Just in time for a Family Holiday itÕs...
Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 143
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Bordello Girls
Chapter Three
I slid my pajama pants down off my waist. I wanted my silly
stockings off. I got them to band round the tops of my thighs. I flicked my
pussy. With my pjÕs tight around my legs I flicked myself again. It felt
good. Sitting in masterÕs study playing with myself, staining his chair.
Somehow the feeling of the stocking pants, binding my thighs, all ripped in
front and back to show my pussy, my ass, lowered now, sheathing my legs
up to my thigh tops but leaving all else bare, somehow it thrilled me. I
sat in masterÕs big leather chair and played with myself, letting the
stockings constrain my legs still, touching myself in intimate places, my
breasts, my nipples, my newly moist pussy.
Mischievous, thinking to increase my pleasure, I reached for a big
leather book on masterÕs desk. I opened it. I gasped.
Pictures of ruthless bondage assaulted my eyes. Girls, young girls
too young to describe, and women too, bound and gagged. I kept rubbing
myself. I could not stop. My eyes wide with horror, I could not stop.
Throughout the pictures, Martin was there. Big and huge and fucking
whomever he wished. I was frightened. I had not seen such wickedness.
Even in my small adventures, exploring, poking into the adult world as
best I could, discovering their secrets, I had not seen such as this. Martin
was dressed as an executioner. Many of the girls were Arabs. I shuddered.
Somewhere deep down inside I knew that many of them had never returned
home. They could no longer run across the hot desert sand as I had this
morning.
Martin looked younger in these photos. He had said out on the
comforter that he had mellowed. Yet I shrank in horror from the photos.
Worst of all, I shrank in horror from myself. How could I rub myself
looking at these pictures? I slammed the book shut. I did not want him
anymore. I must escape somehow.
Footsteps on the stairs. Had he heard the book shut? I ran to the
window. It was locked. I fumbled, I found the latch. My legs were sleepy.
They fought me. I shoved the window open and clambered up onto the sill.
It dug into my pussy. A wedgie in my pussy. I longed for more, yet in my
fear I could not stay. I lifted my pussy from the impressing windowsill.
With my ass swaying behind me, looking ridiculous in my long stockings, I
clambered in my high heels down the sloping tiled roof. I clung to the
windowcurtains, drawing them outside with me. They were long. With my
arms outstretched I got my feet to the edge of the pitched roof. I
calculated. A tree was there. I let go of the curtain and turned as I
pitched forward, forward toward the tree, the ground, twisting round in
my new high heels on the rooftop.
I caught the tree. Latching onto a branch I caught it, heaving, my
breasts large fat gourds sighing up and down, heavily. The branch was like
a big penis, stiff and hard. It held my weight with unyielding strength.
Gripping it, I swung down from the roofÕs edge. I hung in the air. I was
helpless, strung up like the girls in the photos. My feet dangled, my arms
screamed above me, hanging on tight with my hands high above me.
Yes. The sand was close. A few feet, no more. I let go of the branch.
I dropped. My heels poked into the sand, stabbing it. I fell into a crouch.
My hair whirled around as I twisted my head, all-seeing, a cat observing
her newfound surroundings.
ÒGod damn bitch!Ó Martin was at the window above. I could not see
him under the safety of the overhanging roof, steep pitched. Elegina was
at the door. It stood open, she stood within, contemplating, half in, half
out. There was a riding crop in her hand, MartinÕs. She was gagged. A
handcuff dangled loosely from one of her wrists. Her shirt was gone, her
breasts proud, uplifted. They moved with a heaviness, her chest seemed
belabored. I had interrupted their games. She was half-victim, submitted
to Martin, half-domme now, come to punish me for trying to escape. My
eyes ran down her legs to her moccasin boots. She turned. She shut the
door behind her. The zipper of her skirt was half unzipped in back. Her
blonde hair rolled in lovely waves down her back.
ÒMmmf!Ó Elegina ran to me. She did not drop the crop. She grabbed
one of my wrists with her hand that was circled just above with the
dangling cuff. She made her decision then. We would escape. We would
use our beauty as our passport. Not looking at one another, she still
holding me by the wrist, we ran behind the house. We ran out across the
hot sand. We ran toward the trees and the electric fence.
The Arabs saw us coming. In the distance, behind us, shots began
ringing out. Wild shots. From a wild man, Martin. The shots went wide,
high, he was shooting from an upstairs window. Elegina tore her gag from
her mouth as she ran. ÒThere is a hand grenade in the picnic basket,Ó she
breathed to me. Her breath was short, ragged. I breathed heavily, my
breasts flying, bouncing. ÒIt can knock down the tree. If the tree hits the
fence, if we are that lucky, it will smash it down and we can walk across
the fallen tree trunk.Ó
ÒHow did you?...Ó
ÒIt was not my idea. Martin brought it to toss at the Arabs.
Sometimes they come close to the fence, to watch. Today they did not. He
pitched a hand grenade at them last time. It kept them back today. It is
our lucky break.Ó She looked at me. ÒThough, in truth, I would not have
taken it if you had not inspired me.Ó
We ran more closely to each other, girlfriends now, squeezing hands.
Her grip was firm, strong. She would be my lover. I would take no more
men unless she permitted it. We reached the comforter. It lay silently,
forgotten under the shade, my pillow still there, EleginaÕs switch, unused,
left behind. She reached down into the picnic basket. My shit sloshed
within. She drew up a plastic bag from it, coated with the residue of my
enema. Inside was a hand grenade. She ripped open the bag and took it out.
ÒCome, step back,Ó she ordered me. Tossing her hair to get it out of
her eyes she stepped away from the tree with me.
ÒWhich way do you have to blast it to make it fall over the fence?Ó I
asked her.
ÒIÕm not sure,Ó she confessed. ÒA lumberjack liked me once, I
ignored his advances.Ó
ÒThanks a lot,Ó I scolded.
ÒYeah,Ó she replied. We girls donÕt always make the right choices.
Hopefully we would be right today.
KA-BOOOOOM! The sound seemed to echo across the desert. There
was a blasting of sand. We flinched, turned away, clapped our hands to our
ears. When it seemed safe we blinked our eyes open, felt our limbs. We
were intact. There was a sizzling, a hissing sound. The fence! It was
down. The tree lay across it. The eggs of the songbirds were splattered
somewhere, lost, shattered. Birth control arrives in Arabia, though its
still for the birds, reads the newspaper headline. The pope and the
ayatollah agree females should be impregnated with each fuck, made to
bear young.
Without chadors, without veils, crossing out of the protected
European estate into the world of the Arab nomads, we crossed the tree.
Teetering we crossed it, too stupid to take off our shoes. The sand was
hot. We were in a hurry. We crossed on the big tree as best we could. It
was broad underneath our feet. Its roundness was so wide as to make a
floor for us. It was an old tree, perhaps from the time of Napoleon. He
blew off the nose of the Sphinx and we were blowing a hole right through
the middle of the strict Islamic code for women.
We hurried up to the Arabs. There was a slowing in our tread as we
reached them. We were blonde, white-skinned, naked. They were dark,
veiled in robes. Elegina met them with her riding crop in her hand,
cautiously. An Arab strode out. He greeted us, her. He extended her hand
to her. She made to shake it but he grabbed her crop-hand and tore her
riding crop from her grasp.
ÒA fine implement,Ó he said, turning it in his brown fingers. They
were streaked with the dirt of desert sands. He stashed the crop in the
waistband of his robe. ÒDo not be afraid. You will be well treated if you
obey,Ó he said. Other men had gathered. I thought perhaps we would
parley with them a moment. It was not to be. Perhaps they could not
imagine, in their strict observance of Islamic code, entertaining the
thoughts and feelings of a woman on an equal man-to-woman basis.
The men lifted us up. Our feet left the desert floor. I thought
perhaps they would set us atop the camels, or a horse. They did. But it
was in a most discouraging way.
There was a white stallion. Perhaps it had belonged to the man who
greeted us. A soft blanket was thrown over it. I saw that it had been
recently stripped of other gear. Elegina was thrown first over the horse,
tossed like a sack of potatoes. Bottom up, legs dangling, she was plopped
onto her tummy atop the horseÕs back. It neighed, pawed the sand. I was
cast down beside her, my rump bare and wiggling behind me, my ankles
kicking. Quickly they looped ropes about my wrists, hers. The loose
handcuff dangling from her wrist amused them. Then they wrapped the
ropes under the horseÕs belly and secured our feet with them. My hip
bumped EleginaÕs. I looked at her. There was shock in my eyes. She
gasped at me, tears welling, then streaking her cheeks.
The horse shifted forward. We were off. Going into the desert, the
sun blazing down on our nude bottoms. Our breasts hung like gourds
beneath us, crushed upon the side of the horse, protected from his hide by
the blanket. My nipples were stiff. My hair fell over my face like a veil. I
would go to Allah veiled by my blonde hair.
Clouds came. A miracle. Allah looked upon me with favor. I bumped
and jostled next to Elegina as we rode out into the desert. ÒYou are
lucky,Ó an Arab said, striding beside us. He held EleginaÕs crop in his hand.
He turned his free hand up, palm open. He sought rain with it. There was a
thundercrack somewhere, in the distance. ÒYes, very lucky,Ó he repeated.
I did not know whether we were spared some horror because of the sudden
impending rain, or simply a good totem for him, a lucky rabbitÕs foot. Two
blondes in the desert, their feet tied off, veiled by their own hair, but
with their bottoms bulging up nakedly, an offering to Zeus who once ruled
this place under the Romans and might well rule it again today.
Bouncing and swaying atop the horse, we rode for a good two hours
upon the horse. In the distance, over some mountains, Zeus clashed with
Allah. There was lightning, like summer lightning, in the distance. Its
sprinkling of rain did not reach us.
Now and then the crop flicked us. An Arab, unseen, on the other side
of the horse, played the crop across our upturned fannies. I guessed it was
the man who called us lucky. Two white female bottoms were always
lucky in the desert, I supposed. He seemed to strike us furtively, as if
others, seeing, would admonish him. He was mean sometimes, stinging a
little harder, more generous at other times. I bit my lip, wanting to cry
out but afraid to. Afraid it would lead to harsher stings. Perhaps his
fellows would decide the game was alright after all, and they would all
flay us mercilessly. I turned my head to Elegina. Jostling beside me, her
boobies smooshed like mine, I saw she bit her lip also. She nodded at me,
tears brimming in her eyes. ÒYes,Ó she seemed to be saying, silently. ÒDo
not complain about the cuts. It would only make it worse for us.Ó Like
women in labor we bore them, weeping sometimes, very quietly. I knew
then I should have stayed in my parentÕs summer villa, a schoolgirl in her
bikini, tied off too low on my hips perhaps, seductively, my bra missing
sometimes, but still free, not a prisoner as I was now. But I had been
looking for men on the beach, someone to take me and love me. Now I was
taken.
Our horse entered a courtyard. There was shade. A ladle of water
was drawn from a roadside well. The Arab who had first met us lifted it
to my lips. I lapped, sipped at the water. I was a kitty in my backyard. I
saw the crop was missing from his sash. He had given it to his brother to
flay us on the journey, to keep us humble. Wear the chador, or be naked
and flayed instead, blonde ladies, it is your choice.
The others dismounted. Our horse went forward, Elegina and I not
thirsty anymore, our tongues slaked. Now we had another problem,
building over the long two-hour ride. There was no Howard JohnsonÕs to
receive us.
I gazed up, aware that my surroundings had changed. We were within
the courtyard to a building, large pillars around us. They glinted with
gold. Deeper within we went, our white stallion advancing. There were no
other animals here, save us, Elegina and me, female animals.
ÒOh, look!Ó Elegina was closest to the horseÕs head. She turned away
from me, was looking beyond. I lifted my head with difficulty and gazed
over the top of hers.
A throne room! We were in a large, luxurious throne room. A sultan
sat upon a pillowed chair, carved from ivory. Maidens attended to him on
either side. I saw they were leashed together. Harem girls, made to
attend upon their sultan-master.
ÒSire! We have brought you treasures from the desert, stolen from a
blasphemer!Ó An Arab voice called out. His deep manly voice echoed in the
large room. I heard birdsong, looked up, saw caged parakeets hanging from
the ceiling in cages. There were exotic plants dangling down between
them, from Europe, the Orient, America. Plants that required much water.
I heard the Sultan rise from his chair. There was a rustling of
clothing as he rose, all bowed before him. Down on their knees they got,
their heads lowered. Some rose back up then, the most esteemed men. The
others remained submissive.
The Sultan strode with casual indifference over to myself and
Elegina. From the frying pan...I heard inside my head. My conscience. My
too little listened to conscience.
A grip upon my jaw. My mouth was forced open by the SultanÕs
fingers. He inspected my teeth. ÒHmmm, not bad,Ó he said. He looked
inside EleginaÕs mouth next.
ÒThey will good give head, master,Ó I heard an Arab say.
ÒThey must, if they are to be spared their disobedience of AllahÕs
laws,Ó the Sultan replied. He was prudish, proper, at least before his
subjects. I guessed AllahÕs laws took a back seat within the depths of his
harem, when he dallied privately with his girls.
ÒCome round to the other side, Master, they have fine bottoms,Ó the
voice said. The man who greeted us. Who betrayed us as soon as he
greeted us. We were just objects to him, to be sold to the highest bidder.
The sultan paid well, I guessed. The Arabs would be nomads no more after
tonight. They would buy apartments in Cairo and serve mammon.
ÒYes, they are fine arses,Ó the Sultan agreed.
ÒThis one got porked this morning, see,Ó the Arab indicated, poking
my heinie with his finger. ÒThe European blasphemerÕs sperm is still
within her.Ó I blushed. Deeply I blushed, more deeply than ever in my life.
The sultan pinched my bottom. Testing, squeezing the silky flesh. ÒYes, a
fine ass indeed,Ó he said. My blushes consumed me.
ÒHer pussy is tight,Ó the Sultan said finally. No part of my Ôbusiness
endÕ must go uninspected, I guessed. He caressed my pouch. Freely he
touched it, as if examining merchandise in a store.
ÒThey are both tight, master,Ó the Arab said.
Elegina gasped beside me. I sensed the Sultan cupped and stroked
her love mouth also, as he continued to fondle mine.
ÒOoooch! He is pinching me!Ó Elegina said to me, then.
ÒWhat do you think he has been doing to me?Ó I asked. I blamed her
for our predicament. Yet it was I who had sought out Martin, found him in
the alps, let him bring me here. I was more to blame than she, perhaps.
ÒTalking, girls?Ó the Sultan came around in front of us again. We
were to be submissive, but Elegina could contain herself no longer. Nor
could I.
ÒI-We have to pee, sir,Ó she said, bashful but bold. To speak of such
things to the Sultan was unheard of in these parts, I knew. We were
unlearned. We were from Europe.
GOLLIWOGG
Copyright 1996 by Alan Freer
SIGNS
ÒI need a spiritual experience,
how do I pray for a sign?Ó
Faith lacks:
Golliwogg ponders spirituality;
searches the sky for a miracle--
squints niggard wings high above,
hears a caw--
Crow swoops down
pelts golliwogg
with a stub
of tongue.
SNAP
Life becomes too brittle for Golliwogg--
stress, pressure, prejudice, and failure
weigh upon him heavily. . . .
GolliwoggÕs nerves
snap
like a manÕs neck
lynched from a 7-foot 1-inch rope.
AND IN THE END...
HAPPY THANKSGIVING!
ÒHow does a Max Factor-ed baby on a topless Madonna beach towel
grab you?Ó - Newsweek, November 4, 1996, pg. 61.
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-END OF 143 EMISSION
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