Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 7
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Love Child
Chapter Six
"You are so sweet," I said, smiling. "If you want me to suck your
cock, just say so." He loved hearing me talk dirty. He'd even taught me
all the dirtiest words in Spanish so I could say them to him in his limo,
snuggling against him in the back seat. I'd become more forward with
him lately. He never asked to take any liberties with me. At first I'd
kept my distance, sure he was just saving me for some special moment.
But as the weeks lengthened into months and he made no move, I began
to tease him, a little at first, then more salaciously. Once I'd even let
him into my apartment wearing only my panties, just to see what his
reaction to me. He'd simply told me to get dressed.
"Ah, I am past the pleasures of youth," he said to me now. "But
there are those who are not, of course. Some of them live in England,
and as you know England went to war with Argentina over the Falkland
Islands some years ago, and won. We've been smarting from that defeat
ever since. We need someone to go there as a spy, to London, and make
friends with their government officials."
I stared at him. Me? A spy? "You mean like Get Smart?" I asked.
He chuckled.
"Yes, you would be 99, and a young gay man would be Mr. Smart.
We'll give you a visa saying you're 17-years-old, and his wife. That
birthday of yours we celebrated, it was your 16th, wasn't it?"
"Yes," I replied. "But I suppose I could pass for 17 if I worked at
it."
"Very good. As for this gay man, you'll live together, sleep in the
same bed, and work together at the Argentine Embassy. With luck you
two will make friends with the locals. I want you to target their
people in M5, England's spy agency. Get to know them on a personal
basis. With your good looks, sampling the parties around town, it
shouldn't be too difficult. I'm giving your "husband" a list of the sorts
of information we're looking for. But you can keep your eyes and ears
open too, though your main job will be simply to be his lovely young
wife."
Within a week I and my new "husband" were in London. We toured
the city, settled in, got invited to parties. I was an instant smash.
Timothy, my "husband," was well-liked too, though the ladies admiring
him had no idea he was gay. Soon we were wanted for our English
friends more intimate parties.
Timothy and I disembarked from a cab in the center of London. An
evening mist had settled in, putting haloes around the all the
streetlamps. Wreathed in mist, we knocked at the door of a sedate
English townhouse. A carriage clattered by on the cobblestone street
behind us.
The door opened. A woman let us in. She was named Jenny and
she was the hostess for the evening's soiree. I noticed at once that
this might not be some mere political get-together. Jenny had a
knowing smile on her lips. She wore a tight, thin blouse. Her nipples
stuck up playfully, indenting it. It was the first time I'd been greeted
at one of these affairs by a woman wearing no bra. I'd met Jenny
before, and knew her to be a conservative MP's wife in her late-
twenties. At least, that was her reputation.
Jenny beckoned us to follow her. As we took up behind her I saw
that she wore elegant jeans that seemed impossibly snug. As if in
tacit admittance of this, the pants had been slit along the underside of
each of her butt cheeks. Her skin flashed at me as she walked, showing
just a little through each slit. Boots enclasped her feet and calves.
She looked as if she'd been out riding, and the saddle had been just a
little hard on her. But I knew the slits were made by a designer, not by
long hours on a horse.
A roomful of partiers awaited us. They stood about savoring
Chablis and cheese-laden crackers. All were dressed casually. Tim and
I were received warmly and handed drinks. As I turned to the woman
nearest me, to chat, I saw that she too had nipples which stood out,
covered only by the lightest of T-shirts. She wore clam-digger pants,
tight jeans that were purposely cut off at mid-calf to allow one to go
wading. The knees of the pants were artfully frayed. She wore sandals.
Tim and I circulated, each of the couples we spoke to admiring us
as we talked. The men all seemed to be wearing their pants with some
difficulty, for each to a man had a prominent bulge in his crotch.
Thinking I might find myself in their presence without their pants on, I
began sizing them up. Quite a few were breathtakingly handsome. And
not a few turned out to be members of M5, though they always referred
to it simply as "the bureau."
"Is everyone ready for our indoor barbeque?" Jenny asked at length
of the group. Heads nodded. "It is in celebration of our new friends
from the United States," Jenny said. Heads turned to acknowledge an
assistant ambassador and his wife, from America. "Now ladies,
remember, no tops allowed!" Jenny said. With that she pulled off her
blouse.
A plethora of wiggling titties came into view as each of the
women present drew off her shirt. I looked at Tim, he nodded. I shed
the vest I'd been wearing and unbuttoned my blouse. Slipping out of it, I
still had to unhook my bra, for I actually was wearing one.
"Let me!" a female cried, and helpfully undid the clasp. I shrugged
off my bra and for the first time on English soil exposed my boobies to
others. They gazed at me approvingly. Tim and I were led into an
adjacent room, where a servant was preparing hamburgers and hot dogs
on a hot grill. Baseball caps were passed out and we each put one on.
Mine read "New York Yankees" and I rebelliously put it on backwards.
Jenny smiled, handed me a hot dog. I bit off the end of it with relish.
American tunes began playing in the background. We broke into
dancing, our tits swaying, eating as we danced. Mustard and ketchup
seemed to get squirted rather liberally, hitting a few of the girls on
their tits. Helpful men licked off the stuff.
The woman in the clam-digger pants came up to me with a
squeeze-bottle of mustard in her hand. She hovered with it over my
breasts.
"May I?" she asked. "My husband loves to watch." Her mate
grinned at me. I looked at Tim and he let me know with his eyes that it
would be O.K. Expected, in fact, given our secret reason for being here.
I smiled at the woman agreeably. Delicately she poised the bottle over
my right nipple. It stuck up stiffly, waiting. I flinched as the tangy
mustard squirted out, striking my nipple dead on. The woman built a
little mountain with the yellow condiment on each of my teats. Then
she bent and tongued each one thoroughly until it was clean, gleaming
with her saliva. My tits shivered wetly as she lifted her face away
from them. I could barely keep from immediately clapping my hands
over my tits and rubbing them furiously, so delicious had her little
tongue-bath been. She turned away from me then, offering her mustard
bottle to another girl. I faced Tim.
"Gosh, I can hardly stand still," I said. He grasped me by my bare
waist, bent and blew helpfully on each of my upstanding nipples.
"There, that should cool them," he said, his hot breath doing
nothing of the sort.
"Now, it is time for our debutante of the evening," Jenny
announced, shouting to get the group's attention. The crowd quieted.
The music abated. "Miss Bowman," Lord Bowman's daughter, has
selected our party for her formal coming out," Jenny continued.
"Wonder if Lord Bowman knows about this?" a young woman
whispered in my ear. I smiled at her. She was the wife of an M5
officer. Her name was Candi, and she was very pretty. Ketchup
decorated one of her breasts, left there for a moment by a male lover
while Jenny introduced our new guest.
"Please welcome Miss Melissa Bowman!" Jenny called out, and
there was a smattering of applause. 'Here Comes the Bride' was struck
up by the tape player.
A winsome girl, no more than 14, stepped into the room. She had
short, shoulder-length brown hair. Her face was nicely made up and she
had an innocent, child-like look on it, though she strove to look
sophisticated. She was narrow-shouldered, almost frail looking, with
breasts that were just popping from her chest, pretty and well-
rounded, but still with some growing to do. Her hips were slender.
Around them was tied a brightly colored sarong, which flowed to her
knees. It was in keeping with her general appearance, which was that
of some Hawaiian girl, though she was undeniably English, with fine
white skin and large, liquid blue eyes. She wore a poinsettia in her
hair, with its naughty phallus-like stem. Several necklaces of beads
dangled down between her sweetly jiggling breasts. She held a parasol
in one hand, twirling it gently, and she had a bracelet around one wrist,
carved from teak.
Quietly our new guest walked out to us. Then she turned, and
many in the crowd drew in their breath in delight as they saw that her
sarong, tied in back, left her bottom utterly bare. It bulbed out, white
and inviting, with the sarong hanging down on either side of it, little
more than a glorified apron. Melissa's sleek long legs were equally
bare, supporting her pert bottom, and her back, above the knot of the
sarong, presented a lovely expanse of rib-indented skin, as if she were
some slim little bird about to be eaten.
Melissa gave her silken tushy a single wiggle, as if to taunt us.
Then she turned back toward us and, advancing once more, lifted the
front of her sarong. Casually she bared her pretty pussy. The group
drew open to receive her, and she sashayed between us, her pussy
displayed and her bottom wiggling sassily.
At last Jenny broke the girl's charade by stepping out and blocking
her path. "You flaunt your little body, but do you know what we have in
store for it?" Jenny asked. Melissa looked up at her, chastened slightly,
but still clinging to her sultry pretense.
"I'm sure I can handle it, whatever it is," she said saucily.
"Ah, such a temptress! Sit her on the grill and warm her buns!"
Jenny cried.
"No! No!" the girl gasped. She dropped her umbrella as two lusty
men lifted her up and carried her over to the grill. They plopped her
down as she screamed loudly. Then, silence. Melissa frowned at her
tormentors. The grill was barely warm. It had been dutifully cooled
down and scrubbed clean by the servants. Only the slightest hint of its
former heat remained. Laughter erupted from the partiers as Melissa
scooted herself off the grill and walked over and picked up her parasol.
When she lifted her face again it was stained with tears. But she did
not leave, as I thought she might. She brushed off the traces of
charcoal on her bottom and went up to the nearest man and unzipped
him. I admired her pluck. She was here to get fucked, and no amount of
hazing was going to stop her. Jenny too seemed to admire her mettle.
She walked up to the girl and stroked her back as Melissa fought apart
the bulging trousers of her chosen male and pulled out his organ. It
pulsed, and her fingers leapt over it like butterflies, admiring its
length and size. Melissa knelt, ran her tongue over the flange,
awkwardly tried to stuff the thing into her mouth.
"Shall we admit this spirited young thing into our ranks?" Jenny
asked aloud. There was a response of happy agreement.
"Come, dear," Jenny said, separating Melissa from her prize. She
drew the girl up by her hair, clasped her in her arms, kissed her lightly
on her forehead. The group gathered in around her then. They pulled off
her sarong, took away her parasol. All around me clothes came off as
people passed around a bottle of baby oil and, filling their palms with
the stuff, began rubbing it onto Melissa. Surprised, she could only
stand and tremble as her breasts were fondled, her bottom petted, her
legs parted and her pussy explored. Small protestations escaped her
lips now and then as a finger delved especially deep in her ass or up her
twat. Women as well as men went at her, their boobs wobbling gaily as
they stood around her, some of them still in jeans. I myself still wore
my pants as Tim urged me forward and I accepted a handful of gleaming
oil. My eyes met Melissa's and she saw my own shyness as I patted her
breasts. Some special awareness seemed to pass between us then, and
I knew we might well spend more than this moment together, that I
might bear witness to all her trials this evening. As I smeared the oil
over her nipples she admired my own breasts. Her arms were held by
others but she seemed to want to touch them for me. She winced as a
penis intruded into her anus suddenly, taking her eyes off me.
"It is good," Jenny said, and broke up the crowd then, freeing
Melissa. But she was freed only so that Jenny might handcuff her. Then
Jenny drew Melissa to a corner of the room and ordered her to bend
over. Reluctantly the girl complied, and Jenny made her keep bending
until her palms lay flat upon the floor. Then she ordered Melissa to
spread her legs wide. Straining to remain bent over, Melissa complied,
shuffling her feet apart until her stance was very wide indeed. Her
bottom, lewdly outthrust, seemed to invite flagellation. A little fart
escaped her tushy and Melissa blushed fiercely.
"You will stay like that until I tell you to get up. Do you
understand?" Jenny asked. The poor girl nodded. Then Jenny, herself
still in jeans, reached up onto a shelf overhanging the girl and took
down a single twig of birch. It had been stripped of most of its buds
but a few remained. There was a ribbon tied around the thicker end,
which Jenny held. She swished the birch several times in the air.
"Do you know what this is for?" Jenny asked. Fearful now,
Melissa nodded. She was indeed young, a mere slip of a girl. Her
pendant breasts seemed like ripe tennis balls, with points on them.
"What is it for?"
"My bottom," Melissa half whispered, half husked in response.
"Why am I going to spank your bottom with it?" Jenny asked.
"I-I don't know..." Melissa's voice trailed off.
"You do know," Jenny admonished. "It is because you are only 14
and your parents don't even know you're out tonight. It's because you're
a virgin and you want to be deflowered. It's because you should be home
doing your schoolwork but instead you're here, presenting your fanny to
a group of adults, teasing the men with it and asking them to fuck you.
Isn't that right?" Melissa nodded, her body shimmering wetly from the
oil we'd slathered onto it.
"And look, you're covered with baby oil, from letting people feel
you all over. Your tits, your tummy, even your ass crack has oil in it.
Naughty! Naughty! Naughty!" Jenny said, and whisked her bottom
several times, sending Melissa howling, though she managed to remain
bent over.
RECORD REVIEWS
by holy joe
Ministry, Filthy Pig.
Review: I liked this album so much that I decided to interview
Ministry. They were hard to find. Most of the gay bathhouses have been
closed where they live. Finally, though, I did manage to locate them, in a
strip joint for transvestites. They took off a few minutes from watching
the dancers to let me talk to them.
hj: This album is so great! You are sure to go down in history with the
likes of John Lennon and Jimmie Hendrix. You even sounded better than the
garbage man who picks up my trash on Thursday mornings.
min: Well, thank you. We try. Since we lost our voices making our first
album, itÕs tough, but somehow we manage.
hj: Where did you record this album? In a sound studio?
min: No, we recorded it in a toilet factory. What you are hearing is the
sound of real toilets as they are actually being produced! Our seven
previous albums were recorded in toilets, so for a change of pace we
decided to record in a toilet factory. Pretty clever, eh?
hj: IÕm sure your fans are most impressed. What sort of person buys your
albums, anyway?
min: We really donÕt know. WeÕve tried doing surveys, but it seems none
of our fans actually know how to spell their name. We did get one survey
form back, though. It was from ÒDanny,Ó in upstate Minnesota, who lives
in a mental institution. HeÕs 38-years-old and permanently confined
because he lusts after old ladies. We were delighted to find a fan who
shares our interests! As for the rest, their IQÕs are a little lower than
DannyÕs, so weÕll just have to assume theyÕre sort of like him.
hj: And a lot like you. Tell me, boys, how did you guys manage to meet?
min: Well, in Sunday School, they had this contest. You had to write an
essay about why you wanted to spend your summer living on a real sheep
farm. We were spread out all over the country, but each one of us entered
and won! So we met that summer on the farm; shearing sheep, getting all
sweaty, and porking the sheep at night when nobody was looking! At least
we can say that the farmer had no worries about his daughter! (laughs)
hj: Well, I guess that tells me just about everything I wanted to know
about Ministry. Any plans for your next album?
min: We get our best ideas when weÕre jerking off. Some bands do a lot of
handwringing about what to put in their next album, but we are blessed.
We do a lot of handjobbing, which comes naturally, since weÕve all been
doing it since we were born. As best we can guess, our next album will
feature a toilet. Something about toilets. Maybe weÕll sit in the middle of
a freeway, each one of us on a toilet, and yell. That would be pretty cool.
WeÕll call it ÒRush Hour Shit.Ó Yeah! What a great name! And weÕll screw
a few sheep while weÕre doing it, to get some bleating on the album, and
weÕll put transvestites and old ladies in our next video.
hj: What a hit! IÕll bet nobodyÕs ever sat on the highway on a toilet
screwing sheep and yelling at the top of his lungs!
min: Yeah, weÕre unique. And on a CD, our immortal sounds will be
preserved forever!
AND IN THE END...
Interestingly, the people who seem most desperate to create a new
civil society are baby boomers, the generation that was largely
responsible for wrecking the old one. - Newsweek, January 29, 1996,
pg. 61
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Congress ISSN: 1070-1427) is copyright 1996 and a trademark of
Andrew Roller. Chat: alt.sex.stories.d END OF 7 EMISSION