Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 16
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Love Child
Chapter Eight
Some, like Nancy, were raped whilst tied down. Others,
participating more voluntarily, were left free during their fucks. But,
in truth, the door was locked and none were free to leave the dungeon. I
learned later that it was bolted shut from outside, by one of the elderly
servants, so that none could get out until everyone had suffered equally.
Then, after a prescribed time, the servant would unbolt the door.
Wearily the sex troopers would exit, to cuddle up gratefully in beds
upstairs. The next day, renewed, they often would begin again.
This "outing," I learned, would be a short one. Some lasted a full
week, but this was just a "weekender," a break between the Monday-
Friday modeling grind. Many of the girls were models, and the men
photographers, or publishers. I don't think there were any writers,
though. That occupation seemed to attract only homely nerds. No doubt
they were at home on the weekend, reading porno novels, or writing
them, while we played for real in the dungeon.
Panting, Jill came over to me finally, bending down she kissed me
on the mouth. "Do you want to play, darling? Or would you rather go
upstairs?" I considered a moment. I was being given a choice! I had
earned the right to be amongst them, a free woman.
"Play!" I said suddenly.
"Good girl!" Jill replied. She took me by the hand. I stood with
difficulty, staggered in my first steps. "See? Even though she hurts all
over she's still willing to give it her all!" Jill declared to the others
admiringly.
Nancy, somehow recovered from her bottom-fuck, advanced on me
with a can of ice cold Redi-Whip in her hands. She shook it, a menacing
smile covering her face. I flinched as suddenly she squirted a stream
of white cream on my breasts. Then, as I fought to block my breasts
with my hands, she swooped down beneath my arms and shot my pussy.
I laughed, delighted and amazed. I was deliciously sticky. I took my
pleasure wherever I could that night. With my breasts and cunt and
bottom sore, I had to rely on my mouth, my hands, even my silky mane
of blonde hair, twisting it round a man's cock and making him spurt. It
was my first taste of real freedom in a sexual environment, and I loved
it.
Chapter Nine
With my accomplishments in the dungeon behind me, I returned to
Gretchen a new woman. Wearing the same yellow dress I'd left in, but
vastly more self-assured and daring, I smiled at her confidently as she
let me in. Melissa was there, playing improbably with blocks on a
carpet in the middle of the room.
"Silly girl! Are you regressing to infancy?" I asked smartly,
teasingly.
"She's been spanked and she's moping," Gretchen smiled. "Come
and tell me all about your adventure." She strolled into the kitchen and
I went with her, Melissa leaping up and scuttling in behind us so as not
to miss a word.
Gretchen poured us all hot coffee and I shared the details of my
adventure with her and Melissa. They sat, attentive, even the
experienced Gretchen appalled at what they did to my tits. Melissa
shivered frequently, though I doubt that it was entirely from terror.
She had her hands pressed tightly between her closed legs. Her knees
knocked together almost rhythmically at the mention of each lurid new
detail.
"Well, that certainly was quite a story!" Gretchen said when I
was done. She rose, and I rose, and then we both looked at Melissa.
Eyes wide, she peered up at us, and a guilty look spread over her
features. "Melissa! Were you frigging yourself while Barbi told her
story?" Gretchen asked reprovingly.
"N-Nooo," Melissa replied, wide-eyed, but her teeth were
chattering as she said it, with uncontrollable girlish lust. "Come then,"
Gretchen said, extending her hand. Wordlessly Melissa took it. She
stood up. Gretchen looked at me. "You come with me also, Barbi.
Telling such a naughty story as that! You should be ashamed to speak
such words!" With a rueful look on my face I followed her.
Gretchen led us upstairs and into her bedroom. It smelled fresh,
with a vase of daisies placed by the bedside. Gretchen ordered Melissa
and I to get naked and get in the bed. As we stripped off our clothes
she took hers off as well. Then Melissa and I turned back the bedcover,
exposing crisp white sheets that I knew would be damp before the sun
set. At the moment its rays streamed in the room, flooding it with
warm sunshine. Yet we were ordered to bed all the same. Sex in the
afternoon. It seemed especially naughty.
Melissa and I slipped between the sheets, not drawing them above
our thighs lest Gretchen scold us. We huddled together. Gretchen stood
looking at us for a moment, hands on her hips. Then she went to a
drawer and, her back turned to us, took something out. When she
returned to the bed, and got in it, I saw that she was bringing a riding
crop to bed.
"Now which of you do you girls think is the naughtiest?" Gretchen
asked sweetly, cuddling with us.
"Barbi."
"Melissa," I replied.
And I knew then that we were in for a unique afternoon, all by
ourselves in the bed. We kissed, little pecks at first, hesitant. Then,
growing bolder, our kisses became more passionate. We felt each other
freely. Then, mounting me atop Melissa, Gretchen began striking me
with the riding crop, giving my newly healed bottom fresh welts. I
screamed, I cried, but I never wavered in kissing Melissa, rubbing
myself furiously against her. I relished obeying. Even obeying a
mistress, I realized. I knew there would be many more adventures for
me in the days to come.
I was invited to a dinner, Gretchen said. Soon a limo pulled up out
front. It was empty inside, except for the driver. We drove towards
town. Sitting in the back, I tried the door once, at a stoplight. I found I
was locked inside.
We pulled up in front of a modest house. The driver let me out,
escorted me to the door. He rang the bell for me. A woman answered. I
smiled softly. I gave a little curtsey. I was dressed in a short skirt
and blouse, with white cotton panties. My frilly lace bra was just
visible through my blouse. I wore a bow-tie of ersatz formality around
my neck. Black, patent leather booties, matching the color of my tie,
encased my feet. They each had a shiny silver buckle along the side.
The woman returned my smile. She was business-like and
efficient. She was on lunch break, it seemed, between important
meetings. Or at least she was dressed that way. She wore a loose but
imposing mauve double-breasted jacket. It had fabric-covered buttons,
side pockets, shoulder pads. There seemed to be no blouse underneath.
From the bulge of her prominent bosom I guessed she might well have a
bra on, though, perhaps of black satin. Her straight skirt, dropping to
her knees, left her calves bare except for nylons. I thought perhaps
they might be held up by a garter belt, of black satin also. She turned
on the heel of her suede pumps and ushered me in.
I was met by a man in a tux. He indicated a chair to me, in the
living room, a chair where I could sit by myself. I took it gladly. He
sat on a settee with his wife. A servant came, a Spanish man, and
served us drinks. He left. My hosts chatted with me, asked me about
my life, shared with me some of theirs.
The man seemed in his forties, the woman was younger. But she
was elegantly mature. I hoped I might be like her someday. Confident,
self-assured. I fidgeted a bit, trying my best to be sophisticated and
well-mannered like she was.
The servant called that dinner was ready. We rose. Into the
dining room we went, then stopped. I found myself standing between
the man and his wife. Rebecca, I'd learned to call her. He was named
John. I felt their breath close. They were both taller than me. There
was a flash of silver and John snapped handcuffs on me, behind my back.
I started, gasped. I hadn't expected that.
Gazing at the lavish spread on the dinner table, I felt fingers
come to the buttons of my blouse, pop them open one by one. My blouse
was eased off my shoulders. There was a glint of steel. Scissors!
They were lifted to my bosom by the woman. She slid a point of the
sharp scissors underneath my bra. She clipped the center of my bra
open. The twin cups of my brassiere popped apart, my bosoms spilled
out.
John whistled softly. My nipples wriggled stiffly. Rebecca
smiled, hinted with the scissors that she would be happy to snip my
nipples for me if I asked. I trembled.
With a flourish Rebecca plunged her scissors into my skirt's
waistband. I felt the cold steel against my belly. Rebecca cut my new
skirt right down the front. Shorn from me, it fell to the floor.
Obviously I would never wear that skirt again. Poor skirt. I'd liked it.
Only my panties remained. Must these, too, be lost to the
scissors?
"Certainly," was Rebecca's crisp reply. She relished cutting them
off me. Her wicked scissors were stuck right down the front of my
panties. She sliced them open.
I thought at least they'd let me keep my bow-tie on. I rather
fancied it. But they cut this off as well. Finally my shoes were
brutally attacked with the scissors. I stood there watching as Rebecca
did her best to cut them to pieces.
Still standing atop the remains of my heels, I shivered as Rebecca
and her husband admired my utterly naked body. The scissors, for the
moment at least, were at rest on the table nearby, shining maliciously
under the glittering light of an overhead chandelier.
"So precious, so flawless, so delicate," Rebecca cooed. She said
she liked the fact that I was almost without any suntan. She lifted
each of my nipples. Her husband frankly palmed my bottom.
A collar was secured around my throat. It had little points of
steel on it. Softly Rebecca said it was time for dinner.
I stepped forward, bare feet padding on the rug. I made for the
nearest chair. But Rebecca turned me aside.
"No, dear, your meal is here," she said. She pointed to a corner of
the room. There were two bowls on the floor there. One was for food,
the other held water. They were dogfood bowls.
I was forced to my knees. The servant came. He dumped a heaping
pile of turkey scraps, mixed with stuffing, into my bowl. Steam wafted
up from the food. At least it was hot. The toe of John's shoe kick-
prodded my bottom. I dropped my face to the bowl, my hair spilling all
around me, golden-blonde, radiant. Wordlessly I began to eat.
John and Rebecca settled into their chairs at the table. They
sipped red wine and Chablis as I lapped water from my doggie bowl.
They discussed politics, religion, the arts. Finally I asked if I could
have more food. I was still hungry. Gretchen hadn't given me breakfast.
"You will have to come and beg, like any pet would," Rebecca
replied. I kneed my way over to John, as I guessed was expected.
Solicitously I knelt at his feet, gazed up at him. He took his linen
napkin and wiped my chin, around my mouth, where the remains of my
bowl meal had accumulated. I begged for wine. He let me sip some
from his glass.
"I shall not just give you food for free," John told me then. If you
want to eat you must perform...services. Can you handle a zipper with
your teeth?" I knew his meaning then. Handcuffed, I crawled
awkwardly beneath the table. He opened his legs for me. With my
mouth open, I sought out the zipper on his pants with my tongue.
Finding it, I clasped it between my front teeth and pulled it down. His
dick popped right out. He wore no underpants.
My mouth agape, my head weaved about as I sought to catch the
plum of his penis. It must have taken only a moment, catching the head
of his waving, newly liberated dick with my mouth. But it was so
shameful, I felt so humiliated, that it seemed an eternity to me.
Finally I got hold of it with my lips. I sucked on it. Rebecca, sounding
like God somewhere above the table, warned me to only pleasure John,
not to make him come.
And how was I supposed to do that? I wondered. Maybe a woman
like her, who had doubtless given thousands of blowjobs, could judge
something like that. But me? This was almost my first, and I couldn't
even see John. I was wedged under the table, my hands cuffed. The only
thing I had to judge John's responsiveness with was my mouth! And, I
suppose, my ears, I was thinking, when a rather loud record was
abruptly put on. It was symphony music.
Struggling in the darkness beneath the table, I tried to please
John without making him too happy. I wished dearly I had some way of
knowing how he was feeling, responding. Young men could shoot in a
moment, without warning. Older men might take longer, but then again
perhaps not, depending on how excited they were by the girl. This I
knew just as a matter of common sense. And I knew that older men,
once they came, might take awhile to revive. Rebecca might be quite
pissed ifÑ
Ack! He was coming! Just like that! One moment I was
obediently slurping away, and suddenly a shower of semen flooded my
mouth. I drew back, instinctively, hoping somehow to avoid the
accident I'd just caused. Of course this let me get sprayed in the face,
and did nothing to undo my error.
Ow! A swift kick in my hiney. Rebecca's foot. "Get up!" she
ordered me. I obeyed at once, and hit my head on the underside of the
table. At last I kneed my way out from under the hanging lace
tablecloth. "Come over here!" Rebecca called.
I stood. Nakedly I walked over to where Rebecca sat in her chair
at the table. My hair tumbled over my shoulders, luxuriant but
bedraggled. A bit bedraggled. With stringy semen laced in it here and
there. The white stuff was all over my lips, on the tip of my nose. My
eyes were downcast. My body was pinkly white in the light of the
chandelier.
"You couldn't resist getting a mouthful of my husband's sperm,
could you?" Rebecca asked me harshly.
"No mistress," I replied. I thought it best not to call her by her
first name any more. She didn't seem to want to be on familiar terms.
"We shall have to entertain John, the two of us, if he is to get it
up again," Rebecca said to me. I trembled before her in her mauve
business suit. "He likes to see girls abused. Sexually abused, of course.
You are lucky you have the body for it." Rebecca made to rise. I was
frightened. I grasped at straws in my defense.
"Ma'am, mistress, I'm still hungry," I said in a pleading voice. I
did not wish for dinner to be over. Dinner was safety. What happened
afterward promised to be the scary part.
"Of course, dear," Mistress said, subsiding once more in her chair,
reluctant but intrigued. She opened her jacket, flicking the buttons one
by one with her long manicured nails. I stood, watching curiously,
expectantly. Rebecca pulled apart the halves of her suitcoat. A pair of
breathtaking breasts wobbled into view. They were perched atop a
tight corset. It failed utterly to contain them, pressing against the
undersides but leaving the nipples free, doing little more than lifting
her breasts and offering them like ripe fruit.
Rebecca grasped me by the back of the hair and pushed my head
down to her closest tit. "Suck," she commanded. With hesitant little
licks of my tongue I tested the resiliency of her nipple. It wiggled
playfully. "Suck it, I said!" Rebecca snapped. Fearfully I drew as much
of her teat into my mouth as I could and fed upon it. There was no milk,
of course, it was only pretend food.
"Such a sweet little mouth," Rebecca said, after awhile, and began
stroking my hair. I felt comforted. With her help I sought her other
breast, toyed with its nipple, suckled, nourished myself upon it.
OUR BUSINESS OFFICE LOCATION
by holy joe
Recently a reader wrote and asked, ÒWhere are you guys?Ó Well, we
are in Hell. ThatÕs what we put down on our business license, but weÕre
still waiting in line to file it, since all the government workers of the
world wind up down here in Hell, where they are even slower than they are
up Òon the mortal plane,Ó as it is called.
Hell is now air conditioned. When you have eternity to fix things up,
it IS possible to make some changes. ItÕs now kind of like Hawaii, or
Haiti, depending on what kind of rent youÕre paying. All the naughtiest
girls are down here, including all those wicked girls who posed for
Playboy and Penthouse, so the viewing is good. The sex would be good too,
but the girls are just as bitchy down here as they were during their
lifetimes, so good luck getting any. (Me and Roller havenÕt, anyway...)
(ÔCause, you know, all those bad boys who posed for Playgirl are down here
too, dammit!)
Now recently, as a reporter, I was permitted to travel up to heaven
to do a report on how great it is up there, and to tell all the lost souls in
hell (and on the Internet) how they must be good to avoid going to Hawaii
when they die. Well, friend, let me tell you what I found up in Heaven. All
those Catholic priests who were good and never got any from the choir
boys, they are up in heaven. Also, all the choir boys who refused to Ôput
outÕ are up in heaven. So they are just as miserable with each other up
there as they were down on earth. Also up in Heaven are all the spinsters,
old maids, and great aunts who never married. On every street corner I
was stopped by some scrawny old bag who insisted on lecturing me on Ôthe
necessity of being goodÕ for half an hour, and then required me to help her
cross the street when she was done. (Not that anyone would hit her. Every
car for half a mile around stopped the instant they saw a Ôpoor old ladyÕ
crossing the street.) (Incidentally, there are no cab drivers up in heaven.)
Heaven is pretty boring. Not only canÕt you get a cab, but everything
is gold plated. You feel like youÕre in a china shop or something, with a big
ÒDonÕt TouchÓ sign hanging over youÕre head.
Now, I have it on good authority that Ralph Reed and Gary Bauer are
going to heaven. But, would YOU want to sleep with them? I doubt it. Me,
IÕll take a few con men, bums, and Penthouse Pets over spinsters and old
maids any day. Plus, all the fags are down here, so if youÕre gay you donÕt
even WANT to go to heaven, believe me. ThereÕs nobody up there you can
relate to. ÒWeÕre all down here!Ó as one fag told me. ÒEven if some queer
did manage to get into heaven, heÕd be VERY unhappy there, because thereÕd
be nobody to fuck him up the butt!Ó
There is one drawback to living in Hell. Every elected politician the
world has ever known is down in Hell. All those banal moralizers who
voted for the CDA already Ôhave reservations,Õ as they say. Clinton
himself has a big mansion waiting for him, right next door to Judas.
Free Fuck Decency e-mail subscriptions: send (18 or up) age statement
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addressed envelope & age statement to: Jim Corrigan, P.O. Box 3663,
Phenix City, AL 36868 U.S.A. Naughty Naked Dreamgirls (Library of
Congress ISSN: 1070-1427) is copyright 1996 and a trademark of
Andrew Roller. NEW: uw.alt.sex.stories END OF 16 EMISSION