Published more often than most people go to the bathroom itÕs...
Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 183
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Puppy Love
Chapter One
For my sixteenth birthday I was awakened early, carefully made-up,
and presented to master with a gift-wrapped bosom and tiny panties.
ŅI might tear the panties,Ó he said, and slipped them off. To
preserve the ribbon as a souvenir he undid it and had it put away. Then he
took me to a post and beat me all day long, letting me feel each stroke of
the strap, or the cane, each incurling bite of the whip. He fed me at the
post, and watered me there. I peed at the post, into a little china dish.
Guests came, admired my suffering. He took me in the ass for them,
twice, to show his dominance over me, and to let me know how much he
loved to have me as his slave. Frequently my hair was combed, my makeup
checked by the girls, by Tara especially, who delighted in seeing me
become a full-fledged women under masterÕs hands. I cried often in the
first hours. Later my tears dried and I just endured, but there was a
sweetness in the endurance. All the girls dutifully sat around me
sometimes, but at other times they partied with the guests, ignoring me.
Master came and went, letting me feel his presence, then his absence.
When I was untied at dusk my bottom glowed with a redness of its own,
red as the setting sun. Master quietly carried me to my own bed, feeling
me weeping in his arms, coughing, trembling. My thighs were bruised,
front and back, long thin bruises from a riding crop. I could feel bitter red
curlicues of fire up and down my back. Master flopped me onto my belly in
the bedroom, like a fish, right onto a cool, sheeted bed that received me
with a comfort I relished. He watered me again, right there on the bed,
pouring water into my mouth from a little cup, letting it drool out the
corner of my mouth and stain the bed under my face. Then, as a final
tribute, he inserted his cock right into my wet mouth and fucked me a
third time, until he came. The girls gathered around my newly broken-in
16-year-old body and immediately began applying ice and salve to my
wounds.
I slept fitfully that night, tortured by the remnants of my
punishment, the stripes burning me, reminding me of masterÕs power over
me. At last a sense of satisfaction lulled me into dreamland. I had
pleased master. He had enjoyed me. To the full. With no restraints, save
those which kept me bound to the post. Curiously, the post had been
covered with soft cottony velvet, to protect me from its hardness, its
rough surface. I would only bear the marks that master gave me, with his
hands. No others, not even from an inanimate, lifeless post. I was
masterÕs alone.
When morning came, master awoke me. ŅI want to sleep,Ó I groused.
I turned away from him and yelped at the pain that shot through my bottom
and up my back, that rippled through the bruises on my thighs.
ŅGet up,Ó he commanded. He drew me from the cool, comforting
sheets. ŅYou are going swimming,Ó he said. He took me out back. He made
me dive into the pool, as perfectly as I could, and swim in it. The water
felt soft, comforting against my body. When I got out, I trembled with a
freshness of feeling IÕd never experienced before. In the cool morning, the
sun just rising, master toweled me off.
ŅAm I yours?Ó I asked, sniffling at the water that seemed to be in
my nose.
ŅI am a man,Ó was his only answer. I knew it meant he would always
have other women. But now I was his too. I would share him with a few
special others. We would play together, dine out, go to films, even travel
together to faraway lands, always his faithful wenches, to be used as he
saw fit and whenever he wished. And we would be cared for, cosseted. He
had oodles of money and he delighted in buying us precious things, that
only he ever saw. Nighties, and panties, and jeweled collars and special
whips to make sure we behaved. We were pets, like expensive Siamese
cats or frisky toy poodles. Poor men in apartments, with balding heads
and fat tummies, kept a cat or two for company. Master, wealthy and
handsome, kept us.
THE END
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Private Places
Chapter One
I had begun the ritual three days ago. ŅFleurette,Ó I would hear my
mom saying, in my mind. ŅDo your homework and go to bed. Quit watching
Letterman!Ó And it would make me angry. I was on vacation, wasnÕt I?
We had school year round in L.A., where I lived, but my dad had taken a
beach house here in South America for the summer. I had come along.
What else could I do? I was just 13, and where my parents went, I went.
Or so it had always been, so far.
Slipping into one of my littlest bikinis, I stole from the house. I
walked down the short stone path to the beach. It was broad, vacant. The
sun was just breaking the surface of the water in the east. Seagulls
called, in the distance. I watched them wheel and dive as I crossed the big
beach to where the tide was just going out. Wet sand squished at last
under my feet, the water washing the shore just a few feet away. In, out,
rhythmically.
I stood on the glistening wet sand all by myself. I tossed my head. I
felt my long blonde hair swish across my upper back. Then, reaching
behind myself, I untied my bra. It sprung open and my eager breasts
popped out, quivering, my nipples deliciously stiff. I wanted to rub
myself, knew I mustnÕt. With trembling hands I pushed down my bikini
panties. I felt the cool sea breeze against my blonde thatch.
My bra dangled from my neck, like a bib, my boobies wiggling with
the bra cups, useless now, flapping against them. I undid my bra at my
neck and let go of it with tweezer-like fingers, delicately, watching as
the light wind caught it and carried it away. It hit the beach where the
sand was soft and almost dry.
I reached down to the panties that hung from my thighs. Again I felt
the need to tickle my cunny, but I passed my hands on down to my half-
lowered panties. With careful fingers I undid the drawstrings. I lofted
the my panties into the air and watched them sail neatly to within a few
feet of my bra.
Then, worshipfully, I lay down on the wet sand. I pressed my breasts
into it. They were big for my age, they indented the sand deeply, two
magnificent scoops of white ice cream tumbling down into the wet sand
and making depressions there. I scooted forward a little to press them
even deeper. I snuggled into the sand, feeling its wetness. I humped it
briefly with my muff, wishing I had a penis to spear it with, but having
only my little lovelips. My clitty could not compete with the big balls and
penis of a male who I wished might lie down beside me. I did not know
who I wanted. A boy from my school in L.A. perhaps, or my science
teacher, or some stranger maybe, like the man IÕd seen at the airport,
guarding us as we deplaned.
I opened my thighs. Murmuring to myself I lay upon the sand,
waiting, hoping someone might find me. Poseidon perhaps, or some other
mighty Trident-bearing god. He would see a sweet maiden lying in the and
and come to her rescue. She would not do any more homework. She would
watch Letterman all night if she wished.
Lying on the beach, I kissed the sand with my lips. Ick. I got sand on
my mouth. I brushed it from my lips and lay quietly again, waiting, letting
the sun caress my bare white hiney. I would get an all over tan, perhaps,
if I came down here enough mornings. Then, one day, IÕd boldly arrange for
mom to see my bottom, and she would gasp at how tanned it was, just like
the rest of me. What? Had I been to a nudist colony? When? How? I
giggled. Then, with my eyelashes fluttering closed, I tried to sleep and
wait for some rescuer to find me. There could be no fault on my part if I
fell asleep, could there? I mean, certainly, IÕd chosen to come down here,
but I was just a silly little girl. If I fell asleep, though, that would be
entirely out of my hands. Ummmmmm, I thought to myself. Sleep, sleep,
dream of sheep.
ŅHi!Ó Rats. Somebody was interrupting my sleep. Yikes! That meant
somebody was HERE! IÕd not fallen asleep, actually, just dozed and let my
mind wander. Now I opened my eyes and looked up with embarrassment.
ŅIÕm Barbi,Ó a sweet, female voice said. I let my eyes meet hers. She was
a few years older than me, sixteen perhaps. A fellow traveller? My blush
faded a bit. It wasnÕt too bad, just a girl like me. Blonde, blue-eyed. With
the brightest, sweetest smile youÕd ever want to see. I felt a sudden
surge to BE her, not just look at her. And she wore a little bikini, like IÕd
had on, until IÕd taken it off. Her breasts were big, too big, like mine.
They trembled within bra cups that were soft and flimsy, and small. I let
my eyes travel down over her smooth, slightly outcurved belly, with its
dimpled navel, and down, down to her (at last) bikini bottom. It was
daringly teensy. I thought I spotted a wisp or two of her pubic hair curling
out the top of it, there was so little fabric to the thing. Along one of the
frail ties of her undies I saw a pair of steel handcuffs. I gasped. They
were casually slung over the drawstring, pulling down on it a little, due to
their weight, and the flimsiness of her panties. Barbi tossed her hair back
from her eyes and knelt down beside me.
ŅDid you wash up on the beach?Ó she asked me brightly.
ŅNo, I didnÕt wash up on the beach,Ó I answered. My voice was
muffled by the pressing of my cheek into the sand.
ŅI know,Ó she grinned. ŅFor three days my master has watched you
come down here and strip, and lie in the sand. He wanted you, but he didnÕt
want me to be jealous. Finally, this morning, waking up and finding him
watching you, I told him it would be okay. IÕd fetch you, if you liked, and
you could come over and play with us.Ó
I looked up at her. The word ŌmasterÕ ricocheted inside my head.
SheÕd said it so casually, so normally, and I suspected she didnÕt even
know sheÕd said it. There was just a man in her life who was her master,
whom she served, and that was that. I shivered upon the sand. I felt like a
jellyfish or a starfish about to be picked up by a passing tourist.
Barbi put a hand on my bottom. ŅMaster loves your ass,Ó she said.
She pressed a fingertip into my dimples, each of them, as if she were
testing it. Then, more daringly, she put two fingers on either side of my
hiney cheeks and prised them open, letting the sea breeze enter me more
deeply, more fully.
I know youÕd think, WHAT?! You lay on the beach and let some girl,
older than you, prise open your asscheeks and bare your hole? Well, it was
strange, but I felt captive. I felt, ŌThis isnÕt me, IÕm not responsible. IÕm
just a little seashell, all pink inside, and IÕm incapable of resisting.Õ
And then a thought shot through me that frightened me. My mother,
leaning over the balcony of our rented beach house, calling out to me.
ŅFlurry!Ó (thatÕs what everyone called me.) ŅWhat are you doing?! Come
up here this minute!Ó And IÕd be scolded severely for lying naked on the
beach, where anyone could see me. Or steal me. IÕd be berated for days for
besmirching the family name (which, being ŌGrines,Õ wasnÕt particularly
my favorite sort of family name, but was one that sheÕd chosen to take
and, consequently, had vowed to defend to her dying breath.) And who was
the little squirt who was the only person in her life who could besmirch
the glorious surname of ŌGrines?Õ Why little me, of course, 13-year-old
Flurry, with my naked little ass, lying on the beach.
DONÕT READ THIS!
(but now you will, wonÕt you?)
McDonalds, (someplace near you). Reviewed by holy joeÕs stomach.
Review: Why is it that magazines like the PennySaver, even though
they review numerous local restaurants, never review McDonalds? Well,
thatÕs what the InternetÕs for, I guess. I figure since I canÕt be the Larry
Flint of pornography IÕll be the Larry Flint of restaurant reviewing instead.
So here goes.
First, I never go to McDonalds anymore except at mealtime. By that I
mean a mealtime that has been designated as such by the Ōmouth majority.Õ
In the past, I used to eat at odd hours of the day. But not anymore. Food
can be quite old and cold at a restaurant like McDonalds during non-meal
hours. So, today, I saved up my appetite until 5 p.m. This is, traditionally,
when people eat dinner, and I noticed that it was one of the few times of
day that I could get piping hot french fries at McDonalds.
So I went at 5 p.m. I went through the drive-thru. As you might
expect, the service at McDonalds was very fast. Consider this: if you
were tossing garbage out the window of your house, wouldnÕt you be fast
too?
The fries werenÕt as hot as I would have liked. One french fry was
really hot but he must have jumped from one bin to another, because the
other fries were all lukewarm. At least they werenÕt old and cold. IÕve
eaten about 900 billion McDonalds french fries in my life, so now, being
rather jaded in my appetite, I only like hot McDonalds french fries.
In addition to the french fries I got a Coke. Sometimes I have gotten
Cokes at McDonalds that tasted like medicine, but today the Coke was fine.
I also got a six-piece Chicken McNugget dinner. They tasted like
absolute crap. So, being an official restaurant reviewer for Fuck Decency,
I decided to interview the 5-year-old boy who was handing the orders
through the window.
me: These Chicken McNuggets taste like shit!
him: IÕm sorry, sir. WeÕre now serving shit as a menu item if you prefer.
Would you like to switch?
me: What kind of sauce would I get with that?
him: The same, sir.
me: Well I was hoping for better Chicken McNuggets, actually. When did
you cook these?
him: They were cooked about two years ago, sir. We were afraid weÕd lost
them, but then we found them this morning in the back of a closet.
me: The back of a closet?
him: Yes. One time we ran out of sponges to clean the toilet, so we used
Chicken McNuggets instead. They work quite nicely. I suppose we could
have left them in the back of the closet, but weÕre always looking for new
ways to increase our profit!
me: Well, at least you did cook these at some point... I guess I should be
happy with that...
him: Oh, but we donÕt cook them here, sir! TheyÕre cooked in a big plant in
Omaha and then shipped out to us ready to eat! That way we can save on
energy costs and help conserve and protect our environment. We switched
to Omaha when we decided to replace those nice styrofoam sandwich
containers with shitty soggy paper ones that decompose in your hand and
are fully biodegradable.
me: Yes, IÕve experienced those...
him: Well, sir, IÕm going to have to ask you to pull ahead. Are you
expecting anything else with your order today?
me: I donÕt know... do you have any coffee?
him: That we cook right here, sir! We make it really hot to boil away all
the gasoline we use as a base to save on the cost of coffee beans. Would
you like to drink it or do you prefer to wear it?
me: Wear it?
him: Excellent, sir! Here goes--
me: No, no! DonÕt spill it on me! Hmmm, thanks. You know, itÕs rather
hot... Am I going to be able to drink this with my meal?
him: Probably not, sir. We recommend you save it and bring it back with
you. By the time of your next meal at McDonalds it should have cooled
enough for you to enjoy it.
me: Well, since IÕm here, and doing a restaurant review, I guess I may as
well try that new item you mentioned.
him: Our ShitNuggets? IÕm sorry, sir. I only hand out the food. YouÕll have
to go around and get in line again and pay for those at the previous
window.
Well, that was my conversation with him. It doesnÕt have a funny
ending to it or anything, but then I wasnÕt too amused with my meal,
either. I did notice that my McDonalds cup had a huge yellow M on it. I
suppose theyÕre putting all their money into gaudy self-promotion these
days (when theyÕre not busy cross-promoting something). I remember
when going to McDonalds was a treat! (I guess that makes me kind of old.)
It was considered the very finest Ōfast foodÕ restaurant you could go to.
Instead of going to some locally-owned greasy spoon, you could go to
McDonalds! Now McDonalds is the lowest of the low. You could, I suppose,
go to Jack in the Box, or ArbyÕs, and get even worse food, but I only go to
those places on Christmas Day, when McDonalds is closed.
Interestingly, the locally owned restaurants are now considerably
better than McDonalds. I have a new rule for eating: DONÕT go to a
franchised restaurant. I happen to like Ōhoagies,Õ also known in some parts
of the country as Ōsubmarine sandwiches.Õ Well, the worst place you can
buy a submarine sandwich is at Subway. ItÕs a franchised restaurant. But
if you find a locally-owned sub shop, you will get a fine product, in my
experience.
So why is it that the franchised fast food places, once the best, are
now the worst? I have no fucking idea. But itÕs absolutely true that this
is the case. In every instance, be it hamburgers, tacos, subs, whatever,
the absolute worst place you can buy such a product is at a nationally-
franchised store.
Well, like I said, this article doesnÕt have a funny ending to it or
anything, but I figured since I had to suffer through lukewarm french fries
and shitty mcnuggets IÕd burn up some space in this zine and let some
other people suffer with me. Misery loves company.
AND IN THE END...
ŅMuch of the press continues to paint the Internet age as the coming of
Godzilla.Ó
- Newsweek, January 6, 1997, pg. 53.
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-END OF 183 EMISSION