Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 159
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Vegas Vixen
Chapter One
In a pleasantly full room people in expensive but casual attire
traded bits of gossip, flavored by morsels of cheese and salmon. I felt
my breasts preceeding me as I entered. They were full and firm and
they were providing the ammunition against the competition tonight.
My shirt, red, was tight as a slip. I wore no bra and fretted now,
wondering just how visible my nipples might be. The intention had been
that my nipples would be readily apparent the moment I became
excited. A dirty little trick we girls pull now and then on you men, just
so we can't blame ourselves when we wind up home alone at 3 a.m., our
knight having gone jousting elsewhere. I didn't know who Jeff might
escort home tonight. We'd arrived together because we worked in the
same building. But I wanted to make sure that if he did take someone
home, it wasn't Kali rather than me because she'd worn no bra and I had.
Now, though, I wondered if I wasn't already excited. I mentally
checked my pulse. Men, gorgeously attired men, were gazing with
appreciation at my sheetrocked breasts. At least that's what they felt
like. I'd let the clerk in the store sell me the tightest blouse she had.
Tight and silky.
I smiled. Females who at most other parties would have marked
me as a threat smiled back, almost affectionately. Well, these
certainly were nice people.
Swingers, that's what they were. I could read it in their eyes. I
glanced at Jeff. He knew many of them, it seemed. That broad grin of
his just smiled on and on, as if silently saying, "Ah, Mrs. Poindexter, I
still remember the tight fit of your ass from our last encounter. And
Miss Johnson, so newly married, would you like me to help your husband
slake your lusty cunt again?" I was received as Jeff's companion. I
liked that. They seemed to want to lavish just as much honor on me as
him. Yet I'd never seen any of them before, and might never again. I
was, after all, just the hotdog girl (a silly name, and not just in
reference to what I pushed across the counter in the lobby of the casino
next door. I'd gotten that name in my two weeks of work 'cause the
girls seemed to think lots more boys came round our hot dog stand than
before. As if I was drawing them, and those elongated things they kept
stuffed down their pants.
"Oh yes," Matilda had said. "We used to hardly ever get any of the
boys from the high school, being as there's a hot dog stand closer by
them. But now the boys go right past their old haunt and all want to eat
here. And we charge casino prices." Well, I was pretty, I had to admit,
even for 16. If I dressed pretty doormen didn't even ask for my I.D. It
was like they didn't want to know. The instant they saw me they
wanted me in my club, and that was that. Big, burly, guys...the kind that
it would take a SWAT team to dislodge in order to pry me loose from
the dancefloor. So I partied more and more now, dancing my little heart
out in all the fancy clubs.
I'd turned 16 two weeks ago and gotten my work permit. It wasn't
like it must be for other girls, in other cities. I wanted spending money
and I knew any job in any casino would get it for me in abundance.
Sure, the hot dog stand was minimum wage, but the tips were awesome.
I'd sold dogs to whole flotillas of Japanese men who insisted on buying
$7.50 in food with Grants or even Franklins (as we call them). They'd
vye with each other to see which of them could impress me most. One
guy would meekly leave a ten dollar bill and insist on my keeping the
change. The next would insist on giving me a twenty. Like a robot (by
now) I'd tell him sweetly that my manager didn't allow me to take any
tips. By then the fifties would be showing their corners and, finally,
one dude who just had to top the rest would lay me a hundred. Girlishly
I'd accept the money, trying to let them realize that I was just a high
school sophomore...the more sweet and innocent I tried to look (so
they'd know without doubt I wasn't available later for 'room service'),
the more they seemed to love me. So trying to say 'no' only increased
the tips and, after cutting in the other girls to keep them from getting
jealous, I'd keep the change. The high school boys even insisted I keep
the change, though they never got past the ten dollar level, of course.
Kali was 18 and breathtakingly legal. She had long dark hair and
the eyes of a cat. The mind of a cat too, for that matter, like a
predator. I was blonde and willowy, painfully thin almost except for
my Godzilla-sized tits. My hips were girlishly trim, as if all the
adipose tissue there had decided to commute to my chest. I was told I
had asscheeks like a vise. A boy had tried to deflower me there and
couldn't get his dick past the rim of my sphincter. He'd cum just trying,
and left me with an unpleasantly moist heinie and no pleasure. I'd been
taken in front, of course, and had been told that was tight too. They'd
used lots of vaseline the night they did that, at a party. It had been a
pool party and I'd let them get me high on marijuana. Two boys finally
managed to talk me into a bedroom and it had happened there. I was
ashamed of it for awhile but once I hit high school the social whirl sort
of demanded you 'put out' at least once in a while, lest you get labelled
a nun. I'd had three boyfriends in high school and done it with two of
them.
Well, if the people at this party knew my age they weren't letting
it bother them. I was sought out in conversation just as much as Jeff,
who was merely stating that I was one of the 'finest employees' of the
casino next door. Maybe some people thought he meant I was the
assistant secretary to the boss or something, I don't know. Anyway
nobody mentioned hot dogs. I played along and, mostly, just smiled and
nodded and listened. These were rich people and they seemed to like
that. The wealthy always assume everyone wants to hear their
business. Well, I was as priviledged tonight as anyone, and I listened
with increasing fascination. When they asked about me I said I'd lived
in the city all my life, and they enjoyed hearing particulars about Vegas
from the mouth of a native.
A bit later I was sitting, legs crossed, on the couch. Daintily I
sipped some hugely expensive liquor, balancing the glass stem twixt my
fingers. This wasn't just a glass, I thought, musing over it. It was fine
jewelry, expensive as a bauble most women wear on their fingers. This
was the kind of glass you didn't want to be holding at an opera, unless
you could afford to lose it.
"Ah, well, midnight does approach," a woman said with carefree
gay, and tossed her wine glass into the fireplace like a McDonald's
clamshell. No styrofoam this, it shattered almost musically. Other
glasses followed.
"Oh well," I finally told myself, rolling my eyes. A flick of my
wrist and my glass arced peacefully to a (hopefully) pleasant end. Most
glasses just got set down, but not out of any desire to preserve the
world's finer sands. Only I seemed to have taken note that any glasses
had been broken. A transition was occuring here, a change of mood. We
were on the front between two atmospheres and crossing fast.
A tap on my leg. It was Jeff. His eyes indicated I look toward
Kali. A woman was causing the tanned, tawny vixen to rise. Kali stood
up and the woman approached her. Closing, speaking small talk I cannot
even rememeber now, the woman began casually undoing the buttons
down the front of Kali's blazer.
"You are new here, and it is your priviledge to be first," the
woman was saying to Kali. My competitor for Jeff's hand seemed to
know what was about to befall her and stood straight, like a soldier
about to be reviewed by her commanding officer. Yet with a soft,
feminine slinkiness remaining.
The blazer came undone and Kali stood in a frilly white sleeveless
bustier, plus micro mini. A woman sitting on the davenport behind Kali
scooted closer and took Kali's skirt in hand. She pulled down on it, I
thought for a moment so Kali would show less leg. But the skirt just
kept going until--that bitch!--it was seen by all that Kali wore no
underwear. Simultaneously the woman who had undone Kali's blazer
now scooped her melons from the translucent screen of the bustier. As
if handling rare hothouse fruit, the woman lifted them up for all to see,
prize melons. Kali merely looked down at them, as if inspecting them
for herself as well.
"They must remain thus always," the still fully gowned woman
disrobing Kali breathed, her hot breath washing the melons as if to
polish them. Kali wriggled her hips a bit self-consciously now, it
seemed, then stood stock still again.
Another woman approached the first at Kali's breasts, a bottle of
baby oil in hand. With erotic slowness the bottle was caused to emit a
never-ending squirt of oil onto the precious bare mounds. Here and
there the stream played, crossing and re-crossing the breasts as a
whipsman might pattern an unfortunate bottom. I shivered. This scene,
so unexpected, was making me hot. I didn't even realize it then but my
nipples had perked up into erect little points.
Some partiers watched the unfolding disrobing of Kali's clothes
and her re-robing in oil. Others, bored perhaps with preliminaries after
so many hard years of fucking, talked on. I let my inner thighs rub
together without even thinking; once, twice, again. My hands clasped at
the hem of my own miniskirt and pulled it taut, though it was taut
already. I stopped my errant thighs and put my hand to my mouth to sip
liquer, found myself holding no glass.
The bottle was passed to those admiring Kali from the rear
vantage of the davenport. Kali's nether spheres, equally round, received
an oily dosing of their own. I wondered if I should try to leave.
Feminine nails parted Kali's tight buttocks, opened them for an
impromptu viewing of her naughty hole. Kali merely contemplated her
breasts. In her reverie she found her long black hair to be centimeters
out of place as it cascaded down over her shoulders. She brushed it
back, smoothing its appearance, keeping it absolutely perfect as all the
while her shithole was viewed by prying, hungry eyes.
A female hand took Kali's left arm and bent it straight. I put my
hand to my mouth as I watched, shocked. A woman in formal wear
bathed the girl's skin just above a vein with an alcohol laden puff of
cotton. Kali watched, put a lacquered nail to her lower lip. The
formally attired nurse reached into the handbag of a nearby woman and
produced a syringe. Kali was injected, flinched.
"A tiny pin prick," the nurse said soothingly.
"I.V.," Jeff whispered to me. "They'll run a full gram of
solumedrol into her over two hours. A steriod, it will make her hot as a
horse." I was too frightened to know what to say, grubbed in my mind
and found an insult.
"She needs that?" I asked.
"No, of course not," Jeff said, almost bothered by my question.
"Of course she's a bitch in heat by nature, but this will drive her to
fevered heights. Prednisone turns everything in the body on. The mind,
the senses, everything is much more intense."
I very definitely wanted to leave now but didn't know how to. I'd
just seen some amazing shit, and this party might not want anybody to
break the fun by squealing. I realized I wouldn't be allowed to leave if I
asked. Could I sneak out? Break out? I contemplated my options, even
as my curiousity grew.
Slowly, effortlessly, Kali turned now and walked nude toward a
far wall. A curtain I'd paid no notice to before was swept back. A sigh
went up from the crowd, almost of relief, as a wallfull of flagellums
came into view. I wanted to check my pulse to see whether I was in a
dream, but moved not. Still I maintained my composure, an icicle of
cool.
I saw one woman beside Kali, walking with her, held aloft a bag
of fluid. It must be the Solumedrol. Already the evil drug was dripping
its way down a catheter and into Kali's artery.
A sawhorse was reached. Its top was padded with leather.
Effortlessly Kali was bent forward, forward, doubled over almost. An
iron ring clipped her neck and dropped an affixing chain to the floor.
Kali lifted her head slightly, the chain tautened. She could get up no
more.
Kali's arms were bound behind her with loving care, wrists and
elbows joined by iron. Her ankles, still in heels, were separated now,
pulled apart to form a wide vee. The fate of the female. Arms together
but legs apart.
Kali's hair was carefully piled atop her head and tied with loose
ribbon. Her bottom gleamed whitely at me.
"The legs, thighs, bottom are best," a woman said now, and passed
a single birch branch to another female. "The thighs are more sensitive
but the bottom heals fastest."
"We have no need of blood tonight, unless the victim requests it,"
the woman taking the birch branch responded.
"Normally we do not draw," another woman said.
"No blood then," a woman concluded. "But I should hope there
won't be any sparing of pain."
"To hurt always, to harm never," the one with the birch said.
A woman bent slightly and addressed Kali's face from the side.
She spoke as one might to a puppy. "You'll hurt something awful
tonight, Kali," the tormentress to be said. "We intend to try on you
everything we can. But I want you to know that, no matter what
happens to you, we all do love you very much. Tomorrow when you
examine the little bruises on your bottom, barely able to touch them,
remember our admiration for you. And your bruises will heal quickly.
Only a matter of days and your bottom will be back in fit form, ready
for another ordeal if you wish."
"I, I think this one will last me quite awhile," Kali breathed in a
squeaky voice.
ATTENTION EVERYONE
Please donÕt throw trash on my head. ItÕs one thing to get flamed on
the Net. ItÕs quite another to get garbage dumped on my head while IÕm out
earning a living. If you see some mangy guy rooting around in your
dumpster, collecting bottles and cans, PLEASE have the courtesy to WAIT
until IÕm through before you throw in your garbage.
Yesterday I was rummaging around for cans in a dumpster behind
some offices on Wall Street and some financier threw a bottle on my head!
I did get 2 cents for the bottle at the recycling center, so it wasnÕt a total
loss, but it did kind of disorient me for the rest of the day.
You may think itÕs no big deal if some idiot klonks me on the head
with a bottle. After all, itÕs my head, not yours, right? But after I got
klonked on the head I went to the park and made a speech. Apparently I
was so disoriented that I got up on the statue of Ulysses S. Grant and
proclaimed that men should be allowed to date little girls! Some guy told
me he typed up my speech and uploaded it to MY ftp site
(members.aol.com/roller666) under the inconspicuous title of Oprah! He
even made it look like an ad, to get money from people, even though itÕs
just some kooky speech I made.
My fellow Americans, in the age of the Internet you got to be careful
about who you hit on the head with a bottle. The person might think odd
thoughts and write about them on the Internet. In the old days you could
just piss on bums like me and it wouldnÕt matter because my words only
carried as far as my voice. But those days are gone.
The next guy you pass on the corner, holding up a cardboard sign that
says ÒPlease Help,Ó that you DONÕT help, well, he just might have an
Internet account. He might be so pissed off that he writes the Communist
Manifesto, Part 2. Then who knows what might happen? Part 1 caused
enough trouble. We certainly donÕt need some poor, pissed off guy writing
Part 2 !!!
Well, thatÕs my advice for today. I know it isnÕt real pleasant to
read (wait Ôtill you read ÔOprahÕ) but sometimes I have to bring up
unpleasant subjects, like your Pastor on Sunday does.
A final note: You think you own your garbage until the garbage man
comes and picks it up, donÕt you? Not so! If you toss your trash into a
Ôgeneral refuse bin,Õ it automatically ceases to be your property. Even
your own private trash can, outside your home, can be searched by the
police without a warrant, according to the U.S. Supreme Court! (And by
me, too.) (Which IÕm grateful for, since I like collecting used, junior sized
tampons.) (Maybe someone on the Supreme Court likes collecting used
tampons too.) (Or pubic hair.)
GOLLIWOGG
Copyright 1996 by Alan Freer
FED-EX
Wogg receives a FedEx--
and in it,
a postcard which reads:
Dear Golliwogg,
Just wanted to let you know
*I am*
alive.
DonÕt worry about me
IÕm doing quite well.
Oh,
by the way,
Nietzsche sends his best.
--God.
AND IN THE END...
WISE UP, AMERICA!
ÒThe idea that children have special needs has given way to the
conviction that children have rights, the same full spectrum of rights
as adults: civil and political, social, cultural and economic.Ó
- from UNICEFÕs The State of the WorldÕs Children 1997 report.
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-END OF 159 EMISSION
- Alan FreerÕs e-mail: FAFREER@wpo.hass.usu.edu