Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 196
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Private Places
Chapter Four
The restaurant was opulent. Swans grazed on the front lawn,
unattended. Nobody seemed to fear that theyÕd run off. They looked well
fed. They stalked across the lawn, free of their pool, which wrapped
itself around the restaurant like a small lagoon. A valet helped us out of
the limo, Sam saw to the tip. We crossed a little drawbridge into the
restaurant. Passing through the crowd of ordinary diners, we were led to
a private room in back. Upon entering, I saw a host of models, all young
females like Jill, and assorted men. The men were almost uniformly
handsome, all dressed in sharp suits, with suave faces and a Òbad boyÓ
look about them that tantalized me even as it made me fearful. The
females, just slipping out of their vests or jackets or capes, wore dresses
as fetching as Jill and myself, their titties jiggling braless within the
scooped-out necklines of their gowns.
I was led to a chair. Jill untied my cape for me as Sam drew back
the chair at my place round the dinner table. It was a big, mahogany table,
with no table cloth, just perfect place settings of china cups and plates,
with elegantly folded linen napkins and golden silverware. Candles were
lit, my untied cape was draped over the back of my chair in case I needed
it later, for a quick trip through the restaurant to the bathroom. I slipped
my short dress under my thighs and sat down on my chair. It had a velvet
cushion. Sam scooted me in, then seated Jill beside me. A model named
Gwen, sitting down on my other side, introduced herself and did her best
to make small talk.
Two maids appeared, lighting our candles as we sat down and taking
orders from us for drinks. I admired their attire. They wore ruffled neck
collars, made of white lace, tied in back with a little black bow. Each had
on a bodice, tightly laced all the way up in front, but the bodice stopped
too soon, for it left each girlsÕ bosoms bare on top, with their nipples
sticking out like strawberries atop mounded creampuffs. The bodices
gripped the undersides of their perfect bosoms, distorting them, pushing
the flesh up and out where it could escape, making each girl look utterly
provocative, though each comported herself with utter decorum, as if it
was nothing that their breasts should show like this, and the guests,
politely, took little notice, though the men eyed them more than the
women did.
The maids each wore a white satin apron, short, tied in back, to
protect their panties, I guess, for they seemed to have forgotten their
skirts. In back their bottoms jiggled freely, their bodices stopping at
their waists to leave all below bare, save for the stockings which sleeked
up their legs, held in place by straps connected to their corset-like
bodices. They wore thong panties. Visually, they were helped in back by
the big bows that kept their aprons on, so that, with the swishing bows,
and the little thongs, they at least had some trifling protection for their
heinies. I saw that each guest at table had been given a single small birch
switch, placed delicately next to the knife. I wondered if the switch
might be used on a maidÕs bottom to urge her along, if she proved slow,
and guessed it might.
Fingerless white lace gloves completed the maidÕs outfits. They
flitted amongst us, filling our glasses, complimenting our gowns with shy
comments, and fiddling with the table decorations to make sure they were
just right. Vases of roses stood three abreast between us and the men
who sat across from us. Each thorned rose stem was loosely wrapped
with one or more colored condoms. The roses were fresh, still glistening
with drops of water.
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ÒGirls, before we start, would you please show your acceptance of
tonightÕs activities by removing your panties?Ó a woman sitting at the
head of the table announced. I glanced at Jill, she at me.
ÒDo it,Ó she told me quietly. ÒIt must be done. This is no ordinary
dinner, as IÕm sure you can tell from the decorations and the way the
maids are dressed.Ó
ÒUh huh,Ó I answered. My voice was uncertain. I watched as Jill
reached beneath her dress, lifted her bottom, and pulled off her panties.
She laid them beside her plate. Sam watched approvingly, fingering his
birch switch, just in case, I guessed, she failed to obey.
I took my own panties off, laid them next to my silverware, feeling
very funny and wishing I didnÕt have my underwear right next to my eating
utensils!
A maid appeared beside me. ÒOh, I see youÕre trying to cheat!
Naughty, naughty!Ó she said. She had a can of compressed whipped cream
in her hand. She lifted up my panties, dangling them over my empty dinner
plate. ÒI can still manage to get some cream into these,Ó she winked at
me. She was about 14, as was the other maid. I wondered how many
parties like this sheÕd served at.
I watched open-mouthed as the maid squirted whipped cream into my
g-string panties. I had a little pouch where my pussy lips and delta might
fit, and she zestily squirted as much cream into the pouch as she could.
Then she gave me my panties, and told me to put them back on! I looked at
Jill. She nodded. I saw another maid filling up her panties which, nearly
cut like a g-string, still had a little pouch where cream might be put.
I accepted my panties back from the maid. The men sitting across
from me, like monks in a peep show booth, watched with eager eyes.
Carefully, so as not to get cream on my dress, I lowered my panties under
the table. Now I knew why the table did not have a tablecloth. Bending
low, feeling very embarrassed, I got my heeled feet back through the
legholes of my panties, and pulled them up my legs. I stopped at mid-
thigh, letting them hang there while I slipped up my dress for the
endgame. Before hiking up my dress I wiped my fingers on my napkin that
lay underneath my silverware. I didnÕt want to get cream on my dress!
Then, returning my hands to my panties, I pulled them up the rest of the
way. I lifted my bottom so the cream wouldnÕt smudge onto the velvet
cushion of my chair. I donÕt know if I quite succeeded. I was afraid to
look down. Finally I restored my dress. I felt utterly awful, cream
sticking to the lips of my pussy, making me all wet there, through no fault
of my own. I squirmed in my seat, watched as Jill did the same. Each girl
round the table was forced to watch as a maid squirted her panties full of
cream and then made her put them back on. When we were done, soup was
brought. I ate mine with little self-conscious gulps, feeling quite bad.
Salad followed the soup, and we were offered chilled salad forks, as
if none of us were sitting there with cream-filled panties, but instead
were dining in perfect modesty, at a church-sponsored dinner or some
Republican gala. When IÕd eaten my salad I told Jill I had to go to the
bathroom, for the liquor IÕd sipped in their apartment, together with some
celebratory champagne weÕd opened in the limo to pass the time, had gone
right through me.
ÒOkay, but donÕt be long,Ó she answered, not telling me what the
penalty would be if I dallied. ÒItÕs number one, I hope, isnÕt it?Ó she
asked.
ÒYes,Ó I answered. She called over a maid, who pulled back my chair
for me and let me get up. She saw there was a little cream on my
stockings and she wet my napkin in a glass of water beside my plate and
wiped them down. I stepped quickly from the room, feeling that all eyes
were upon me as I strove to walk normally in my cream-filled panties.
The maid offered me my cape from the back of my chair, running to
catch up with me, her bottom bounding nude and free behind her, heart-
shaped and firm as a polished apple. Nobody had used the switches yet.
The maids had been on their best behavior.
ÒHave her go without it,Ó the woman who was our hostess snapped
suddenly. She leaned from her chair and took her switch and struck the
helpful maid right across her fanny.
ÒYEEEOW!Ó the maid cried, alarmed.
ÒBut I want it!Ó I begged. My hair was pinned up and I knew,
somehow, it would not do for me to take it down. What was there to keep
everyone from seeing my boobies wiggling around in my painted-on gown?
I tugged at the straps of the gown, twin cords of nothingness that seemed
to me like they might rip at any moment, especially with my bosoms
jostling the front of my dress so. It was the lightest, most delicate
fabric, silk that had been stone-washed to make it utterly, completely
soft, like wearing cotton. I feared for it. There seemed to be nothing at
all keeping the dress itself and my straps which held it up together; a bit
of thread, perhaps, nothing more.
ÒWalk to the toilet and do your business and then come back quickly,
girl!Ó our hostess said to me sternly. Somebody had told me that she ran
her own modeling agency with an iron hand, allowing no disobedience on
the part of her girls. Well, I wasnÕt one of her girls, was I? Sam nodded
to me, slightly amused. I tugged at the hem of my dress. Alright, for him
I would obey, if it pleased him. I had a crush on Sam and I knew it, finally
admitting as much to myself as I stood there. Did Jill know? I gazed at
her. She smiled, her eyes half-lidded, enjoying her obedience to her
husbandÕs wishes at this most elegant of restaurants.
With a little gulp I left the room. I felt eyes staring at me as I
crossed through the restaurant, past the ordinary guests, to the ladiesÕ
room. Inside a maitre d' nodded politely, a man, whose function was to
serve us girls hot steaming towels from a silver tray when we were done
with our business. He was a small man, dressed in a trim uniform, with
fringed epaulets, almost like a monkey that might accompany an organ
grinder on the street.
I could hear girls talking as they sat in the stalls which ran along
one wall of the restroom. It was large, with cushiony benches opposite
the stalls, where girls might talk, with only the monkey-man hearing. I
heard a girl fart. Another complained aloud that her husband had whipped
her before dinner and her bottom hurt. Doing my best to suppress my
surprise at being in the ladiesÕ room with a man, I passed him and found an
empty stall. I slipped inside. Carefully I papered the toilet seat with
toilet paper. Then I sat, hiking up my dress and lowering my panties. I
wanted to clean the cream out of them but a vision of Sam flashed in my
mind, and somehow, I felt I would get in trouble if I tampered with my
panties. I peed, hearing a girl pull toilet paper from the roll in her stall
as she finished, then flushing, and leaving, and speaking politely to the
towel-man on her way out, as if it were the most natural thing for there
to be a male attendant in a ladiesÕ bathroom!
When I was done peeing I wiped, taking as much cream off as I could.
Then I pulled my cream-filled panties back up, not touching them, not
wiping the cream out of them as I had from myself after my peeing was
done. I exited my stall, accepted a towel from the uniformed man, and
returned to our party.
The main course was just beginning. It was mongolian barbeque, a
fresh tasty sampling of oriental veggies, topped with a heap of steaming
pasta in the form of spaghetti-shaped noodles.
Playfully, as I sat down prepared to eat, Jill plucked a noodle from
her plate. With her gloved fingers she gently draped it around my throat.
ÒHereÕs a little collar for you!Ó she announced. I started, sitting erect,
watching wide-eyed as she gave me a collar of food. It was a single
strand of spaghetti, nothing more, feeling a little greasy, making me the
momentary center of attention at the dinnertable. I glanced to my right
and saw that Gwen already had a similar collar. What was going on here?
I decided to strike back, to forestall any further mischief to my
body, and because I suddenly felt a primal urge to do so. I picked up a
handful of my own spaghetti, untouched so far by my lips, and opened the
front of JillÕs gown. Into her lovely top, heedless of the fact that I might
singe her nipples with the hot noodles, I dropped my spaghetti. The gloves
I wore protected my fingers. Jill shouted. Those noodles were hot! Not
too hot to actually burn her, I think, but the hottest at our table, for I
hadnÕt been served until IÕd returned from the toilet.
Gwen laughed. ÒServes you right for assaulting her,Ó Gwen teased
Jill.
ÒEat, girls! Quit playing with your food!Ó our hostess announced. We
dug into our spaghetti then, eating each strand by itself, slurping it up
between pursed lips to tantalize the men. I wore my little spaghetti
collar proudly, as did the other girls who had them, while several,
including Jill, whoÕd gotten spaghetti dumped down the front of their
gowns had to eat with the sliding, slimy strands slipping lower and lower,
finally wiggling down within their dresses to their laps. How icky it must
feel! I thought, to have spaghetti inside your dress.
ASK NOT FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS
ÒFor months she was confined to a dank room the size of a bed,
spending her days in solitary silence, enduring torture with an electric
prod and the painful, gratuitous removal of bone marrow from her spine.
Released in March 1990 after more than six years in prison....Ó
Yes, this is how human beings treated another human being in China.
ItÕs from Time, February 17, 1997, pg. 64.
ÒThey took him to Habitation Leclerc -- a remote field where the
former military used to torture people. There the men broke both his
knees...Ó
Yes, this is how human beings trained by the United States of
America treated another human being in Haiti. ItÕs from Time, February
17, 1997, pg. 63.
ÒIn my neighborhood, a man in his 50s who seduced his mateÕs child
would end up not a well man. And I donÕt mean in the sense of not
emotionally functioning. I mean in the sense of walking with functional
kneecaps.Ó
Yes, this is how human beings IN the United States of America would
prospectively treat another human being, and no doubt have, although this
statement is conveniently phrased in the prospective. ItÕs from
Newsweek, February 17, 1997, pg. 65.
In the Bible we read about the Jews committing genocide against
other races (in order to steal the ÔHoly LandÕ from the people already
living there). In our century we see Adolf Hitler committing genocide
against the Jews, as part of a claim that he needs more Ôlebensraum,Õ
which the handy American Heritage dictionary defines as: ÒAdditional
territory deemed necessary to a nation.Ó The nation of Israel? No, this
time the shoe was on the other foot. This time the nation needing
territory was the Nazis.
Funny how human beings all wind up being alike, isnÕt it? America,
with its much-trumpeted ÒJudeo-Christian traditionÓ locks up more
people, per capita, than any other nation on the face of the earth, even
more than the ÒtotalitarianÓ Soviet Union did.
Carl Sagan spoke in Cosmos of Òbillions and billionsÓ of stars. But
the Hubble Telescope has proven since then that there are actually billions
and billions of galaxies, each of which contains billions and billions of
stars. So I ask you, never mind saving life on earth. What about saving
life off earth? If you were an alien from an advanced, spacefaring
civilization, a real civilization, not the uncivilized barbarity we humans
call a civilization, would you let humans out into the cosmos? Or would
you send Jack Kevorkian?
Human-killing aliens have always been portrayed in (human-made)
movies as grisly, despicable creatures if their goal is to kill off the
human race. But, you know, from an alien perspective, they might just
want to kill us off, to ÒneutralizeÓ us, for safety! Safety first, you know.
Let us hope, then, that any aliens out there donÕt subscribe to Time
or Newsweek. Some white humans have been known to say, not in any
bigoted way, that they canÕt really tell one negro from another, or one
chinese from another. What happens if the aliens, if there are any, have
the same problem? What if they canÕt tell one human from another? We
may think that itÕs easy to distinguish Jews from Nazis, or U.S. trained
Haitians from U.S. suburbanites, or the U.S.-backed regime in South
Vietnam from Pol Pot in Cambodia. But what if they canÕt?
But letÕs skip the question of outer-space aliens. LetÕs consider
earth itself. Why is it that America currently dominates the world? ItÕs
because of one simple fact: America is more efficient at killing than any
other nation on earth. The minute America ceases to be the most efficient
killing machine on earth, it will be taking its orders from someone else.
That Ôsomeone elseÕ might have been the Soviet Union. ItÕs conveniently
gone now, but the new threat is China. They arenÕt even nice to their own
children. ThatÕs who they shot in Tiananmen Square. IÕm not sure hairy,
big-footed white people would rate very highly in a China-dominated
world, even if they did drive luxury vans and live in suburbia and referee
soccer games. After all, as a Chinese representative recently proclaimed:
ÒWestern values are Western values. Chinese values are universal values.Ó
Now, IÕm not saying IÕm hearing a bell ringing or anything. After all,
America does have lots of nuclear bombs. We Americans can kill lots and
lots of people and we have Hiroshima and Nagasaki to prove we donÕt mind
killing a few million people at the drop of a hat if we feel like it. But I do
observe that American power rests, in the end, not on some fabled ÒJudeo-
Christian traditionÓ but rather on raw killing power. (Plus the export of
violent, big budget Hollywood movies.) I do note that Babylon (i.e. Iraq)
was once a great power, and today is nothing. And Egypt was once a great
power, and today is nothing. And Rome was once a great power, and today
is nothing. Empires are sort of like orgasms. They tend to cum and then,
after a time, they tend to go. The rulers wind up finding themselves being
ruled.
So let us hope, aliens aside, that history did end in 1989, as one
writer claimed, when the Berlin wall fell. Because, you know, if it didnÕt
(perish the thought), we Americans may wish weÕd spent our time setting
a less violent example for others to follow.
AND IN THE END...
ÒOne should reflect on manÕs place in the universe.Ó
- The Economist, February 8, 1997, pg. 92.
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copyright 1997 by the respective copyright holder.
-END OF 196 EMISSION