Andrew Roller Presents
C O M I C U P D A T E
FREE! Internet Edition May 10, 1995
F L A S H R E V I E W !
Of a Brand New Comic!
by Andrew Roller
Rawlins, The Last Tough Cop #2, $1.50. Digest. Text-only, with
illustrations. Perry Lake, Miracle Comics, 6167-B, Alamo Way, Paradise,
CA 95969.
Review: ÒYeah, it was a weird one. Some devil-worshipping old bat
molests three little kids, and twenty years later, she drives Ôem to
suicide,Ó reads the self-introspective dialogue by the main character (pg.
15). The name of this issueÕs story is ÒNursery Rhymes From Hell.Ó
The letters section contains a review of a previous issue: ÒThe
undead demon: We donÕt get to see it go around killing people we donÕt
care about. [Then it] gets shot--once--[and] falls through a window and
dies.Ó I thought this was an excellent interpretation of modern T.V.
story-plotting. You see the bad guy, and then you see the awful things he
does. But, often, he does those awful things to characters you donÕt care
about. Have you ever watched a movie where you can tell, right from the
beginning, which people are only there to die? I can. Often itÕs the ÒoddÓ
person. The black guy, the mexican, the fat woman.
Thankfully, Perry Lake is not averse to printing criticism about his
work. And the digest-sized book is a nice package overall. Excellent
cover, excellent (and humorous) back cover, with decent Òsmall pressÓ
illustrations inside. Unfortunately, the inside illustrations are
sometimes poorly reproduced. But a good buy, especially if youÕre fond of
illustrated Sherlock Holmes books. (I am.)
HOT OFF THE PRESS!
by holy joe
The Joe Boob Report, May 1, 1995, free. 8 1/2Ó x 11Ó. Joe Boob Briggs,
P.O. Box 2002, Dallas, TX 75221.
Review: The Movie ChannelÕs Joe Boob Briggs weighs in with another
one of his nifty movie-oriented newsletters. Specifically he is interested
in drive-in movies. You can even get free movies in the mail from Joe
Boob. Just write to him and tell him you want to join one of his movie
reviewing committees. Our own Andrew Roller was a member of the
Science Fiction movie reviewing committee. But he finally quit because it
was interfering too much with his masturbating. (Why he didnÕt join the
Porno reviewing committee is beyond me--Joe Boob has one of those too.)
Page four of this issue features one of RollerÕs all-time favorite
masturbation goddesses-Julie K. Smith. (I even got hard over this photo,
and IÕm supposed to be a pedophile!) Julie Strain, on page 6, isnÕt bad
either. P.D. Wilson got a strain in his pecker looking at her. For the ladies
there is ÒRowdyÓ Roddy Piper showing off his handsome chest on page 7.
(Of course Jim Corrigan noticed this one. When heÕs not busy mailing out
hardcopies of Comic Update heÕs hard at work campaigning for political
office in Atlanta.)
This issue features movie reviews by the Horror Committee. Films
featuring George C. Scott, Val Kilmer (of The Doors), and other such
nonsense are reviewed. (Including Sorority Girls and The Creature From
Hell.) I just got a VHS copy of Pretty Baby, featuring Brooke Shields, from
the Sun Coast Video Store, so I wonÕt have time for anything else for
awhile. (You know, about a 12-year-old prostitute. Since it was made in
the late 70Õs, when I was a youngster, I consider this movie to be about
TRADITIONAL VALUES! IÕm not into all this Reagan-era conservative shit.
The Reagan-era (and Bush and Clinton) can be summed up in one word: NO!
As in, ÒI said NO!Ó and ÒWhat part of NO donÕt you understand?Ó I wrote
back to my supervisor (after I quit): ÒWhat part of FUCK YOU donÕt you
understand?Ó
Getting back to Joe Boob, we have more boobs on display on page 12,
followed by a picture of Joe BoobÕs wife on page 14, modelling (what
else?) a ÒJoe BoobÓ t-shirt. Finally there is a contest for jerk-off
nerdyboys who wasted their entire life watching C-grade movies, and have
now nothing better to do in life than answer quiz questions about C-grade
movies.
All in all, a good issue, and after all, ÒItÕs like a drug. The first one
is always free,Ó as Joe Boob says. So get it right away. Now we here at
Comic Update intend on keeping you perpetually stoned, so of course ours
is ALWAYS free! By the way, you can send our publisher e-mail. He is one
of those ÒnewbieÓ perverts on America Online. He doesnÕt know what his
e-mail address is, but if you can find America Online he is ÒROLLER 666Ó
(without the quote marks, of course.) Remember to leave a space between
the word Roller and the letters 666. You can send him all kinds of
feminist diatribes, fill up his mailbox with F.B.I. offers for child
pornography, or whatever. With luck heÕll accidentally delete it all
without even reading it.
Now I have been a naughty boy, in that this HOT OFF THE PRESS
section is supposed to be a listing section, for zines we donÕt have time to
review. (However, if we have the money, weÕll forward them to Jim
Corrigan for a full review, which will be published later.) So let me
actually list some zines here, without reviewing them:
R.I.P. Speed Co. #7, free. (There is no price listed. Since this is the
Internet, if I get something without a price on it, I am going to list it as
being free.) Digest. R.I.P. Speed Co., Box 55, Harrisonboro, VA 22801.
The Nihilist Glee Club #12, $1.00. Digest. The Nihilist Glee Club, P.O. Box
57287, Jackson Station, Hamilton, Ontario, Canada L8P 4X1.
Cabaret #16, $2.00. Digest. Theresa Fleming, P.O. Box 1528, Ypsilanti, MI
48197.
Now the three zines listed above are not actually Òhot off the pressÓ
since most zines these days go to Jim Corrigan. I would not mind having
some zines to list in Comic Update, provided I donÕt get swamped with
them. (I donÕt want to quit the small press like Mike Gunderloy did.) So, if
you want your zine in the Òhot off the pressÓ section, send it to: holy joe,
c/o Andrew Roller, 5960 S. Land Park Dr-253, Sacramento, CA 95822. If
you want Jim Corrigan to review your zine, send him a copy also. His
address is listed at the very end of this transmission.
C O M I C U P D A T E S T O R I E S
There and Not Back Again
by Andrew Roller
You do crazy things when you're in high school. Of course, I hadn't
always been in high school. I'd ruled the world once, and been quite
ruthless at it too. And then I'd gotten old. "Man's fate," they called it.
Except I was a female.
"All my possessions for just a moment more," Queen Victoria said
on her deathbed. She lost both. I was luckier. There was a new
technology out, "Mind Meld." Put your brain on a hard disk. Die. Get a
new body and download your mind into it.
I made the arrangements. Copied my brain into Earth's central
computer. Made a back-up copy, just in case. Kept continually
uploading my latest thoughts as they occurred, right 'til the moment of
death. And then I waited.
When I awoke I was in the body of a young girl. I'd waited a long
time, though I didn't know it then. Death had been blackness, an utter
void. Like anesthesia during surgery. You wake up and ask when they're
going to start the operation. They tell you it's already over. You did
fine. Except nobody was there to tell me that.
They'd gone on without me, the bastards. A man had become
Emperor of the Earth in my place. And then, well, I knew it would
happen. They managed to blow themselves up.
Centuries passed. Earth was a cinder, little more. But there were
other universes, other Earths. Heisenberg, you know. A girl slipped
through from one of them. In her world the scientific tradition of the
ancient Ionians had not ended with Plato recommending the burning of
their books. She was but 15, yet her scientific games did not consist
of building a crystal radio or playing with a chemistry set. She slipped
through universes to alternate worlds.
Her name was Mandy. She brought her cat, Tabitha. Together they
set about exploring me. Well, they didn't know it was me. It was
Earth's central computer, quite aged and decrepit now. And less
powerful than the PC Mandy played with at home.
I was fixed up, rewired, all in the name of play, not science. And
did you know, dear reader, that I've lied to you? Don't be mad at me. I
figured it would help you understand, that's all. You see, I didn't wake
up inside the girl. Oh, no. I woke up inside the computer. And I wanted
out.
Mandy woke me. I found her playing with me. (With the computer,
you know, except that I was all that was left of the computer's mind.
Me and about 10 trillion useless facts and figures.) It took me awhile
to figure out what was going on. Mandy left, came back another day.
Left and came back several times, in fact. Whenever she had some free
time and nothing better to do.
I hadn't risen to Empress of Earth for nothing, you know. I'd been
much more of a bitch than, say, Hillary Clinton. More on the level of
Ghengis Khan. Mandy had what I wanted, pure and simple. A body, and a
young one at that. I guess I decided to play the ultimate child molester,
and I have no regrets. I lured her into sitting down with me, into
getting wired up with me.
"The better to know you, my dear," I told her. She was
scientifically smart but, otherwise, no match for an Empress. I invaded
her mind and wiped it clean. I replaced it with my own.
Well, as you can imagine, cats don't match men for company. And
Tabitha knew, in a catlike way, that I'd done something to her Mandy. I
was stuck on a dead Earth, and my only way "back" to Mandy's home had
been erased along with her mind. Stuck on a dead planet with a cat that
hated me. Not a great life. But a step up from being imprisoned inside
a failing computer. For awhile, anyway. For about, well, 9 1/2 years,
to be exact. Tabitha grew old, but she still hated me. I grew older.
And I got very frustrated and very bored.
I'd stare out of the perimeter viewfinder at what was left of
Earth. It looked like it had been hit by a meteor shower. I couldn't go
out, the radiation, even after all this time, was still too bad. I was
trapped in a slightly larger space than the computer itself had
comprised. I could sit, I could replicate food and eat it, and clean
water came from somewhere, through a filter or something. And my
shit went out to join the other radioactive waste, through the toilet.
At last I decided I was better off where I'd been. The place needed a
few modifications, that was all.
I spiffed up the computer and created an old-time version of
Earth inside it. An Earth like the twentieth century Earth. With cotton
candy and Duran Duran and girls who talked for hours on the phone,
about nothing at all. Myst writ large.
And then I stepped into my world. But I wasn't there to take over
the place. After all, I'd created it. I was its God. No, I wanted to be
the girl I'd never been. Not the girl in the ruins between the first
global nuclear war and the second. Not the girl who'd killed to survive
and outwitted bandits. I wanted to be an inguene. Carefree, silly,
frivolous. A twentieth century girl. American, post-modern, Happy
Days happy. And to do that I'd have to erase my own mind as
thoroughly as I'd erased Mandy's.
Are you reading this? I'm gone now, you know. Well, I'm
somewhere inside the computer, actually. I've programmed it to write
out my life for me, as it happens. Of course, I'll think I'm really living
it. A real girl in a real world. I don't know what has happened to me in
there, but the computer will make a record.
Yes, you'll see a corpse by the computer. You see, without a mind
to feed it, to take care of it, Mandy's body died. It lay there,
lobotomized, until her cat found it smelling rather....tasty.
Oh yes, I know, it sounds cruel, stealing a girl's body from her and
then letting it die. But I was lonely. I wanted company. And the real
Earth, the one outside the computer, could never give me that. Not, at
least, until you came along. But maybe you never did. For all I know, no
one will ever read this. Or, if they do, perhaps it will be a million
years from now...however long this computer will last.
You do crazy things when you're in high school. One day in gym
class, sitting there in our little shorts and tees on the bleachers, a
magazine got passed around. Swingers, it was called. Furtively,
laughingly, it was passed from girl to girl as we waited for our
instructor, Ms. Lafrump, to arrive. When she did come in the magazine
was in the hands of my friend Janet, and she hastily stuffed it into my
gym bag.
I had forgotten I even had the magazine when I sat unpacking my
gym bag that evening, plopped on my bed in my nightshirt, about to turn
in. Suddenly, there it was, Swingers. The child in me reached out to
drop it disdainfully into my Mickey Mouse wastebasket. But then,
inexplicably, I drew it back. It was the teenager, the woman developing
within me that pulled it back, I know now.
I opened the magazine. I flipped through it with a mixture of awe
and disgust. I'd never seen anything like this before, never wanted to.
There were amateur photos of scantily dressed partiers, articles on
swinger etiquette, part one of something excerpted from a book by
someone named the Marquis de Sade. And then I came upon an ad page,
the personals. One in particular struck my eye: FEMALE OR SELECT
couple. Let's play." There was an address, no name.
On a lark I fetched my notepad and responded to their ad. I mailed
it the next day, never thinking they'd write back. I used a fake name, of
course. Somewhere in the back of my mind I was playing the role of
female detective, going undercover to break up a ring of criminal sexual
conspirators. At least the child in me was, the 9-year-old nymph who
was as sure of herself and her place in the world as a lizard sunning on
a rock. Little did I know that a kind of schizophrenia was developing
within me. There was a sexy young lady taking over my body,
flowering, choking out the impish little girl as one might a weed.
To my shock they wrote back. Inside their letter was their
photograph. The woman was young, in her 20's. The man, like some
tuxedoed stud right out of my favorite soap opera, was gorgeous, in his
40's. Successful in appearance, athletic, rugged, with a gleam in his
handsome eye that showed he got what he wanted in life. I was in love
with him from the moment I laid eyes on the photo. At least the woman
in me was. The little girl in me seemed to have suddenly taken a
vacation. Perhaps she was in the Mickey Mouse wastebasket.
I knew I must meet them, somehow. Against my better
judgement. Surely nothing would come of this, I reassured myself. I
wrote out a response and mailed it. Surely nothing.
And then it came. Another letter, another photo, them with their
dog, Atlas. Charming. They had a cute dog. It broke down my
resistance. Made them human, approachable. I wrote back, agreeing to
meet them the following Wednesday at the Chez L'Appraisal, a French
restaurant in town. Now all I had to do was figure out how to get there.
I settled on a cab, finally, as the best way. I told my mother on
the way out of the house that I was going to the library. Well, I knew
I'd be learning something this afternoon, so it's not like it was a total
lie. First hand knowledge is always better than second hand knowledge,
right?
I thought the couple would dismiss me out-of-hand as soon as
they found out how young I was. But they treated me very politely. I
sat across from them at a little table, hardly ever taking my eyes off
the man, Robert. His wife, Juliette, eventually dropped the small talk
and asked me a series of questions about my sexuality. (We were in a
private booth.) I made up some answers and they listened attentively,
seriously. In fact I'd ever only had one boyfriend, and our relationship
hadn't lasted much beyond his popping of my cherry.
Dinner ended with them inviting me to stay at their place the
following weekend. I could hardly believe my ears. Was this mature,
sexually experienced couple really asking me, a naive high school
sophomore, to join them? They said they had just built a new Jacuzzi,
a really plush one with inlaid tiles and hanging plants and stained
glass, and wanted someone to enjoy it with them. What could I say?
The woman in me was not about to pass up a chance to get to know
Robert better, and I accepted, even as the little girl in me began looking
for a way not to go.
A sleepover served as the perfect excuse that got me out of the
house Friday evening. This was a special, "cram 'til you drop" study
session sleepover, I explained to my parents, knowing that would keep
them from calling. I wasn't sure yet, I said, whose house it would be
at, as I rushed out the door. Only later would I realize I'd forgotten my
Little Mermaid nightshirt, my de rigueur costume on all my previous
overnighters. Well, I was growing up, right? But I worried that, seeing
it hanging on the back of my bedroom door, my mother would become
suspicious.
A stranger shadowed me at the park. Some guy in his 30's,
obvious nerd, probably wrote porno novels or something for a living.
Thankfully my hosts showed up in their car (a Lamborghini!) and
whisked me out of the pervert's view. We chatted gaily on the ride over
to their place, about nothing in particular, soon arriving in a plush
suburb, lined with leafy trees and with 24-hour security to warn away
burglars and child molesters.
Inside I was given a place to put my things, a small armoire in the
dayroom. Then I drifted out to the kitchen and we shared a snack of
wine and cheese and little sandwiches. Bob popped a romantic spy
thriller into their VHS and we sat watching awhile. I grew restless and
went to the kitchen for something else to eat. Juliette joined me and
suggested I might want to check out their spa on my own, to see if I
liked it. They'd shown me around their house a bit but a phone call for
Bob had interrupted the tour before I got to see the spa. I told Juliette
I'd go check it out now. I was glad she was letting me have a look at it
myself. It was hard to believe we might do anything more than just
talk and be friends. Even the little girl inside me had slipped into
cruise control.
The spa took my breath away. It was bathed in the light of a
rising moon that shafted its rays through stained glass windows. Half
the spa was enclosed by three walls. The remainder was outdoors,
under the stars. A folding screen could be drawn across to close off
the inside portion. Tropical plants hung about, dripping with exotic
flowers in full bloom. In a wooden bowl fresh oranges and pears
waited. Three towels were piled neatly on a carved hardwood bench
next to the spa. I found a switch and flipped it and the Jacuzzi bubbled
to life.
I gazed at the luxurious tile-lined tub awhile, mesmerized. This
was a far cry from some 16-year-old's slumber party. Slowly I
undressed, intending to keep on my bra and panties, then just my
panties, finally finding that I'd stripped nude. Thoughtfully I drew a
bow from my discarded blouse and tied up my loose hair in back, to keep
it above my shoulders.
With a hesitant step, the little girl in me screaming but well-
gagged, I stepped into the spa. I waded across it, savoring the feel of
the silky water along my calves. This was heaven. I picked up a little
brass pitcher, examined it. A century must have passed since it was
made. It intrigued me. We'd been making pitchers and vases with clay
in art class. I dipped it into the bubbling spa water, filling it. Just
then the door to the spa opened. I turned, utterly innocent, not even
remembering that I was in a house with other people in it, that
belonged to someone else.
Juliette stepped in, followed by Bob. They faced me. I was in a
corner of the spa and I lifted a knee up, resting it on the side of the tub,
as if to get out, as if caught in a swimming pool for "residents only"
where I didn't live. Then they smiled. Bob smiled, broadly,
reassuringly. I still had the brass pitcher in my hand and instinctively
I lifted it and poured its contents out slowly over my breasts. I gasped
slightly as the hot water hit them, then smiled, almost blushing.
Both Bob and Juliette were still clothed in the elegant, casual
attire they'd met me in. Bob sat down on the bench next to the spa. He
ordered me to get out and come over to him. Wetly I rose and, with
Juliette lightly taking me by the arm, padded the three steps to where
he sat. Mincing steps, small and dainty as the bow in my hair. As if
being called to sit on the knee of an uncle.
Except Bob wanted me over his knee, and promptly had me lying
dripping on my bare stomach across his thighs. My still dry bottom
wobbled, soft cheeks upturned, under his possessive gaze.
SPLAT! Robert's palm came down juicily on my naked tushy,
making me yelp. Neither the woman nor the little girl knew what was
going on now, but I felt my clitty harden. SPLAT! Another butt-
reddening blow, and I shivered. Robert savored my ass cheeks a
moment, watching them blush, then spanked me three more times. In a
mirror I hadn't noticed before I caught sight of Juliette undressing. She
shed her top and skirt to reveal the body of a sex magazine pin-up.
Robert lifted his hand then and, bare-breasted, she leaned forward and
kissed the peak of each of my quivering ass cheeks. Her stiffening
nipples brushed the backs of my thighs.
Robert let me stand then, and I did, briskly rubbing my hiney. He
told me to go over to a small cabinet and come back with what was in
the top drawer. I knew not what else to do, he was clothed and I was
naked, he was huge and muscular and I was frail, with my only large
asset being my breasts. I padded over to the cabinet, found to my
surprise a strange stick-like thing there. I'd seen it somewhere before.
It had a loop of leather at one end. It reminded me of riding class,
horsey lessons when I was 10-years-old. Wasn't it called, like, a
"riding crop?" What was it doing here? Bob and Juliette didn't own any
horses.
I trotted back to Robert, holding the crop up stiffly. I let its loop
touch my lips as I wondered at its purpose. My tongue tasted the
leather loop idly, as if by taste I would divine its purpose. Robert took
the crop from my small hand and said I was a good girl. He said their
bed would be the most comfortable place to try out our new toy, that
we could jump in the spa afterward. He led me nakedly, still wet in
front, from the room before I could even think of a word of protest.
Juliette followed with sensuous footsteps.
As I caught sight of their big brass bed I suddenly felt
recalcitrant. But Robert was strong and had me kneed up onto it before
I could even mount a resistance. Juliette drew out my hands and tied
my wrists with silk stockings to the brass-poled headboard. She
worked swiftly, as if having tied countless girls before me. A gag was
slipped over my mouth then, just as I was about to ask what was going
to happen to me.
SWAACK! The crop bit into my bare hiney and I leapt like a fish. I
was kneeling, utterly naked, upon the crisp white sheets, with my legs
unbound. I skittered about on the bed, lifting first one knee awkwardly
and then the other, as if to waggle my stung tushy all through the
cooling air of the room. Fearfully I looked over my shoulder at Robert
as he prepared to give me another stroke.
SWAACK! Again I jumped, ass flailing, tugging futilely at the
bonds which held my wrists. SWAAK! SWAAK! SWAAK! Tears welled in
my eyes as I suffered under a rain of rapid blows. I must have looked
like an unbroken colt in a rodeo to Bob and Juliette as I bucked upon the
bed.
Just as quickly they now untied me, and Juliette drew me out
upon the bed and lay against me, snuggling. I felt her breasts squish
against mine and the thorns of her nipples stung my mammaries, my
stiff teats poking back at her bubbies. Her pussy curls interlaced
sweetly with mine. We rubbed against each other. Her hands cupped my
hot bottom and she said admiringly to Robert how wonderfully warm I
felt back there. She kissed me, mouth open, and I responded
unthinkingly. Our tongues extended, met, probed each other's oral
orifice, licking the teeth and reaching for the tonsils. Robert undressed
and got in bed behind me. He could not snuggle so easily for his big
prick was in the way. Carefully, after bumping my ass with it, he
wedged it between the tops of my squeezing thighs. He was so long he
actually lodged his head twixt Juliette's legs. I cooed at this
marvelous intruder's appearance on the scene. Even the little girl in me
was not protesting now. I forgot my tears in the loving entanglement
of our bodies. A warm glow began to suffuse my nether cheeks and I
wriggled them against Robert's rough-skinned, hairy stomach.
Robert luxuriated against me awhile, then pulled his manhood
from between my possessive legs and separated the cheeks of my ass. I
gasped as he did this, and a moment later had my suspicions confirmed
as he introduced the slit on the tip of his penis to my anus. My anal
dimple. Pre-cum oozed from him to anoint my nether hole. Teasingly
he pushed at me, testing my tightness. Juliette helpfully lifted one of
my legs up into the air, spreading me behind. Robert pushed harder,
pre-cum oiling his intended route. My sphincter held valiantly, not
admitting him at all. He complimented my tightness.
"Let us to the spa then," Juliette suggested hopefully, realizing
Bob would never last if he got himself up inside my virginal ass.
Reluctantly Bob agreed and we rose nakedly from the bed, his manhood
still throbbingly intact. We would enjoy such a remarkable companion
in the spa, I guessed then, soaping it and yanking on it and being
teasingly prodded by it as we soaked in the bubbles. There was no use
firing it off early, when it could be such a source of fun and delight. I
knew then that Juliette was not a lesbian, and was as mesmerized as I
was at being continually threatened by an intrusive male penis.
Hand in hand we strolled with our big, hard companion pointing
the way. We slithered into the spa and soon found ourselves on either
side of Robert. He poured wine into glasses for us, sitting between us,
and we poured the wine into his mouth, then had him do the same for us.
We fed each other the fruit. It was delicious, better than any fruit I'd
ever tasted. I wondered if it wasn't just the way I was feeling,
suddenly so adult, so mature, not a girl in a Little Mermaid nightie
anymore. Even my bottom felt good.
For a long time we splashed and touched and kissed, savoring
every inch of each other's bodies. My tits were weighed by both
Juliette and Robert, my legs pulled apart, my cunt fondled. For my part
I gave Robert's balls an exacting inspection, feeling them beneath the
water and then making him sit on the edge of the spa. I rubbed his
penis against my cheek, like a dog admiring its master, and sucked it,
carefully, so as not to bring him off. I toyed with Juliette's nipples,
got between her legs and tweaked her tiny clitoris. There was no
thought, little talking, just bodies responding to other bodies.
Gradually we knew that the time was approaching for us to fuck. Our
eyes became more serious and our breath grew hotter. I trusted in my
companions to know what to do with me when the time came.
Finally Robert announced that he could bear our beauty no longer
without paying tribute to it. He eased us both out of the spa and
towelled us off. Lovely as ever, sparkling whitely in our most intimate
places with lean, lightly tanned arms and legs, our hair loosely pinned,
we let Robert escort us back to the bedroom. We climbed upon the bed
with definite intentions now, no longer sporting nakedly, Juliette
bringing along a tube of KY jelly. Earnestly she and I greased up
Robert's prong, not caring anymore whether we were pleasuring him or
not, only mindful in the backs of our minds that he must not spill
prematurely. Robert shuddered with the obvious delight of a man whose
cock has been claimed by loving females.
When we finished, Juliette told me to lie back and spread my legs.
Then she slipped a pillow under my hips, elevating them. She stretched
out on top of me, kissed me, and spread her own legs. "Take whichever
of us you prefer," Juliette said over her shoulder to Bob. "Or try us both
at once." Then she turned her face to mine and, clasping my cheeks
between her palms, commenced kissing me avidly upon the mouth.
We made love repeatedly that night, until I could take no more.
The rest of the weekend we lounged about their house, having sex when
we felt like it, enjoying each other's company, mostly naked the whole
time. The next weekend we went to a party. My parents thought I'd
gotten serious about my studies at last, and thanked God for it. And I
had. Except I was studying the sorts of things they did in the bedroom
to each other, during all those years I'd been content to sleep with my
teddy bear.
The party was at a large mansion on the edge of town. We were
met by a woman who was dressed unflinchingly in nothing but a corset.
She did have on stiletto heels, and an ornate dog collar with fringe
hanging down in the direction of her bosoms, but that was all. The
corset itself failed to cover her breasts, which loomed above it like
balloons at a fair. Delicate and elegant, with gorgeous blonde hair piled
fashionably atop her head, she was the very picture of feminine
refinement. I admired her superb beauty and the way she freely
displayed her pussy, blonde as the hair on her head and each curl
carefully groomed. Bare legged, bare-hipped, bare bottomed, she played
the role of hostess as gracefully as any society lady. She led us into a
roomful of people, the men mostly dressed, the women in various
states of undress.
I was introduced to everyone and allowed to settle in a bit. I was
just starting to relax when our hostess said it was time for me to
begin my initiation. Shiveringly, the crowd following, I was taken to
the punishment chamber. It proved more ominous than I had imagined.
Every type of device thought up by man to hurt his fellows was present
there. Elke, our hostess, told me to undress and enjoy the spa for a few
moments. It was then that I noticed, bubbling away in a corner, a small
Jacuzzi. There were towels there and fruit and a scrub brush and
sponge for washing. Before I could decide how to handle myself Elke
was helping me out of my blouse and skirt. With a flourish she drew
down my panties, saying I had a fine bottom and must not be afraid to
show it. I told her it wasn't the showing of it that most concerned me,
with a meaningful glance at a rack of whips.
"Tch, darling, you shall learn to take those. All girls must. That
is no reason to cover your beautiful hiney. Now get in the tub and enjoy
yourself." She gave me a kind of slap/pat on the ass and sent me off.
I slipped out of my heels and stepped into the Jacuzzi. I stood,
then bent over. After fingering the water to test it, swirling the
bubbles, I filled a little gold pitcher that waited by the side of the tub.
As I sensed was desired, I erected myself, still dry, turned toward my
audience of guests and poured the water in the pitcher over my boobies.
It was hot, I gasped. But then I valiantly refilled the pitcher and
brought it up to wet myself again. The water ran down over me, the
swell of my tummy, the curls of my pussy, and streamed back into the
spa from between my legs. I spread them wider and gave myself
another tantalizing wet down.
They beckoned me from the spa then, and I went to them, nude
save for a little bow in my hair which served to tie it up, to keep it off
my back where it might have gotten wet. They dried my front lovingly
with a towel and then fetched my heels and had me slip back into them.
Elke took my hand and led me over to a rack. She said this would
help me in my school report on medieval Europe. She had me back up to
it and then strapped me securely to it with my wrists spread above my
head, arms achingly straight. My legs were put into a bold vee and tied
off also, sticking straight out, towards the floor. Elke tickled my
cunny with her fingers, and I noticed that my hips were lewdly
elevated, thrust forward, by some obscene lump pressing forthrightly
into my bottom from the rack. My clit, already hard, became unbearably
so under Elke's caresses. She then took what looked to me like
something that belonged on a clothesline and pressed it deeply into the
flesh of my cunt. I jolted as it suddenly snapped shut--right on my
clitoris!
"Aaaauuugh!" I screamed, not so much from pain (of which there
was some) but from utter, absolute fright. I'd never even dreamed of
such a thing being done to a girl. My nipples seemed to respond by
sticking out even farther, as if to make up for my clipped clit's
imprisonment. Elke got two more clothesline-like pins and closed them
over my nipples also. New shrieks from me, a chuckling smile from
Elke, who doubtless began her own career in love in a similar manner.
"You should have them pierced," she suggested teasingly.
Fearfully I wondered if she included my clitoris in that perverse
recommendation.
Years later, clitty and nipples long since pierced, I realize that
meeting Elke was the beginning of the end for me. She did drugs, you
see, and sold them too. I realized that someone who stayed away from
using the stuff, and merely sold it, could make a lot more than she was
making. So I sold drugs for awhile, for her, to my high school friends,
and then moved on to bigger game. I got my whole neighborhood using
drugs. One night I was forced to kill a cop to keep from being caught.
And then, having tasted blood, I decided to kill Elke.
The "business" really boomed with Elke out of the way. I
incorporated, drew in "associates," and became more and more callous
about the lives I was dealing with. I guess it all started with the
bondage stuff. Bondage is sort of callous, in its own way, and I grew
callous using it to satisfy myself sexually. I went from wayward
innocent to hardened domme. And, of course, I went way beyond
anything Elke and her friends had ever contemplated. Once I killed a
girl just to keep her quiet. Another time I went too far, playing sex
games with a boy. He died. But I considered myself to be basically a
decent person. Within certain parameters, of course. I wanted to be on
top. And, once I got there, I insisted on staying there. I dreamed of
ruling the world. A silly dream, I know, but I persisted in it even after
I got caught.
Yes, the DEA and the police finally ended my life as a drug kingpin.
The courts sentenced me to the electric chair. I appealed, lost. I'm
waiting now for them to come for me. These thoughts are my last.
Somehow I feel this place, this planet, was made for me. For me to
rule it. I think of myself as a God sometimes. Foolish, I know, to think
such thoughts. You get kind of insane when you're waiting to die. To be
put to death. 'Til death do us part. I hope someone reads this. Perhaps
they'll just throw it away, unread. Throw it out with the empty
Domino's pizza box that my last meal came in.
I wish sometimes the whole world would just blow the fuck up.
Maybe it could blow up and leave me as the sole survivor. That would
be cool, I guess. I'd be God and ruler then. No one would cross me. Ha.
Ha. That was funny. I hear them coming now.
You do crazy things when you're in high school. I wish to God that
Swingers mag hadn't ended up in my gym bag. Maybe I wouldn't be here
now, waiting to die. Surely I wouldn't have met Robert, Juliette, Elke.
I'd have been a normal girl with a normal life. A real girl, not the
school drug salesman.
I wrote a story but I guess no one will read it. I rule the Earth,
but then I die. But I "mind meld" myself into a computer. It's pretty
cool, except I get stuck inside the thing and can't get out. Until a girl
comes along, a girl named Mandy. With a cat. I forget the cat's name.
It doesn't matter. The cat never liked me anyway. At least not in the
story. There's a prison cat that likes me. Name of Max. But the one in
my story doesn't like me. The warden is unlocking my cell now.
Trouble with the key. The guy is an incompetent. Well, he says to put
down my pen.
C O M I C U P D A T E N E W S
MAIL FRAUD OPERATOR TERRORIZES SMALL PRESS
Exclusive to Comic Update
by Andrew Roller
"Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Deal With Ian Shires," should be printed
above any publication Ian puts out. Let me tell you my own personal
story of dealing with this idiot. Please note that he and I are members
of the same club, the Small Press League, dedicated to excellence in
publishing. Yet he rips off even me, my associates in Comic Update,
and God only knows who else.
On July 28, 1993 I sent check no. 2410, in the amount of $4.00, to
Ian Shires, 5621 Flowerdale Ave. #3, Cleveland, Ohio 44144-4109.
(This is his most recent address. He keeps moving. I wonder why?
Read on.) Ian cashed my check on August 25, 1993.
Eventually I received in the mail Self Publisher (SP!) #21,
whose price was $2.50. This left an account balance in my account of
$1.50. Sure enough, Ian wrote "Account Balance: $1.50" on my copy of
Self Publisher #21.
Included with Self Publisher #21 was a Pop Chart. By filling
this out, I was entitled to a free advertisement in the next issue of
Self Publisher. I filled out Ian's Pop Chart form and included a
business card for my free ad.
In the summer of 1994 Ian sent out a huge mailing to 2,000
people begging them to buy ads in the next issue of Self Publisher. A
business card sized ad in the next issue was to cost $1.50.
I wrote to Ian and asked him to apply the $1.50 remaining in my
"Account Balance" to the purchase of a business card sized ad.
On January 9, 1995 I received Self Publisher #22. (Yes, it took
Ian that long to get the zine out.) My free ad (for filling out the Pop
Chart) was not published. The ad which I had paid for was not
published.
If you buy an ad, it is Ian's policy to send you a free copy of Self
Publisher. However, Ian billed me for Self Publisher instead,
writing "End of Sub! [Subscription]" on my copy of Self Publisher #22.
Fact is, I never had a subscription to Self Publisher. I have always put
my money into an "account balance" with Ian and used the money to buy
ads in Self Publisher. The zine then arrives for free.
So, dear reader, you see the peril in dealing with Ian Shires. You
fill out his Pop Chart to get a free ad, and he gives you no free ad. (I
wouldn't even fill out his fucking Pop Chart if it wasn't for the free ad.)
You send him money, in response to one of his mailings, and he keeps
your money and doesn't print your paid for ad. He uses the money
instead to send you his fucking zine, which I never wanted. I wanted
my ad printed in the zine. The zine itself is a piece of shit, except
that other people who might buy my books happen to read it. Hence, I
wish to advertise to them.
Some of you might be thinking, "Well, Roller, were your ads
offensive?" No. They simply listed the price and address of Comic
Update, a zine which I hope to induce people to buy. (Actually it is
free for a stamp. Perhaps this is why Ian failed to print the ad. He
charges money for his zine. Mine is free.)
However, the travesty known as Ian Shires does not end here. No,
no, we are dealing with a big time criminal here. Ian's policy is to
review all the zines which are sent to him. I sent him tons of zines
during the past two years. Guess what? He didn't review any of my
zines. He also didn't review lots of other people's zines. In his
introduction to SP! #22's review section he apologizes. In his "About
Next Issue" flier (included with SP! #22) he writes: "If your mailing
label says 'No Account Status' that means I have books that you have
published and will be reviewing them in [the] next issue." Guess what?
Even though Ian has many unreviewed books from me, he didn't write
"No Account Status" on my copy of SP! #22.
So, dear reader, as you can see, even if you send many books to Ian
to be reviewed, on many occasions, over a period of two years, he
pretends he doesn't have any of your books. He doesn't review them in
his current issue and he pretends he doesn't have any on hand to review
in his next issue.
Do you want to send money to someone who is just going to steal
it? Do you want to fill out his Pop Chart fliers and then get nothing in
return? Do you want to send books to Ian for review and then not get
reviewed? If so, Ian Shires is your man. I imagine he assumes he is
running a welfare agency for himself. We send him our money and he
spends it. After all, Ian has always insisted on operating a "for profit"
small press company. The return is 100% if you steal your customers'
money.
Let me say that I have traditionally considered Ian a friend and
enjoyed reading his publications. True, the most recent issues of SP!
have come out on filthy newsprint. And they are always difficult to
read, as Ian has no layout ability whatsoever, and (when he types) he
types completely across the page instead of using columns. I have no
grudge, no "axe to grind" against Ian. However, if I send someone money
I don't expect him to steal it.
I am in mortal fear of having any further dealings with Ian Shires.
I know that there are others who have ceased dealing with Ian. He did
not send me a copy of his Pop Chart for the next issue of SP!. Well,
Ian, don't bother. I wouldn't fill one out anyway, since you would only
steal the information off of it and then not give me the free ad I am
supposed to get for filling it out.
No, I will not have any more of my money stolen by Ian Shires. I
will not participate in any of his Pop Chart schemes. I will not send
him any books for review. Hail and farewell, Ian! You can shove your
filthy newsprint crap into someone else's mailbox from now on.
Perhaps YOURS, dear reader!
C O M I C U P D A T E L E T T E R S
presented by holy joe
SHIRES CONFESSES!
"How very humorous," writes Ian Shires, 5621 Flowerdale #3,
Cleveland, OH 44144. "Hey Ñ did you ever stop to think, 'Maybe I should
call Ian and ask what happened to my ad?' The phone number is on most
fliers and in the issue. The answering machine is only months old and
working quite well. I'd have gotten back to you. I don't have a current
phone number for you or I'd be calling right now.
"People make mistakes. I'll admit to mine, if you'll admit to
yours. First mistake you made is above. Second: It is impossible that
you sent check #2410 to 5621 Flowerdale #3 on July 28, 1993. I was
living at 3006 Saratoga Avenue at that time, I moved into this current
place on October 1st, 1994. [Obviously, I sent it to the Saratoga
address. Ed.] It's highly likely I cashed your check, when you say I did,
and I will honor the two blocks of advertising I currently owe you, and
as you say I 'ripped you off' for. Please send in your camera ready ad.
If you wish to wait a few weeks, a flier announcing SP! #24's ad rates
and deadline will be out in the mail. I plan to publish it (#24) in March.
There will be a Pop Chart ballot Ñ fill it out and you'll get 3 blocks,
plus I'll mail the issue to you when [it comes] out.
[SP!] #23 was printed in mid-November, a number of copies did
not get mailed until late December, set aside by accident in the
Christmass [sic] rush. Obviously yours was among those. As for why
your ad did not appear, you mention you sent a business card. Being
larger than the 21/2" x 1" ad display size for a single block, and the
fact you wanted two blocks Ñ and a business card is too wide for that
too...I set it aside for adjustment. [I cut up the business card and
fitted it right into your Pop Chart ad block. Ed.] As the deadline came
and went, I was suddenly moving. I found a cheaper place and it was
too good to pass up, being larger than where I was living for more.
Things got crazy, and a lot of things fell through the cracks. That's
what happened to your ad. I'm happy to make good on that. And I
apologize.
However, I am miffed at your flier. I would apreciate [sic] an
apology and retraction to anyone you sent it to. I may not be the most
organized and proficient businessman in existance [sic] Ñ but I'm not a
crook and I've given more people free ads and publicity than I can count.
I'm not particularly concerned about the negative impact your flier may
make considering your credibility, but perhaps it's wisest for us both
to not react in such knee-jerk spasms like we did in '88 or so, anymore.
I'm not out to get you. I'll print your ads within my stated policy. And
by the way, #24's flier will have a new review policy in effect. Watch
for it."
[Well, I apologize for sicing this letter of yours, but as you can
see, you only had three spelling errors. Much improvement over your
letters in the 80's. By the way, I see that both you and O.J. Simpson
have dyslexia. Is there anything else you have in common? Just
wondering. I look forward to participating in future SP!s, which I
still like very much, even if the ink does get all over my hands. Ed.]
"Andy Ñ Your endless feud with Iam Shure couldn't possibly be as
interesting as you both seem to think it is," writes Randy H. (for "Hugh")
Crawford, 911 Park St. S.W., Grand Rapids, MI 49504-6241.
"You're right, though Ñ he's sitting on several unreviewed Nice Day
pubs and yet I fell for his 'next time I review everything' line again
and sent him even more free books Ñ which he didn't review. At least
he ran my free 1" ad.
"By the way, since everyone knows you're an F.B.I. agent out to
entrap child pornographers, maybe you can answer this hypothetical
question for me: If a 42-year-old guy happened to have a 26-year-old
polaroid snapshot of his own erection (taken by himself when he was
16) Ñ would that count as child pornography?
"Anyway Ñ thanx for the free copy of Comic Update #174.
"Here's a free copy of one of my most recent comics Ñ Becky. I
think you might enjoy it. I guess 18 is kinda OLD for you, but hey Ñ
she's a real person and she actually was 18 when she asked me to draw
her comic. Heck, she's nearly 20 now Ñ sigh, they grow old so fast."
"Hi Andrew! Thanks for Update #162! Good to hear from you!
Hope you get your money back from Ian Shires!" writes Matt Feazell,
3867 Bristow, Detroit MI 48212. [Matt, what are you doing living in
Detroit?! Ed.]
ROLLER PUBLICATIONS Founded 1972. Continuously publishing since
1986. Send a stamped, self-addressed return envelope (preferably a
greeting card-type envelope) to us for the latest FREE hardcopy issues.
(Including material never seen on the Internet!)
Or send $1.00 cash and we will supply the envelope. Order from:
Jim Corrigan, P.O. Box 3663, Phenix City, AL 36868.
Send comix, news, letters, and poems to Jim Corrigan.
Our titles:
COMIC UPDATE The latest small press comix news and reviews.
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS Sex kittens in compromising
positions. (Include an age statement-18 or over.)
DREAMGIRLS WITH SHAMAN America's most popular poetry zine.
ALL poets are urged to contribute frequently!
THE ORATOR Militant views by misguided mortals.
END OF TRANSMISSION
Subj: Comic Update, May 10, 1995