, to go back for her, but I got lost trying, and the police delivered me home at 9 o'clock that night to a cold supper and stern words from my father. I know the real reason mother insisted on giving away my cat. It was pregnant, and she didn't want me to know about sex. But I knew. I saw her getting fat and a friend had told me the reason. Mother maintained we were feeding her too much, and actually cut back on her food. I had to feed her surreptitiously under the table.

"Okay," Louis said. He smiled at me. Nothing more was said between them. He ordered dessert for us. Cherry Rhubarb pie. A little sweet, a little sour. Was it a way of telling us what they had in mind for us? I didn't know. I ate mine slowly, savoring the tangy mixture, yet contemplating it to, wondering if I should let Louis lead me into his fantasy of me being his absolute, total slave. I had no illusions. That's what it would come to. Utter subservience to his will. I felt a thrill deep inside myself as I wondered whether I should accept this, or run to the maitre de, explain I was only 14, and that Louis was not my father at all but my illegal lover. The police would come quickly, he would be whisked away. Or he might harm me. There's no telling what an enraged man might do. Then again, if I slipped away, to use the toilet, he would never know. My daddy would protect me from him. But my daddy screwed my mother every night. He was mine, but...

Louis was mine altogether. Well, he loved other women, but I hoped he loved me most of all. If I said Ôno' to him I knew I'd lose him. Oh, what to do? What to do? I looked at Polly. She was complaining about her dessert. Andre was quite indulgent. She explained to him in her high- pitched voice that while the cherries were fine, the rhubarb was much too sour. And, come to think of it, the crust was not flaking properly. Her mother made much better crusts than this. Andre nodded patiently. Louis rolled his eyes, accepted that the girl must be listened to. I liked the way Louis rolled his eyes. So worldly. Yet, as I gazed at Polly, I noticed how freely her breasts shifted within her blouse. It was tight. She had let her jacket become unbuttoned. Andre liked toying with her clothes while she was eating. I saw that Polly's blouse was tented where her nipples were. She was excited by all the attention she was receiving, both from Andre and Louis. Why had she not worn a bra? I had a bra on, a nice black one, with my vest neatly buttoned over it, to give just a hint of it out the top. Yet she, with her jacket now opened, showed everyone how thin her blouse was and how stiff her nipples were. I glanced around. Did anyone else see besides us? Oh well, we girls have a right to skip our bras if we wish, but... This was an elegant, high-class restaurant, not a nightclub. The waiter returned. Andre made to order a cherry pie, without the rhubarb, but after her long soliloquy Polly seemed not to wish to change her order after all. I knew then she just wanted to be noticed, paid attention to. I was jealous. Here she was, cheating, with her nipples all erect and her blouse treacherously thin, with even Louis watching her now instead of me. Should I slip away to the ladies room and ditch my bra? That would top her, me sticking my bra in the waste bin where it might be seen by the other ladies, and returning, sitting down, with my breasts noticeably bare beneath my little vest.

The waiter, at a nod from Louis, presented the bill. Louis handed him a $100.00 bill and rose. We were leaving, just that suddenly. Polly, more or less finished with her pie by now, took a quick sip of her coffee and the four of us were outside the restaurant within the minute. I felt the cool night air brush against me beneath my skirt, my panties still tucked neatly in Louis' pocket. I reached for them, for the bit of them that stuck up, in his jacket, where he might have worn a carnation instead of using my underwear. With a suave movement he brushed my hand away. He wanted to keep them. I gritted my teeth and realized I would have to bear up without them. I felt so cool, so free. There was absolutely nothing underneath my dress. The wind caught it. My hands leapt to my thighs, trying to keep the doorman fetching our car from catching sight of my nakedness. I regretted wearing such a short dress now. Mother would never have approved, and now I knew why. It was not handkerchief-short, like Polly's but it was still way too short to run around in without any panties on.

Three couples passed us, the men in tuxes and the women wearing evening gowns. We nodded. I gripped my dress tightly, trying not to look obvious as to why. Louis' convertible rolled to a stop in front of us. The doorman hopped out. Discreetly he offered me his hand, and I hoped he'd not seen anything in his lazy roll up the last few feet of the restaurant's driveway. Or the couples, for that matter. With people in front of us, behind us, I wished to get into the safety of Louis' car as quickly as possible. The doorman opened the side door and seated me. I made sure my skirt got tucked right up under my bottom. Louis plopped into the driver's side seat as Polly and Andre got in back.

"Louis!" I hissed. But he ignored me. As the car pulled away he removed my panties from his pocket and handed them to the doorman.

"She won't be needing these," he grinned. The doorman smiled back, glanced beyond him to me, and I hunched as fast as I could into a humiliating crouch on the front seat. Behind me I heard Polly giggle into her hands. Andre failed to suppress a chuckle.

"Louis! That was awful!" I sulked.

"You are young, I am young, the night is young, and we are free," he said, a whisp of the poetic in his voice, the lights of the restaurant passing away behind us and a starry sky opening up ahead. I sat up a little. I felt the long silkiness of my hair flow out behind me and into Andre's face. He was forced to move a little closer to Polly to get out of my hair. She moved a little bit away, keeping her distance. She did not want him toying with her clothes in the back seat, for she knew she'd lose them if he did. Passersby would find 13-year-old girl's panties on the road the next day, a sock, a shoe, and think the worst.

Louis turned on the radio. My favorite song wafted into the night. Up on a down escalator. A remake, by a new band. Or at least that's what Louis said. I'd never heard the original. I began to sway to the tune. I did feel free. I wasn't at home, like I was Ôsupposed' to be, doing my homework. I wasn't even chatting with guys on the Internet. My mother should at least be happy for that! You never know who you're talking to on the Net. It makes it exciting, but it can be a drag to. I was sure I was talking to Sylvester Stallone for three whole weeks and then it turned out to be the nerd down the street. He collected Stallone movies and I found out (after the fact, of course) that he even published a zine about Stallone called ÔMillions of Cunts and Dead Bodies.' He probably knew more about Stallone than Stallone himself did. So I wound up being in his stupid zine. When our Ôrelationship' fell apart he wrote, ÔBimbo Stoned on Stallone,' and put all kinds of things in the story, including totally untrue stuff about me that he'd made up.

I saw the road was becoming thick with old trees, their branches obscuring the sky. Moss hung from some of them, almost reaching into our car as we passed. I shivered a little. An owl passed overhead, startled by our passing. In back Polly was prattling about her mother's pie crust, and how she sometimes made home-made lollipops for her, and Polly and her little sister would peddle them round the neighborhood in a wagon.

"And this boy, he always tries to get them for 50 cents instead of a dollar," Polly declared, quite caught up in her recital. "He says our lollipops aren't WORTH a dollar! Well, if they're not worth a dollar, what is he doing standing there arguing with us, when it says right on our wagon, Ôlollipops, $1.00' Don't pull on my jacket, Andre. It's special. My grandmother bought it for me. Anyways, I think he should just read our sign, and if he doesn't want any, he should just let us be. Finally we made a sign that said Ôlollipops for girls only' and..."

I let my mind detach itself from Polly's babble. She was a little girl sometimes, a moody teen other times. You could never tell which. I think she liked best getting some man totally absorbed in her life, listening for hours perhaps, and just having him sitting there, endlessly fascinated. It was certainly more than her dad did. He was a big fat guy who threw his rolled newspaper at her and told her not to interrupt him when he was watching T.V. Trouble was, he wasn't ever not watching T.V. And her mother was as much of a bitch as mine was. So we partied together. She'd done it already, several times, said she liked it but it had scared her at first. I tried to keep an eye on her a little, like a sister might. Not that she was my sister. She reminded me now and then that she was free to do as she pleased. But I kept a subtle watch over her, if I could. Like right now, I knew Andre was trying to slip her jacket off. She probably didn't even notice, except she kept batting his hand away as she talked. Her nipples stood up like thorns in the chilly night air. I think she was actually trying to button her jacket up but she was so preoccupied in telling her stories that she never quite got it accomplished. She liked to wave her hands around a lot to make her Important points, which were always quite numerous in her stories.

Suddenly the trees gave way and I saw, up on the heath, an old castle crumbling in the moonlight. Its turrets stood up starkly but you could see that time had eaten away at them. I think the Spanish had built the place as a fortress, to guard the harbor, but had not gotten much done with it before quitting. Then, later, a millionaire at the turn of the century had taken up residence, intending to finish it, only to go bankrupt, leaving it half-built, and wearing away in its original Spanish form from the storms that blew in off the coast each year. Gazing at it, I sensed it was otherworldly, its stones glimmering in the moonlight, half there, but also not there as much as it was there.

"It looks so strange," I said to Louis. Our small sportster began crossing the lea. I saw cows grazing on either side of the road. We were out in the country now, down the coast, coming at the castle in such a way that I guessed we'd been in the forest behind it, and would wind up at last smack in front of it, the road now curving round to affirm me, the pounding of the sea now reaching our ears as we ran along the edge of a cliff and soon found ourselves at the castle gate, with the sea at our backs, some 50 meters down where the rocks dueled endlessly with the waves.

The gate was closed, but I saw the latch might be lifted to let us in. Louis stopped the convertible and leapt out. For a moment I speculated on jumping into his seat and just driving away and leaving him there. But I was too young to drive. I might get in trouble. As I watched the swagger of his hips I knew I couldn't do it. He was such a rogue, and I loved him for it. He lifted the latch and the gate, with a loud creak, swung open fairly easily, its opening slowed only by its own rust, and by the sense I got that it had never been quite properly installed. Louis returned to the car, and we breezed on into the compound behind the castle's broken walls. I was reminded of Troy, after the entrance of the Trojan Horse, except here the problem was as much that the walls had never been built as that they had since been destroyed by the elements. I could see piles of shattered stone mingled with neatly stacked stones, waiting a century now to be built with, grass growing amidst them, their weight gradually sinking into the earth, returning to that primal bedrock from which they had once been quarried.

We glided to a stop in front of the castle's residence. It was a modern home built upon and within the stones that had made up the original unfinished fortress. Louis had me get out and guided me up to the front door. We must have been expected for, without knocking, he opened the door and let me in, waiting for Andre and Polly to step in behind us.

I found myself in an entryway floored with maple, potted plants sprouting flowers and vines, a living room beckoning just beyond. A woman emerged from the room. She was darkhaired, exquisitely dressed. She seemed a bit of a cross between a modern business woman and a lady in her home expecting to entertain guests. Her blouse was ruffled, long- sleeved. She wore a patterned vest over it with a long flowing dress cinched round her narrow waist that hung in folds down her legs to her shoes. They were modest, not spiked high heels like Polly and I wore, but not flats either, sort of inbetween, elevating her just enough to give her a graceful, self-assured dignity without being showy. I immediately felt a sense of warmth and comfort seeing her. She smiled at us. Louis took me by my elbow and squired me into her living room.

We sat down on a brocaded couch. A primly dressed young woman dressed in a maid's white blouse and black skirt brought us tea. I took the cup, saw it was excessively fragile, held it with a little trepidation. I thanked the maid and took a sip. It was delicious!

"Jasmine, with a twist of Orange," our hostess smiled. "The cup is from before the war. I do so like authentic things, you know. I was surprised to find the set of them here, still intact, given my uncle's antics." She glanced at Louis and I thought I saw a knowing look pass between them. I gulped. Was she really a hedonist? She looked so proper, a new traditionalist, like someone you might find at the health food store sifting beans with a pitcher, worried that Campbell's might give her lymph node cancer or whatnot.

Louis engaged her in a pleasant conversation about the weather up on the heath. She said it could be windy sometimes. Polly said she was glad it wasn't windy tonight since she'd already found her dress Ôliked to be up more than down,' as she put it, on nights when the wind blew. It was short enough that a good gust might completely lift it and wrap it inside out around her waist.

Our hostess, who went by the name of Rose, laughed. She said Polly's sort of dress was a favorite of hers in her high school days, and with legs as excellent as Polly's she shouldn't feel the slightest remorse in picking such a revealing skirt.

"Stand up, girls," Rose said to us quite abruptly. "I'm sure your boyfriends have seen you in your bikinis before. Strip down to your bra and panties, each of you. I want to see how pretty you are in them."

Anxiously I stood. I'd wondered when she'd broach the reason for our visit here. Couldn't we just sit and sip tea? It was so nice, the room was so pleasant, decorated in a style a woman might choose for our home. Yet, rising up, I felt Louis' eyes running up my legs, and Andre's too, hoping to catch a glimpse of what should have been concealed beneath my skirt but wasn't.

Polly stood up too, like a child at a recital might stand, as if to play a song and sing a melody, and win a prize. She liked being the center of attention. I, however, seeing the maid return, felt less sanguine, less Pollyannish. Was I to bare myself in front of her? I tried to clear my throat.

"Ma'am, I'm--" I began. How could I hint to her that I didn't HAVE any underwear on?

"Just unzip it," Rose said, still seated, waving her finger like a man might, commanding.

"Ohhh, I don't mind, I guess," Polly announced. "Could we go down to the beach perhaps? I don't have my swimsuit but I could swim in my panties." She unzipped herself, the fiend, leaving me with little choice to follow, as the mens' eyes all turned to her to watch. I zipped down my dress in back and we both pushed our miniskirts down our legs to our ankles.

"Oh!" the maid exclaimed, seeing my naked bush.

"She's new," Rose said, grinning with a sideways glance at the maid. She spoke to me, as if confidentially, as if between friends. I with my dress round my ankles and she with her lovely clothes that covered her from neck to toe, sitting as I stood before her, Andre and Louis grinning at my back. Or, rather, a my body a little lower down...

Polly laughed. "I'd forgotten you shot your panties at Louis!" she laughed. She bent and picked up her dress and stood momentarily, not knowing what to do with it. Then Louis, the devil, reached out and took it from her, making her beam. I think she had a thing for my Louis. Perhaps she hoped to have both he and Andre eating out of her hands simultaneously, with me forgotten.

"And your blouses, dears," Rose added.

"Oh, I don't have my bra on," Polly piped up. Suddenly it mattered to her that the maid was present, observing us. Maybe she didn't even want Rose to see her.

"You may go topless on the beach here in Brazil," Rose said to her.

"Yes, but my parents don't allow it," Polly replied.

"I'm not your mother," Rose said. "So take off your top. I won't tell."

Reluctantly Polly shed her jacket. I unbuttoned my vest, dropped it to the floor. Louis bent and picked it up. With a grin he passed it to Andre. What were they planning? Polly was having trouble getting her blouse off, having chosen to just pull it over her head instead of unbuttoning it, and she danced around on her tiptoes with the blouse up round her face and her panties entrancing the men. Her boobies, substantial in size for her age, wiggled freely. Her nipples were naughtily stiff, and I knew she was quite aware that both our boyfriends were eyeing her keenly.

I settled for a less acrobatic undressing. Reaching behind myself I unsnapped my bra. I did it without thinking, seeing Polly's breasts so grandly displayed, forgetting entirely that Rose had not requested it.

"My," Rose said, drawing the men's attention to me. "I like the no- nonsense approach."

"Whoosh!" Polly let out a great breath of air as she freed herself from her shirt. Her bosoms gave a final joyous wiggle, then gradually settled down. "Oooo, you're totally naked," Polly declared, seeing me.

"Well, I have my shoes on," I answered.

"Don't leave your friend like that," Rose told Polly. "And pick up your blouse. Don't just drop it on my floor." Contritely Polly picked up her blouse and gave it to her boyfriend. Then, shrugging and putting her hands in her panties, with a dubious glance at the maid, she yanked them with childish efficiency down her legs and walked out of them. "Pick those up too," Rose reminded her. Polly turned, bent over, picked up her undies. "Bring them to me," Rose ordered.

"To YOU?" Polly asked.

"Yes."

"Do as she says," Andre said gently. Polly complied, a bit puzzled. Rose accepted her panties, gave them a quick sniff, then beckoned me. I approached her, carrying my bra. I'd not had time to give it to Louis. Rose made me bend forward as if she wished to whisper something in my ear. Instead she bade me to open my mouth. Did she wish to inspect my teeth?

The panties! Before I could refuse, Rose had popped the entire wad of Polly's discarded underpants into my mouth.

"Oh, my!" Polly said. But Rose took her hand, keeping her from drawing away, and took my bra and pulled Polly down to her face by her hair. With Polly staring Rose right in the eyes, Rose bound my bra across Polly's rosebud mouth, forcing it between her lips, then tying it tightly in the mane of her hair at the back of her neck. "Ooooph!" Polly was reduced to saying, her wished-for protest cut off before she could give it. As for myself, I had only to reach into my mouth to take out her odious underpants (tasting them revolted me!) but somehow I sensed I must not disobey. Lightly, brushing my hand over my mouth, I touched them, but I did not remove them. The maid watched us both with ever-growing amusement. Behind us, our boyfriends were clearly enchanted.

"Good, you learn your lessons well," Rose said, seeing I had not removed her makeshift gag. "Keep it there, hold it in your mouth. It delights your boyfriend to see you so, and it delights Andre also." She turned her eyes back to Polly, who was hoping to untie the knotted bra at the back of her head. "No, Polly!" Rose told her. "When I attach something to you, you are to leave it there until I wish it removed."

The maid had skirted round behind us meanwhile and I felt her take both my arms and draw them back. I was complaisant. I did not think quickly enough. A moment later I felt cold steel bind my wrists and a telltale Ôclick' gave me the warning I'd wished I had sooner.

"Yes," Rose said. She lifted a fingernail and ran it down my belly. "How sweet you look all nude, with nothing but a gag and handcuffs to adorn you. And your pretty shoes, of course." I wished very much now to spit out Polly's panties but I felt Louis and Andre rise from the couch behind me and draw near. They both lifted weights, I felt a sudden sinking feeling that any disobedience on my part would do nothing to advance my interests and only make things worse for me.

Polly made to bolt away but the maid, expert at least in something, caught her before she escaped and managed to get one handcuff locked round her wrist. Andre, his hands reaching out to grab her, quickly immobilized her so that her other wrist could be attached to the first.

"Now, girls, I'm glad we have that out of the way," Rose said politely. She remained sitting still, all cultured and dignified. The men returned to the settee. The maid remained close, certain to intervene if we did not do as asked. I realized she was much stronger than she looked. I wondered if she worked out with men at the gym. Her figure did not show it, but I her arms, though slim, had a steel in them I'd not sensed earlier.

"Omopho," Polly began.

"Shhh," Rose scolded her gently. "You'll be here with me for two weeks, Polly. That's all. But I've entertained many girls like yourself and I really don't need to hear all your little complaints and protests. I myself was trained here, long ago, under my uncle's tutelage. And I was only seven, so you've nothing at all to complain of." She settled her hands in her lap and looked at us both. Her eyes admired our nudity.

"There is much that I must do with you both in two weeks, girls, and I expect strict compliance with all my requests. We haven't really any time for disagreements." The maid, who had, unnoticed by me, withdrawn briefly, now reappeared and passed into Rose's hands a most daunting object. A paddle, hard as oak and with holes cut through its center so it could be swung faster. "This is one of my friends that helps me keep order in my house," Rose said, receiving the paddle with a warm caress of her hands upon it. "I'm going to introduce both of you to it so we can understand what's at stake when I ask you to do something. Fleury, you're the oldest. You first." With that she pulled me right up to her knees and had me stand bending over them. "Don't drop your panties, or it'll be extras for you," Rose told me.

I bit into the silky cotton of Polly's panties and felt Rose raise her hand behind my bottom. For a moment I just stared at the rug. It was so lovely, deep-pile with interwoven threads of different shades of blue.

WAHACKCCK! I nearly jumped out of my skin as the paddle descended and hit my behind. What a smoking hand that woman had!

"Eeeeyahah!" I cried. I nearly regurgitated the panties in my mouth, spittle and all, the sting was so sharp. My bottomcheeks wobbled as if a thundercloud had shattered upon them. The pain reverberated across my hemispheres, impressing itself deeply and making me want to burst into tears.

"Two more," Rose said. Without waiting to hear from me she thundered in another blow. I did lose the panties this time.

"Eeeeeek!" I shrieked, loud and long and lusty. My poor heinie shuddered and felt for a moment like it had been pressed into a hot summer sidewalk. I gasped.

Rose waited a moment for me to quiet down.

"I'd prefer if you'd not wake my other guests," Rose said. She lifted her hand and toyed with my locks of hair. She brushed a few strands back from my eyes. "They turned in early, you know, and I'm sure they'd love to have you join them. But the male slaves are so rough. I don't want you too put out your first night here. One more, dear. I'll forgive the panties."

And with that she laid on the third stroke, as hard and firm and unforgiving as the first two had been. I screamed out my pain and collapsed over her knees, still so neatly covered by her conservative dress. I kicked up my legs and held my bottom like it was the last precious thing on earth. Tears welled in my eyes and I did not try to hold them back.

As I wept, the maid picked up Polly's panties from the floor. As soon as my sobs had subsided a little she stuffed them right back into my mouth.

Polly, for her part, had run and hidden behind the grand piano, but Andre had fetched her and now brought her to Rose. She was bent over amidst much gagged squawking and given three butt-thumping swats just as I had been. Louis, meanwhile, took me back to the sofa and had me sit my wounded bottom down on his lap. I could feel his thing rudely growing up between my asscheeks and I did not like it at all. How dare he be excited at my suffering? And yet it was undeniable that he was. As I squirmed with painful remorse upon his groin he grew bigger and bigger. His cockhead pushed deep into my crevice and I soon found my squirmings were actually impaling me upon him. I tried to shift my bottom but he restrained my legs, holding me by my naked thighs so that I was forced to relieve the sting of my fanny by grinding it into the upwardly rising stem of his thing. Finally I was able to sit still, sniffling, with Louis grinning his sardonic grin at me as Andre consoled Polly in a similar manner.

"Come, girls, we haven't all night," Rose said. She stood and beckoned us all to follow. We were led back into the entryway and, through a portiere, up a long flight of wooden steps. They were brightly polished. I had to be careful not to slip on the brightly waxed surface. Upstairs, with the noise of rowdy parties emanating from closed doors on either side of us, we walked down a long hall. At the back we were let into a little girl's bedroom.

What a pretty room it might have been, but it had, like the castle itself, a twin nature to it. I drew in my breath over Polly's panties as I saw that the lovely fourposter bed, intended to have a canopy, had instead made use of its four posts to allow straps to be fixed to them. I eyed the straps at the baseboard posts and guessed my own feet might soon make their acquaintance. Lifting my head, I was shocked to see straps hanging above for the feet or the arms to be placed in, should anyone wish it, while a mirror on the ceiling promised to reflect all back down upon the poor victim bound in the bed.

Next to the girl's bed was a painted nightstand, with flowers and decorative daisies embossed in small wooden embellishments upon its white surface. But atop it, next to the bottle of the Winnie the Pooh bubble bath, lay a heap of men's condoms. There was also a tube of lubricant and, next to that, a sinister looking device that I knew to be a speculum.

Rose turned to us both and met our eyes. We stood before her like disciples waiting to be crucified, all trembly kneed and with our bottoms still feeling like well-smacked jello. Our teats were hard, though, and my tummy swirled at the prospect of such complete subservience to Louis' wicked wishes. We had simply made love before, in our trysts. We had not gotten kinky.

30 ----------------------- Dreamgirls! -----------------------

Author: Andrew Roller

Copyright Andrew Roller