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Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 154
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Amsterdam Damsels
Chapter One
A huge round dais waited. And atop it, almost as an afterthought, a
trestle. The bar betwixt its vertical supports was padded. For the
comfort of my tummy, no doubt. I wished I could sit my bottom upon it.
ThatÕs where I would need comforting.
The others entering, the tinkling of the beads announcing their
arrival behind me. I continued to gaze at the dais. There was a bucket
next to the trestle, I saw a sponge.
ÒWe use it all the time,Ó Laurie whispered to me. ÒSometimes we
bathe the girl first, if sheÕs fresh from the pool, or the beach, or hot from
the summer heat. But you are perfect, darling. Just mount the steps.Ó Her
fingers grazed my arms, ran down my back, sought even lower still.
Flinching from her I approached the raised platform. I slurred my feet up
the steps, knowing I should pay much greater care to where I was headed.
I would not come down from this platform the same girl. I would be hot,
bothered, blubbering. I would most certainly need a bath then, at least in
my hindquarters. I turned at the top step, considering. My eyes widened.
Everyone was undressing.
ÒI-I donÕt want to,Ó I said. A man laughed.
ÒYou cannot back down,Ó he replied.
ÒBe a good girl and go to the trestle like youÕre supposed to,Ó the
hostess said to me. I knew the implication of her words. I would go in any
event, dragged or willingly, but if dragged I would need more ÔwarmingÕ on
my ass before the men were put to me.
Stepping distinctly now, sure of each step that it would be my very
last, hoping God would take me up at every second, I approached the bar.
Yes, I had been good, hadnÕt I? I used to go to Christian Sunday School.
They said if you were good Jesus would make you disappear in the days
just before his Second Cuming. I said the word wrong in my mind, felt
immensely guilty. I needed Jesus now. Cum, Lord Jesus. Oops! I knew I
was doomed then. He would not zap me up to heaven, like in the Late Great
Planet Earth. He would leave me with all the wicked people. I turned
again, saw my captors were pleasantly naked now, all the important parts
displayed. Cocks, cunts, breasts. Some wore clothes still, jackets or
stockings or boots. But all showed what they had come to give.
Themselves. Their privates. And I was to inspire their evening of
pleasure with my virgin contribution.
I walked up to the bar. I spied a cane standing against a low table on
the dais. Atop the table were vials of oil, condoms, and a pretty vase of
flowers. I turned, walked to the flowers. Delicately I sniffed them. They
were lilies. For my (soon to be gone) purity.
ÒTo the trestle, Melody!Ó Laurie called. She did not want me to see
what was in the drawer slung from the underside of the table. I felt
mischievous. I reached down, pulled it open.
Oh! My eyes nearly popped out of my head. There were AWFUL things!
Tit clamps! A speculum! A ball gag! A blood pressure cuff. A needle!
Beside the needle something labelled Solumedrol. An enema, more anal
suppositories, tubing, with a tag attached saying it was for a personÕs pee
hole!
I slammed the drawer. I turned, frightened. My GQ men advanced,
climbing the dais steps. The females were gathered close.
ÒIt is not all for you, dear, at least I hope it isnÕt,Ó Laurie reassured
me, then turned and winked at the hostess with a laugh.
Scared, but still willing, I turned to face the trestle. I pressed my
upper thighs to the bar. I bent forward, found a lower bar beneath, gripped
it momentarily, feeling the feel of my openness in back. Then I popped
erect again, lest I be restrained that way. I turned. I pushed my bottom up
against the comforting leather.
ÒI donÕt think I want to go through with this anymore,Ó I breathed.
My eyes were frightened rabbitÕs eyes. With my every pulsebeat my
resolution not to continue grew.
ÒIt is too late, darling,Ó the hostess said. She and two men came up
to me, spun me about again. I squawked as they pressed me down. ÒIt is
time, dear, you cannot delay it any longer,Ó Laurie said somewhere behind
me. Roughly she parted my thighs. I felt loops of leather attach
themselves to my ankles.
Someone missed his cue, for I wriggled and found myself suddenly
upright again. My ankles were bound, my legs three feet apart or more, but
the rest of me had got free of them. The two men looked startled,
recovered, laughed at their mistake. Each had deferred to the other in
tying down my wrists, both had missed a beat and lost his hold on me.
Perhaps each was hoping the other would tie me while he prepared to be
the first to get up my ass. Let the other tie her, I will fuck her! Yes, that
was it. The hostess had long since let go, thinking to leave the matter to
the men.
I stood there a moment, unmolested. They realized I couldnÕt go
anywhere. My tits heavy on my chest, my legs apart beneath my rolling,
flexing bottom cheeks, I gazed behind myself. All was being made ready.
A line of GQ men stood with cocks displayed. Laurie was passing in front
of them, greasing and oiling each manÕs shaft for the job ahead. A female
rolled out a rack of punishment implements from some hidden closet.
Whips, crops, paddles, unimaginable in their variety and ingenuity. Some
had holes, others not, still others had awful-looking brass studs on them.
My white bottom gleamed, the target of whichever or however many of
those horrid things they wished to spank me with.
ÒOver, darling,Ó the hostess said to me. She put her hand to the back
of my head. I felt her bend me again, felt my upward-yielding bottom
cheeks disclose their inner secrets, felt my pouch displayed in its soft
furrowness to all who stood behind me.
Gourd-like my tits hung again. She pulled my wrists down, bound
them tightly with leather and affixed them with loops of leather to the
bar below.
I coughed a little cough. I felt cool air upon my hiney. I wanted to
cry but didnÕt have the willpower to do it. Soon they would help me in that
department, I feared.
****
And they did. I remember it as a kind of liberation. The men entered
me gently, but remorselessly, each in turn. The hostess had to stop the
proceedings a few times, to let me catch my breath. And then it
continued. Always it continued. A birching at first, then the loving
thrusts, finally the long, hard-won spurts. After holding himself back for
so long, each man gritted out his release with a kind of great, heartfelt
agony. For none wanted the punishment. A brand on the hiney,
administered by the hostess, if he failed to drive into me at least 20
times before he came. The brand was kept close, so he could feel the heat
of it lying across the brazier, the red hot coals sunburning his arse.
I was not as tight in behind when I left as I had been when I entered.
At least, there was no longer that absolutely girlish, virginal resistance.
I suppose I was just as tight, physically so, but that clenching, sucking
absolute GRIPPING of the hiney cheeks would never be quite so fey again.
The childish fright was gone. Still there a little, maybe, but not in such
absolute terms as it had been on that first night. That night was the first
that I ever felt a long, living male organ slide into me...pump me with the
sperm from its balls...and then withdraw, like something out of Alien. It
was a rite of passage, a door through which one consciously went through,
and which closed forever behind.
****
Was I feeling morbid? I spent days afterward languishing. I spent
them back at the ÒLondon Dungeon,Ó again playing the nun, Betsy my best
companion. And then one day it got chilly. Summer was passing.
Surprisingly, this renewed me. I felt a new sense of wonder at my
growing body. The world might be passing into autumn, but I felt Spring
welling up within me.
I went shopping downtown. For clothes. Kali had given me some
money, and Cybil too. ÒFor services rendered,Ó Cybil said, telling me that
her business had increased since men had reported seeing a lanky, lissome
15-year-old ÒalmostÓ virgin lounging about the place. But I stuck with
Becky, enjoying the deprivation that I was inflicting on the males that
came by now and then, hoping for my favor. So close they were, and yet so
far. Cybil kept them in line. They could not have me unless I said Ôyes.Õ
And I eliminated that word from my vocabulary. At least for a little
while. Until I regrouped. And then, when I had, I wanted to go deeper still.
Into sin.
I met them downtown. We chatted outside a store window
displaying Moslem fundamentalist literature. A mannikin in a chador
stared down on us. She was blonde, long hair, just like me, except her hair
was longer. And the male with her, an older guy, was just introduced to
me as ÒSir Litchfield.Ó He had a British accent. The blonde told me her
name was Juliette. She hinted ÒSir LitchfieldÓ was just a made-up name.
Gazing into their eyes, I felt a welcoming, a beckoning. But I knew
they were playing Pied Piper for a world I had so far resisted entering.
ÒYou wouldnÕt, of course, be able to stay,Ó Juliette was saying to me
when my mind re-connected to what she was saying. She had a slim,
elvish beauty, a tall princess from the tall ships of Numenor. ÒIt would
just be for the evening.Ó
ÒThatÕs alright,Ó I heard myself reply. What was she saying? Yes.
That I must come with them. Or cum... I glanced again at Sir L. Was the L
for love? Such magnetic eyes. No, something else. Something about a
field. Plowing my field, hoeing it. He would sow a good harvest there. A
bountiful harvest.
Juliette took my hand. She smiled brightly at me. Her eyes were
expectant. We got into their car as the mannikin watched. Seeing, yet
sightless. All but her eyes out of sight behind the all-cloaking chador. I
would not be cloaked, no. Just the opposite.
They took me home, showed me around their house. I nodded, gazed
at their handsome, antique furniture. Their art, 19th Century, their
kitchen, brass pots hanging in good business-like order from the ceiling.
Polished, handles erect, suspended.
ÒLetÕs undress,Ó Juliette said to me casually. It was as if we were
going for a swim, except we were still indoors, and they had no pool.
Following her lead, I began to shed my clothes. Slowly, easily. She
undressing and I also, Sir L watching, undoing his trousers slowly,
unhurriedly. Offering a rod of unprecedented proportions to both our eyes
when he finally lowered his underpants.
And I, stripping off my panties, watched it with awed eyes.
Juliette, kicking her own panties off, took my chin. She brought my mouth
to hers, averting my gaze from her lover, and kissed me sweetly, lightly,
on my lips. An exchange of lipstick. A little smearing. My boobies, with
their wiggly nipples, shaking tremulously close to her own.
ÒCome,Ó Juliette said. She turned, led me into the bathroom. Her
long, wavy blonde hair swayed with her every step as she walked. Her
bottom was generous. A ripe pumpkin waiting for a boy to come and take
it from the garden, spear it with his knife. Sir L followed, his penis hard,
uncompromising.
We entered a dazzling marble bathroom. The walls and floor were
made of marble. The tub, huge, was inlaid with marble. There was no
water in it. Champagne waited in a chilled bucket by the unfilled tub. A
servant, seeing us come home, had placed it here, disappeared. And there
was something else. A bucket. And old-time, wooden pail. It was filled
with brine. And sticking up from it, long and slender, were several birch
branches. They were tied off at the end with a kind of little flag, a pink
bow. Juliette lifted the birch from the bucket, then laid it crosswise over
the bucket so that the excess brine would drip off. She wanted it wet, but
not drippy wet. I admired her lovely naked body as she moved, her bare
breasts swaying, her nipples risen, her legs long and sleek.
Abundant towels waited in folded bliss to be used. Juliette unfurled
one, plush and blue, and laid it by the side of the tub for us to rest our
bottoms on. Then, as Sir L and I sat down, dangling our feet into the
vacant tub, Juliette unfolded a second towel. Or, rather, she simply
tossed it, letting it unfurl itself as it fell haphazardly onto the marble
floor. It fell near a vase of pretty flowers. For a moment I thought it
might hit the flowers. They were roses, mixed with poinsettias, held in a
fragile carnelian vase.
ÒFor you, when weÕre ready,Ó Juliette said simply to me, meaning the
towel next to the vase.
ÒYes,Ó I replied. She got Sir L and I drinks. I sipped mine, she
swallowed hers.
ÒYou might wish to be drunk,Ó Juliette said meaningfully to me. She
sat down next to me, refilled her glass, passed the bottle to Sir L, who had
downed his own in one gulp.
ÒHow do you feel?Ó Sir L asked me. My thigh just touched his. I
glanced at his rod, straining in its excitement between his hairy thighs, a
projectile at least 10 inches in length.
ÒFine, right now,Ó I replied. I tried to drink my champagne a little
more boldly.
ÒThat is good,Ó he said. ÒYou feel no pain?Ó
ÒNo,Ó I replied. I felt young, like a newborn foal, awkward and yet
alive, so alive. Always before a storm the air is at its freshest, cleanest.
The wind picks up and blows through your hair and you know the lightning
will strike soon.
ÒDo you wish to be cuffed? Gagged?Ó Juliette asked me. Her eyes
looked so innocent, her words so smoothly delivered. ÒWe have those
here.Ó
ÒNo,Ó I replied.
ÒYou wish to play with yourself while it happens?Ó Sir L asked me.
ÒIt is easier for a girl that way sometimes,Ó Juliette said.
ÒMaybe,Ó I said. ÒI do not really know. I have not...Ó
ÒIt is wise of you to do it,Ó Sir L replied. ÒIt will give you a new
sense of yourself.Ó
ÒYes,Ó I said. ÒLike Spring Break, the first time. You party, you get
drunk, stoned. You canÕt exactly remember the boy you slept with the next
day, but you know it was wonderful.Ó
ÒMmmm, if he wore a condom,Ó Juliette said, with a smirk.
ÒWell, then I suppose you simply wouldnÕt remember his NAME, but
you mightnÕt have known that in the first place,Ó I said. I was fantasizing
a little, embroidering my thoughts with stories other, more experienced
girls had told me back home.
ÒHad enough?Ó Juliette asked. She reached out, took hold of my
glass. I relinquished it. I could see she was eager to begin. She was not
as hesitant about her sexuality as I was. Neither was Sir L.
ÒMelody, this is going to be quite painful,Ó Sir L said to me. His
voice was frank, bold. He made to stand, rose with his cock waggling its
majestic beauty before my eyes. I remained sitting. Juliette took me
under my arm and lifted me slowly, awkwardly to my feet. We were all
barefoot. The bathroom walls muffled the sound of our speaking. Echoed
it within, but beyond, beyond the door Sir L had locked, I knew nothing
could be heard. It was the ultimate privacy. Just us, our nudity. Even the
servant would be unaware of our games. Unheard I would scream within
these four walls. There would be, I guessed, no mercy. No witnesses. Did
I want that? I wanted someone else to decide, that I knew.
I shivered. I faced Sir L. Juliette hovered behind me, admiring my
ass...
GOLLIWOGG
Copyright 1996 by Alan Freer
THE SUPERMARKET JESUS
ÒTake heed that no man deceive you.Ó
--Matthew 24:4
Wogg spies Jesus in the supermarket
at two in the morning
in the produce section
fingering watermelons with dismay.
Checking for bee stings,
and with a thump
He turns and asks,
ÒAre these ripe?Ó
AND IN THE END...
AH, YES. THE C WORD!
ÒPolice organizations and unions arenÕt happy. They are complaining
that the law... may be unconstitutional.Ó
- Newsweek, December 23, 1996, pg. 53
(Cops now canÕt own guns if theyÕve been convicted of beating their
wives or children.)
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-END OF 154 EMISSION
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