Lady fontaine

I slipped into the tanning salon. The attendant led me into a booth.
“Hi!” a familiar voice greeted me. I glanced over my shoulder. In the booth next to me was Debbie. I’d met her at the workout center. We’d exercised together several times. I smiled. She was a really nice person. Her body was sleek and lean. Her bottom jutted up with that impertinent heart-shaped thrust that men love. She wore flower-print bikini panties that left just a vee of material in back to seductively cover her peach. Not all of it, of course. Just enough to entice men to want to uncover what they couldn’t yet see. She seemed an expert at “winning the hearts and other parts,” as she liked to say, of men. Her top was undone, cast aside, lying forgotten on the floor. I glanced down at it. The floor was polished hardwood, softly glowing with a fresh coat of wax. Her top looked like a caught fish thrown up on the dock, then left behind by the fisherman. I lifted my eyes to her again. Her arms supported her head as she lay on her tummy. Her lovely breasts were compressed outward. Large and generous, she had only to lift herself up to display their dangling beauty to all who would see.
I breathed a hello to her and began undressing. I had much to take off, it was winter. The attendant stood by and collected my things for me, hung them in a little closet just outside our tanning booths. Stripped to my bikini, I reached back and undid my top. “You have lovely breasts,” I said to Debbie, freeing my own. They sprang out, large and firm. They were almost as big as hers, though I was a full year younger. She smiled at me, my titties. She raised herself up. Her prize beauties bounced with their fullness and she shook them at me, wantonly.
“Well, feast your eyes for the last time on them like this,” Debbie laughed. Her voice was soft, musical. “My boyfriend is going to pierce them tonight!” My breath caught in my throat. I could say nothing. As I stood there, facing her, our breasts bared, I lifted my hand to my throat. At last I found my voice.
“I didn’t know you were ready for that level of commitment,” I said quietly, almost afriad to speak, to acknowledge what she’d just told me.
“I am,” she nodded. She seemed to need me to nod back. Slowly, I did, not knowing why. She rose up. “Please be there with me,” she asked. Her eyes were moist, large. “I want someone to, you know, hold my hand, so to speak.”
“You want someone to get pierced with you!” I guessed, shocked. “To validate your decision.”
“Yes,” she admitted.
“I don’t know…” my voice trailed off. The attendant stood waiting, mute. A man, mexican, illegal, did he know what we were saying? He wished for me to lie down so he could turn on the lights and begin our session. He offered me sunglasses. I took them, slowly. I put them on to shield my eyes, leaving my bosoms bare, exposed. He offered glasses to Debbie. She took them also. She put them on to hide her eyes. Her nipples spoke to me, it seemed, their tips stiff. It was warm in here, yet her tits were hard. I brushed my own with my hand. Coral. I felt a warm rush, wanted to brush myself further down, in between, my secret place where my panties still modestly covered me. “Oh, God, Debbie!” I cried. I threw myself down onto my own leather-covered bench. I thrust my hands down by my sides. I wanted to yank down my panties, offer my bottom to the lights. The attendant flicked them on. A blue-green glare washed over us. I turned my head to Debbie. She was lying down again, on her tummy. There was a bubble of saliva in the corner of my mouth. I let it drool out onto the leather covering. The attendant offered us pillows. I accepted, put my head on it. Soft, so soft, under the bathing lights. Yet my nipples were rigid at the thought of pain. Of being run through with a sharp needle. I wanted the attendant to bring a stiff birch and whack my bottom with it, to punish me for my naughty thoughts. I’d never possessed such desires before. It was Debbie’s fault. I should get up and spank her right now. Run over to her and spank her fanny and then kidnap her away where no boyfriend could ever pierce her nipples with rings.
Later we rolled onto our backs. We lifted our bras up off the floor, placed them over our breasts to protect them. The lights browned our flesh. Lightly, not too deep. But we wanted our breasts snow white, to show off the contrast of our pink nipples. I felt again the desire to rip down my panties. But men like white pussies too, matching the breasts. And white bottoms. The better to see their marks when they whip us, I thought, though I’d never played such games. I looked over at Debbie. Had she? Her bra showed little points in it where her nipples stuck up into the fabric.
It was the dead of winter. Bundled in our winter things we rapped upon the wooden door. Debbie’s boyfriend stood behind us, tall and forboding. I felt like a little faun caught by the hunter. Furtively I glanced around me. Behind us the snow betrayed our footprints where we’d crunched though it in our new boots. Trees, stripped bare by winter, then partially reclothed with frost, stood silently by. Rising cliff-like before us was the house, set deep in a wood, far away from town, witch-like, where no one could hear what transpired inside. Lady Fontaine’s Piercing Salon. I expected a gypsy woman to answer, gnarled hands with a time-worn face, her fingers clutching pincers and needles.
The door swung open. A soft smile. Golden hair, full and wavy, down to her waist. The eyes, sparkling, dark green. A swedish accent. “Hello, are you Jeffrey?” She gazed over our heads, straight to Debbie’s boyfriend.
“I am,” he replied. Only then did she acknowledge us. We were his possessions. “Come in, girls,” she said. I felt like a first-grader being let into school. We padded inside. “You wish to have their nipples pierced?” our hostess asked Jeff. Again we were but children, he our father.
“I do.” His voice was firm, solemn.
“Take off your things, girls,” she told us. We were but chattles, highly prized, our breasts the most valuable off all, especially now, in their unpierced state. Tomorrow other girls would come, more valuable, their nipples fresh, longing for the sting like ours were now. We would leave ringed, possessed, committed. Spoiled brats opting for rings to show what we could not otherwise have; committment and long-term obligation in a world of instant gratification.
We got off our heavy coats, our mittens, earmuffs. Lady Fontaine watched us, helped us. She hung up our clothes for us. Reduced to our shirts and jeans, we made to sit down and remove our boots. They were patent leather, long, sheath-like. Jeff had bought them for us that very afternoon. “Leave the boots. The shirts, though, I must have those,” Lady Fontaine said. Of course. Our nipples. Playfully, but with a sense of forboding, we pulled off our shirts. Underneath we wore no bras. They were not needed. “Good. Come,” Lady Fontaine urged. She did not hang up our shirts. We tossed them on a chair and followed her. Out of the parlor we went, our bottoms wriggling nervously, tight-squeezed in our Calvins. Jeff followed, admiring. Before us our own tits bounced freely, announcing our presence to all who would see, yet none was there save Lady Fontaine. She glided ahead, wearing a blouse, cut off at the tummy, showing her belly. I’d looked into her navel for a ring, saw none. Below, on her hips, a miniskirt rode low. It was denim. A soft fur wrap kept her warm, tied loosely across her breasts, over her blouse, letting her belly show, hiding her back, the small of her back, where her blouse left her bare. Long boots, gripping her almost to the tops of her thighs, fur lined, soft animal skin on the outside, tawny, warmed her legs. I shivered. My nipples were perky from the chilliness of the house. Behind us Jeff followed, still dressed in all but his winter coat. Debbie and I were as jaybirds, naked save for our jeans and boots. I wanted my clothes back, knew I would not get them.
Lady Fontaine led us into a small, intimate dining room. A hardwood table. A picture window. Cold frosted, a panorama of snow showing beyond. In one corner warmth, emanating from a brazier. A branding iron lay within it. Off to one side, a set of needles. Rings, variously sized, slim chains of gold to connect them. Things for the cock also, little bells. On the wall a whip for recalcitrant patients. I shivered, making my tits quiver. I looked away, looked to the table. A bowl of fruit rested there. Summertime fruit. Flown in from Argentina. Picked by migrant laborers for our succulent pleasure. Apples, pears, oranges. A banana. Just one, for us to share, no doubt. Behind me Jeff nudged me with his groin. I felt his manhood, bulging.
“I do not want,” Debbie began, her voice soft, afraid. Her hand at her throat.
“Shush, darling,” Lady Fontaine scolded her. She put a finger to her lips. “The time is past now for wanting or not wanting. “You may play with your boyfriend’s emotions out there, in the real world. Here in my house you do as your boyfriend instructs, nothing else. And as I instruct you on his behalf.
“But –” Debbie began again. A glance from Lady Fontaine to Jeff. We both turned our heads, peripherally saw him nod, through the locks of our hair tumbling down past our angle of vision. Lady Fontaine advanced upon Debbie, Jeff grabbed her arms from behind. As I watched, shocked, unsure what to do, Lady Fontaine unsnapped Debbie’s jeans. She wrenched them down to my poor friend’s knees. Her legs, unsheathed halfway, looked skinny and white in the candlelit room. Our tans had been more an exercise in pampering, I realized, than anything else. Perhaps the Mexican had kept the UV light low to preserve our whiteness. To him our light skin was more precious than it was to us. What would he think if the whip were applied, marking it with terrible red lines?
Lady Fontaine laughed. A laugh of one experienced, who has seen much. Too much, perhaps. “Panties? Oh my, dear, you will not be needing those here. Let’s get those off right away too.” She yanked them down, right to her knees where the jeans wrapped her legs tightly like coiled blue rope. “There. Do you feel more in your place now, darling?” Lady Fontaine asked Debbie. Large-eyed, Debbie nodded. “Come, have a seat, then.” Lady Fontaine took Debbie by the hand and led her in baby steps to a chair. Jeff followed, pulled it out for his girlfriend. The chair’s cushion was made of expensive red satin, yet they plopped her right down on it, bare bottomed, and shoved her knees under the table. I wondered at it, felt a moistening in my nest and thought of Debbie and how she might stain the satin. This must be an expensive procedure, I realized, this nipple piercing courtesy of Lady Fontaine. This was no back street piercing parlor run by a tatooed wino. Here there was elegance, and utter depravity too, I realized, with a gulp. Jeff and Lady Fontaine turned to me, their eyes blazing with a sense of shared conquest. I did not want them enslaving me. Quickly, my fingers flying, I undid my own jeans.
“I can do it myself,” I offered. Jeff seemed both amused and disappointed. He was massive, a powerlifter. I felt myself in the presence of some white-skinned O.J. Simpson. Compliance was the only possiblilty. I shoved my pants down.
“Only to the knees,” Lady Fontaine said with a sense of mirth. I did as she said, taking down my panties with my jeans, a single movement that left me incapable of walking, save in the littlest of steps.
“Good, very good, but obedient girls make me so angry…it takes all the fun out of it!” Lady Fontaine said to me. She grasped my ear like a truant child, holding it through my locks of my tumbling blonde hair, and led me in babysteps to a satin-covered chair of my own. I was seated. The surface of the cushion felt wantonly luxurious against my bare heinie. I was an Eastern princess. No expense would be spared for my piercing.
“We shall eat now, girls,” Lady Fontaine explained to us. “Imbibe freely of the wine, it will settle your nerves.” She walked over the brazier. As she bent over it, stirring the coals, her skirt rode up in behind. I saw her bottom cheeks peek out, uncovered by anything, panty-free, as it were. She lifted an iron rod with a brand on it and blew on the brand. I saw it was in the shape of an F. For Fontaine, I guessed. It was a small brand, hardly larger than a dime. “I branded a man’s cock yesterday, right on the head, on the uppermost part,” Lady Fontaine told Jeff. Inspired, he unzipped himself. He stuck his penis out right over the licking flames of the brazier. They were too low to singe him, yet a little spark might fly up I guessed, though I prayed not.
“God, you are an impossible turn on!” Jeff groaned. His manhood was huge, stiff. Lady Fontaine teased him with the brand, circling it close to his skin.
“More fun in person than over the phone?” Lady Fontaine asked.
“Yes!” Jeff cried. Debbie and I stared in shocked silence. We both wanted to jump up and bolt from the room, yet seeing Jeff’s huge cock in such a vulnerable position kept us fixed to our satin seats. Lady Fontaine pulled up her blouse. Her bosoms, trapped within the tightly stretched fabric, bulged out like twin snowcones topped by cherries. She shoved them over Jeff’s cock, nestling his tender, throbbing organ within the confines of her twin-fleshed hillocks. Now her own nipples, stiff as tiny penises, were bared to the leaping flames of the brazier. Heedlessly she jerked herself forward and back, impaling her densely pressed mounds, shoving Jeff’s organ right up between them. Jeff pulled down his jeans, his Jockeys, freeing his swinging balls. His testicals jangled out over the flames now, dancing like twin marionettes. Swiftly, perhaps feeling the threatening flames, perhaps from Jeff’s increasing arousal, they tucked themselves up between his thighs. In fact he was partly straddling the brazier now, desperate to plunge his cock deep within Lady Fontaine’s close-fitting gourds.
Lady Fontaine laughed. She yanked up her shirt more, ripped off her loose pink sweater, tearing the tie that had held it upon her with the ease of a lioness. Reaching down, she picked up a hidden bottle of baby oil. It had sat out of sight behind the brazier, warming itself. With a mischievous giggle she squirted the hot oil onto the cock thrusting between her breasts. Jeff groaned, felt the newfound slickness, so hot, Lady Fontaine shared his brief displeasure at the temperature of the oil by squirting some on her boobs. “Yes, it is sizzling, isn’t it? And on such awfully tender parts, our private parts,” Lady Fontaine cooed, flinching a little as the boiling oil seared her own flesh. It was not actually boiling, I guessed, but hot enough to cause displeasure on sensitive skin. They shared the small moment of pain together, savoring it as one does fine wine. I shivered. I wondered what horrid things they had in store for Debbie and I. We, after all, were their love slaves now. We merited even less comfort and concern. If they did this to their own bodies, what would they do to ours?
“Stop! Do not come!” Lady Fontaine said suddenly, warningly. She lifted her pleasure laden bosoms from Jeff, depriving him, leaving his cock desperately thrusting in mid-air. Too late! His jism shot out suddenly. It arced, fell into the brazier, where the living sperm burned alive. I hunched down in my chair, Debbie too, as we heard the hissing of the sperm as it struck the hot coals. “You are very naughty,” Lady Fontaine said slowly and quietly to Jeff. She advanced to the wall, took down the whip there.
“No, please!” Jeff said, standing in front of the brazier still, his cock as erect as ever.
“Rub yourself,” Lady Fontaine commanded. Jeff quickly took hold of his rod. “I know you have more in there, get it out, if you must, you bad boy!” Lady Fontaine declared. With a swish she let fly the whip and hit Jeff right on his precious, clenching buns. He yelled, beat himself with his cupped fist. Mightily now he yanked on his cock, praying to let loose whatever might still reside in his balls, uncaring as to the consequences.
SWICK! SWACK! THWICK! Lady Fontaine’s whip landed inspiring cuts on Jeff’s arse, sending him into self-motivated spasms of pain and pleasure. He knew she would not let up until he spurted again, yet he had just cum!
“Owoooo!” Jeff howled, flexing his knees now, desperate to make the offering he had so recently tried to avoid. He had plumbed the depths between Lady Fontaine’s rosy tits, wanting to cum, yet not wanting to, the male’s eternal dilemma. He had lost, and now he was paying for it. With swift strokes he jerked upon his oil-slicked rod, praying he had more left somewhere deep in his balls, deep in their jingling recesses. They were droopy now, their load expended. They did not want to cough up more of what they did not have. Yet, slowly, they began to rise to the occasion. Jeff’s cock, to his credit, stayed almost perfectly hard, waiting for his balls to rise. Breathlessly Debbie and I watched, bare bottomed on the satin, wondering at the feel of the whip on raw, naked, white-assed flesh. (Though Jeff’s hams were streaked with red whip-burn now!) I had not played with whips before. I’d not even seen them used, though I’d heard about them. Debbie, I guessed, had little or no experience herself. Our tits bared for promised torments of their own, our nipples impeccably hard, we watched, thinking of nothing save our own nudity and Jeff’s.
“Please! Do me if you must!” Debbie cried out suddenly. Stiffly, her legs still bound by her jeans, realizing her confinement again after so quickly forgetting it, she jumped up. Her ass cheeks jiggled like cream jello as she stumbled over to Jeff. Protectively she jumped behind him, offering her own heinie to the daunting, knot-tipped whip. It curled up, a light stroke, caught her between her squeezing legs, almost touched her juicy cupcake.
“Ooooh!” Debbie screeched. She puffed her cheeks, once, then jiggled her ass to throw off the sting. Reaching around she grabbed the precious cock. She took it with both her hands. It was huge within them. She jutted out her bottom in behind, preferring the whip to Jeff’s sacrifice.
“Rub it,” Jeff told her.
“No, honey, I don’t want you to shoot out any more sperm,” Debbie replied. They were a couple, I saw, she taking him from behind. She would not let him shaft himself, refused to do it for him. Instead she held his big thing as if it were some newborn, a treasure, to be preserved at all costs, even that of life and limb.
“You are an admirable young lady,” Lady Fontaine complimented Debbie. She lifted the whip, relented, let it fall unsung. “Even if you are silly enough to bother with panties when coming to visit me.” Lady Fontaine cast down her whip. She picked up two lovely little gold rings. Debbie stood, turned to her. “To your chair, young man. I will see to you in a minute,” Lady Fontaine told Jeff. She looked at me. “You are the friend, are you not? Rise, leave your jeans in place. I do not want you running off. Remove Jeff’s clothes. They are to be thrown into the fire. He was wilful, disobedient. He valued his own cock’s pleasure over that of our pussies. He will be naked from now on. Even when I send him out to cut firewood he will be naked, though perhaps I shall allow him boots, to protect his toes from frostbite, or the cut of the axe. But your penis, young man…” She regarded him, a playful look in her eyes. Were these but games? “Your penis will stand out stiffly at all times, including when you cut cordwood. I hope you know how to handle an axe. There are no Leona Bobbits here. We know how to value a man’s penis. I intend to pump yours very hard. You will feel like a gas station attendant with me. But sit for now. After Lisa undresses you.” With trembling hands I obeyed her. I stripped off Jeff’s jeans first, his underwear. I let him have his boots back after I’d taken his pants from him. Then I stripped off his sweater, with his athletic letter on it. She would let me save that, I guessed. I folded it carefully, put it aside from his other clothes, under his chair. The rest I tossed toward the brazier.
How I yearned to have my legs free of my knee-binding jeans as I stood and admired Jeff! His chest was as massive as his cock, broad-sculpted, topped by bold shoulders that could have hefted my wiggling form right over him. Quietly I pulled his chair out for him, seated him. His cushion was satin also. Immediately when he sat down his cock dripped semen, or pre-cum, I knew not which, onto the silken covering. I reached down with an inquiring digit, scooped up the dollop of precious seed, popped it into my mouth. Smiling at Jeff I sucked upon my finger. Lady Fontaine would not let me suck him, I knew, fearing it would excite him too much. Yet, glancing around, seeing her busy, I bent over, my bottom rearing up in back. Mindful of her whip I gave Jeff just a quick kiss, right on his oily shaft. When I rose my lips were extra-glossy, I saw, glancing in a mirror.
“Lisa?” Lady Fontaine called out. I turned. White-bottomed I glanced out the picture window as I turned. There were fresh footprints in the snow. Was someone in the trees, beyond, watching? Trembling with the uncertainty of it all I shuffled back over to my chair. I plunked my naked fanny onto the satin cushion, safe from view now behind my chair back. Debbie, sitting across from me, might offer a view of her cunt to our secret observer, I guessed. There was no tablecloth.
I looked over my shoulder. Behind me Debbie stood, fitting Lady Fontaine into her nipple rings. They glowed preciously, she thrust them through the tiny holes in Lady Fontaine’s erect tits. “Yes, snap them shut,” Lady Fontaine urged. She seemed to take pleasure in Debbie’s soft padded, stiff nailed fingers upon her teats. In the rings went, clicked shut. A wolf bounded suddenly up, sniffed at the window. His wet nose pressed upon it, seemed to seek out the clenching cheeks of Debbie, just beyond, her fanny as bare as that of the Coppertone baby. The wolf darted off. A moment later I heard a shot ring out, through the trees.
“Hunters,” Lady Fontaine said. “Ouch.” A ring for her pussy lips. A bit of flesh caught. Debbie, bent low now, unsnapped the ring. Lady Fontaine held her miniskirt aloft to accomodate the body jewelry, forged for her own pussy, her “F” gleaming somewhere upon it, I guessed. Or perhaps the initials of a man, a lover, or the smith who forged the ring. It was small, a bit larger than her nipple rings. It held fast upon her at last, painlessly, though I knew to create the hole for it she had suffered. Lady Fontaine dropped her dress. She led Debbie to her chair, her own steps unhindered, long, Debbie’s constrained, confined by her looping jeans. Lady Fontaine seated Debbie and scooted her in with the strength of an Amazon. Debbie looked lost a moment, her tits bobbing, shoved into place like a child at an expensive restaurant. I needed the bathroom, feared to ask.
Lady Fontaine sat down. Elegantly, mommie come to dinner. Her big bosoms swung freely, despite their ringed captivity. Debbie had strung a chain between her bosoms and it shimmered. Small-linked, delicate, it joined her womanly bosoms with the utmost grace. Pure gold, I guessed, matching her rings. Very high class. I wanted one, feared the sting of the needle needed to make it happen.
“Jeff, there is food in the kitchen, through that little door,” Lady Fontaine instructed Debbie’s boyfriend. “Rise and bring it out. It should be ready now. And bring bibs. You will see them. The girls may find they are messy eaters tonight, when dessert comes.” She looked at our wondering eyes, laughed, shaking her pearly bosoms, their nipples so ruthlessly split, ringed, joined by the fine chain. We shivered, hunching our shoulders, bunching our own breasts together protectively.
It was bizzare. Crazy. And as I realized that there was a space in my chair back, allowing my bottom to show, revealing my wiggles, I wanted to jump up and run. I had to pee more certainly now. My bladder was full. Not quite desperate, but definitely full. I had to go and it made me jiggle about a little, making a show of my hiney to those in the woods, shaking my tits.
“Sit still, Lisa, or I will take the whip to you. You have not felt it yet, have you?” Lady Fontaine asked me.
“N-No, ma’am.” I feared to say more. Jeff walked out, his big penis stiff as ever, holding a steaming turkey. He laid it on the table. There was a carving knife lying beside it. He sliced it open, cutting through the golden, crusted skin. He served Lady Fontaine first. She licked his prick in appreciation, laving her tongue over the swollen organ, relishing the glans. Jeff served Debbie next. Her receptive mouth found his cock and sucked upon it, briefly, her cheeks bulging from its size. Lastly Jeff served me and timidly I paid tribute to his manhood, pecking a kiss upon its tip.
“Lisa, you can do better than that,” Lady Fontaine scolded me. Obediently I took his swollen head into my mouth. I had to open my lips very wide to do it. I sucked. “Do not let him spurt into your mouth!” Lady Fontaine warned me. Reluctantly I let go of him. He seemed to disapprove, wanted me back. But I turned my head away. He was not master now. Later, perhaps. But now he must serve us ladies, I realized. He went back to the kitchen.
Gravy was spilt over our turkey for us. Jeff the servant. Lady Fontaine, served last this time, made him spill some gravy on his cock. She licked it off for him before too much of it dripped off the shaft to the floor. Wine came. We were served. I sipped mine, wanting no more fluid in me than I already had.
“You will need the wine, darling, drink!” Lady Fontaine said.
“I-I cannot,” I replied.
“You have to go potty?” she asked, softly, a mother whispering across the talbe to her child. I nodded. “Too bad. Do your best to hold yourself in. I do not want my nice satin cushions peed upon.” I gulped. She was not my mommie. She was my Dominatrix. I glanced at her whip, hung once more in coiled loops upon the wall. I feared for my hiney. Debbie wriggled. She felt the same need, I realized. We were children in school, waiting for recess. Except it would be a recess with needles, stinging us in the tips of our precious bosoms. Our tits jostled as we took forkfuls of food, began eating. Jeff was allowed to sit. He ate lustily. The worst of the passion was off him and he could enjoy himself now; his hardness, our nakedness. He had peed in the kitchen, I guessed, perhaps into a bucket. Lady Fontaine seemed unworried. Her bladder was bigger than ours, like her breasts.
Dessert was brought. Strawberry cream pie. A piece for each of us. Jeff brushed back our hair and tied bibs on us. We were given no forks. The bibs were short, left our breasts bare. The pies were put some distance out from us, partway across the table. We waited for Jeff to bring us forks. Instead he brought us handcuffs. They were steel, no-nonsense, not gold like the nipple rings.
“Girls, I know you would use your fingers if I didn’t give you forks, and you’re not getting forks,” Lady Fontaine told us. Her voice was polite, formal. “Jeff, handcuff the girl’s wrists behind them. They will need it later anyway for the piercing.” I wanted to leap up, to protest, but Jeff’s big hands took my arms. He drew them back, leaving my breasts thrusting lewdly before me, jutting out as never before. He crossed my arms high on my back and cuffed them together, his grip rough. He used two sets of cuffs, cuffing each of my wrists to the opposite arm. Way up on my upper arms he locked the second of each of the cuffs. My arms were thin and he had no trouble getting the big police cuffs around them. He pressed down hard, locking each cuff down until it indented my skin.
“I shall have to find the key later,” Lady Fontaine said absently, admiring my new breast-popping posture, my bib lying uselessly, I thought, above my breasts, protecting little save the small expanse of skin between my neck and bosoms.
“Ohhh, I cannot go through with this!” Debbie squeaked. She was trembling openly. Her breasts jiggled sweetly, jello-flesh, cream colored. The nipples seemed especially hard. Jeff came to her, twisted her back into place as she attempted to turn, to rise from her chair. He cuffed her as he had me. He left her sitting bare bosomed at her place, her eyes wide.
“Enjoy your dessert, girls. And please do eat all of it. Lick your plates clean,” Lady Fontaine ordered us. With shock in our eyes we realized she wanted us to eat as dogs do, putting our faces down to our plates. “Or do you prefer the whip?” She asked. “I do so enjoy using it!”
Naked and trembling, I bent forward. Debbie did likewise. I stuck out my tongue, licked up a little bit of the pie’s whipped cream surface. “Dig right in, girls,” Lady Fontaine told us. She spoke with a directness I feared to disregard. Jeff, meanwhile, had been given a special task. He stood beside her. She had him thrust his manhood into her slice of strawberry pie. He drew it out, cream covered, a slice of strawberry upon it. She licked his shaft clean. Jeff groaned as she cleaned him. “Do not enjoy yourself too much,” Lady Fontaine told him. “I do not like having sperm with my pie.” Poor Jeff! He gasped aloud at her statement, trembled. She ordered him to reinsert himself in her dessert. He did so, brought forth new wonders. Strawberries, cream, a bit of cake. She licked it off him. “Girls! I will not tell you again,” Lady Fontaine warned us between licks. I shivered, glanced at Debbie. Then, delicately as I could, I pressed my face into my dessert. I bit into it, felt cream tickling my nose. When I lifted my face again I saw it, in a mirror, looking for all the world like I’d found a fount of semen. Debbie too got her lips into her dessert, pressed her face as far as necessary into it, came up wearing a white mask on her lips and cheeks, the tip of her nose. We ate our mouthfulls in silence. The bib protected my skin. My bosoms, swinging forward, tried to get into the pie. I managed to keep them out, mostly, getting just a little cream on them. With much loss of face we finished our desserts completely. We licked our plates like cats. The china sparkled when we were through. “Good work, girls, but such wriggling! I’ve never seen girls have to pee so badly. Is that what it is, or are you too just cold?”
“That’s what it is,” we replied, jointly, Debbie and I, our faces smooshed all over with cream and cake.
“Come, rise,” Lady Fontaine ordered. With difficulty we got up, our knees bound, our hands cuffed high on our backs. In our jean sheathed legs, our boots, we shuffled over to the wall, Jeff and Lady Fontaine guiding us. She lifted a piece of the wall up. There were twin holes there, just big enough for heads. I felt the icy outside air upon me, blowing in through the hole. Lady Fontaine grabbed me by the hair, shoved my head outside.
Hunters! Two of them. A dead wolf beyond, his blood tainting the snow with bright red. The men had their cocks out, otherwise they were fully clothed against the cold. The first man saw me, directed his organ right at me. Debbie’s head popped out beside mine. With a look of terror on her face she saw the hunters. The second man pointed his thing at her.
“God, I have to go!” the first hunter said. Not to me, but to his friend, as if I were but a disk of soap in the base of a urinal. With a sigh of abandon he began peeing on me! I screamed. His urine hit the inside of my mouth. I spit it out. More came, splashing all over my face. Debbie received her tribute from the second hunter. They peed and peed, finally exchanging targets, the second hunter aiming crosswise at me as the first aimed at Debbie. At last, shaking themselves, they were done. They zipped up and walked away. Captive to our own need we stood there, hips bumping together, desperate to pee ourselves. I could not get my head back inside.
Suddenly a hot blaze across my bottom! The brand I thought at first but no, it was too wide, too extensive. The whip! A cracking sound came dimly to my ears. I screamed aloud to the trees. The hunters turned, laughed, admiring my open-mouthed terror. Debbie yelled out next, wide-eyed, horrified, awe-struck at our predicament. Twice more the lash came, making us jump, increasing by multiple-degrees our need to pee. Then we stood silently a little, bottoms sore, hearing nothing, feeling nothing. The hunters got a bucket, filled it at a faucet. Several times they splashed each of us. They sloshed the water directly into our faces, uncaringly, heedless of our beauty, our lovely hair. They drenched us above the neck, the wall protecting the rest of us. We were grateful for the fresh, icy water, though we thanked them not. It cleaned us of their disgusting filth, of our perverse desserts. Cream and all was washed away, leaving us with gleaming cheeks, ready for jobs at Disneyland. I would be Snow White, Debbie would be Beauty. The hunters could compete for the role of Beast.
I heard a sliding sound behind me. Whatever held our necks in place was lifted. We were drawn by our hair back inside. Rising, we saw a new horror. The needles were out, sharpened, ready for piercing. Bare breasted we stood, our hair wet about our cheeks, our bottoms wincing still from the whip’s sting. Trembling with everything, including our overfilled bladders, we looked like lost children before a wolf. Lady Fontaine, the real wolf dead outside. Grandma was the villain. The wolf would have saved us, asking only to sniff our heinies.
“Yes, girls, the time has come. All is not fun and games here, you know. We have a special mission we must accomplish. For girls only.” Her eyes were bright, wickedly passionate. I guessed she’d rubbed herself while we were stuck with our heads outside, thinking of what must come. Jeff was useless, his cock to overpowering to make him think of anything else. Lady Fontaine had brought him right to the brink again. She’d played with him, no doubt, as we were lost in the outside world, rubbing him until he could barely stand it. His mighty thing throbbed behind us. We glanced over our shoulders at it, Debbie and I. He made us face forward again and removed our bibs.
Mistress wore a special bra. It fitted snugly round her breasts, making them protrude obscenely. She’d tightened the cupless straps round her bosoms until they bit hard into her flesh, right at the base of each of her tits. It did not hurt, I guessed, for the straps were of soft, glossy leather. But her bosoms might be sore if she wore it too long that way. Her stiff nipples offered up their rings like royal jewelry. The chain danced between them, hanging down in a bowed crescent. Impulsively I bent, caught the chain with my tongue. Lady Fontaine laughed, lifted my face. “You are the most obedient,” she complimented me. “Straighten your back, let your breasts offer themselves.” I complied. She handled my twin mounds gently, polishing them with the tips of her fingers, as if touching precious hothouse fruit at midwinter. She rubbed my nipples until they stood like stiff soldiers, though they’d been breathtakingly erect all evening. Yet in her hands they felt more alive than ever. Perhaps because I knew what her loving fingertips would soon do to them.
She moved to Debbie next, felt the weight of her impressive bosoms, cupping them, savoring them, it seemed. She had Jeff bring bras for us. We were fitted into them, the shoulder straps snapping closed, so we would not have to be uncuffed. The bras were cupless, twins of Lady Fontaine’s. My own bra squeezed my bosom terribly, not hurting it but making it feel as if it were caught in a kind of pump at the base. Each of my swollen gourds offered its nipple more absolutely than ever now, proffering my teats up for whatever horrors might befall them. I shook with my fright, my need to pee.
Lady Fontaine fetched a cup, with a tube at the bottom of it, running into a bag. She wedged the cup between my close-pressed thighs. She grabbed me by my pubic hair as she pushed the cup up to my puss. “Pee, girl, I cannot have you wiggling like that while I’m trying to get a needle through your nipple!” Gratefully, but with fear pulsing in my tummy, I let loose my stream. It ran into the funnel-shaped cup and went speeding down the tube. There were no splashes. At last I felt myself emptying. I felt a sense of enormous relief. Lifting my head up from my task I saw the needles though, shining grimly near the brazier. My bottom felt round, too round, as if it to were offering itself up for something.
A great sigh of joy escaped Debbie’s lips as Lady Fontaine had her pee in turn into the cup. We’d saved ourselves, escaped the indignity of peeing into our half-lowered panties. How awful it would have been to see our pee running down the insides of our thighs! Pooling in the crotches of our knee-gripping panties! Yet I suspected Jeff would have enjoyed it, and Lady Fontaine too.
“Come over to my table, girls,” Lady Fontaine told us when she’d put away the cup and pee-filled bag. With Jeff at our back, guiding us, we shuffled over to her awful piercing table. The heat from the brazier warmed our bottoms. Lady Fontaine picked up a bottle of alcohol. She took a q-tip and dipped it into the fluid. I gasped at the light sting as she swabbed each of my nipples. The entire length of each little teat was swabbed, including the areola. “Good pre-operative practises are always followed here,” Lady Fontaine told me. Debbie watched with terrified eyes. Her own nipples waited, rigid and sensitive. “This is going to hurt, girls, but as you can see the result can be dazzling.” She shook her own tits, making the chain connecting them sparkle. She did Debbie next. The girl gasped at the alcohol, as I had.
“Such lovely teeth,” Mistress said. She pried open my lips. She gave me a rubber bit to bite on. I clamped down, wanting it. She gave Debbie one next. A dentist with tender hands, her instruments waiting. Modestly, she still wore her miniskirt. The sexiest dentist alive, I thought, watching her hips sway as she bent to pick up her needles from her little wooden operating table. They lay on a clean white cloth. Like the snow outside, it would be stained with blood soon. I wished to give milk from my breasts, not blood. I made to spit out my bit, to protest, but felt a gag loop itself round my head. Jeff, anticipating me, knotted it in the nest of my hair. I wanted more anesthesia, wanted to open my lips and gorge myself on wine, pour it down my throat. I had limited myself at dinner, not wanting to pee.
Debbie was gagged next. She seemed resigned to it. We were both resigned, I guessed. Mistress pinched my nipple. She drew a close fitting metal barb over it. She held the device in place. A stinging needle waited, I knew, just within. It would dart out like a fish and bite me. More of my tit flesh was pressed up within the device. It clamped down. Mouth-like it cupped my teat, possessive as a hungry, greedy infant.
“Mmmfff!” It bit me! It was over, done, I realized. The pain sharp, needle like, a shot administered by a doctor to my bottom in elementary school. The mouth released me. Lady Fontaine quickly put a soft, steaming cloth to my tit before I could look. She held me, pinching my nipple hard. When she took away her fingers there was a little steel “training” ring there, plated with silver.
My other breast next. Trembling, I received the mouth again. I longed for any mouth but that, the mouth with the needle tongue. Jeff held me by my shoulders. Firmly, comfortingly. Again the sting. Again I cried within my gag. Debbie watched all, terrified, awed.
Lady Fontaine did her next. “Hold still,” she told her. Debbie did not want the biting mouth, knew she must have it. Lady Fontaine fitted her and she cried out within her gag a moment later. A repeat performance on the other breast.
Our boots were removed. Our pants were shucked off. We were taken into another room, a whipping room, reserved exclusively for recalcitrant bottoms. We were loved, appreciated. But our new rings must be put to use. We were put over a trestle, Debbie and I. Mistress Fontaine bent us over. She tied us down by our nipples. She used thread, easily broken. It was for training only. Chains would be used later, when our nipples were ready for them, she said. Jeff would use them himself, in our own home. Not here. This was a first whipping only, to instruct Jeff, to teach us our new duties as nipple-slaves.
The wood of the thin trestle bit into the tops of my thighs. Nothing held me in my bent over position except the threads. Lady Fontaine brought a soft cloth, put it between my thighs and the wood. She did the same for Debbie. We were not to be punished, only taught.
Our legs were spread. Our ankles kicked apart by Lady Fontaine, by her booted foot. When our cunts offered themselves sweetly, our legs wide apart, she shackled our ankles. I heard the whip uncoiling in her palm behind me.
“Do not rise, girls. If you wore chains you might yank your nipples off. Stay bent over properly and you will not injure them.” Lady Fontaine spoke to us, her whip slithering in her hand. “You will want them like this when they are bad,” she told Jeff. My hip bumped Debbie’s. We were not far apart. Gagged, I looked at her. She stared back.
“Faces to the floor, girls!” Lady Fontaine barked. Her whip spoke then. Upon my bottom first. Ass rearing, trying desperately to save my nipples, I jumped at the whip’s insidious caress. Debbie was next. Her heinie danced in response to the kiss of the whip. Again I was struck. Again I leapt, a fish looking for a refuge, finding only the hook-like sting. My legs were moist between me. I yearned for Jeff, for his big prong. Debbie too felt this new need, deeper than our need to pee, even at its height. Much deeper and much more terrible. We’d wanted it all night but now, bent over so lewdly, presenting ourselves, we wanted it more than ever. Yet only the whip came, scourging us, making us dance like eels.
Dawn. The front door opened onto a snowscape of incredible beauty. My bottom was sore inside my pulled-up jeans. I wore no panties. The lining of the jeans was soft, downy soft, but chafed me in my tender condition. I wanted them not, had to wear them for modesty’s sake.
My bosoms, though, remained free. We would don our shirts later, in the car. I stepped out. The cold was upon my breasts. The hunters stood admiring me, newly pierced, fresh gold rings implanted in my perfect bosoms. I was loved, adorned, commited. To Jeff. And Debbie also, stepping out behind me, showed off her freshly pierced breasts. We would serve Jeff jointly, his nipple slaves, doing his bidding whenever we wore the rings. The hunters threw rice at us. We hurried through the snow to the car, Jeff following. It was laden with pink and white streamers. Lettering was on the windows, written in soap. Hearts, with arrows pierced through them.
Lady Fontaine, dressed in ministerial black, waved goodbye from her open doorway. We drove off, waving back. As we wound down the narrow road through the trees, back to civilization, a car passed us, going uphill. I glimpsed two girls inside, snuggled in the car’s front seat, next to a man. As we passed I saw they wore no shirts. The girls were topless, only the man was shirted. We surprised them. They had not time to cover themselves, nor we. They had no rings. Perhaps they saw ours, perhaps not. The cars passed and then we were alone again, amongst the trees, laden with snow.