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Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Sponsored by: JOE CAMEL
Issue No. 300
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Pussy Playland
Chapter Four
SherryÕs bottom was white. SheÕd not been whipped and she kept it
out of the sun, though her limbs were smoothly tanned. Jeff lit a match.
Sherry watched as he put it to the coals beneath her and, suddenly, they
flared up.
ÒYeeeeOOOOCH!Ó Sherry cried. She bolted up, lifting her bottom like
a rabbit fleeing a car. The chair was extremely solid and heavy and there
was no way she could budge it. In any event, the chafing dish was part of
the chair, sitting in the crisscrossing timbers of wood that connected the
chair legs. With her legs bound wide apart, and her arms pinned to the
arms of the chair, Sherry could do nothing but bounce up and down in her
bonds. The flames from the chafing dish licked upward. Her bush, her
cunny, her ass were all exposed. I wondered if it was singed pubic hair
that I smelt, or just the burning coals themselves. Sherry strained to
remain standing but the minute she shot up to escape the flames Jeff was
ready for her. Standing beside the chair, he brought his switch smartly
down between her thighs. It curled between her open legs and stung her
against her precious cunny. Immediately she withdrew, trying to sit
again, only to find herself assailed by the flames and forced to stand.
Caught in this netherworld of pain, Sherry cried for mercy and, through her
gag, promised to love and obey her husband all her life, never crossing him.
He relented at last. He tossed water over the coals and they released a
misting of hot steam. Sherry sat down and sobbed, her bottom barely
supported by the ledge at the back of the chair. Gently Jeff unbuckled her.
He lifted her out of the monstrous chair. She cried freely. She turned to
me for comfort. I held her a moment. Then I turned her around to examine
her fanny. The flames had streaked her ass with red but she seemed
otherwise unhurt. I took her to the table and sat her on it, ignoring the
cake. She sat down amidst bits of cake and frosting. I hoped the frosting,
at least, felt cool upon her bottom. Attentively I examined her pussy and
rubbed vaseline into it. She squirmed. I made her keep her legs open. Jeff
had been merciful with the switch and had not wounded her too badly.
Some marks pinkened her labia lips. She swooned as I rubbed warm oil
into her clit.
ÒNow itÕs your turn,Ó Jeff told me. I froze. He drew me from Sherry
and she was forced to attend to herself. I walked with frightened eyes
and hesitant steps over to a low table. It was covered with felt.
ÒLie down,Ó Jeff told me. ÒDonÕt worry, the feltÕs fireproof.Ó I lay
down on the felt. It was very soft. It would have been a lovely resting
spot except for the hole cut ominously out where my bottom rested. There
was nothing under my fanny except this hole, and down, within the hole,
there was a brazier. It had coals in it, waiting to be lit. Jeff arranged me
on the table so that I lay with my knees bent, my calves tucked under my
thighs. He made me spread my thighs so that my pussy showed completely.
My elbows were pulled up toward my ears, with my forearms pressed into
the table.
Sherry walked over to me. She was rubbing oil all over her pussy and
she looked down at me with soft, pitying eyes. Her face was stained with
tears. Jeff made her buckle me down to the table. Despite the oiled
slickness of her fingers she managed to get all the buckles and straps
closed over my limbs. My ankles were strapped down but my legs were
left otherwise free. My wrists were similarly affixed but my arms were
left free beyond that. Each strap was slim and there were two, not one,
for each of my wrists, as if the designer of this awful table had wanted to
keep a certain artfulness in its design. Lastly Sherry undid my waist
corset, and drew it off me. She kissed my tummy. She did not take off my
stockings. Jeff leered at me from the base of the table. He enjoyed the
sight of my utterly exposed slit. He lit a match and reached beneath the
table.
ÒAaaaaaak!Ó I cried. My lips were free to speak. Jeff watched the O
of my mouth as I struggled above the awakened coals. Flames licked up
through the hole, not quite reaching the opening but too close for comfort,
and forced me to buck my bottom upward. Frantically I strove to keep my
hips arched above the flames. After straining up for a few moments my
strength would fail me and I would fall with my fanny back down into the
hole, only to rise again as the burning flames assailed my derriere.
Sherry laughed. She was weeping, but she couldnÕt help laughing at
how rudely exposed I was, how helpless, with my tits bouncing atop my
chest and my ribs heaving and my ass literally inches from the flames.
They toasted my heinie and I felt as desperate as a woman giving birth,
heaving and bucking and straining as Jeff and Sherry, like doctor and
nurse, watched me. Sherry saw a moist towelette lying near the table,
perhaps put there by Angela just in case, and she ripped it open and bathed
my forehead with it.
ÒOh, please stop!Ó I cried. But Jeff just watched, enjoying the sight.
Sherry, having suffered a similar fate, had no wish to see me escape.
THE MANY NAMES OF TOM DITTY
by holy joe
I realize Fuck Decency is a global publication. Not all of my readers
are privileged to live in America. And even in these United States, not all
my fellow Americans have the ability to locate here in a choice dumpster
in North Hollywood.
Hence, it is time I reported on some of the gossip that I hear on a
daily basis here in Hollywood. (Especially since people keep dumping it on
my head.)
Take the case of Tom Ditty. He is a celebrity. A musician by trade.
You may be wondering how it is that some people get to hang around with
him and mooch for free on his money, while others are forced to pay just
to listen to his latest CD.
It all has to do with knowing what TomÕs name is. LetÕs start with
his ÔrealÕ name. Never mind his real name. That is, his real name is
Nathaniel Puberton Bilgewater. But thatÕs neither here nor there in
Hollywood. His ÔrealÕ name is ÔChubby.Õ
Sure, you might have thought TomÕs name, which would be a
nickname for most people, would be Ôskinny,Õ or something vaguely
descriptive. Not in Hollywood! Here, a starÕs ÔrealÕ name, the one all the
other stars call him by, is some weird name that only they would ever
know. ThatÕs why, when I call up Tom and say, ÔHi, Chubby,Õ he says,
ÒOh, hello Marlon. Have you seen Tom Cruise today?Ó
ÒNo, but I just called him.Ó (thatÕs me talking, see? - h.j.)
ÒOh. Well, hereÕs my new private telephone number. IÕve got too
many girls at my party again, and some guy just pulled up with a dump
truck full of caviar. What in GodÕs name am I going to do with a truck full
of caviar?Ó
ÒGod, not that problem again!Ó (me again, see? - h.j.)
ÒDonÕt back it into my Planetarium! Damn immigrants! Guy doesnÕt
speak a word of English...Ó
ÒPlease, donÕt wreck your Planetarium. IÕm having a charity again
this afternoon. Let me send someone to pick it up.Ó
ÒThanks, Marlon. YouÕre a real pal.Ó
ÒAnytime, Chubby!Ó
So you see, thereÕs nothing to ÔmakingÕ it in Hollywood, once you
start picking up a few of the ÔrealÕ names. But Tom Ditty has other names
too. Which name you know him by determines how close you get to him.
2. ÒThe TomÓ This is a bad level. YouÕd think it would be the
second best level since, after all, itÕs the second level. But the people
who call Tom Ditty ÒThe TomÓ are the people who have to make sure he
has clean underwear in the morning. Not a fun job. Stars donÕt like any
slip-ups in their life. Figure it this way. If you were lucky enough and
fortunate enough and savvy enough and worked hard enough to become a
Star, a RRRReally Big Star, would you want to put on dirty underwear?
So people who call Tom Ditty ÒThe TomÓ wind up getting yelled at.
My friend holy cow kept calling up ÒThe TomÓ and whenever sheÕd get him
on the phone, heÕd just yell,
ÒGET RIGHT ON IT!Ó
And sheÕd be like, ÒTom! The Tom! ItÕs me -- Mary Louise Atherton!
IÕm your biggest--Ó
But she wouldnÕt be that far, even, really, because as soon as Tom
heard ÒThe TomÓ heÕd yell,
ÒI SAID DO IT NOWWWWWWWW!Ó
Well, anyway, she spent all day calling ÒThe TomÓ back. Because he
kept yelling at her. And you can imagine, say, ÒThe Bill,Ó if he said, ÒGet
rid of these panties before my wife comes home and finds them. I canÕt
touch them -- IÕd get my finger prints on them and Janet would have no
choice but to name a Special Prosecutor.Ó
In the case of poor holy cow, she just kept calling Tom back. SheÕs
very persistent. And each time, you know, Tom just got worse and worse.
Soon he was screaming nothing but long strings of obscenities at her.
Now she doesnÕt like ÒThe TomÓ anymore. So she keeps calling him.
She says she wants a refund on all his records she bought, because they
misrepresented his real self. Tom just gives her more strings of
obscenities.
3. ÒMr. DittyÓ Not a bad level, but it wonÕt get you anywhere. I
tried this tactic once. (Before I lucked onto the name ÒChubbyÓ at
SpagoÕs.) I called up Tom and I said, ÒGood evening, Mr. Ditty.Ó And Tom
said, ÒAh, you need my agent. Let me give you his number.Ó So I wound up
on the phone with Al Sharp (relative of the famous Al, who weighs a ton).
And Al Sharp spent 3 1/2 hours explaining to me the 100 reasons why I
need to design, manufacture, distribute, and make a penny each from TomÕs
Final Tour (1999) ÔMemory MugsÕ.
Then I told Al I was from the press and he spent 5 1/2 hours telling
me why Tom needs to be the on the cover of the next issue of Fuck
Decency. The fact that our magazine has no cover was of no moment to Al.
ÒWell CREATE a cover!Ó Al said. ÒItÕs Tom Ditty, for Chrissakes! IÕm
giving you exclusive rights for $5,999 to use Tom Ditty on your next cover!
...Create a cover and you can afford it! ...Put him on the back too, you can
charge twice as much!Ó
And so it went. Finally there was a power outage and I got
disconnected. So, you know, donÕt think youÕll be getting anywhere with
ÒMr. TomÓ. You will, however, get a limited time, once only opportunity to
feature Tom on the cover of your very next issue.
DonÕt worry. Al has a line for you too. It goes, ÒWell, CREATE a
magazine, damnit! ItÕs Tom Ditty, for Chrissakes! Let me tell you about
the guy in 1957 who had no magazine about Elvis. He owns a castle in
Copenhagen now.Ó
4. ÒtomÓ Then thereÕs the Standard Level. For instance, TomÕs
just finished a great concert. A moment ago, he was in front of millions.
He was being televised around the world. But now, heÕs back in his
ÔbubbleÕ. His own life. His own domain. And you, a lucky, enterprising fan,
have snuck backstage. YouÕve managed to get within earshot of your idol.
You know what to do. YouÕve seen him on MTV. YouÕve read
interviews with him in SPIN. You have a friend who says he met Tom once,
backstage, and it was so great.
So, seeing Tom, finally getting close to him, you say, ÒHi, tom!Ó
(Casually, just like the interviewer does on MTV.)
Do you know what Tom says?
ÒWHEREÕS SECURITY?!Ó
ThatÕs right. Just two words. He doesnÕt turn around. He doesnÕt
even act like he heard you. He just blurts out, quickly, reflexively,
unthinkingly,
ÒWHEREÕS SECURITY?!Ó
And then you donÕt see Tom anymore because a big, beefy, unfriendly
but not too unfriendly security dude hoves into view. And he peers down
at you, and you peer up at him. And you know, looking in his eyes, that he
wants very badly to beat you down underneath the pavement with his fists.
But you did pay $110 for a back row seat at TomÕs concert. So
instead, the security dude says,
ÒSir you need a specially signed backstage pass to be in here.Ó
And then he looks down. Sort of at your anatomy. And he adds,
Ò...and youÕre obviously not a girl.Ó
See? See where ÒtomÓ got you? Right out the door! You did get a
homophobic security guard to pat you on your fanny, but other than that,
you got nothing!
(Incidentally, if you sneak in again, you do get something more. You
get a ÔSpecial Deluxe Unsigned but Deeply Imprinted Security Guard Ass
Kick Boot Mark on Your BehindÕ. And you know he wanted to put it right on
your balls, but you did buy a $110 ticket, so he doesnÕt.)
Anyway, thatÕs how it is here in Hollywood. Even guys like me have
different names. For instance, thereÕs ÒjoeÓ. ThatÕs level four. I call it
the Process Server level. When someone calls me Òjoe,Ó that tells me that
a Process Server has found me, and if I donÕt skedaddle, IÕm going to be
having to sign my life away and show up in court.
(DonÕt ask why. How do you think Donald Trump went from near
bankruptcy in 1989 to billions today?)
3. ÒMr. JoeÓ The prosecutor level. Someone walks up to you,
rather informally, and says, ÒMr. Joe?Ó It could be any number of people.
A policeman, an undercover policeman, a police detective, a prosecutor on
a special assignment, or one of those pesky bounty hunters who have no
respect even for the Sabbath Day.
This level solicits a two-pronged reply. I look, I point, and I yell, at
the top of my voice, ÒMy God! A child molester!Ó
Then I take off running in the opposite direction.
This Ôtwo-prong replyÕ always works. After all, children are our
most important natural resource. We wouldnÕt want anybody drilling in
them illegally.
2. ÒThe JoeÓ This is the Mob Level. You know, you run up a few
gambling debts. But they loan you more. After all, itÕs their job. TheyÕre
loan sharks. And you get to know these guys real good. YouÕre sure youÕll
pay them back. (I was too.) And you start to get a reputation among the
various loan sharks. ÒThe Joe.Ó You know, that guy with all the debts?
Well, loan sharks donÕt have a lotta time to spend worrying about the
financial condition and physical health of ÒThe JoeÓ. That guy who was
SUCH a big shot last week, wheeling around in a new convertible that he
got on credit, placing Ôsure fireÕ bets on anything that moved.
So when I hear, out of the blue, ÒThe Joe,Ó I have to pull that olÕ pin
out of the hand grenade I found at the armory. IÕm not quite sure how many
seconds are left on it. I used to have a pretty good count. I figured, you
know, ÒStart with 10Ó. I figured it was a lost grenade, and probably had
the full 10 second count on it.
Well, IÕve bumped into those loan shark guys, the big guys who
collect for the sharks, about seven times now. So, you know, IÕm getting a
little short in the seconds department. Please donÕt say ÒThe JoeÓ and
think,
ÒHeÕs on the Internet. HeÕs a big shot. Better call him a cool but
respectful name.Ó
We could spend the rest of eternity together. And IÕm not known for
remembering my underarm deodorant.
1. ÒHefÓ My real name. Yeah, I know, I probably shouldnÕt let this
out on the Internet. Next thing you know, some dumb blondes will be using
it to try to get featured in ÔThe MagazineÕ. And theyÕll say, ÒWell, if I get
a free Body Inspection from Hef, IÕll be Playmate of the Year.Ó
Yep, thatÕs what IÕm worried about. But I figure for my handful of
loyal readers, the few whoÕve gotten this far down in this article, WAY
below that olÕ sex story up there, I figure you can keep it under your hat.
See? YouÕve probably forgotten my real name already. DonÕt tell
anyone, okay? Especially donÕt tell your little sister. And if sheÕs
growing big tits, and sheÕs blonde, well, you know what to do.
DONÕT MENTION IT!
ThatÕs right. Keep that name ÔHefÕ deep inside you. DonÕt feel guilty
about not mentioning it. Sure, your sister wonÕt get that special deluxe
Harvard scholarship all our Playmates get after theyÕre finished
undressing and being photographed but, you know, with feminism these
days, itÕs important that girls work their way into Harvard. DonÕt you
agree?
IÕll let you know if thereÕs any changes to my private telephone
number.
AND IN THE END...
The Only (Real) Danger of the Internet
ÒI sat down in an armchair in Los Angeles when I was 23 and
when I got up I was 61.Ó
- Orson Welles
-------------------------- Fuck Decency ------------------------
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-Naughty Naked Dreamgirls (Library of Congress ISSN: 1070-1427) is
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copyright 1997 by the respective copyright holder.
-END OF 300 EMISSION
- Welles: C-SPAN 2, About Books, August 23, 1997.