Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 178
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Puppy Love
Chapter One
The afternoon sun was heading west when we filtered outside that
afternoon. WeÕd decided to pass the time by the pool. Jasmine still wore
her bikini with the convenient hole in the crotch. She proclaimed sheÕd
found it useful for peeing. Tara wore a bikini top modestly over her
breasts, but a bottom was out of the question, with the chain dangling
down from her sex. She went bottomless, her ass jiggling naked and white
in the sun, her pussy showing boldly, matching her lovely raven hair.
Anna, now free of her corset, after much laborious untying, walked
about with a bikini bottom on but no top. She seemed overwhelmed by the
idea that in just a few short hours her nipples would be pierced. As if to
spare them even the slightest restraint on their natural inborn freedom,
she let them wiggle naked in the warm afternoon sunshine. They seemed
perpetually erect, no doubt from her agitation at their intended fate. She
looked at them often and touched them sometimes, as one might touch a
foreign object, though sheÕd had them, of course, from birth. I watched
her and wished she might not be pierced yet the thought intrigued me. Her
bosoms were so big and beautiful, so bountiful. How might they look
pierced, with a little gold chain hanging between the fine teats,
connecting them. And how would she give milk someday? I knew women
were pierced, almost routinely these days, but when they gave birth did
they squirt milk in three directions from each nipple? I wanted to sit
with Anna and talk about it, but instead I let her be, worrying over her
nipples, and played in the pool with Rachel.
My former teacher, wearing her ponytail but otherwise naked, played
somewhat self-consciously in the pool. It must have been hard for her,
having a big dildo rammed up her ass. SheÕd already claimed to have to
poop once, and gotten it off, only to sit under a scowling Tara on the toilet
as absolutely nothing came out. Tara had fitted her back into the chastity
belt and rammed the dildo back up not too pleasantly.
Jasmine fixed us drinks as the hours passed and we deliberately
drank ourselves silly. Tara and Rachel to forget, the rest of us to stop
worrying. As the sun went down we turned in early. The men had made us
promise not to masturbate. Tara tied us each into bed, wrapping a cord
round the wrists and securing them to the headboard. When morning came,
she got up and found that each of us had peed in bed, unable to leave the
bed to go to the toilet. Together we bundled up the sheets and took them
down to the washroom.
The morning was spent in nervous anticipation. We did our hair, our
makeup, checked each other to make sure we looked perfect. Anything less
than the best might anger the men. At last, anxious and dressed as before,
we settled in round the piano in the parlor. I sat plinking in my torn,
seatless bikini on the piano keys. The silence was deafening between the
isolated notes. At last the doorbell buzzed into the silence, breaking our
daydreaming and announcing our guests.
Tara went to the door. She opened it and smiled with anxious eyes.
She lifted the hem of her shift and displayed her sex, made more
pronounced by the chain which dangled in flashing splendor from it. I
gasped as I saw a female hand reach in and gently lift the chain to
examine it. Was there a girl among the men today? How embarrassing!
ÒAre they capable of breeding and giving milk?Ó I heard a throaty
female voice ask.
ÒThey have all been blooded,Ó I heard Ivan reply. ÒAs for giving
birth, they are all on the pill.Ó
ÒWell, this one looks healthy enough,Ó I heard the woman reply. ÒIÕm
sure my husband could sire us a baby on her. But show me the rest,
anyhow.Ó
Tara stepped back, visibly frightened at our unknown guest. Ivan
stepped in with the other men. They made a large assemblage inside the
entryway. ÒThey are in the process of being marked by their master for
his permanent possession,Ó Ivan said. He led the woman toward us. She
wore a fashionable open vest, a blouse, a knee-length dress, high heels.
She seemed busy, as if she could spare us just the most fleeting of
moments, perhaps on her way from a luncheon to a seminar, or to some
company she ran. Yet her eyes, finding us, settling on us each in turn,
seemed to linger. I felt uncomfortable under her gaze.
ÒSquat down again, pee,Ó Ivan ordered Tara. Gulping with discomfort
at the thought of it, especially in front of this new, strange lady, Tara
nonetheless complied. Her chain dangled down from her sex and curled its
tip upon the rug.
ÒYou are not as free as yesterday, are you?Ó Ivan taunted her. Today
when you pee your urine will hit the chain, and run down it. You will stand
with your own pee dripping from it, and have to wipe the chain as well as
yourself. Yesterday you were a free young woman, carefree even, today
you are pierced, married by the chain to your master, and he is not even
here to admire it. Now you have a taste of womanhood, true womanhood,
of the woman who sits at home with children while her husband,
forgetting her, looks at someone like you down at the strip bar, or in
Playboy.Ó
ÒDonÕt!Ó Tara cried out. She put a hand to her eyes as they brimmed
over with tears. Ivan strode over to her.
ÒYour peehole is to give the water, not your eyes!Ó
ÒOh, please sir!Ó she cried. She clapped her hands to her bottom, for
it looked as if he was about to kick her right in her hiney with the pointed
toe of his boot.
ÒGo, pee now, show Ms. Tuppence how healthy you are,Ó Ivan snarled.
Trembling, Tara let out a small stream of pee. She watched as it
puddled on the floor beneath her, after first ensnarling itself in her sexual
chain.
ÒIs that all?Ó Ms. Tuppence asked. ÒHave her drink. I wish to see a
good, healthy pee from her before I make my final decision.Ó
Ivan yanked Tara up by her hair. He pushed our long-legged hostess
ahead of himself into the parlor. ÒGet yourself sloshed,Ó he told her.
ÒDrink and drink and drink until you pee properly! And wipe off that chain
of yours with champagne or something. I donÕt wish to smell your urine,
except where its been peed on the rug.Ó WeÕd sprayed rug cleaner on the
spot when the men had left. I glanced at Rachel. Should I offer to go get
the rug cleaner now? I didnÕt want to speak up, lest I get singled out for
rough treatment by Ivan. He seemed in an angry mood today.
The men settled in around us. I remained perched on the piano stool,
with Rachel, wearing her firehat, standing beside me. Anna was put upon a
manÕs lap. Jasmine was left to sit alone. SheÕd picked a small, single
chair and sat in it, hoping not to share it. It seemed too narrow for the big
Russian men to fit into, even if they chose to put her on their lap. It
belonged to the writing desk sitting in the corner of the parlor. Tara went
to the bar and got a bottle of champagne and opened it and wet a linen
handkerchief with it. She stood lifting and wiping her sex chain, much
like a man might wipe his own cock. Her hair hung long and lovely round
her eyes, down her back, over her slim white shoulders. I wanted to run to
her and console her and get her out of that awful, sex piercing chain. But I
could do nothing. I sat as quietly as I could.
ÒHer, let me feel her belly,Ó Ms. Tuppence ordered, seated beside
Ivan on a couch. She pointed to Jasmine. Two Russian men got up and
brought the young female over to Ms. Tuppence. ÒAh, I see your bikini is
most naughty,Ó Ms. Tuppence said admiringly, noticing the hole cut right
where JasmineÕs sex was, letting it pout through the fabric. She stroked
the small little lips of JasmineÕs cunt. ÒA bit small, donÕt you think? Ah,
men like small pussies but I must see a child birthed through it. Do you
think you could give birth, darling?Ó Ms. Tuppence asked Jasmine.
ÒI donÕt want to,Ó Jasmine replied frankly. Her face was ashen. She
was not at all interested in having Ms. Tuppence examine her, especially in
such an intimate way.
ÒThat is not an answer,Ó Ms. Tuppence replied coldly. ÒTurn around.Ó
With great reluctance Jasmine let herself be turned so that she faced Ms.
Tuppence with her backside. Without so much as asking permission, Miss
Tuppence yanked down JasmineÕs bikini panties, all the way to her knees.
Jasmine looked and felt very vulnerable indeed, with her bare ass sticking
itself right into that strange womanÕs face. Ms. Tuppence opened
JasmineÕs ass with clinical fingers and peered at her hiney hole.
ÒMadam, I--Ó Jasmine began, and suddenly I heard it. A delicate
little fart issued from her back hole, right into Ms. TuppenceÕs nose.
Rachel clapped her hand to her mouth and failed to suppress a gleeful
giggle.
ÒShe is not branded. There is no mark upon her!Ó Ms. Tuppence said
with an angry voice.
ÒI was planning to do a test brand on that one--Ó Ivan began,
pointing at me.
ÒAre these just loose girls? Are they not owned?Ó Ms. Tuppence
growled. She slapped JasmineÕs ass hard with her hand, making Jasmine
flinch and give up a little yelp. But Jasmine remained planted where she
was, poised on her high heels, for fear of angering Ms. Tuppence further.
She fought momentarily to regain her balance from the ass-slap, steadied,
seemed to breathe to herself a determination to remain calm.
ÒGet me some vaseline,Ó Ms. Tuppence ordered. Ivan looked at Tara.
Our hostess swallowed, ran to a desk in the corner, opened it, took out a
jar of vaseline and hurried over to Ms. Tuppence with it. ÒI have a farm, on
the outskirts of Buenos Aires,Ó Ms. Tuppence said absently, dipping her
finger into the jar. She twirled her long finger around in it, coating it
thoroughly. ÒOpen your friend,Ó Ms. Tuppence told Tara. Our hostess bent
forward slightly and took hold of JasmineÕs ass. Jasmine flinched. Tara
spread her hinds so that Ms. Tuppence could stick her finger up JasmineÕs
ass.
ÒIt is a sex farm, really, though I do keep a few head of cattle and
some sheep there,Ó Ms. Tuppence continued. She poked at JasmineÕs nether
hole, found it tight. Jasmine grimaced. Tara seemed to whisper in her ear
to behave, not to fight the inevitable, lest we all be punished for it. Ms.
Tuppence stuck her finger into JasmineÕs hiney and pushed inward
exploringly. ÒSee, she is quite tight, really. YouÕd think sheÕd hardly been
fucked back here. On my sex farm these girls would be worked properly.
They would milk my cows for me as practise for giving milk themselves.
They would see calves birthed, and discuss birthing techniques with my
midwife. My husband could sire many children for us on these girls, or I
could sell them to others, perhaps. We have auctions sometimes.Ó All
this was said as Ms. Tuppence made her way deeper and deeper in between
JasmineÕs clenching cheeks. Tara, looking quite disturbed, kept the girlÕs
ass dutifully open as Ms. Tuppence probed her.
ÒMadam, I do not own these girls, I--Ó Ivan began.
ÒThey are not branded. Only one is pierced, and more for show than
for ownership, IÕd say, given how sexy she looks with that chain in her,Ó
Ms. Tuppence answered. ÒGirls like these belong to no one. You have
fifteen men here, I will pay you to transport them to my farm. Let their
ÔmasterÕ get them back if he can. I am well defended by men of my own.Ó
I felt a shiver go down my spine, saw one shoot down TaraÕs spine
and tremble her buttocks even as my own felt squeamish, almost as if I
might shit right on the velvet piano stool. None of us wore panties, except
for Jasmine, and hers were pulled down. We would make quite a mess if
we all shitted in fear suddenly.
ÒWe did not even fuck the girls yesterday, for fear of their master,Ó
Ivan told Ms. Tuppence.
ÒYou are departing soon, are you not?Ó Ms. Tuppence asked Ivan.
ÒLeave a little early. Russia is far away. If you had fucked these girls,
their master would be angry with you. But if I steal them, he will be
angry with me, and I am much closer than you. He will come after me
first, to get them back, if nothing else. Worry about yourselves after IÕm
gone.Ó She looked meaningfully at Ivan. ÒAnd I wonÕt ever be gone, I can
assure you. Their master has been a pest to me in the drug trade, but now
I am going to steal his girls and overturn his empire...
ZINE REVIEWS
by holy joe
Exotic Magazine, Volume 4, Number 7, $1.95. 8 1/2Ó x 11Ó magazine, 40
pages plus a slick cover. X Publishing, Inc., 625 SW 10th Avenue, Suite
324B, Portland, OR 97205. email: xmag@teleport.com www:
http://www.xmag.com
REVIEW: The only difference I can see between Playboy and Hustler
is that Hustler uses starker lighting in its pictorials. Otherwise, the
magazines are the same. We could tick off a few other differences:
Playboy has lavish backgrounds. Hustler prefers a natural setting.
Playboy uses cartoonists that draw lovely females. Hustler uses a
cartoonist that draws beer-swilling men. Playboy aspires to ÔhighbrowÕ
magazine articles, Hustler (well, I never got around to noticing the
articles in Hustler...)
For a long time I couldnÕt read Hustler, due simply to a matter of
personal taste. Lately, though, itÕs gone upmarket, or calmed down, or
something, as itÕs usually worth checking out. And it is nice to see
Hustler occasionally present a very youthful looking, buxom centerfold
girl! Nonetheless, despite the essential sameness between Playboy and
Hustler, it is currently fashionable to praise Hustler at the expense of
Playboy. Playboy is said to present something unreal, Hustler the real
thing. Playboy is said to create a deceptive illusion of wealth, Hustler the
reality of normal life.
Frankly, as someone who has spent a few dollars on girlie
magazines, let me tell you what I consider important: 1. The girl needs to
have a cute face and big, or at least reasonably plump, tits. 2.
Attractiveness diminishes with age. 3. The more ÔlavishÕ the pictorial
background, the better the girl usually looks.
So there you have it. I donÕt really care whether the magazine is
titled ÒPlayboy,Ó ÒHustler,Ó ÒPenthouse,Ó or whatever. All the magazine
title tells me is an ESTIMATION of what is probably inside. But what is
actually inside is what matters. Sometimes the girl in Playboy looks
good, sometimes not. Sometimes the girl in Hustler looks good,
sometimes not. Also we must remember that different men have different
tastes. But, in the end, itÕs the manÕs own opinion that matters (after all,
itÕs his $6.95, plus tax). The magazine publishers can fight with each
other and tear each other down if they wish, but in the end itÕs the opinion
of the individual customer that counts, and his opinion is based largely on
his opinion of the girl in the magazine. (When I say ÔmenÕ I include boys,
by the way.)
Unfortunately, in her interview with Larry Flint, Theresa Reed falls
into the trap of criticizing Playboy. Recently I saw a copy of Penthouse
and Bob Guccione was publishing an article criticizing Larry Flint! Let us
remember the televangelists. They were taking America by storm, until
they began fighting with each other. As each televangelist attempted to
raise himself up, and destroy his fellow evangelist, what was the net
result? They ALL lost. Some went to prison, some didnÕt. But in the end
they were all diminished, and their political power was dissipated. In
1997 the televangelists arenÕt nearly as powerful as they were in 1987,
and itÕs largely their own fault.
So let us not have criticism of Playboy by those who would extol the
virtues of Larry Flint, or criticism of Larry Flint by Bob Guccione. God
knows, there is enough criticism directed at all three publishers from
Ôoutside,Õ they do not need to invest in internal strife!
As for Ms. ReedÕs interview, it is reasonably well written and
enjoyable. She keeps repeating the line, ÒLove him or hate him,Ó which I
suppose means that some people may disagree with Larry FlintÕs
publication. But then I have often found myself disagreeing with
Newsweek. Does that mean we are to lard an interview with the publisher
of Newsweek with the phrase, ÒLove him or hate him?Ó
The cover of this issue is a very nice cartoon painting by Chris
Warner, of a real-life striptease artist removing her bra. On the inside
front cover, for fans of the Penthouse Pet Elizabeth, thereÕs a photo of her.
(I didnÕt know you could actually go see a real Penthouse Pet, especially
one as great and renowned as Elizabeth, perform in a live strip show!!!)
In addition to the Larry Flint interview, there are other articles in
this issue: Goddess Worship: a slaveÕs tale, is about a man who finds a
long lost Goddess and reconnects with her-- whip! It was a masochistic
experience just to try and review this story and this magazine, as the
Goddess story concludes on ÒPage ZÓ and the Larry Flint interview
concluded on ÒPage Y.Ó Both were difficult pages to find, especially as I
kept having to jack off over all the stripper and phone sex ads!
In his column, ÒA Secret Life,Ó Jimmy Doyle reports on a Ònew
fashion trend (pg. 30).Ó It consists of females wearing Òjet-black boots
with dark stockings and short, pleated skirts.Ó Let me tell you, IÕm really
looking forward to this trend! Recently I saw a mannikin dressed in a
mini-skirt (really more of a midi, actually) and I was blown away! IÕm too
young to remember all the miniskirts of the 1960Õs, so it was basically
the first time IÕd ever seen anything like it in real life. Interestingly, the
only group of females that can wear short skirts and look good in them is
YOUNG females, such as girls. So obviously this short-skirt trend will be
quickly condemned by the feminists as Ôexploitation,Õ Ôobjectification,Õ
etc. (Especially with black boots!) Strangely, all this feminist theory
hasnÕt gotten me, at least, into bed with one of them. Maybe the feminists
should try ÔexploitingÕ themselves with a short skirt. ÔTil then, IÕll jack
off to Hustler.
AND IN THE END...
FEMINIST RULE NUMBER ONE
ÒAnything that disagrees with the feminist ideology is dangerous.Ó
- For more feminist rules, consult your state Penal Code.
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-END OF 178 EMISSION