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Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Sponsored by: Crab the dog
Issue No. 319
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Nudie Nursery
Chapter Four
Stately palms lined the road. At the end of a long driveway the Mont
Vernale waited, its cuisine the best in Caracas. Our limo pulled up and a
doorman opened our door for us. Brent stepped out. He wore a tuxedo. The
restaurant permitted nothing less, even at brunch. Missy was next, a
choker of pearls round her neck. It had replaced her collar. I wore an
identical choker, four strands of pearls, tightly bound round my throat. If
you looked closely you could see that a tiny gold lock, hanging at the back
of my neck, made the choker more than just a piece of jewelry. I could not
remove it. Thankfully my fur coat, high on my neck, kept the back of my
choker from being seen.
We were quite a pair of fashion plates, I thought, as I ducked out of
the limo behind Missy. We each wore long lovely earrings. Our hair was
piled loosely atop our heads, to make us sophisticated. Our fur coats were
waist-length, leaving our legs bare. My coat barely covered my fanny.
Missy, seeing a dime on the asphalt, bent down and carefully picked it up.
Her fur coat was no more concealing than mine, leaving her thighs
completely bare, and her calves too, right down to her five-inch spiked
heels. She was a little unsteady in her shoes. She was used to wearing
sneakers. I scolded her for bending down and took her hand.
Brent smiled at the valets. They were a little surprised to see girls
in such short coats, with bare legs, but it was warm in Caracas and a
little insouciance on the part of female attire was no doubt permitted.
Had they guessed that we wore nothing but string bikinis underneath, IÕm
sure we would have been refused.
ÒYour coat, madam?Ó the butler inside the entrance asked as Missy
and I walked in. Missy, dear girl, made to open her coat, but I caught her in
time.
ÒThey are not used to the air conditioning,Ó Brent said to the butler.
It was chilly in here. He nodded, we passed on. The maitre d' observed us
with a stuffy gaze. His voice, when he spoke, was polite, but a trifle
condescending, as if heÕd once served the Queen and now had to earn his
living less agreeably, catering to mere mortals with money. Missy and I
walked as obediently as we could, following him. The restaurant was
hushed, like the inside of a church. A string quartet was in the center,
playing soft, lyrical notes, entertaining the diners without intruding into
their conversations. Chandeliers hung at regular intervals. Their light
reflected off the silverware and fine china set out on the tables.
Curtains of brocaded silk divided up the interior of the restaurant.
Each table could be viewed by several others yet none could be seen by all.
The diners liked their privacy, yet, dressed in pearls and diamonds, they
did not want to go completely unseen. Older ladies dined with their
husbands, exchanging the dayÕs gossip. I saw no one as young as myself.
I tried not to let my hips wriggle overmuch as I walked. With my
bare legs flashing, I was dressed more daringly than the other females I
saw. I bit my lip. The string between my cunny lips was driving me wild!
Missy let her bottom sway unnaturally, too childish to constrain its
movements. I knew the little cashmere string between her legs must be
tormenting her at least as mine was tormenting me. Even the little bra,
with its cups over my nipples, seemed to stimulate me. I felt my boobies
bobbing within my coat. I sighed, and knew Brent was smirking behind me.
He followed us in his tuxedo, making everything look normal, a man with
his two daughters perhaps, taking them out to lunch.
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We came to a table and the maitre d' pulled out a chair for me. I sat.
I held my coat close to my bottom as I sat down so the maitre d' wouldnÕt
see I was bare. My bikini hid nothing. It served only to tantalize me. It
was a teensy thong where it should have been a pouch, a crack belt,
infuriating me with my every movement, which only made me squirm more.
I glanced at Missy. Her cheeks were puffed and she seemed ever more
distracted. How could we possibly enjoy an elegant brunch in this place
when we were both steaming in our dells.
Only Brent was at ease. He watched as the maitre dÕ lit a candle at
our table. For a moment he looked like my father, sitting there, and I
could almost hear him saying, ÒNow girls, I know this is the first time
IÕve taken you to my club. I know youÕre both immature. Please donÕt
embarrass me. Try to behave. DonÕt make a paper airplane out of your
napkin and try not to spill anything.Ó
But fathers werenÕt quite like that, were they? I didnÕt know; I
spent too much time with my mom to know anything about fathers.
Fathers, I think, simply expected you to be grown up, and you were.
Mothers were always the ones warning you and berating you. I looked at
Missy with a confused look on my face. But she was no help at all. She
was eyeing her spoon and I could just imagine her making it into a
catapult.
ÒDo you have any strawberries?Ó Missy piped up.
ÒStrawberry pancakes?Ó Brent asked. I wanted to shout, ÔNo! DonÕt!
SheÕll shoot them at you!Ó but the maitre dÕ was standing right there and I
couldnÕt.
ÒYes, strawberry pancakes, with LOTS of strawberries!Ó Missy
begged. Brent, of course, the poor innocent, was clueless.
ÒWhatever she wishes,Ó he said, tugging absently on the sleeves of
his tux. The maitre dÕ nodded and wrote down her order.
ÒWould you like ham?Ó the maitre dÕ asked Missy.
ÒI want...Ó Missy paused and looked thoughtful for a moment. ÒI want
sausages! BIG ones!Ó She grinned merrily. Somehow, with a sinking heart,
I began to realize our elegant brunch was going to be a complete disaster.
I glared at her. I was enjoying it here. I didnÕt want her spoiling it
with her antics. I was bigger than her. We could settle this in a way that
would get her extra smackings from Jasmine, or from me!
Missy seemed taken aback. She shrugged her shoulders and sank a
little into her chair. The maitre dÕ, oblivious, wrote down her order.
ÒAnything else?Ó he asked.
ÒUmmm, honey. Toast and honey,Ó Missy said. ÒAnd some ice
cream.Ó
ÒIce cream?Ó the maitre asked.
ÒYes, for my pancakes,Ó Missy said.
ÒAnd you, madam?Ó the maitre dÕ asked.
ÒAn omelette,Ó I said.
The maitre dÕ took down my order. Missy squirmed in her seat and
fidgeted. She played with her spoon. Brent ordered, something in French
that I didnÕt understand.
ÒOmelette,Ó Missy said aloud as soon as the maitre dÕ left. She was
teasing me. She lifted her spoon into the air and waved it about. ÒAn
omelette. IÕll have an omelette, please!Ó She giggled. I glared. Our
waiter arrived, bringing us water.
ÒYou would like an omelette?Ó he asked, thinking Missy wanted to
add to her order.
ÒWhy yes. IÕll have an omelette, sunny-side up,Ó Missy said, feigning
elegance.
ÒSunny side up?Ó the waiter asked. ÒAn omelette,Ó
ÒJust bring her an omelette,Ó Brent said dismissively. He pointed at
me: ÒAnd bring her what she is having,Ó he added. ÒThere, now youÕre both
getting everything. And champagne,Ó he added. ÒBring us all some
champagne.Ó
ÒYes, sir,Ó the waiter said, scribbling. I liked him. He was younger
than the maitre dÕ. He was tall and slim but looked, well, handy... He
returned to our table within a minute of leaving, bearing a tray brimming
with champagne glasses and condiments. He set everything down quickly,
smoothly. I wondered if he could despatch me just as smoothly. I would
gasp and with quick fingers he would finish me off, leave me gasping.
I slipped my arms from my sleeves and dropped them within my coat.
I was sick of my infernal panties. I wanted to have a pleasant breakfast
without moaning every time I shifted my hips. I untied the drawstrings of
my panties. I returned my arms to my coatsleeves, taking the panties
with me.
I plopped my panties onto the table beside my plate. Brent looked at
me.
ÒHi darling,Ó I smiled. My voice was sweet. Missy thought I was
teasing him. Our waiter came with our food, glanced down. I saw his eyes
gazing at my little pile of string and cloth next to my spoon. The string
was damp where it had threaded my nest. Gracefully he put down my
omelette, then my pancakes.
Missy, not wanting to be any less daring than me, buried her arms in
her coat. As the waiter laid down her plates her hand suddenly returned to
her coat sleeve, bearing the fruit of her reconnaissance; her undies. She
dropped them onto the table. The waiter noticed. I saw him miss a breath
and I wondered if he guessed all our secrets.
Brent looked at me, at Missy. Our waiter bustled off.
ÒTry not to embarrass me, girls,Ó Brent said. ÒThey do have
statutory rape laws her in Caracas.Ó
ÒOooh, you mean you might go to jail?Ó Missy said. She reached out
with her fingers and played with her panties.
ÒNo, but you might get spanked if you misbehave,Ó Brent warned her.
ÒStop playing with your panties.Ó He reached out and took them from her.
He put them into the pocket of his tuxedo.
ÒA string is dangling down,Ó I said.
ÒHmmm?Ó Brent asked. But our waiter returned just then, bringing
fruit. Grapefruit and pineapple and orange slices, all piled up on a tray.
Brent nodded, unaware that a string connected to MissyÕs underpants was
hanging out of the pocket of his tuxedo.
The waiter left again. Missy sipped her champagne. I drank mine and
enjoyed the flow of little bubbles running down my throat. They settled
into my tummy. Missy, intrigued by the idea of staging a strip show for
our waiter, drew her arms into her coat once more. Brent tried to stop
her, but our waiter reappeared and refilled our champagne glasses. As he
turned to leave MissyÕs hands popped from the sleeves of her coat again,
bringing up her bra this time, and she laid it onto the table. The waiter, a
perplexed look on his face, turned and left.
ÒMissy, youÕre going to get spanked extra hard for that,Ó Brent said.
ÒBut Brent, youÕre going to have Jasmine spank us anyway when we
get home,Ó I said. I pouted and my own arms disappeared inside my coat. I
shifted my breasts forward, arching my back, and reached behind myself
and untied my bra. I liked having it off. It kept tickling my nipples. Now,
perhaps, I could enjoy my meal. I slipped my arms back into my sleeves
and laid my bra beside my bottoms.
Brent looked at my little bikini, laid in a tangled pile next to my
silverware. He gulped, shifted his hips. Was he at last feeling a little
discomfited? Good. It was all his fault, anyway. He should have let us
wear dresses and blouses to brunch, instead of naughty bikinis.
Missy picked up a pitcher of syrup. I thought she was going to pour
it on her pancakes but, instead, she hovered the lip of the syrup pitcher
over her bosom.
Brent, who sat between Missy and I, with she and I facing each other
across the table, shot his gaze from me to her. Missy grinned at him. She
poured the syrup into her coat.
ÒOooh! I seemed to have spilled something!Ó she said with a high,
spoilt voice. I watched in disbelief as she poured the syrup over her
bosoms.
Our waiter returned. He brought us slices of watermelon. He seemed
solicitous of our appetites. He wished that we should lack nothing. Missy
drew her coat closer. Her syrupy bosom could not be seen within the
closely held halves of her coat. She poured syrup on her pancakes.
The waiter left. I decided to eat my toast while it was hot. I
buttered it. Then I lifted up the bottle of honey to squeeze some on my
toast. I glanced at Brent. He was grinning at Missy, bemused, admiring
her daring. She had entranced him. He liked her mischievous ways.
I held the squeeze bottle of honey between the tips of my fingers. I
didnÕt like losing my boyfriend to Missy. I was going to put the honey on
my toast but, suddenly, I put it over my chest.
ÒDo you think IÕm sweet, Brent?Ó I asked. He turned his head to me.
Liberally I squeezed the bottle of honey and it spurted a stream of itself
into my coat. I felt it splash onto my breasts. It felt like MissyÕs lollipop.
I kept squirting as the sticky goo ran down to the tips of my nipples inside
my coat.
Missy decided she must not be outdone. There was a plastic bottle
of HersheyÕs syrup on our table, for her ice cream pancakes. She picked it
up and squirted it down inside her coat. ÒIÕm getting gooder all the time,Ó
she said with an invitational smile to Brent. ÒWould you like to give me a
licking?Ó
Brent was both pleased and displeased. He desperately didnÕt want
to be embarrassed by us, yet seeing us squirt ourselves down with the
condiments was making him hard. He shifted in his chair, yet it offered
him no relief. I picked up the chilled bottle of whipped cream that the
waiter had brought for our strawberries. I scooted my chair back a little
and dropped it down to the level of my legs. Daintily, with BrentÕs eyes
gazing in aroused horror, I lifted the front of my coat and spread my legs.
I aimed the can of whipped cream at my pussy. I looked at Brent and
smiled. I depressed the top of the can. A squirting rush came to my ears.
I gasped as a spurt of whipped cream struck my dell. It was cold! I bit my
lower lip, squirted some more, and then replaced my coat. I put the can
back up on the table. Let Missy top that!
HYDRANT SONG
by Kenneth Pobo
Sometimes my loverÕs
dick reminds me of a hydrant:
a reddish plug
suddenly come
into view -- how lucky
for me as sometimes
I feel like a fire.
I need putting out.
LUSTY LETTERS
to holy joe
ogle@aol.com writes: ÒWhile reading your previous issue, I kept
seeing the name ÔAlexaÕ sprinkled throughout the text. Did something go
wrong, or is it me?Ó
holy joe replies: While we did write a brief article about Alexa
Brinkley in our previous issue, there is no mention of her except in the
article itself. IÕm afraid, if you are seeing her name in places other than
the article, you may be a pedophile.
Try not to be alarmed. Help is available. Simply call your local
police and tell them, ÒI think IÕm a pedophile.Ó Our wonderful officers of
the law will be more than happy to render assistance. If for some reason
you canÕt get through, please donÕt wait. ItÕs important to seek help
*immediately* for pedophilia. Go to the nearest house and knock on the
door and when someone answers, tell them, ÒI think IÕm a pedophile.Ó
Hopefully theyÕll help you.
If the person answering the door is a child, donÕt hesitate to confess
your newfound predilection. ItÕs your duty to warn them, so they canÕt be
harmed by you. And, if it is a child, donÕt use a big word like Ôpedophile,Õ
that they might not understand. And donÕt say ÔI mightÕ. This is a concept
that the young mind, still developing, may not be able to grasp. Say
simply, ÒHi! IÕm a child molester.Ó
Then, since the person is a child, go on to the next door. *Keep
knocking* until you meet an adult. ItÕs very essential that you get help for
your problem right away.
Please let us know if we here at Fuck Alexa can be of any further
assistance.
Thank you for writing.
AND IN THE END...
ÒThank goodness there still is a right in this country for anybody
that wants to to go up and advocate an idea or an issue thatÕs important
to them.Ó
- Jim Nicholson, Chairman, The Republican National Committee.
-------------------------- 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 319 EMISSION
- Nicholson: The NewsHour with Jim Lehrer, November 7, 1997.