Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 152
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Amsterdam Damsels
Chapter One
ÒYou have to sign in first,Ó I said, trying to act as best I could like
the proprietress. ÒAnd, um, there is a charge card thingy around here
someplace.Ó Trying to keep my hair back from my eyes I glanced around
the room, looked into drawers. ÒOh, yes! Here it is,Ó I said. I found a big
American Express charge plate in one of the drawers. I got it out. The
woman handed me a card. I looked at it. She was paying. Too bad. The
dreamboat was obviously going to be kept busy tonight. I felt a little
freer though, knowing I could tease without consequences. I looked at him.
ÒYes, this will do. Is the lady paying, sir?Ó he gulped. The woman
looked a bit peeved.
ÒJust run the damn thing,Ó she said. I saw the girl was wiggling, as
if unsure should remain. The man gripped her arm firmly. The woman
stood opposite, her hand firmly pressed into the small of the girlÕs back.
She wasnÕt going anywhere without them, I could see. In fact, I guessed
she was going straight to bed. Or someplace worse...
I couldnÕt get the charge plate to move. ÒAllow me,Ó the man said.
He let go of the girl. She quietened a bit, then. I saw she was just being
wilful. She did not try to run away. The man pushed the plate over the
card and then gave it back to the lady. I had her sign the slip.
ÒThis way, please,Ó I said, turning. We walked down a hall. I let
them admire my rolling derriere, so newly scored with lines, fading now a
bit, but still quite visible. The girl seemed to watch my rear cleavage
with a kind of morbid fascination. I showed them the yard in back, pointed
out the pool.
ÒJust a room, please,Ó the woman said, as if certain that I was just
trying to tempt her man, steal him away.
I led them up the back stairs. My bottom moved its big, fleshy round
cheeks as I mounted each step. I savored my whipmarks now, how they
shocked, aroused. I moved with a kind of sweet slowness. I savored each
mooning step of the stairs. My cunny felt moist.
Down a second hall we went. I opened a bedroom door at random,
found it was empty. Someone had made it up for the next guest. Well,
here they were.
ÒWill this do?Ó I asked, turning. The man entered, the girl, the
woman.
ÒAnything with a bed,Ó the woman replied. ÒAnd amenities...Ó
ÒAll in the armoire,Ó I replied. Which was true. Condoms, towels,
washcloths, whips.
ÒVery well,Ó she said. She saw the room key on the dresser and
picked it up herself. ÒIs there room service?Ó
ÒIÕm the room service,Ó I replied, with a meaningful glance at the
man. He gazed back at me with his dark eyes. He was tall, broad-
shouldered.
ÒWe may order some later,Ó the woman said. ÒThank you.Ó Her eyes
bade me to leave. I turned, wanting to stay. I flounced out. He at least
would see what he was missing. Quickly the woman closed the door behind
me when IÕd made my exit. Dolefully I walked back down the hall. I
thought of checking in on Alex, Kali, but I didnÕt know which room they
had. Feeling a bit empty somehow, I walked bare-legged back down the
stairs. I decided to keep the shirt on. I returned to the parlor and flopped
down again in the beanbag chair. I closed my eyes. In a minute I was
asleep, not knowing, still exhausted from the day before. I would wait for
the deli man.
***
Several days passed. I played at giving room service. I got to serve
the dreamboat and his ladies breakfast. They let me get in bed with them.
I sucked the man. He had awakened with a big tent pole. I helped him keep
it nice and stiff. The woman wanted to whip me. I left before she could.
I found Kali and Alex. He was tied up, his cock and balls held by a
little pouch and teased with a soft leather teasewhip. She danced the
tails over his awesome genitals. He begged her for release. I didnÕt dare
try blowing him. He would have cum instantly. I left them to their games.
I did not wish to see a male so abject, so desperate.
I served others also. I brought what they asked, stayed a bit
sometimes, but never quite allowed myself to fuck. Just a kiss here, a
quick blow, something fun and easy. I wanted to screw, I guess, but
couldnÕt allow myself to. I was scared, maybe. I was only 15. I was
Betsy with breasts.
My marks went away. I had a flawless ass again. I played with
Becky in the pool. And thatÕs where I met my next mistress. Funny, isnÕt
it? I always shrank away from engaging a man directly. I mean, I might
give him a little suck, but then IÕd flit away. It was as if I needed a firm
hand to guide me. It could be a manÕs hand, I guess, but the men were
always so nice, so concerned for my age, perhaps. They didnÕt want to rob
me of my so-called innocence. My so-called innocent life. But a woman
wouldnÕt hesitate to. There is always a little jealousy between women. If
she is roadtested, her thinking goes, why arenÕt I? At first, when youÕre
just a little girl, they persist in keeping you innocent. Then you get older,
you grow breasts, your bottom fills out, your long legs stand in sharper
contrast to your other assets. And suddenly the other, older women of the
world say to themselves, I think, ÒOkay, cunt. You want to compete with
me? Alright. We shall both be sexy, then. I will let you into the world of
adults. In fact, IÕll help you, so you arenÕt just Ôlegging around,Õ showing
off to any man you please. And they bring you into society. They make you
a debutante. They hold proms for you, coming out balls. And then youÕre in
their world. Their hope, I guess, is to marry you off to someone, to get
you to join Concerned Women for America. Yes, it neutralizes you. You
start to worry about whether Tide or Wisk gets your clothes whiter.
Should I use liquid detergent, or powdered?
I lay face down on a chaise lounge, my chin in my hands, my legs bent
up, kicking lazily at the sky. I was reading Cosmopolitan. Something
about 101 ways to Bed a Man. I had on a little pair of bikini panties. My
bra was lying on the cement.
She sat down beside me. I ignored her a moment, then looked up. She
had raven-black hair, like Cybil. Gypsie eyes. She looked about 30, looked
as if she could read my palm and tell me my fortune. Her bust was
impressive. I imagined her at my age, wowing the men with her overgrown
breasts as she walked off to school. She was dressed in chic business
attire. A small coat, upturned collar. Her blouse had to struggle to
contain her bosoms. It was tight, perhaps purposely a size too small. She
wore pants that tucked into knee-high leather boots.
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A R E A D I N G F U N D has been established for Stephen Knox, imprisoned
in a federal penitentiary for ordering a swimsuit video featuring teenage
girls. To help provide books to Knox (formerly a Phd. candidate at Penn
State), send any amount to: Uncommon Desires Newsletter, P.O. Box 2377,
New York, NY 10185. Make checks payable to: Ophelia Editions.
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Running a hand through her deliciously curly hair she said, ÒHi, IÕm
Laurie.Ó
ÒHi,Ó I replied. There was almost a lisp in my voice, submissive. I
felt naked before this woman. Well, I was naked, almost, but, I mean... I
could not express it. Her eyes burned into me. I knew she had cucumbers
somewhere, lots of them, attached to dreamboat men. ÒIÕm Melody,Ó I
answered.
For a moment neither of us said anything. We just gazed. My eyes
drifted to her bosoms. You could hardly ignore them, so the were so
fascinatingly big. Her own eyes absorbed the sweet hanging of my tits.
She watched as my nipples stiffened.
Cybil appeared. ÒHi!Ó she said brightly. ÒMelody, this is Laurie.Ó
ÒWeÕve already introduced,Ó Laurie replied. I nodded, smiled. I
wiggled my tushy. My panties barely contained the cheeks.
ÒSheÕs a world famous dominatrix, IÕll have you know,Ó Cybil told
me. ÒSo donÕt cross her, okay?Ó She smiled. I shivered, nodded.
ÒShe hasnÕt told me to do anything yet,Ó I replied. My face blushed. I
looked guilty.
ÒWould you like me to?Ó she asked.
ÒWould you like to?Ó I answered.
ÒItÕs not nice to answer a question with a question,Ó she said.
ÒLaurie runs a big fashion magazine in Paris,Ó Cybil chimed in. ÒA
French version of GQ.Ó
ÒThat sounds cool,Ó I replied.
ÒPut your shoes on,Ó Laurie said.
ÒShe keeps her men in line, I can assure you,Ó Cybil said, winking at
Laurie.
ÒAnd how are things here? Do you have any discipline problems?Ó
Laurie asked Cybil. She turned from me. I sat up. I dropped my feet to the
pavement. I slipped them into my heels. My mules were my sole
companions. Nothing else belonged to me, except my body. Did I wish to
lose that too? I flicked the waistband of my panties open, let it snap shut
against my skin. This was a loaned bikini. From Cybil. Other than that I
had just my shoes. I bent and wrapped the little ankle straps around my
ankles, buckled them closed. My breasts swung as I worked.
I sat up. My breasts bounced like jello on my chest, subsided. Laurie
turned to me. She stood. ÒI need you,Ó she said, and reached out her hand,
took mine. In her eyes I saw magazine covers, layouts, cameramen with
cameras and me posing for them, a GQ guy on my arm.
I stepped forward. I bent to get my bra from the walk.
ÒNever mind that,Ó she said.
She pulled me. I turned to Cybil, hapless. She smiled. ÒHave fun!Ó
she urged.
Tits bouncing, leggy and awkward, I let Laurie lead me across the
well-clipped lawn.
ÒDo you need me for a model?Ó I asked.
ÒOf course, dear,Ó she said, half turning, smug. ÒBut not nude
modeling. So we can play, too.Ó I wondered at her words. So we can play...
Did she mean? We reached the house. She took me inside, down the hall,
around a corner. We exited through the front door. Down the front walk
we went, me all naked, save for my swim panties. I put my arm up, tried
to hide my jostling tits. A limo waited out front. Had it been there since
sheÕd arrived? The engine was running. We got in.
Laurie poured me a drink in the back seat of the limo. I sat on the
leather bench beside her, comfortable in my new surroundings, but
curious, tentative. She was clothed, I was bare-legged, topless. My hair
was flowing and free, hers was precisely curled, permed.
We did not drive far. We got out. She took me up a walk into her
house. Again I had to raise my arm to keep from showing my boobs to
passersby, neighbors. I clutched at my breasts with my hand, did a poor
job of hiding them. I saw no one, but there could be eyes, watching. From
windows, perhaps.
We went inside and I saw that my attempts at modesty had been
futile. There was a party in progress. Guests turned, stared at me, turned
away. It was not a pool party. Everyone was in formalwear, though it was
quite fashionable, trendy. Laurie guided me through the guests,
wordlessly. They seemed not overly concerned with my appearance, my
plight, only looked to admire my nudity. She took me to a room just
beyond the festivities.
It was small. I gasped when I saw it. It looked like a cell. The floor
was tiled, some tiles were cracked. The walls were bare. In a corner
stood an old-fashioned toilet, the tank overhead, a chain hanging down. A
roll of perfumed toilet paper, however, waited. At least that was a
luxury. There was a small sink beside the commode, a mirror for a girl to
fix her makeup in.
And then there was a bed. It was just a cot, actually, like a prisoner
might sleep on. It had an iron frame. There was just a sheet covering the
mattress. There was no second sheet, no blanket. A pillow waited at one
end. And tied to each of the four iron posts of the bed was a black cloth
strip, knotted loosely, needing only an arm and a tug on the cloth to be
fully secure.
Scariest of all, there was a stout pegboard on the wall. From it hung
a variety of whips, straps, and paddles. I nearly fainted. Laurie pushed me
into the room, closed the door behind us.
ÒSit on the bed,Ó she told me. I turned, abashed, afraid. I sat my
bottom neatly on the edge of the mattress. Quickly she undressed, taking
off everything except her boots. Then she put her jacket back on, left it
open. Her bosoms thrust out from between its halves, impressive as ever,
their cherry tips hard and wobbly, the nipples as big as dollar coins. I
watched her, feeling like a hunted fawn. She had found me. She had
brought me to her lair.
Nude and beautiful, if utterly deadly, she drew a small phone from
her coat pocket. She unfolded it. She punched a button, spoke. ÒThere is
no cane,Ó she said. ÒBring me my cane.Ó
A moment later the door opened. A middle-aged woman came in. Not
a partier, but a kind of washer-woman. She had big arms, wet, looked as
if she had just come from scrubbing floors. I looked down at the tiled
floor. It was sparkling clean, polished, despite its age. Perhaps she had
scrubbed it this morning.
ÒHereÕs your cane, maÕam,Ó the washer-woman said, handing it to
Laurie. ÒI had to give Tommy what for this morning. Sorry I forgot to
return it. He was in the apple orchard again, picking them apples. I got
him right across his arse -- oh, my what have we here? Oh, youÕre going
to get it! I see youÕre stripped down for action, maÕam, yes indeed. Has
she been naughty, then?Ó the washer-woman spoke in a kind of lilting
cockney, never quite finishing a sentence or pausing before she ambled
right on to the next.
ÒThank you, Hilda. SheÕs one of my new models. I just discovered
her. IÕm going to give her a few pointers, thatÕs all,Ó Laurie said. She
eased the old washer-woman back out and shut the door behind her. She
turned to me. ÒDo you remember when you answered my question with a
question?Ó she asked.
ÒYes,Ó I gulped. I wanted to run, to hide. I wanted to shrink into my
panties, but they were too small.
ÒThatÕs one of the things you mustnÕt do when you work for me,Ó she
said. She flexed her cane. ÒStand up, please.Ó Her voice was kind,
courteous. I stood. I was all trembly, like a newborn calf. She saw my
anxiousness.
ÒTurn around,Ó she ordered. Still her voice was soft, gentle. I
turned my back to her, knew where her eyes went when I did. ÒYes, take
them right down, get them right off,Ó she said to me, knowingly. I hooked
my thumbs reluctantly in the waistband of my panties.
ÒMy heels too?Ó I asked.
ÒNo, of course not, dear. The panties, that is all. Pull them down. I
wonÕt do it for you.Ó
I hesitated. Oh, why was I even here? Why was I even in
Amsterdam? This was so silly, so crazy...
ÒThe longer you wait the harder it will be,Ó she warned me. I tugged
on my panties remorsefully, drew them down, felt my bottomcheeks spring
out, into the air. It felt cool, caressing. ÒAll the way down,Ó she said.
Anxiously I stooped lower, pulled the panties down my thighs, over my
small round knees, down my calves. I let go of them at my ankles. They
hung there, forlorn.
ÒTake hold of yourself,Ó she said. I grabbed my ankles. I felt my
breasts swinging gently beneath my chest, saw the nipples wiggling, the
plump gourds hanging like ripe apples. ÒStraighten your legs,Ó she said.
ÒPosture is important. Surely you know that, as a young lady, donÕt you?Ó
I raised my bottom higher, felt my knees lock. I strained to keep hold of
my far-distant ankles.
GOLLIWOGG
Copyright 1996 by Alan Freer
WOGGÕS OFFERING
Someone take these dreams away.
Banish these demons gnashing within
to embody them in a Patchwork Frame
as dark as its name:
Forsaken here for evermore.
Dismantle and deconstruct
these self-inflicted nightmares
to stew in MorriganÕs Cauldron
burning upon an alter of fur and flesh and bone.
Grant me an offering of redemption--
And to love
a God.
AND IN THE END...
Remembering the Holocaust?
DO UNTO OTHERS
ÒLast month, IsraelÕs highest court ruled that a Palestinian from
Hebron, Khadir Mubarak, could be subjected to Ôincreased physical
pressureÕ (ie, certain forms of torture) by his interrogators.Ó
- The Economist, December 7, 1996, pg. 43.
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-END OF 152 EMISSION
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