Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 29
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Love Child
Chapter Twelve
The grandee nodded to the whipmaster to continue. He strode back
toward Sylvie, cocky before this gorgeous new female admirer. To my
shocked amazement the woman cast up her skirts and began rubbing
herself as she watched the master take up position behind poor little
Sylvia. She seemed shocked too, incredulous, and then she was suddenly
howling, screeching her lungs out at a very nasty cut right across the base
of her cheeks.
The woman turned to her lover as our master strode over to Amber.
She unzipped her gentleman and fished out his cock. It was huge,
glistening in the sunlight with precum drooling from the tip even as she
drew it forth. My guess about their dallying had been right. And it was
then, amidst all this horridness, that this sudden intrusion provoked my
thoughts into remembering the drug weÕd taken earlier, the stimulant for
our loins. No sooner had I thought of it than I knew that my companions
had thought of it too, for they emitted soft moans, watching as the lady
began to service her gentleman.
Prior to this weÕd been so dazed and astounded by our ordeal in the
square, so outraged and scandalized by it all, that the effects of the drug
had been forgotten. But now it came flooding back, overriding our fear and
making our cunnies throb. Heedlessly I squashed my breasts to the shawl
and began rubbing them against it. The master delivered a swifter, harder
cut than ever to Amber, then Cheryl, yet I kept pressing myself to the
shawl and digging into it with my stiff nipples. In back my bottom began
to move, my cheeks rolling in a brazen display.
WHACK! In came the admonitory stroke. I screeched, howled, ringing
the church bells almost with my voice, but I did not stop waggling my
bottom. Even Tiffany was moving hers, though she was about to get two
licks to our one. Behind us the young man shuddered, straining to hold
himself back as his lusty bride fingered and sucked him.
ÒOOOOOOOCH!Ó Tiffany screamed, her voice a ululation, a white
woman imitating some African tribal maiden at the stake, suffering under
the witch doctor. Two of them were wrenched from her, one right after
the other. Our master was clinical, precise, each cut delivered in a new
spot, though with Tiffany he was running out of spots. He was like a
doctor practising surgery on a patient. The wall was his upright operating
table.
The woman said something to the grandee and he smiled broadly,
nodded. He called to the master to halt his proceedings, threw him
another coin. I breathed a sigh of profound relief. We all did. And then
almost at once we let out a little dismayed cry. The woman was taking all
of her clothes off! She was saying something to the whipmaster. Was she
going to join us? Would there be six of us? She tore off the last of her
undergarments, a tight girdle, a bra, stockings. Boldly she strode forth
naked to the wall. And then the whipmaster handed her the birch! She
turned to us. She smiled. It was a smile of expectation. Of triumphant
expectation. She yanked her hair down in back and let it fall loosely over
her shoulders. Glittering earrings danced from her ears as she advanced
upon Sylvia, the nearest of us. With swift strokes she cut the air with her
birch, practising. Sylvia screamed, deathly afraid, as we all were. Yet we
could not stop the lewd gyrating of our bottoms! We kept wiggling away,
hungry for relief and utterly unable to obtain any, chained as we were to
this awful wall.
The woman gave Sylvia a lifting stroke, catching her under her
bottom and shooting the girl up onto the tops of her toes.
ÒYEEHOOOOCH!Ó Sylvia hooted, her whole body quavering. The woman
passed her, spoke aloud in a refined english accent:
ÒIÕve whipped cows before, many times, driving them in from the
field,Ó she said. ÒBut never had I thought to try it on people!Ó I saw then
that she was young, perhaps only 17, had looked older because of her
elaborate courting clothes. ÒAnd such fine young American girls,Ó she
said. ÒLost little girls far from home, where their mommies and daddies
canÕt see what theyÕre up to.Ó She was laughing, as if reciting words from
some play sheÕd learned in school. Something about Americans, obviously,
perhaps wayward Catholic schoolgirls doing what they knew they werenÕt
supposed to.
This oddly mature, oddly innocent young woman gave Amber a cut
then, expertly delivered, even better than the masterÕs, sweeping right
into the crack of her fanny even as the girl wobbled it around, hoping for
love. Amber straightened, stilled her bottom a moment, screeched loudly.
Then CherylÕs orb was next, and then mine, finally Tiffany received two on
hers, as amorously churning as ours were.
ÒAh! They are becoming so cut up!Ó the young woman said, regarding
us. She turned to her lover, threw down the stick. ÒRamone! Give me your
belt!Ó she called, her bosoms wobbling on her chest as she put her hand to
her mouth and shouted. Up he came, bounding, his cock tossing about
erectly. He cast off his trousers as he approached, they hindered his
stride. Wearing only his shirt he delivered the belt from his pants to his
wife.
Or lover, or whatever she was to him. With eager eyes she turned
once more to us. Lovingly she drew her manÕs broad belt through her hand.
It looked supple, strong. I knew we would suffer under it tremendously.
ÒOh do me sir, please?Ó Little Sylvia said suddenly to the womanÕs
lover. Perhaps she hoped to put his hips between her and the whip, was
willing to suffer his knob up her cunt for it, or up her ass. The woman
glowered, then laughed.
ÒYes! You must all have my Ramone, but only after I am satisfied,Ó
the woman said. He said something to her, called her Alicia. It was that
which told me her name.
The first broad-swatting stroke came slamming into SylviaÕs heinie.
She screamed anew, sending the pigeons all the way to the equator, I
thought. Truly the belt was safer than the birch, for it did not slice up the
skin, yet it could be delivered with butt-thudding force.
And that is just how Amber received her first wallop, like some
naughty little girl being disciplined by her father. Yet it was mother who
wielded fatherÕs belt. Amber sobbed loudly, was soon joined by Cheryl. A
moment more and I was coughing forth my own boo-hoos, then Tiffany!
Wailingly we received more blows from the belt. It basted us,
turned our seats into veritable hot tamales.
ÒOh, I canÕt stand it!Ó the woman cried suddenly. SheÕd been rubbing
herself now and then as she hit us. Now she turned to the grandee and
begged to be put beside us. He motioned to his people and at once shackles
were hung from a bare iron ring poking from the wall. It was on the far
side of Tiffany. I had not noticed it earlier. A shawl was hung for her and
then she grasped the manacles with her fingers and rubbed her bosoms
against the shawl, even as we were lustily rubbing ours. Her lover gently
prised her hands from the manacles and then buckled her firmly into them.
He stepped back, took up the belt, massaging his still-hard cock all the
while. He had not come yet. Perhaps now he would, I feared, with his
young girlfriend so alluringly displayed before him, her courting clothes
gone, her cunt peeping back at him twixt her thighs, available for his
pleasure.
ÒTHWACK! THWACK! THWACK!Ó He gave her several blows to get her
going, delivered right across her white heart-shaped bottom. She groaned,
tasting for the first time in her life, I guessed, the feel of a belt. Tossing
her head she savored the hurt as best she could, though I saw she was
having some difficulty with it. Later I learned that amongst us I was the
only one to have been whipped on a prior occasion. Tiffany and all the rest
had only played amongst the items of dungeon airlines, never actually
using any of it. It was for the guestÕs pleasure only...on other guests. Of
course that had not stopped Tiffany from slapping my bottom on the
airplane, and theyÕd slapped each other before, but none had tasted belt or
birch.
ÒHow are you holding up?Ó Tiffany asked, bravely turning to me
whilst Alicia begged for and got more strokes of the belt on her bottom.
ÒTerribly,Ó I sniffled. ÒAnd you?Ó
ÒMy butt hurts like hell,Ó Tiffany sobbed. She bowed her head and
joggled her ass about and then, still wiggling it, raised her face again to
me. It was stained with tears and she looked absolutely miserable. I
gazed at her. Then I stuck my head as far towards her as I could, offering
her a kiss, and she met me halfway and we kissed there, under the hot sun
with our bottoms blazing.
Ramone and Alicia began rutting. He cast the belt aside and fucked
her right there, heedless of the crowd, consummating their relationship, I
guessed. There was a thunderclap as they orgasmed and a light rain began
to fall. I turned my head, looked over my shoulder with immense relief.
The rain was soft, cooling. We all stuck our bottoms out at once, as far as
we could, and enjoyed the light stinging rain as it soothed our tushies.
The rain began falling harder. The crowd began to disperse.
Brazenly we held our asses out at them, the rain striking us as if in
retribution. It bathed our hot naked heinies with cold, delicious, fluid,
washing us down with a care and constancy no human would have shown.
Soon the water was running into our butt cracks, down our thighs,
streaking our calves and puddling around our toes. We shook our
bedraggling locks like horses in a field, whinnying, loving every drop that
hit us.
Tender hands took us down, caressed us. Young spanish girls from
the village escorted us across the soaked welcoming carpet back to the
van. Dazed, happy in some strange way, we boarded the van and tried to
sit down.
ÒOooch!Ó Sylvie was the first to cry out.
ÒAh! I cannot sit!Ó Tiffany said, her composure back. Daintily she
knelt on the floor, squatting, wrapped her arms round her legs and rested
her face sideways upon her knees. She sniffled.
Huddling ourselves or one another, staying off the seats, we rode
back to the grandeeÕs estate. Mercifully the driver did not turn the air
conditioning on. We were soaked to the bone, our hair messed and
dripping, our makeup shot. With sensitive hands we inspected each otherÕs
bottoms, reassuring each other that the marks would fade eventually (and
dearly hoping it was true!)
We drove onto the grandeeÕs lawn. The grandee himself came in
behind us. The guards let us out. The rain had slowed to a soft drizzle.
The grandee came up to us, his head protected by an umbrella held aloft by
a spanish girl. She looked at us with dark, wondering eyes. A girl from
the village. A girl who drove goats at home in the evening with a stick.
The grandee lined us up and walked behind us, inspecting our newly
scarred bottoms. We were his property still, and he cared for us just as
intently, I saw, as he did for himself. We shivered as he passed, holding
ourselves, still hot from the drug yet chilly from the passing rain. My
bottom felt raw, as if all the skin had been flayed from it. The grandee
made me bend forward. With probing fingers he inspected my heinie. His
touch made me cry out. I almost fell over from his touch. I jerked as his
thumb drove up my asshole. It was moist from the rain.
Each girl in turn he scrutinized, doing Tiffany last. He found her and
Sylvia too tight to get his thumb up. He promised them theyÕd be widened
later. Then, miserable and sobbing anew, we were marched up to the
house. As I did my best to accomplish the mandatory strutting step, biting
my lip as my scored bottom screamed at me, I felt happy. IÕd found a
demanding master at last, but not a cruel one. He promised to use my body
to the fullest extent one could without ruining it. I knew he would hurt
me sometimes, but he would love me passionately also, bringing me big
men who would fuck me as I knew I needed to be fucked.
Chapter 13
We were led upstairs to a bedroom. A large bed with black iron
railings waited. It had been stripped of everything but a covering sheet. A
small wooden stairstep led up to it. One by one we were made to file up
the little steps and get into bed. We lay the only way we could, on our
bellies. We cried quietly, wetting the big pillows arranged for our heads.
Women entered. Large, broad women who had borne many children.
Our bottoms must have looked like ripe little apples to them. Skinny
legged girls from America, we were, with waspish hips. WeÕd never known
the pain of the delivery room, the labor of bearing young. We only played
at sex, recreationally, for the amusement of men like the grandee. He
favored girls like us while making the women work in his fields. Now they
must take time off from their chores to pamper our little fannies, our
bottoms which were so delicate and pretty until weÕd chosen to display
them in the square.
Had we chosen? We had not resisted. Why had we not screamed,
shouted? I knew the answer but I did not want to know it. The rough
women with rough hands squirted our tushies with atomizers. A light
cologne on whip-skinned flesh. Our heads shot up, we grimaced, cried out.
Tremblingly we found each otherÕs hands and held them tightly.
Pots of cream were brought. Spreading our legs, curling our toes in
agony we accepted the cream on our beet red bottoms. The rest of
ourselves shone whitely, our backs and legs, our arms, still moist with
the sheen of summer rain, now mixed with a light sweat as we endured the
womenÕs healing ministrations.
ÒMy, how lovely theyÕre wounded,Ó a woman said, entering the room
with the grandee. She was a large mexican lady. Glancing over our
shoulders we were told by the grandee that she was his wife.
ÒThey are going to masturbate for you dear, these college girls from
America,Ó the grandee told his wife. We cringed with humiliation,
knowing we would do just that if he permitted it. And then he did.
Shoving my hands down below my belly I joined the other girls in frigging
myself silly.
We threshed upon the bed, screaming and twisting our lovely hair
about with abandon. Our wanton bottoms jiggled madly as we worshipped
ourselves. At first we were totally self-absorbed, contained within our
own pleasure. But then as the first orgasm passed and we pushed
ourselves on to another we turned our faces to one another and began
kissing frantically. I think Tiffany and I were the first to take it up. The
rest followed our example. The mexican women watched, their chores and
children forced to wait while they attended upon our privileged bodies.
We screamed together and finally laughed together and at last we settled
back down, back to the pain in our arses that flared into our minds again
as soon as our pleasure had subsided. Then the mexican ladies went to
work on us again, bringing more oils, more salve and healing balm. Lightly
we continued to toy with ourselves as they worked. At last, one by one,
we passed off into sleep, the women still laboring over us.
Several languid days passed at the grandeeÕs. We played in the pool,
ate at dinner with him, conversed with him in his library. Always we
would kneel on the floor, unable to sit. The grandee provided little mats
for us. During this time our bottoms simply would not accept panties, or
anything else. We could wear whatever we wanted on our feet, or on our
chests, but we were forced to leave our asses bare. Mostly we pranced
about in clingy little t-shirts. Jealously the mexican women would watch
us, scrubbing floors at the mansion or washing dishes, or working in the
garden. Our laughter was lilting, childlike. Our eyes sparkled. We played
tricks on each other sometimes, squirting each other with bottles of
seltzer water, shooting whipped cream, flinging our jello desserts at each
other.
Sometimes the grandee brought over gentlemen friends, but he did
not let them touch us. They were mere business associates, he said. We
were too precious for them.
One day I managed to get myself into a pair of panties. Soon the
other girls followed suit. The grandee eyed us the next day at lunch. We
sat on chairs, eating at his table. We were all modestly dressed in shorts
or skirts. The mexican women served us, bringing fresh vegetables theyÕd
just dug up from the garden.
ÒOooh! These are so delicious!Ó Tiffany exclaimed, spearing a stalk
of broccoli with her fork and eating it. Hand-drawn butter dripped from
it, ran down her chin. She licked her lips. We gorged ourselves on the
vegetables, bade the women bring more. For dessert we had fresh-cooked
rhubarb pie.
GUERILLA ZINE DISTRIBUTION!
My friend Jim Corrigan used to distribute our zines (Comic Update,
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls) in Atlanta stores. He would place them on the
racks quietly, without telling the store owners about them. He used to
wonder what would happen if, after placing a zine, he took it off the rack
and tried to walk out with it. Would the store clerk try to arrest him for
shoplifting?
Jim did actually see several people buy our zines, which was nice.
In some stores a Òfree zinesÓ area was made available and he placed our
zines there. Once he saw somebody pick up one of our zines, and he
watched the person walk out with it. The reader looked at our zine a little
while, then threw it in a trash can. Jim went over to the trash can, dug
our zine out, took it back into the store, and put it back again for
somebody else to read.
JimÕs favorite store, in which we were actually given permission to
place our zines, was called Criminal Records. He felt the name of the
store might be quite appropriate for our zines which, in retrospect, given
the passage of the CDA, might be true.
I have, over the years, tried to get NAMBLA to Òshop putÓ (as opposed
to Òshop liftingÓ) their glorious NAMBLA Bulletin zine into various New
York Stores. I remember getting an issue of GAYME from them, featuring
wall-to-wall photos of naked teenage boys displaying their cocks. I
mailed the issue to Jim and even he, liberal that he is, just about had a
heart attack when he opened it. How marvelously subversive it would be
for that issue to turn up in Waldenbooks!
Another good tactic is to simply insert your business card into
ÒlegitimateÓ magazines that are on the racks in the retail stores. I have
absolutely wonderful business cards for NAMBLA and Uncommon Desires
Newsletter (UDN), one featuring a man and a boy embracing and the other
featuring a nude little girl sleeping. (Note to the FBI: they are drawings,
not photos). Personally, I would LOVE to go to Waldenbooks and slip some
of those NAMBLA and UDN business cards into WomenÕs Day, Ladies Home
Journal, Parents, etc., but I have never done it. Even Penthouse would be a
good magazine to slip some of those cards into. I can see it now: Joe
Sixpack goes to the store to read Penthouse and finds, to his surprise, a
Òblow cardÓ falling into his hand extolling the virtues of, in the words of
NAMBLAÕs business card: ÒMAN/BOY LOVE!Ó I can hear Joe Sixpack
swearing even now. (Or Joe Policeman, for that matter!)
Oh well, life is probably too short for doing such delightful things as
Òshop puttingÓ NAMBLAÕs business cards, but Òshop puttingÓ is an
effective tactic for Òspreading the gospelÓ about your zine. In my opinion,
though, in this new Internet era paper publishing (and Òshop puttingÓ) are
just too costly in terms of both time and money to bother doing. I myself
quit publishing on paper a year ago, and instead thank God for the Internet
every time I log on.
----------------------- Fuck Decency! -----------------------
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