Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 32
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Love Child
Chapter Thirteen
Suddenly there was a rustling in the crowd, as of someone passing
through. We looked up. The grandee approached, a woman on his arm. She
looked to be in her mid-twenties and she was stylishly dressed in a long
flowing gown. I had not seen her before. She was spanish but had very
light skin. Her eyes gazed at us intently. She seemed fiery. I think we all
blanched at her approach, knowing some new twist in our game was about
to occur. A twisted sort of twist too, knowing what sort of man the
grandee was.
ÒGirls, I believe the purser has come aboard,Ó he said. ÒIÕve told her
youÕre running an unprofitable airline,Ó he smiled. She looked at him,
smiled back.
ÒWhat do you wish me to wear, darling?Ó she asked the grandee.
ÒThis is my best dress.Ó The grandee snapped his fingers. His wife came
forth, her great garments bustling. You could hear her pantyhose,
underneath, rubbing together. When she reached our new player she held
aloft what looked like a pair of long white spaghetti straps, with just a
small tube of fabric at one end. A sort of midriff, perhaps, but one that
would only cover the belly, leaving everything else most inconveniently
exposed.
ÒWhat is that?Ó the white/spanish woman asked. She looked at the
grandee puzzled.
ÒPut it on. It is a shirt,Ó the grandeeÕs wife said in a thick accent.
It was a sharp contrast to our new visitorÕs almost perfect english.
ÒOh! I do not like being so exposed!Ó The fair skinned woman
answered.
ÒDo as youÕre told, Lisa,Ó the grandee advised in a low voice.
ÒOh, I shall! But give me a scarf at least. Something to give me a
little class, anyway!Ó A scarf was fetched and duly presented. It looked
pink. It looked hardly worth arguing for.
Guards came and quickly stripped Lisa. Then she put on her shirt. It
went on much easier than ours had. It fell in great cutaway loops from her
shoulders, with the biggest armholes IÕd ever seen, going all the way down
to the morsel of fabric that cluelessly hid her bellybutton.
The neckline of the blouse, if it could still be called that, plunged as
low as the holes for her arms. This silly, utterly useless shirt failed to
contain LisaÕs lovely bosoms in any way. Indeed, her whole torso was
exposed, from her shoulders all the way down to the meagre bit of cotton
that loosely wrapped itself round her tummy, looping around her back but
doing no better back there. From between the homemade spaghetti straps
of her shirt LisaÕs bosoms offered themselves to the audience. Gallantly
she tied on her neckerchief, tossed her head, walked over to us. The
guards had left her nothing but her shoes.
While all this was going on the men, poor souls, had been driven from
our plane by the guards. Haplessly they bid us goodbye, as butterflies took
off in our tummies, wondering what this portended. The five of us were
squeezed onto the bench in their place.
With apprehension building moment by moment amongst us, we
watched as Lisa walked past us to the wall. She placed her hands on her
bare hips and scanned the implements used for giving beatings. At last
she selected a riding crop. It had a long handle. She walked confidently
over to us and gazed down at our trembling bodies.
ÒPlease take your hats off when you are in my presence,Ó Lisa said
politely but firmly to us. We did so, with queasy hands. We dropped them
on the floor. Watching, Lisa seemed inspired. ÒI see how you treat your
hats,Ó she said. ÒCarelessly. But look!Ó She walked over to one of our
shirts, discarded, wrinkled, picked it up off the floor. ÒLook how you treat
your flight suits! This is unacceptable, girls!Ó We shivered under her
harsh gaze. ÒTiffany!Ó she barked. ÒYou are supposed to be the pilot!
Where are your panties, young lady?Ó
ÒUmm, we were losing altitude,Ó Tiffany offered sheepishly. Their
eyes seemed to dance as they looked at each other. They were both nearly
the same age. Both of them had absolutely knockout bodies. They both
liked being in charge, and they seemed to sense all this in a moment,
gazing at each other.
ÒTiffany, have you ever been in the hands of a professional
dominatrix?Ó Lisa asked quietly. Tiffany blanched, tried to recompose
herself and failed. Her hands were jittery as she laid them on her thighs.
ÒN-No,Ó Tiffany said. She was afraid, you could hear it in her voice.
But she was also proud, and I felt her unwillingness to back down from
what seemed like a dare.
ÒLift up your arms, Tiffany, all the way,Ó Lisa said, her voice still
low, almost whispering. Tiffany obeyed, her hands shaking slightly as she
raised them above her head. Lisa took the hem of her shirt and yanked and
yanked until the womanÕs breasts fell out. Then she pulled some more and
TiffanyÕs head reappeared. A moment more and Lisa had the shirt
completely off her. Tiffany settled her hands to her lap. Lisa regarded her
newly revealed bosoms with admiration. ÒYou have delightful breasts,Ó
she said at last.
ÒThank you,Ó Lisa replied. She did not call her maÕam.
ÒA bit wilful though, arenÕt you?Ó Lisa asked. She dropped TiffÕs
shirt to the floor as carelessly as we had dropped our own. Tiffany looked
at her. Whether from nervousness or to feign confidence, Tiffany licked
her upper lip. Then she shook her head, once, as if to clear her hair from
her eyes. There was still electricity between them as they gazed at one
another.
ÒYes,Ó was all Tiffany said by way of reply, but it spoke volumes.
ÒPlease stand, Tiffany,Ó Lisa said. Tiffany rose. Lisa took her by
the wrist and led her a few steps forward. Tiffany did not offer any
resistance. I watched her in a mirror. Her tongue was lolling out of her
mouth. It was as if she were dumb, or wanting to be. Lisa walked round
behind her, those dark spanish eyes relishing every inch of TiffanyÕs flesh.
She squeezed each of TiffanyÕs bottom cheeks in turn, as if weighing them,
judging them, counting the ounces of fat that protected her there. In her
other hand she still held the crop.
A shiver ran up TiffanyÕs spine. She drew her hands in front of her,
pressed them to the tops of her thighs. Would she try to slake her desire
in front of all the Mexicans? I wondered. Could Tiffany, the glamour
goddess, really touch herself with so many crude and coarse people
watching? She bent forward slightly, dipping her back, presenting her
bottom, pressing her fingers harder into her thighs. Just inches from her
pussy. It was hungry from all our playing. Pushing, pushing, sighing,
pushing harder.
Lisa, meanwhile, was oblivious to TiffanyÕs tussle with her
conscience. Or maybe she just didnÕt care. She traced the crack of
TiffanyÕs bottom with her finger. Tiffany flexed her cheeks once,
otherwise did not resist. Was Tiffany hoping Lisa would make her choices
for her?
With avid pussies we sat watching, wishing the men were still here.
Several of us, including me, stealthily dipped our fingers into our dells.
We glanced at one another, looking down. Watching fellow fingers going to
work. Important work. Let Tiffany wrestle with herself. We were all
younger than she, more natural. She was the head stewardess. We were
just undisciplined helpers.
Mistress turned, saw us. We gasped and withdrew our hands. But
none of us closed our legs. They remained open, our snatches begging for
more. Mistress surveyed our glistening pussies. To our surprise she said
nothing, merely nodded her approval. Then she turned back to Tiffany.
We were flustered then. It seemed o.k. to frig ourselves when it was
not allowed, had to be done in secret. But to do it openly? How unladylike!
We glanced fretfully at each other.
ÒOpen your legs, Tiffany,Ó Mistress said to our lovely leader.
TiffanyÕs legs were hardly pressed tight, but she widened her stance,
looked questioningly at Lisa. Then she followed the womanÕs fingers as
Lisa put them to TiffanyÕs slit.
ÒOh!Ó Tiffany gasped. Lisa explored her.
Inspired, I put my hand SylviaÕs slit and rubbed it for her. Maybe she
would do mine also. Instead, she squealed. Mistress turned, looked.
Sylvie put both her hands to her mouth. I withdrew mine, too late!
ÒGirls, how indulgent do you think I am?Ó Mistress scolded, walking
over to us, leaving Tiffany bereft. ÒDoing yourselves is one thing, but each
other? Do you think we Mexicans have no civilization down here
whatsoever?Ó
ÒI-I was just following your example,Ó I stammered.
ÒI am preparing Tiffany for discipline,Ó Lisa replied sternly. ÒIs
that what you are doing to Sylvia here? Do you intend to play Mistress
behind my back? Is it a coup you are planning, Barbi?Ó
ÒN-NO,Ó I gulped. Tiffany turned, watched mistress. Her eyes were
mirthful. One domme admiring another. And I noticed Tiffany admiring
MistressÕ bottom also. Did she hope to have a turn with the riding crop?
Would they trade off, sharing the crop, until they were both black and
blue?
ÒM-MaÕam, it is proving to be a rather looong flight,Ó Sylvia said.
Her eyes stared up at Mistress, large as saucers. Of course I felt it then.
We all felt it, even Tiffany. We had to go to the bathroom! Sylvia had
perhaps just been making an excuse for me, friendly girl that she was.
WeÕd all been together now long enough to have gotten into the habit of
covering for one another. But once that dastardly thought got loose, going
to the bathroom, it was devastating! WeÕd been dizzied by our strange
visitors, our new surroundings, by desire itself. But now we had one
overwhelming thought on our mind, and it was certainly the most
unladylike that weÕd had all evening. Peeing!
And where was the bathroom? None of us had been down in this
awful basement before, obviously. We played in the sun. We did not seek
out dank underground rooms with God knows what inside them. The
nearest bathroom I could think of was at the other end of the house,
upstairs, by the pool. And then there was one two floors up, near our
bedroom. But down here? And how would we get by all these people?
It was then that a rescuer appeared. He strode forth, dressed in the
attire of a Bullfighter. A breaker and tamer of bulls. But we were merely
she-cows.
ÒThe grandee! The grandee!Ó I heard whispered in the onlookers
gathered behind me. But how could it be? The grandee was old, this man
was young, and heart-stoppingly handsome!
ÒGood evening, girls.Ó He nodded to us deferentially. As if perhaps
he were addressing the LadiesÕ Garden Society. We shivered, all naked and
raw and desperate to pee. Tiffany stood with a hand placed delicately
over her pussy, squeezing it as politely as she could, her thighs squished
together. The rest of us looked no better.
ÒDo you beautiful young women have to go to the bathroom?Ó the man
asked. Gritting our teeth at the indignity of it all, we nodded. ÒWell I am
the son of the grandee. His house is mine also, and everything in it.
Including guests. Even undressed guests.Ó He smiled. A manÕs smile. He
might be polite but there were wicked thoughts up there in that curly-
haired head of his. ÒPlease come with me, girls.Ó
The mob of primitives behind us let out a murmur of disapproval as
they watched us all stand and begin to follow the young grandee from the
room. He turned to them. He spoke in Spanish. We trooped on past him,
led by Lisa, who apparently knew where he intended for us to go.
We were let through a door and found ourselves in a small but
charming pub. There was nobody inside but ourselves. I gazed at rows
upon rows of smartly arranged glasses. They stood on wooden shelves.
Cherrywood paneling lined the walls of the room. A bar beckoned, offering
stools to rest our tired fannies on. There was a table, too, perhaps for
intimate conversation, surrounded by armless, arrowbacked chairs. And
there were many bottles of liquor, whatever variety you might wish. Fine
for drinking, I thought, but I wanted just the opposite at the moment.
ÒAh, girls,Ó the young grandee said, entering triumphantly behind us.
He flipped on a T.V. so he could monitor the proceedings in the other room.
I watched as a Spanish man and woman were selected from the members
of the crowd itself. They emerged from it and took our place in the center
of the room. Our chairs were replaced by the guards with a large sheeted
mattress. The man and woman began tenderly undressing each other. They
were young, I realized. Uncertain. It was their first time together. A
forced marriage. Between a king and queen of the prom, so to speak, voted
to be together by the others who now sat watching them.
ÒAbout our potty,Ó Tiffany finally said, turning her gaze from the
T.V. to the grandee. She was bold, delicious. She tossed her hair across
her shoulders like a young mare, confident and daring. Her eyes smoldered
at him as she held herself in with a hand cupped to her dell.
ÒMy father is a forgetful man,Ó the grandee smiled at her. He took up
her challenge, but gracefully. ÒHe builds places like this, to drink in to
your heartÕs content. But he forgets that what goes in must come out
down below. The most I can offer you is privacy, thatÕs all.Ó Lisa had
fetched a popcorn bowl and now held it out to us. ÒGo in there,Ó the
grandee said. ÒI have never seen white girls pee before and it will amuse
me greatly.Ó
ÒWell, I for one have to go too badly to argue with a pervert!Ó
Tiffany snapped. She was not used to being tormented. She was used to
being spoilt by men, plied with favors by them...until they bored her stiff.
Hastily she squatted over the bowl and separated her cunt lips. Gazing up
at the grandee, still defiant, she released her golden rain into the bowl.
The rest of us waited, jittery and urgent. Languidly Lisa hefted the
popcorn bowl, poured it out in a sink, rinsed it and replaced it on the floor.
One by one we relieved ourselves in it until we were all through. The
grandee sat at the table, smoking. His eyes glittered at our display.
Someone thoughtfully wetted a towel and we passed it from one to
another, wiping ourselves. We retreated to various parts of the bar, some
of us sitting on stools, others on the floor by the T.V. Tiffany casually
pulled out a chair at the grandeeÕs table and sat down with him. She
blushed slightly as he admired her nudity. Her breasts wobbled on her
slim-ribbed chest. They were swollen and heavy, their nipples sticking up
with no hope of being modest.
ÒMay I buy you a drink?Ó the grandee asked. He was smooth,
unruffled. An amazing gentleman. Tiffany giggled, a little embarrassed.
ÒIf you wish,Ó she said.
ÒLisa, please fetch us drinks,Ó the grandee ordered Mistress, who sat
opposite Tiffany, the two of them sharing him between themselves.
Ah! Mistress looked taken aback. Tiffany had turned the tables on
her, made HER the slave! Visibly distressed, Lisa rose. As she passed the
grandee she girlishly stuck her tongue out at Tiffany. We laughed. He
looked, had not caught it. Tiffany merely smiled, a cat with a mouthful of
canary.
Amongst ourselves we appointed Amber to get us drinks. She was
young and puritanical. She did not like drinking. Saying it tasted ÒyuckyÓ
and we shouldnÕt be doing it, she whiningly got the glasses for us anyway.
Each of us in turn told her what we wanted. Cheryl saw to it that she
mixed them correctly. She got up on the bar and lounged along the length
of it, stretched out like some lioness at noon. Watching Amber as one
might a cub.
Our hair bedraggled, our bodies shiveringly naked in the cool room,
we nonetheless created for ourselves a sort of little party. We felt silly,
awkward, yet somehow liberated. Except for the grandee and Lisa, there
was nobody here but ourselves. Just us girls, thankyou. No boys invited.
Just our Master, keeping a watchful eye over us. We giggled and chirped
and gossiped. On the T.V. the man and the woman in the other room lay
down on the bed and began making love. Sipping our drinks, we watched. A
microphone picked up their small talk, piped it into our room. We could
not understand what they were saying, but we could easily guess. The man
presented himself to his new Queen. She opened for him. They merged.
We watched, mesmerized, as the couple began to fuck in earnest.
Their moans flooded the room. I sat on a stool, backwards, to watch the
T.V. The stool had a back to it, for comfort. My legs were open around the
stoolÕs back. It was shaped in the outline of a heart, subtly cut so as not
to be too obvious. Except for the outline of wood, heart shaped, the stool
had nothing else to offer in the way of back support. Through this well
crafted opening my pussy showed, above it the smooth outswelling
whiteness of my belly. Just above the back of the chair my breasts
dangled, sweetly, as I leaned forward watching the T.V. My hands, resting
on my knees, supported me. I wanted them elsewhere, though.
The Threat of Pococurantism!
by holy joe
A great injustice is being perpetrated upon our land. It is worse
even than porn on the Internet. It is, my dear friends, the fortune cookie!
In olden times, the fortune cookie served a proper function in our society.
It delivered unto the gastronomic patron a fortune, sometimes good and
sometimes bad. Today all the fortune cookies I am given in oriental
restaurants contain only good fortunes. These cookies are not only handed
out indiscriminately to adults, they are freely dispensed to children as
well.
Is there some kind of a plot afoot in our land? Is there some Asian
conspiracy to fool Americans into thinking life can only be good? That
money will grow on trees? We must cut off this conspiracy before it
grows any further. Herewith I propose additional fortunes, to be
incorporated into all future fortune cookies:
You are going to die.
Somebody somewhere thinks youÕre a child molester.
Your house is on fire.
Your sex life has just been posted on alt.sex.stories.
Your wife is having an affair.
All your assets will be seized by the government.
Somebody just ran over your dog.
Your daughter just got laid.
Last but not least, some cookies must have no fortune in them at all!
Everyone else at the table will get a fortune, but you will get none.
----------------------- Fuck Decency! -----------------------
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-END OF 32 EMISSION
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