Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 125
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Lady Fontaine
Chapter One
It was the dead of winter. Bundled in our winter things we rapped
upon the wooden door. DebbieÕs 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
weÕd 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 FontaineÕs
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. ÒHello,
are you Jeffrey?Ó She gazed over our heads, straight to DebbieÕs
boyfriend.
ÒI am,Ó he replied. Only then did she acknowledge us. We were his
possessions. ÒCome in, girls,Ó she said. I felt like a first-grader being
let into school. We padded inside. ÒYou wish to have their nipples
pierced?Ó our hostess asked Jeff. Again we were but children, he our
father.
ÒI do.Ó His voice was firm, solemn.
ÒTake off your things, girls,Ó she told us. We were but chattels,
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; commitment 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. ÒLeave the boots. The shirts, though, I must have those,Ó 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. ÒGood. Come,Ó 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. IÕd 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.
ÒI do not want,Ó Debbie began, her voice soft, afraid. Her hand at her
throat.
ÒShush, darling,Ó Lady Fontaine scolded her. She put a finger to her
lips. ÒThe time is past now for wanting or not wanting. ÒYou may play
with your boyfriendÕs 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.
ÒBut --Ó 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 DebbieÕs jeans. She wrenched
them down to my poor friendÕs 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. ÒPanties? Oh my, dear, you will not be needing
those here. LetÕs get those off right away too.Ó She yanked them down,
right to her knees where the jeans wrapped her legs tightly like coiled
blue rope. ÒThere. Do you feel more in your place now, darling?Ó Lady
Fontaine asked Debbie. Large-eyed, Debbie nodded. ÒCome, have a seat,
then.Ó 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 chairÕs 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 tattooed 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.
ÒI can do it myself,Ó 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
possibility. I shoved my pants down.
ÒOnly to the knees,Ó 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.
ÒGood, very good, but obedient girls make me so angry...it takes all
the fun out of it!Ó 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.
ÒWe shall eat now, girls,Ó Lady Fontaine explained to us. ÒImbibe
freely of the wine, it will settle your nerves.Ó 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. ÒI branded a manÕs cock yesterday, right
on the head, on the uppermost part,Ó 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.
ÒGod, you are an impossible turn on!Ó Jeff groaned. His manhood was
huge, stiff. Lady Fontaine teased him with the brand, circling it close to
his skin.
ÒMore fun in person than over the phone?Ó Lady Fontaine asked.
ÒYes!Ó Jeff cried. Debbie and I stared in shocked silence. We both
wanted to jump up and bolt from the room, yet seeing JeffÕs 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 JeffÕs 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 JeffÕs organ right up between them. Jeff pulled down his jeans,
his Jockeys, freeing his swinging balls. His testicles jangled out over the
flames now, dancing like twin marionettes. Swiftly, perhaps feeling the
threatening flames, perhaps from JeffÕs 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 FontaineÕs
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. ÒYes, it is sizzling, isnÕt it? And on such
awfully tender parts, our private parts,Ó 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?
ÒStop! Do not come!Ó 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. ÒYou are very naughty,Ó Lady
Fontaine said slowly and quietly to Jeff. She advanced to the wall, took
down the whip there.
ÒNo, please!Ó Jeff said, standing in front of the brazier still, his
cock as erect as ever.
ÒRub yourself,Ó Lady Fontaine commanded. Jeff quickly took hold of
his rod. ÒI know you have more in there, get it out, if you must, you bad
boy!Ó 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 FontaineÕs whip landed inspiring cuts
on JeffÕs 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!
ÒOwoooo!Ó 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 FontaineÕs rosy tits, wanting to cum, yet not wanting to, the
maleÕs 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.
JeffÕs 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 JeffÕs hams were streaked with red whip-burn now!) I had not
played with whips before. IÕd not even seen them used, though IÕd 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 JeffÕs.
ÒPlease! Do me if you must!Ó 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.
ÒOoooh!Ó 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 JeffÕs sacrifice.
ÒRub it,Ó Jeff told her.
ÒNo, honey, I donÕt want you to shoot out any more sperm,Ó 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.
ZINE REVIEWS
by holy joe
PlayboyÕs Lingerie, November/December 1996, $6.95. E-mail:
newstand@playboy.com
Review: As IÕm running for President, IÕve been wondering if I have a
Gender Gap. The media has reported that Dole has a Gender Gap, but
theyÕve never said that I have one. So I assume I donÕt. But, just to make
sure I donÕt, I want to take a moment to address any soccer moms who
might be following my campaign.
DonÕt worry, soccer moms. IÕll never sexually harass you. See, I only
like little girls, so you need never worry about me ogling you or whistling
at you as you walk down the street. Also, if I were to sleep with a
woman, sheÕd have to be a Playboy Playmate. And you, most of you, arenÕt.
(ThereÕs only 12 per year, after all!) So, no worry there either. And you
can pass that along to your husbands too, to reassure them. They know
that Bill Clinton would sleep with you and they probably have the same
concern about me. But just tell them, ÒDonÕt worry, honey. Holy Joe only
likes little girls.Ó That should ease their minds.
I realize my main supporters will be hobos and homeless people and
prisoners, but I do have soccer moms on my agenda. DonÕt worry! As soon
as I get done attending to all the needs of all the perverts who voted for
me, youÕll be next! IÕve already gone to a farm and bought a riding crop. So
I am thinking of you. (And your daughter, too!) (Spoil the rod and spare the
child, you know...)
Please practise your cooking. I plan to have a Year of the Woman at
some point in my administration. (Probably during the final year, when
IÕm a lame duck.) WeÕll have cooking contests and recipe trading, and sock
knitting, and even (maybe) a Prettiest Mother contest. I wonÕt judge it
though, because I try not to be judgmental about women. Plus my duties
with the Little Miss Pageant will take up a lot of my time.
One magazine thatÕs certain not to have a gender gap (after all,
thereÕs nothing but women in it!) is PlayboyÕs Lingerie. Now, I want you to
do a little experiment. I want you to go buy this magazine and then look at
it. (DonÕt worry if youÕre reading this and youÕre ten years old. Just do a
Òporno run.Ó Go the bookstore. Stand on the lower shelf so you can reach
the upper shelf. Grab the magazine and run out the door with it. If you
have a fast bike, youÕll be merrily masturbating in no time.) (I provide the
preceding for Ôinformational purposes only,Õ just like Loompanics Books
sells books on how to blow up the government.)
Now, look at the front cover of PlayboyÕs Lingerie. Then look at the
back cover. (And thank God Playboy wasnÕt able to sell the back cover to
Bacardi rum.) In my opinion, the back cover is much, much sexier than the
front cover. But this is just my opinion. And IÕm a pervert who likes
little girls. So your opinion may differ.
Now to the inside of the magazine. Hmmm. Hmmm. Hmmm. What
can I say in the guise of a review thatÕs totally repulsive and offensive?
...... .............. ..................... ....... ...................
.........sorry. ItÕs tough to jerk off and flip the pages and type at the same
time. (Even using my penis to hit the keys.)
Okay! LetÕs take a look at Joanna Robinson. (Pgs. 58-59.) I have
noticed a certain tendency with regard to her. Even though sheÕs a small,
frail girl, having small tits and everything, she always appears in the
Playboy newstand specials in the most outrageous bondage outfits. This
is the case every time. (IÕve been keeping close watch on her!) You will
notice that in this issue, adding in her pose on pgs. 52-53, that she once
again has a look of bondage to her. Notice (on pg. 59), that she is wearing
a single green glove. Is that to stick up somebodyÕs ass? A male, a
female, or a whole bunch of males and females? (Just wondering.)
Which brings up a theory. I have noticed a certain tendency in real
life. I have only been able to catch a scent of it, but it may be true. (Or
not.) It is this: that the smaller, more delicate females of this world are
very much into bondage! Is this true? I have no idea. Perhaps somebody
could do a poll or something about this on the Internet.
I didnÕt like PlayboyÕs Lingerie this month quite as much as
PlayboyÕs Nudes (reviewed yesterday), but it is still a high quality issue.
Next month, Playboy is putting out a magazine titled ÔHardbodiesÕ. You
wonÕt see me reviewing that one. I get my ass kicked by people every day.
I have no intention of worshipping a bunch of women who could crush me
with their little finger. I also wonÕt be reviewing the next issue of
ÔMandateÕ, just in case Hugh Hefner was hoping I might be.
Well, donÕt forget: if you donÕt like Bill Clinton, or Bob Dole, or Ross
Perot, or Harry Browne, or Ralph Nader, thereÕs always holy joe! Just
between the first and the last, you can vote for (a) the guy who has done
everything in life but claims to be moral or, (f) the guy who has done
nothing in life but claims to be a pervert. Who says Americans donÕt have
any choice?
AND IN THE END...
ATTENTION COPS
ÒCurrent literary theory holds that texts are determined more by
the reader than by the writing.Ó
- Newsweek, October 21, 1996, pg. 76.
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-Naughty Naked Dreamgirls (Library of Congress ISSN: 1070-1427) is
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-END OF 125 EMISSION