Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 118
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Holland Hunnies
Chapter One
ÒLook! A swing!Ó Elizabeth remarked. She took my arm and led me to
it. There was a leather seat, suspended from two chains. It was a padded
bolster of leather, wide enough to perch the bottom on. Otherwise it was
like a childÕs swing at a playground. Elizabeth helped me step up onto the
swing, I had to step onto a little box to get on it. She kicked the box away
when IÕd seated myself. I felt my bottom cheeks splurge on the leather,
making me look bigger in back. I looked over my shoulder and saw an array
of whips hung on the wall behind me. I shivered. Surely Elizabeth did not
mean to whip me, did she? I had never done anything to her to merit such
punishment, had I? Were were just playing. A nice swing (if a bit odd,
perhaps) in a strange room in a strangerÕs house in Holland. Not something
you could put on a postcard and send to your Aunt Mary, but fun
nonetheless.
I settled onto the swing and wondered if someone would give me a
push. Elizabeth lifted my wrists up. I meant to merely take hold of the
chains but she drew my grip higher. When my arms were almost fully
extended she wrapped cuffs around my wrists. They were attached to the
swingÕs chains. I looked up and saw several sets of cuffs, positioned for
arms of varying lengths. One set was quite low down, as if for a little
girl.
In front, Mark took command. I saw that the swing was waist-
height, perfect for impaling me on his penis, which made itself quite
noticeable by still being quite erect, the bulbous head just inches from my
vulnerable cunny. He was doing something with my legs, I saw. He drew
my knees apart, keeping them level with my hips. I felt utterly exposed
before him. He could shaft himself right up to my womb at any moment.
Rob picked up a bar as long as my thigh. He twisted it, adjusting its
length. There were interlocking pieces inside which, when twisted
together, allowed one to extend the bar out or in to fit someoneÕs leg. Like
a telescope he adjusted it until it was just the right length for my thigh.
At one end there was a hook to fasten it to the bolster-part of my swing,
on the outside. Rob fixed the pole so that it stuck out at a wide angle
from my swing. Then Mark pressed my leg out until my thigh could be
bound to the pole. There was a leather cuff for my knee. Gently Rob fitted
my knee into the cuff and snapped it closed.
Another pole was put at the other end of my swing, for my other leg.
The boys drew it out and snapped it into place, leaving me with my legs in
a wide vee and my pussy defenseless. They stood before me, their cocks
rigid, admiring their handiwork, as Elizabeth gave my bare bottom a little
push with her hands.
ÒWheee!Ó I cried, pleased despite myself at the freedom of the
swing, although my wrists and legs were as imprisoned as if IÕd been put
in Alcatraz. As I neared the apex of my swing I nearly bumped MarkÕs
penis, his cockhead already drooling at the prospect of jetting his main
load into my cunt.
ÒShe looks nice, donÕt you think?Ó Rob asked. I blushed, swinging
again with a helpful push from Elizabeth.
ÒShe should do it herself, though,Ó Mark said, and I saw him nod to
Elizabeth. Taking his cue, she went to the wall and took down a pony whip.
Fearfully I watched her draw the thin tail of leather over her open palm.
She liked it. She was going to use it on me!
ÒSWWWICK!Ó I heard the whip crack lightly behind me and it landed
on my fulsome heinie, my spreading cheeks rebounding as I felt the stroke.
I could indeed swing myself, I realized, and my yelp proved it. I bumped
MarkÕs cockhead as I swung out. HeÕd stepped in. Each cut of the whip
would propel me directly into impalement. There was no fore-swing space
left to me, only the aft-swing that led directly to ElizabethÕs whip.
Oh, how did I wind up on a swing with a whip at my tender heinie and
my splayed legs inviting impalement? Did Elizabeth and Mark know some
tricks they hadnÕt told us about? Just what did Rob learn yesterday,
reading Penthouse?
The next awful slice of the whip drove me right into MarkÕs cock. My
pussy lips felt him bang against them. I swung back, then forward again,
hitting him where he wished it most, with my most tender aperture, soft
and moist and oh so invitingly vulnerable. Back and forth, back and forth
again, until suddenly he seized me in the upswing (such as it was) and
drove himself into me.
ÒAh! Please!Ó I begged. Elizabeth moved in for the kill, slicing up my
bottoms as if they were hams displayed on a cutting board for Christmas
dinner.
ÒNo! Oh! Please!Ó I cried aloud, my big tits wobbling all about as
Mark thrust himself into me, then in and out as if his hips were
themselves on some kind of swing. Elizabeth came round in front of me
and shared my tits with Rob, each taking one and sucking it. I felt like a
cow, my breasts squeezed and suckled, while Mark worked himself in and
out of me below, candidly fucking me even as eyes peered in through the
peephole.
ÒYes! Yes! Do her!Ó Elizabeth encouraged, coming up for air as she
suckled at my ample breasts, Rob echoing her encouragement. Mark
earnestly fucked me, sending me into transports of bliss atop my bottom-
aching swing, my reddened heinie still exposed for whatever else they had
in mind for me.
The dungeon door unbolted, Mistress Wentworth entered, tripping
over her high heels. She joined us at the swing and took up position behind
Mark. With her sharp-nailed fingers she grasped him by the cheeks of his
buttocks.
ÒOooh, yes, fuck your best friendÕs wife,Ó she urged. She grippingly
massaged his buttocks even as she forced him into me. ÒSpend your seed
in her womb, do it! Make her pregnant with your child, not his. Come, tell
me when you spurt and I will squish your balls for you so you get every
drop inside her.Ó In a mirror I saw her shift a hand down, find his
swelling pouch between his hairy thighs, indrawn, tight up against his
crotch. Her sharp-nailed fingers tickled him there. Then she had both
hands on his buttocks again, squeezing his haunches and urging him in and
out of me.
Amidst my bliss I turned my head. The dungeon door remained open!
Two figures, elegantly clad, stood there. They were mid-40ish, not the
gardening woman in her 60Õs who IÕd imagined would be watching us with
her husband. The man had his cock out and his wife or mistress (which I
did not know) was stroking it. Her gown had been opened in front, her
breasts showed. He seemed to be palming her ass, deeply. She jerked. I
guessed her dress must be slit up the back, too high perhaps to keep him
out.
ÒNo! Ah! Take yourself out!Ó I cried, foolishly. I did not want to be
seen fucking. What was I in there eyes that a whore on the strip was not,
in Vegas, fucking in public for private pleasure?
ÒMmmm, give her your seed,Ó Mistress Wentworth urged Mark, though
she seemed enthralled that he had lasted so long. Gallantly he fucked me,
a knight without his shining armor, or perhaps he was the knightÕs horse,
locked in the barn if no longer kept precisely in his stable, the door to it
being open. In the door stood the farmer and his wife, in my imagination,
watching the mare (myself) being inseminated. We would make foals
together, the foam of his balls mixing within the depths of my womb with
my little waiting eggs there.
ÒAh, you must have an Energizer battery up your ass!Ó Mistress
enthused. She jammed a finger into his rosehole and Mark groaned. It was
the kiss of death, I realized, her impromptu sodomization. She realized it
too and dug deeper, simultaneously dropping her other hand, as promised,
to his balls. She squeezed him hard, trying to yank his testes down to
prevent him from spilling even as she buggered him in behind, inspiring
him anew.
ÒGod, I canÕt--Ó
ÒYou must!Ó Mistress shouted, pulling hard to try to get his twin
nuts safely down, albeit slightly injured perhaps from all her yanking.
ÒNo! No! No!Ó Mark strove with himself, desperate to cum and yet
wanting to prolong his pleasure further, Mistress giving him double-
signals from behind, an alluring digit in his ass for green and a hard-
tugging fist on his balls for red.
For a long moment Mark teetered on the brink. Then, somehow, he
regained control. Mistress got his balls down a bit and held them tight.
Mark yelped. But he was in her hands, his own muscles inside contracting
hard to keep whatever lay below from bubbling up. Mistress grabbed
Elizabeth by her hair and tore her lips from my breast. Just by looking at
her, the girl knew somehow what was needed. Elizabeth, bare for her new
white sneakers, dashed to the wall, against which sat a narrow table. She
ran back to us, a leather cock ring in her uplifted hands. It was her own
boyfriend, and she was giving it to a strange woman.
Mistress Wentworth took the cock ring and secured it rapidly around
MarkÕs slightly descended balls. She had to knock his ankles into a winder
stance to get both her hands between his legs, but Mark seemed not to
mind, though the act of binding his balls was no doubt excruciating. At
least from the point of view of deprived pleasure, for his cockhead still
waited hopefully just within my pussy. I was wet there, his pre-cum
drooling within me and my own moistness readying my channel for
whatever new assault he intended. Elizabeth stroked the visible portion
of his prong. She encouraged him to hold himself in until she could mount
the swing in my place. My own boyfriend left his station at my side,
where heÕd supped on my breasts, for the equally tempting hillocks of
MistressÕ bottom. He stepped behind her and artfully lowered her panties
to mid-thigh. She scolded him but said nothing else. He jabbed his rock-
hard member playfully between the halves of her derriere. He searched for
and quickly found her anus. He assaulted her lightly in behind even as Mark
still assaulted me, though Rob had yet to bury his plum inside her
entrance. He merely knocked on the door, his cockhead lusciously trapped
twixt her flexing bottom cheeks. Mark had himself within me. Only
permission from Mistress kept him from thrusting up and spilling himself
in my womb.
ÒYes, that should do it,Ó Mistress said half-aloud to herself. Mark
emitted a groan as he experienced some new agony under the tutelage of
the cockstrap. I spoke the word aloud and Mistress corrected me.
ÒSally, it is not a cockstrap. MarkÕs cock remains totally free. It is
what we girls call a ÔballbusterÕ sometimes, for it separates the scrotum
into an upper half-tightly constricted, and a lower half, where, as you see,
his nuts bulge out lewdly like over-ripe fruit. She cupped his obscenely
distended and gorged testicles, holding them lightly in her palm as if they
were extraordinarily delicate, even as the ball-wrap kept him in mortal
agony. Well, perhaps he was not actually in pain, but his face looked it, all
scrunched up with a lingering desire to rid himself of his preciously-
saved seed.
ÒWe did not fuck last night,Ó Elizabeth admitted. She turned from
massaging his penis-pole to gently detaching it from my hungry cunt. It
popped out and she bent and licked the head. ÒI had a headache, didnÕt like
the room we were staying in. I was hoping weÕd find something more
romantic this evening. I guess we didnÕt have to wait for that, though, did
we?Ó she grinned up at me, Mistress, sharing female secrets with her
eyes.
ZINE REVIEWS
by holy joe
Pigfoam #1, unpriced. Digest, 16 pages. Joe Griffo, 1552 E. 34 St.,
Brooklyn, NY 11234. e-mail: joegriffo@aol.com
Review: I consider myself a feminist. Who can argue with women
who do menÕs work getting paid the same as men for it? What I do not
consider myself is a feminist fundamentalist. This is someone who
invents and then O.D.Õs on such nonsense as Ôsexual harassment,Õ Ôchild
molestation,Õ Ôdate rape,Õ Ôdeadbeat dads,Õ etc. Certainly in a few rare
instances a male has actually caused harm to a female, which should be
recompensed. But the feminist fundamentalists would have us believe
that there is a huge degree of harm that is being caused by males to
females on a daily basis. Any man who flirts with a woman in the office
is considered evil in the eyes of the feminist fundamentalists. Any man
who is with a girl, but who hasnÕt been introduced to her parents yet is
considered evil. Any male who has sex with a female on a date is
considered evil, if he doesnÕt call her the next day. (In which case the
female promptly decides she was Ôraped.Õ) And any man who quits paying
his slut-wife the child support she doesnÕt deserve (support imposed by a
feminist fundamentalist judge) is considered evil.
All these males, of course, are then supposed to be locked up in
prison.
Feminist fundamentalism was created by women who couldnÕt get
men and who, therefore, hated men. Somewhere in the mid-1970Õs
feminism ceased to be about such things as equal education, and equal pay
for equal work, and became a Hitlerian attack on men. Naturally, men
hadnÕt done anything wrong. But neither had the Jews, yet they all got
killed anyway.
Feminist fundamentalism consists of a broad-based attack against
men. In the 1980Õs we were told, Òall men are evil.Ó About 1990, the
ideology changed slightly. We were told, Òall men are evil...except
fathers.Ó (Who are currently enslaved in a marital context to a woman, of
course, not divorced dads or (the newly invented) Òdeadbeat dads.Ó)
For a time in Iran, a woman who wore lipstick was regarded as
having committed a crime against the state. She was judicially tried and
punished. Much the same sort of thing is going on in America. Except it is
men who are being attacked, and imprisoned. So far, I see no let up in
feminist fundamentalism. Too many men are so hungry for pussy that they
cave in and become feminist fundamentalists themselves; supporting it,
enforcing it, and preaching its dogmas. The net result, of course, is that
the current feminist theory is that men are good for nothing. As the
September 28, 1996 Economist states: ÒMen are useful largely for one
thing: supplying genetic products to mothers.Ó (Pg. 19.) They are Òmore
socially undesirable from almost every point of view.Ó (Ibid.) And,
chillingly, the Economist, drawing from current feminist theory, writes:
ÒIn terms of cultural evolution, men may well have done their job: they
have pretty much set up modern civilisations and technologies; they may
not be needed to keep them going. Knowledge-based societies, with their
stress on brain not brawn, may be safer in womenÕs hands.Ó (Ibid.)
So the result, of course, is that men arenÕt needed in the feminist
fundamentalist state, just as HitlerÕs Germany decided it didnÕt need
Jews.
The Economist also notes that men are stupider than women. And we
see ample evidence of this. Most recently, men have been gung-ho on the
idea of castrating Ôchild molesters.Õ (Again, we see the fundamentalist
influence. Hands, fingers, and such-like are cut off of people in Iran, and
by AfghanistanÕs Taliban.) Yet I have news for the men who wish to
castrate Ôchild molestersÕ: the balls you lose may be your own.
The Economist suggests that ALL men be castrated. Testosterone,
after all, is what produces Ôanti-socialÕ male behavior. Ò[To be born,] the
next generation does not need the current crop of men to be carrying
around their sperm all the time. A clean, well-run sperm bank, regularly
topped up, would be just as good--and would dispense with menÕs
unfortunate social side-effects.Ó (Ibid.)
One benefit of castrating, or killing, all males, in the eyes of the
Feminist state would be, no doubt, the elimination of such anti-social
crap as Pigfoam comics. In this comic we see, on the cover, a slimy title,
with the slime dripping down into the open mouths of crudely-drawn
cartoon men. (All of them wearing bow-ties.)
The first story is titled, ÒAd Nauseum.Ó Professor Twiddles creates
a ÒPrimordial Soup,Ó which he vomits into. His vomit, combined with the
soupÕs other ingredients (which remain unlisted), create a creature called
ÒPukenstein.Ó Pukenstein walks about in the city but is soon hit by a car,
splattering the entire city with vomit. Here the story ends.
Next we have, under the slogan, ÒHey Kids!Ó a full-page drawing of
ÒThe Gross Out Gallery.Ó It features a detached eyeball, boogers, and
someone throwing up.
The next story is titled ÒSnot-Babies.Ó It features an old lady who
lives not in a shoe, but in someoneÕs nose. She has Òthree little snot-
babies: stringy, globby, and chunky.Ó The story shows how each of her
little snot-babies dies. One gets pulled out of the nose, another gets
sneezed out, a third dries up. Then the story ends, warning its readers, ÒIt
donÕt pay to be snotty!Ó
A centerfold is next. It apparently features the head of a man as he
is being electrocuted in the electric chair. No explicit moral instruction
accompanies the centerfold.
Next there is a full-page issue of The Daily Crap. ItÕs ÒAll the Crap
You Can Take,Ó a knock-off, no doubt, of the New York Times. The Daily
Crap features a pile of turds in its masthead. Its lead story features a
company thatÕs decided to raise its profits by ÒSelling employee blood for
extra revenue.Ó
The issue concludes with a man getting his eardrums blown out.
Now, I enjoyed this comic. But then, IÕm a male. And I still have my
balls. Future males, if they exist at all (probably in castrated form) will
no doubt deplore this comic. And a future court system will probably
interpret Òfreedom of speechÓ to mean Òany and all forms of socially
positive speech.Ó So get a copy while you can. But donÕt keep it. In
tomorrowÕs world, it may be contraband.
AND IN THE END...
VOTE FOR A REAL MAN: HOLY JOE!
ÒBill Clinton has the following done to his face daily: Blasco
undereye concealer, Saint Laurent No. 3 eyebrow pencil, Chanel Taupe
brow shaper. And Dole? Blasco natural blue neutralizer, Visiora Creme
face makeup, powder cheek color, and William Tuttle color foundation.Ó
- Liberty Link, October 1996, pg. 10 (from the San Francisco Chronicle).
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-Naughty Naked Dreamgirls (Library of Congress ISSN: 1070-1427) is
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-END OF 118 EMISSION
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