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NOT HERE, AMERICA !
Recently I was reading about a new novel. ItÕs by Rick Moody. ItÕs
titled, ÒPurple America.Ó It has, apparently, been receiving rave reviews.
And, from the single line quoted in the review, the guy is a good writer.
But his subject matter stinks. HereÕs what the review says ÒPurple
AmericaÓ is about:
ÒIn the course of 24 hours, [The lead character] stirs the flames of
an old hometown romance, confronts his stepfather, fends off his motherÕs
pleas for euthanasia, and battles his own alcoholism.Ó (QPB Review,
Holiday 1997, pg. 6.)
Well, you will never read that kind of crap in the pages of Fuck
Decency!
Who cares about some guy trying to stir the flames of an old
hometown romance? Boring, boring, boring.
And about this Òconfronting his stepfatherÓ business: the entire
1980Õs and 1990Õs has been about nothing but ÒconfrontingÓ supposedly
delinquent men. Boring, repetitive propaganda, is how IÕd classify that
subject.
Euthanasia? Another boring subject. Lots of old people these days
want to have the option to kill themselves. In the end, it will result in our
society asking people to die, because itÕs Òtoo expensiveÓ to give them
(expensive) medical treatment. That might make a good novel, a future
where old people are deliberately killed, by being denied needed treatment.
But, as framed in this novel, ÒPurple America,Ó the subject of an old lady
who wants to die is boring. I read the newspaper. I donÕt need a novel on
the subject.
Alcoholism? Another boring subject. How many novels have been
written about alcoholism? Probably millions.
So, donÕt worry. Here at Fuck Decency you will never read about
boring crap like IÕve detailed above. Of course, I havenÕt actually read
ÒPurple America.Ó But, in America, that doesnÕt mean I canÕt criticize it!
Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 312
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Nudie Nursery
Chapter Three
Brent picked up the feather again. He slid it back inside my dress.
ÒDonÕt,Ó I begged, but I felt the feather touch me again as I spoke,
right where my legs met, where my cunny dwelled in all its girlish
ambivalence.
ÒYouÕre not permitted to say ÔDonÕt,ÕÓ Brent reminded me. I felt like
screaming out to betray him but I kept my lips pressed together. I wanted,
even as he made me feel feelings I knew were immoral, that could get us
both in trouble (him especially!), I felt an urgency. The binding of my
wrists behind me threw my breasts out. I felt my nipples standing up
inside my bra. Why, oh why, had I let this man, twice my age, steal me
away? I didnÕt know. All I knew was I liked him better than boys. They
were fun too but he was, well, awesome. No boy would pay to fly me first
class and then lock up my hands and make me cum on a feather. But did he
love me? I wanted to look at him but the feather between my legs was so
intense... I had to fight hard not to scream. Despite his ruthlessness he
seemed to judge my every breath. Just as I toppled on the brink of crying
out he drew the feather slightly back. I gasped, my eyelashes fluttered.
He waited for my crisis to subside. And then, insidiously, he delved into
me with the feather again. We played like that seemingly for hours,
though probably no more than five minutes passed. I was only 16. Too
much of it and I would surely have blurted out my passion, lost my senses,
gone babbling down the aisle, perhaps, and confessed everything to the
flight attendants.
The plane descended into the clouds. The movie was over. BrentÕs
feather was put away. He buckled my seatbelt over my lap. My hands were
still cuffed behind me. HeÕd fed me my in-flight dinner himself, with his
hand, stopping when a stewardess approached so our intimacy would not
be noticed. My drinks, too, he put to my lips himself. He made me drink
more than I wanted, insisting I drink it all. I couldnÕt refuse; I didnÕt want
to spill anything onto my blouse. I wasnÕt allowed to pee after he cuffed
me. As the plane descended I found myself wriggling in my seat.
When we left the airplane I was wearing my fur coat again, just as I
had when we boarded. But this time I had my hands secretly cuffed behind
me, inside the coat. And my panties were gone. And I had to pee pretty
badly. Brent had taken control of me, there was no escaping that. He even
carried my purse for me. The stewardesses didnÕt notice. They thought he
was merely being a gentleman. All was concealed, thanks to my fur. It
had proved a wise purchase for a man as decadent as Brent.
We travelled by airport limo a short distance to a small villa in the
city of Caracas. We were in Venezuela. I could smell the scents of the
Carribean sea as we stepped out of the car. Brent bustled me up to the
front door of the villa, passing through an iron gate hinged to a tall
concrete wall. A woman answered, we were let in quickly.
Brent took off my fur. The woman, dressed in a pantsuit and vest,
showed no emotion at seeing me handcuffed. She was a brunette, perhaps
23, with tanned skin and lovely hair that was pinned up seemingly for the
sake of efficiency. Her eyes possessed a cold diffidence, almost a tired
look, jaded. ÒCome,Ó she said, and crooked a finger at me. I followed. My
hips rolled more than they should have as I followed her. I needed to pee
badly and there was no concealing it anymore. She led me into a living
room where two couples stood chatting. They were holding drinks,
wearing business clothes. They looked at me with little emotion. They
were as jaded as the woman whoÕd brought me to them.
ÒI-Ó I began, wondering if I dared to speak to any of them of my need.
ÒYes?Ó the woman whoÕd led me in asked. Her eyes were expectant.
I felt my throat constrict. I had to pee so badly! My eyes bulged. My
cheeks puffed.
Brent entered the room behind me. I turned to him.
ÒTell Jasmine if you wish anything,Ó Brent said with eyes that
seemed suddenly hard. I looked at the woman whoÕd brought me into the
living room. From the corner of my eye a woman, waiting perhaps for me
to speak, plucked a little cream-topped cracker from a tray on a piano and
put it in her mouth and ate it. She sucked her finger a moment to lick off
some cream that had smeared onto her fingertip.
ÒI-I have to pee!Ó I blurted suddenly to Jasmine. The others laughed.
ÒWell, why didnÕt you say so? All the necessary accommodations are
provided here,Ó Jasmine said with a smile. She walked to the piano,
reached underneath it, and took out a low, broad urn. It was made of fired
clay. She placed it down on the rug. ÒStep over it,Ó Jasmine urged me,
coming round behind me and pushing me forward. I found myself standing
with my legs apart over the urn. She lifted the tail of my jacket and
matter-of-factly unzipped the back of my miniskirt. It skittered down my
legs. She lifted my feet, one by one, and removed it. I gazed at the other
guests. IÕd just arrived, yet I was already naked below my waist! My
knees trembled. How silly I must have looked, standing there, bare-
legged, showing my bush.
ÒKneel,Ó Jasmine said. ÒKneel down over the pot and release your
pee.Ó I trembled into a squat. Gently she held me from behind to guide me
as I lowered myself. With the guests watching, I suddenly released my
urine into the pot. I heard it hit the clay and then listened as the pot
slowly filled. Everyone listened. The room was silent, all eyes on me, I
unable to hide anything at all.
My very public private duty complete, Jasmine helped me stand up
again. Brent came up behind me and unlocked my handcuffs. I rubbed my
wrists. The woman who was eating the cream-topped crackers offered me
some. Another woman put a drink in my hands. They surrounded me,
seemed not the least abashed that theyÕd just seen me pee, or that I was
standing bare-hipped in their midst, wearing only my blouse, my jacket,
and (though they hardly counted for anything) my black thigh-high
stockings. And my pumps, of course. I tried to compose myself, to forget
that I was utterly nude from my tummy on down. The women chatted
politely, the men also. But they looked freely at my bush as we mingled.
ÒIf her breasts are as nice as her pussy sheÕll prove a fine mount,Ó
one man said to another. His friend nodded. A woman plucked at my pubic
hair with her fingers while telling me sheÕd gone yachting the day before,
out on the carribean sea.
ÒYouÕd like it, really,Ó she said. ÒWe did a little fishing off the side
of the boat. I didnÕt catch anything, though.Ó I felt her hands roving down
between my legs and had to stifle an urge to tell her that she was
catching something now, and I didnÕt like her not asking permission. She
fondled for my cunt and explored with tracing fingers the lips of my
vagina. Her touch was feather-light, almost not there, yet it was there,
and I was too scared to stop her.
ÒBrent, you must display also,Ó Jasmine said to him. ÒHow was your
flight,Ó she asked casually, reaching down and undoing his zipper. She felt
within his pants as he murmured something in reply. A moment later and
his dick was exposed. I turned around and looked at it. I gasped. The
others laughed, sensing IÕd not seen him before. He was big and long and
the tip of him was wet already, oozing forth the precursor to his seed.
I was offered a hot dog bun. ÒPut it around his penis,Ó a woman told
me. I knew not what to do; she guided me forward and pushed on my
shoulders and made me drop to my knees.
I gazed up at Brent. His huge thing pulsed just inches from my face.
ÒDo as they say,Ó he ordered. ÒThey always make new lovers perform for
them.Ó His words made me feel warm and somehow reassured me. We
were lovers, yes. I fitted the bun to his rod. It was like a big knockwurst
sausage. I had difficulty getting the bun to hold him.
ÒDo you have a bigger bun?Ó I asked aloud.
ÒNo, that is fine,Ó Jasmine answered. Her voice was Spanish-French,
it seemed. Foreign, exotic. She handed me a bottle of HersheyÕs chocolate.
It was a squirt bottle, made of plastic. ÒPut as much or as little as you
like on him,Ó she told me. ÒHave you ever had a chocolate dog before?Ó
ÒNo,Ó I breathed.
ÒYouÕll like it,Ó she said.
Carefully I squirted some chocolate syrup along the length of BrentÕs
cock. It was so strange, holding him within a hot dog bun, applying the
chocolate as if it were mustard and he he was a human hotdog.
ÒNow eat all of the bun, sucking him into your mouth just as if he
were a real knockwurst,Ó Jasmine told me. I heard the others laugh.
Opening my mouth wide, struggling to make him fit inside me, I put the
head of his cock between my lips. He urged himself forward. He was
eager. I gagged, found myself drawing him back a little, out of my mouth,
then I bit very carefully into the bun, biting his cock too, and sucked the
bread away from his pulsing meat.
ÒSheÕs not half bad at it,Ó a man said. Another agreed. I took
another bite. It was odd, biting him from below to get a chunk of the bun,
while making sure I didnÕt bite too hard on top lest I bite into his cock.
Brent grunted and thrust himself at me. He wanted, I think, for me to eat
faster. Or perhaps he simply wanted to cum.
ÒSir, this is a chocolate dog, not a sperm dog,Ó I reminded him,
feeling a sudden blush of confidence. I kissed his pee hole. Then I bit
more deeply, taking more of him, and chewed the bun. He waited for me to
swallow.
We played like this for some time. As I gradually devoured the bun it
suddenly occurred to me that IÕd like to squirt his balls. I picked up the
HersheyÕs and spritzed some chocolate up onto his hairy, hanging nuts.
Then, ignoring his cock a moment, merely rubbing my cheek against it, I
mouthed each of his twin nuts in turn, licking them clean of chocolate.
Brent groaned. He was enjoying me very much, even as I enjoyed him.
I finished the bun. I stood up and whirled around and greeted the other
guests again, a bright happy look on my face.
ÒTake off your jacket and blouse,Ó Jasmine said to me. Their eyes
glowed but they showed no sign of granting me any reprieve. I swallowed.
I flushed. Red-faced, I looked down and slowly removed my jacket and
then unbuttoned my blouse. I wanted to hand my nice new suit to
somebody to put away but they made me just drop my clothes on the floor.
ÒAnd your bra,Ó they added, when IÕd stripped down to that. I reached
behind myself and undid it. My breasts popped out as the cups fell away. I
was truly free now, yet captive at the same time.
ÒGo to the piano, put your hands on it,Ó Jasmine told me. I obeyed. I
let my hips sway behind me as I walked. I wanted to show them what I
had. I was proud of my figure. ÒBrace yourself against it. Stick out your
bottom,Ó Jasmine said. Turning my head, looking fearfully back at her, I
offered her my heinie. What did she have planned for me?
ÒYou do know how to pick a nice ass,Ó one of the men said to Brent.
A woman, the one who had been sampling the crackers when IÕd squatted
over the urn, bent and took BrentÕs cock in her mouth. Jasmine undid her
vest. She slipped her pantsuit down and stepped out of it. Wearing just
her undies, she came up behind me. The others began to undress, except
the woman who was busy suckling BrentÕs penis.
ÒWhy did you come here?Ó Jasmine asked me. She placed a hand on
my bottom and felt it as one might caress a pumpkin, picking it out for
slicing on Halloween night.
ÒBrent brought me,Ó I answered truthfully.
ÒTo be a love slave?Ó she asked.
ÒYes,Ó I replied.
Jasmine shocked me by suddenly slapping my bottom hard with her
palm. I gasped. I lurched in toward the piano and she waited for me to
recover my balance.
ÒA love slave requires training,Ó Jasmine told me. ÒWe do that
here.Ó She slapped me again. It was a burning slap. It seemed to engulf
my bottom. When her hand fell away I could feel the impress of her slim
fingers against myself and it made my heinie wriggle. I felt shameful,
showing my ass to them, clenching my cheeks. They laughed at the sight
of my waggling bottom.
ÒKiss my hand,Ó Jasmine said. She presented it palm upward, the
very palm that had just slapped me!
I DO GET FAN MAIL
by Steve De France
It must be easy to be a poet.
At least
the kind of poet
you are.
I mean
you donÕt even make
the end of your lines
rhyme, or anything.
And whatÕs the point?
Do you have some moral value,
or spiritual beauty
in these words?
I read one of your
published poems
in my class.
Everyone was offended.
In fact, the students
wrote this review of you.
Your poems would make
an Arizona buzzard puke,
a Tijuana rat gag, a graveyard maggot retch,
a starving hyena toss his cookies,
a shit house mouse find religion,
a scum eating bottom fish rise to the top,
a yellow dog stop licking his balls,
a skid row cockroach regurgitate,
a lawyer stop evicting the handicapped and the
blind, all single celled life forms stop having sex,
Or Educators admit theyÕre destroying education,
Or politicians resign from fucking the country,
Or world disease miraculously cure itself,
Or lawyers stop evicting the handicapped and the
blind...
Okay
So we found
one thing
even worse
Than
your lousy poems.
AND IN THE END...
Why WasnÕt This Monster Castrated?
ÒMarie Terez is very beautiful part Scandinavian, part German,
part French girl he picked up outside the Gallery Lafayette when she
was underage, so she had to be kept very hidden, both from his wife and
from the authorities.Ó
- Art Historian John Richardson on child rapist (and painter) Pablo
Picasso.
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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 312 EMISSION
- Picasso: Charlie Rose, November 7, 1997. (Burn your Picassos,
America! HeÕs a child molester!)