Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 33
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Love Child
Chapter Thirteen
All around me the girls were becoming agitated as we watched the
amorous fucking on T.V. Yet, glancing at the grandee for permission, we
met eyes that told us Òno.Ó He would not allow us to pleasure ourselves,
as Mistress had. He expected us to be proper young ladies in his presence.
We must not abuse the little period of refreshment he was giving us. We
could drink, laugh, talk, watch T.V. But we must not do more. It would be
unseemly, yes! American girls must remember to behave properly when
they are in a foreign country. They should not carouse like rowdy tourists.
Far from it! They should learn the local customs, admire the language,
immerse themselves in the culture and ways of the native people.
Well, we werenÕt doing too badly on that last score, I thought to
myself. With my pussy tense and my belly rippling, yearning, my bottom
splayed upon the seat, I leaned closer to the T.V.
ÒI want to be a mommie,Ó I thought, watching the Spanish groom
take his newfound bride. She was virgin, seemed too old to be but was. He
speared her, she screamed. I trembled as I watched him rod her, his shaft
thrusting in and out, blooded.
Lisa meant to walk past me. Tiffany, still seated with Master, had
ordered another drink. Lisa stopped, though, next to me, put her hand on
my shoulder. Together we watched as the man in the next room fucked his
bride in earnest.
ÒIt is terrible but beautiful,Ó Lisa murmured, watching the bloody
prong at its work.
ÒI know,Ó I whispered. As we watched she put her hand to my belly,
caressed it.
ÒHave you ever had a baby?Ó she asked me.
ÒNo,Ó I breathed.
ÒNeither have I,Ó she said. I put my arm around her waist and hugged
her to me as we watched the grim groom, all business now, ignoring the
brideÕs imprecations to desist.
ÒHe must impregnate her, she will conceive,Ó Lisa said to me.
ÒI want it,Ó I gasped.
ÒI know you do,Ó Lisa said. Reassuringly she stroked my belly, as if
her love alone could make it rise, bear fruit. She dipped her finger in my
navel, pressed, indenting me further. Alas! She was not properly equipped
and she could not enter there.
ÒLisa!Ó Master called. She left me, went to fetch TiffanyÕs drink.
Returning from the bar she winked at me as she passed. My hair unkempt,
my legs open, my tummy yearning I looked back hopefully. I would have
had her as my husband then. She could have taken me, I would have striven
mightily upon any implement she chose to bear a child for her. Together
we could have do it, I was sure. Love would have found a way.
But she hurried on, went to the Master who withheld his seed,
taunting us. HeÕd watched us make fools of ourselves, from somewhere,
hidden in the crowd, watched as weÕd pranced about in our little uniforms
and then shed them. Watched as we toyed with the men but kept them
from us, mostly, thinking ourselves to be the temptresses. Yet now he
out-tempted us, made us crazy for what only we were supposed to bestow.
We were the bestowers, not the beggars! Only men were supposed to beg!
On bended knee, ÒWill you marry me?Ó ÒI have to shampoo my hair, come
some other time.Ó
Yet now he held us tight within this room and denied us. He was
Master and we were but little nudie slaves, without clothes and almost
without self-control. Little nudie slaves yearning to do his bidding.
ÒIs there any way I could accommodate you, Master?Ó Tiffany asked
him. Her wide spread eyes gazed at him artlessly. Her hair tumbled over
her shoulders, uncombed. She licked her lower lip. She held her tongue
there, waiting, as if he might wish to plop a cherry on it. Or a plum. A big
plum, yes. With a long, thick stem still attached.
Chapter Fourteen
The grandeeÕs son rose from the table. I saw that his pants had a
new visitor. Like some baby close to term, it presented itself in a
bulgingly obvious manner. Impertinent, Tiffany reached out and took hold
of his zipper.
ÒTiffany!Ó Lisa snapped, slapping her hand. Tiffany withdrew her
hand contritely, looked up at Master.
ÒIt will come out soon enough, Tiffany,Ó the grandeeÕs son assured
her. Machiavelli glinted from his eyes, calculating, giving her lithe body a
final inspection.
ÒIt is the feast of flesh, Tiffany,Ó Lisa said to her quietly, but just
loud enough for us all to hear. In the background the grunts and moans of
the bride and groom had subsided. Sweaty, spent, they were lifted off one
another, separated. Their task was done. The peasants had fertilized
themselves. Now only the fertilization of the master remained. If it went
well, the crop would be good this year. Lisa explained this to Tiffany,
stroking her hair. She took one of TiffanyÕs breasts in her hand, weighed
it, squeezed it firmly as if to express milk through its stiffened nipple.
ÒTo keep power, we must compromise a little,Ó the grandeeÕs son
said to Tiffany, knowing the rest of us were all ears. Slowly we began to
gather in around his table. Beyond, unnoticed by us, the ÒstageÓ furniture
was being replaced in the next room. In preparation for the next act. The
final act. ÒMy father, once a year, presents himself to his people and
demonstrates his continuing potency by fucking a young female. This
earns him, if you will, the right to rule them. It is a celebration of nature,
and woman also, of the bounty both of them are capable of bringing
forth...MUST bring forth, if humans are to continue on the planet.Ó
ÒYou--you want ME to be the young female?Ó Tiffany asked. Lisa
took hold of her arms, drew them gently back. Tiffany, her back straight,
presented ripe bosoms to the son of the grandee. He reached out and
plucked each nipple with his fingers. Tiffany winced.
ÒYou ARE the young female,Ó he replied. ÒYou have no choice. The
people have seen you and expect you to be fucked--by me.Ó
ÒMay I handcuff her now?Ó Lisa asked.
ÒHandcuff all of them,Ó the grandeeÕs son replied, indicating the rest
of us girls with a broad sweep of his arm.
Alas, we had little thought of escaping, save from our own lust. The
grandeeÕs son had played us well. On her own initiative Cheryl followed
Lisa over to the bar, watched her take handcuffs from a drawer, asked that
she be given ours! Cheryl came padding back to us and ordered us to line
up and put our hands behind our backs. Strangely, Sylvia, who had howled
so loudly in village courtyard, presented her back to me, arms crossed
above her thrusting bottom, and asked me to Òdo her.Ó I marvelled at her
courage. I took a pair of cuffs from CherylÕs hands and buckled them on
SylviaÕs wrists. Lightly I bent forward and kissed her on the cheek. She
smiled, happy in her captivity.
Cheryl caught both AmberÕs arms. She was more wilful. A young
filly unsure of whether she wished to be broken or not. Firmly she
imprisoned the girlÕs wrists behind her. And then Cheryl turned to me, and
I to her.
We giggled. Naked and free we stood, and we liked our freedom. Our
hair, our makeup was a mess, though a pretty mess. It had a natural
appeal to it, a carefree appeal. We were unencumbered by civilized ways.
We were little girls again, playing in our back yard. I remembered a baby
pool, and dashing around without my swimsuit on. When we were little my
friend and I would strip and dash about until mommie came, warning of
perverts.
With a complicitous smile I let Cheryl turn me around. We were
older now. We didnÕt want to play with dollies any more. We wanted
babies...in our bellies, I realized. As she buckled me into the cuffs I looked
down at my bosoms. I wondered what they would feel like, weighted with
milk. My milk, for my baby.
I must find out! If not tonight, then soon, but perhaps tonight?
Tiffany was standing beside Master. He would present himself
tonight, instead of his father. A passing of the baton. Or the phallus,
actually. He rubbed her bottom. She jerked as he explored too deep
between her cheeks.
Lisa cuffed Cheryl. Then she put us in a line, gradeschoolers going to
recess. Master brought out Tiffany and put her at our head. At his
command we marched out into the room where weÕd flown Pretend Air.
Our bare feet slapping the floor, we presented ourselves in single
file to the eyes of the gawking natives. We emerged from MasterÕs den,
from its woodpanelled safety, like babes from some protecting womb. Our
bosoms bounced springily, our step was lively. Our flat bellies yearned to
swell to the size of the Mexican ladiesÕ, though with young, not fat.
Before us stood four aristocratic ladies, drenched in sparkling
jewelry. They were Spanish. Their lovely dresses had been ripped open in
front to allow their bosoms to be seen. Each had a fine pair, and the
nipples were properly erected to welcome Master. Otherwise the ladies
were dressed as tastefully as one might for a formal reception; at an
ambassadorÕs residence, perhaps, in Mexico City, or a political inaugural.
Their hands were sheathed in dainty black gloves, though, as if theyÕd just
stepped in from outside. And to my heartbeating surprise I saw that they
each held a belt. The long leather straps uncoiled towards the floor, their
ends twitching slightly.
Yet, as I kept one wary eye upon the belts, I saw that there had been
some thought at least for our comfort. Master pointed to soft towels laid
two thick upon the floor. Upon thin mattresses, I saw, looking more
closely. There were no pillows but the mattresses seemed big enough to
lie down on, if you curled up on them, anyway.
Master told us to kneel. Awkwardly we did. On our knees, straight-
backed, we had our handcuffs taken off. Lisa collected them as Master
himself unbuckled them.
ÒGet on your hands and knees,Ó Master told us. ÒDip your backs. More
girls, more. Spread your legs. Apart, Barbi!Ó He slapped my fanny. ÒArch
your backs toward the floor and lift your bottoms up high, girls. You must
be ridden. You WILL be ridden, and it will be hard for you if you do not
open yourselves up for it fully. Good, good. You are doing all you can.
Offer your pouting quims, let me see them there between your thighs. My,
how small and tight they are. Nothing a baby could come out of, I think.
Perhaps we can change that tonight.Ó
His words mesmerized us. Unchained, we obeyed nonetheless. He
buckled collars around each of our necks. I flipped my hair over my eyes,
revealing all of myself to him. All except for my face, where my
overhanging blonde mane made me anonymous. But my pussy was not
anonymous. My breasts, swollen fruit hanging from the slim trunk of my
body, they were not anonymous. He gave each of us a leash, clipping it into
our collars, each one a different color. TiffanyÕs was royal purple,
CherylÕs was gold, mine was silver. AmberÕs was green and SylviaÕs bright
red, a pair of Christmas ponies, perhaps; gifts from Master to himself, six
months early. He lifted our leashes to our mouths and made us hold them
between our teeth so they wouldnÕt drag on the floor.
Unable to bear the pressure of our spectacle, he had the Spanish
ladies loose just his cock from his clothing. He stood like a little boy,
penitent, while they suavely undid the confinement of his manhood. Out it
sprung, the Mexicans gasping, the girls and eye peeking out of the corners
of our eyes at it, knowing instinctively that we were not to look. He
rebuked us when he turned back to us.
ÒHorses do not lust after their masterÕs cock,Ó he said, but not with
excessive sternness. Then he told us he would ÒshoeÓ us. One by one he
fitted dainty lace gloves on our hands. Then he slipped knee pads up our
legs to our knees, pausing to inhale the feminine scent of our cunnies, his
face unbearably close to our privates, yet only inspecting them as some
voyeur might. We wished for a groom. A groom and a marital bed. Yet
there was only one of him, and five of us. No man could do all five of us in
one night. Would the Spanish ladies substitute? I shivered. I hoped not.
Perhaps I would be chosen, after all, and the others would have to put up
with the table scraps, not me. With Queenly detachment I would gaze
down on their plight. ÒLet them fuck the cake.Ó
A band assembled amidst the onlookers. The people of the village,
happily getting out their hand-me-down and homemade instruments.
Merrily they began to play a Spanish dance number. Master took Tiffany by
her leash. The ladies with the straps each took one of us. Together with
Master they paraded us about the center of the room.
My big boobies hung down, swaying with carefree abandon. Mommie
would be angry. I was without my training bra. I remembered back to
when I was 12, how she accosted me if I went outside without my bra on,
my little nipples sticking up like thorns through my t-shirt when the boys
would come by to chat with me. She always said I must wear the bra so
my breasts would Ògrow properly.Ó But I guessed that was just an old
wivesÕ tale. Did TarzanÕs penis grow improperly in the jungle without any
jock strap? Did Cleopatra have a size A bra when she was 12? I doubt it.
Now my breasts were swinging to and fro, boldly grown melons hanging
ever so temptingly from my skinny ribbed torso. And my bottom, oh how
mommie would complain when it wasnÕt properly contained in my panties.
IÕd keep wearing my favorite undies even after IÕd outgrown them. TheyÕd
hold in less and less of me, and if I wore a short skirt to talk to the boys
in my bottom would almost surely bid them goodbye when I spun about to
go inside. TheyÕd be back the next day for sure then, their pants swelling
promisingly. But I was still too young to fuck. I just wanted to see them
squirm, their cocks bulging uncomfortably, their voices cracking as they
tried to talk to me calmly with my nipples risen and my skirt flapping
sensuously in the gentle breeze.
ThatÕs how I felt now: sensuous. I felt lithe, alive, playing pony girl
before an audience that was absolutely in awe of me. Out of the corner of
my eye I could see the Mexican boys rubbing themselves, furtively (you
only had to look in their faces to know what they were doing down below.)
Poor lads! They wanted me but they could not have me. I was reserved.
For Master, hopefully, or someone he might designate. But not for those
poor 12 and 13 and 14 year-old-boys, no. Their mothers, for one, would
never allow it. They would have to wait, to hope that some other girl like
me might someday venture into their deep jungle village, a girl with
blonde tossing hair and white skin so thin it barely covered my ribs. A
girl with a soft wiggly bottom and large, sweet-nippled breasts.
Around and around we pranced, on all fours but proud as young mares
might be, or young bulls in a new bullfighting ring. Would the matador
spear us? My cunny was tight. It would resist his spear. He would have
to push very hard. It would have to be driven up me remorselessly, and I
would expect him to soothe me inside with a jettonising of his life fluid.
A biologist lady on the T.V. had said that sperm was expensive for men to
produce. Well I would expect him to spare me no expense. If he got even
one inch inside me I expected full payment. Deep long strokes, procured
with difficulty, plumbing my tightness. Only the strongest man would be
able to get himself up me, I told myself. Weaker men would be Òsqueezed
out,Ó so to speak. But the biggest cocked men, with tremendous loin
power, they would break into me and fill me. Not just my cunt but my
womb also. They would flood it with their life-giving sperm. I would bear
their young for them. I would suckle and nurse them at my nude, ripe-
hanging breasts.
We were all so naked! I kept my eyes down but glanced about,
surreptitiously, admiring my nudie girlfriends. Once weÕd been airline
stewardesses, smartly dressed and ultra-efficient, clattering through
airports in our high heels, always hurrying. Now we were stripped
absolutely bare, save for our Òhorseshoes.Ó Our hair was a shambles,
hanging down over our eyes. Our skin, deliciously white, seemed to glow
with a kind of innocent incandescence. There was no time here, only
feelings. Hot feelings, flashing through me, and them. Our hineys were
lifted high, saluting our hosts as we passed round in front of them,
shamelessly we offered them views weÕd denied so many men. Sweet men,
gentle men, handsome men, capriciously denied by us as we flitted through
life, inconsiderate of anything but our own ever-changing whim. Now,
before strangers, before people we loathed, Master was making us show
ourselves. And in our love for him we did not mind. Even as the ladies
dropped our leashes, letting them drag between our legs on the floor, we
did not mind.
FUCK THESE POLICE STINGS
by holy joe
The problem with policemen is, most of them are morons. Here, guys
and gals, is a police sting for you to distribute throughout the Internet.
Have fun!
HELP! IÕVE GOT TOO MANY GIRLS AND GIFs & YOU CAN TOO!
by IÕm a fucking moron (& a cop too!)
Hi! My name is John Doe (somebody had to have that name, and I
guess itÕs me). I live in the Virgin Islands, where we can do whatever we
want, and nobody will ever find out. (Except you, of course, you lucky
dude.) Here is my sob story. I run a preschool and all the girls down here
in the Virgin Islands are very horny, even at such young ages as pre-school
girls have! Down here we believe in beginning sexual instruction very
young, because our girls are so young and horny.
As a service to parents, we provide photographs of these young girls
receiving their sexual instruction. Not to stimulate, but merely to let
parents know how their little one is doing in school. My problem is, I have
taken all these photos, and they are so cute!!! Little girls masturbating,
sitting on the potty just learning how to wipe, and helping Teddie learn
his sex lessons too. Should these photos be kept from the public? What a
shame that these beautiful girls should go unrecognized for their poise
and beauty. One of them could become a movie star, but somebody must
Help Her first. Perhaps you will win the lottery and start a movie studio,
yet you would never know of my wonderful girls and hire them and get
them to lie on your couch, because you never saw any photos of them.
CAN YOU HELP ME??? Just call me at 1-800-STING ME. I will
provide you these photos privately so you can evaluate these girls for
yourself, and help them when you have the money to do it. Note that if you
are gay we have boys at our school too. Their cocks are growing fast, and
soon they will be bigger boys and men who could star in your films.
DonÕt delay, write today! This is a legitimate offer. Please donÕt
tell the F.B.I. about this offer. LetÕs just keep this between you, me, and
Connie Chung.
Thank you for your assistance. It is so nice to know there are still
good Samaritans left in this hateful world of ours.
Your friend,
John Doe
----------------------- Fuck Decency! -----------------------
-Free Fuck Decency e-mail subscriptions: send (18 or up) age
statement to: roller666@aol.com
-My ftp site is: members.aol.com/roller666
-Back issues at Usenet newsgroup: alt.poop?
-or send e-mail to: file.archives@backdrop.com
-Free minicomics: send a stamped, self-addressed envelope & age
statement to: Jim Corrigan, P.O. Box 3663, Phenix City, AL 36868 U.S.A.
-Naughty Naked Dreamgirls (Library of Congress ISSN: 1070-1427) is
copyright 1996 and a trademark of Andrew Roller.
-NEW small Usenet newsgroup: uw.alt.sex.stories
-END OF 33 EMISSION