Message-ID: <2068eli$9707141809@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: Andrew Roller Subject: FUCK DECENCY 281 NEW! Pussy Playland (nnd) g2 Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <33C8E50F.1E0@mail.idt.net> --------------------------------------------------------------- PROBLEMS? Please try viewing this with Netscape Navigator. --------------------------------------------------------------- Our Rating: A,B,C,D,E,F,G,H,I,J,K,L,M,N,O,P,Q,R,S,T,U,V,W,X,Y,Z (Viewer Discretion Advised) Andrew Roller Presents FUCK DECENCY Issue No. 281 Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in Bush League Chapter Six Over the years, before the sea finally cut a path between the peninsula and the mainland, flooding in where the blasting had gone down too deep, forcing the mine to swing back away from the castle, the laborers had come and stolen stones from the demolished castle. It had crumbled slowly at first, I learned. I’d asked of it in the bars in the mining town. One day, I was told, a particularly vicious blast, set off by too much dynamite, that killed 30 workers, had brought the whole antique structure down. The people in the town had kept me up late last night. They’d told me of the castle’s fate. I’d arrived fresh from America and passed through the streets, buying drinks until dawn for anyone who might tell me of it. At dawn I’d met Maria. I’d found her washing dishes in the back of one of the bars. She’d remembered me reluctantly. I think she wished to have nothing more to do with me, but money talked. Or, at least, it talked to the man who appeared to be her husband. He’d agreed that she’d give up her day’s sleep to row me out here and show me the ruin of tumbled rocks. Rose’s title to the property had been defective. At least, that was what the courts ruled. It made it easier for the government to nationalize the property if they didn’t have to pay anyone. Even the workers digging out the gold worked at no expense to the government. Arrests had gone up in the town the year after the gold was discovered. The government had imported other prisoners from far away. They were all brought to the mine, given long sentences, hard labor, time off when you die. I walked up to the pile of old stones and kicked one. It wobbled. A stone on top of it fell to the ground, nearly hitting my foot. We walked round the pile of stones and found the pool out back. It was empty, cracked, with rainwater in the bottom of it. The diving board was gone. Only the stand for it remained. In the distance, where the laborer’s shacks should have been, there was nothing but weeds. A mile on and the top of the land suddenly disappeared. The gorge. Man-made, filled by the sea after the mine dug down and depleted the gold in between. “I want to eat lunch here,” I said to Maria. I walked back toward the pile of rocks. “Before dark...we must leave before dark,” she told me. I took off my knapsack and knelt and unzipped it. Such a superstitious lady. Standing, I unfurled my white tablecloth. “Why?” I asked. Something made me want to stay the night. There was nothing here, just the wind, the gulls, but I felt a desire to stay just one night, and leave in the morning. Or at least to spend the afternoon eating and enjoying the sea and the play of the light upon it. And perhaps taking a nap. We could leave at sunset, couldn’t we? I was too sleepy from my night on the town to just hop back into the boat after lunch. The climb down would be hard. My lunch would make me want to nap. Maria watched me put my tablecloth down on the grass. She said nothing. She went and sat down on some rocks that had once been the castle and watched me eat. I offered her a sandwich. She declined it. I was glad because I was hungry and I ate it myself. She took out a canteen and drank from it. I wondered if it was liquor. She should not drink if she was going to row me back across the water. But I said nothing. She was a large woman. A whole tub of liquor would probably have gone down with her and not made her the least bit tipsy. When I was done eating I let myself lie back on my tablecloth and, despite Maria’s protests, I let myself fall asleep. I put my knapsack under my head, just in case. I didn’t intend to tip her until we arrived safely back on the mainland. I awoke at sunset. I did not see Maria. I looked about, called her name, but she was gone. My knapsack was untouched, but she was nowhere to be seen herself, and when I ran to the cliffside and looked down I saw our boat was not there. Had she finally exacted some jealous revenge on me? I glanced back at the rubble of the castle, feeling quite alone suddenly. I could not escape the island tonight. I could shout, but the miners would not be able to hear me. I got out my compact and tried flashing it at them, but the sun was sinking fast. I could not get the proper light. Slowly the stars came out. I could hear the roar of the waves all around me, dashing the rocks below and sluicing in and out of the channel at the island’s rear. I sat down amidst the rubble and consoled myself with my fate. Perhaps Maria would return tomorrow. I would scold her. She would simply nod, saying nothing, and not listening, either, I suspected, enjoying her little peasant’s joke on the rich girl turned woman visiting from America. I returned to my tablecloth at last and lay down on it. I pulled a small blanket from my knapsack and drew it around me to protect myself from the wind. It was woolen, not too warm, but warm enough, I felt, as the wind seemed to die where I lay though, in the distance, it still whipped at the long grass and the weeds. When the stars had almost completely wheeled about and dipped their evening places into the sea I heard footsteps. I woke, looked up. There, in the distance, where nothing should have been, I swear I saw him. Lord Shaftsbury, uncloaked, for there was nothing but starlight here. Barbi stood in her bikini beside him, gold rings through her nipples, wearing just her panties. They seemed to shimmer in the starlight and I saw Lord Shaftsbury looking at me, his chest bare, his hair flying back in the wind I could not feel. And then, lying in the grass at their feet, I thought I saw myself. Barbi knelt and drew down the back of my panties from my bottom, which stuck up with the impudence of youth for I was just 13 again and my bottom was white in the starlight and I was lying on my belly. Lord Shaftsbury revealed himself and drew me up just enough, and knelt between my legs and took me. Barbi helped him, then went and knelt by my face to urge me to let him take me, right in my bottom, with his shaft gleaming and finally pumping in and out of me as I moaned into her hands and she untied her panties to let me lick at her cunt. I awoke with a start. Sunlight blazed in my face. The wind had picked up again but my blanket kept me warm in the rising sun. Instinctively I twisted my head round, to where I’d seen myself. There was nobody there. And then I saw them. A child’s panties, swim panties, lying on the ground. They were printed with my favorite color. Had they been swept up here by the wind? And then-- beside them, I saw the panties that a slightly older girl might wear, untied, fluttering loosely in the breeze. A sudden gust caught them and they blew away over the cliff. I leapt up. I ran to catch them but I was too late, and I stopped instead where my own panties lay, or ones just like mine, and I bent and picked them up before they too were swept away by the wind. Looking out toward the horizon, I wondered if Maria would come. If she did not I could signal the miners with my compact when the sun was higher. I turned and looked at the old castle, clutching the panties that must have been mine yet could not be mine but somehow I knew were mine, blown in from the beach from years ago, where I’d left them and my childhood behind. The castle was just a pile of old rubble, but the panties I clutched in my hands were brand new, just like when I’d left them on the beach at Montevideo all those years ago. I looked down at them. Had some pervert found them, and kept them in his collection all these years, so that they did not age as I had? Had they been kept carefully bagged in plastic, with just a touch of my youthful essence imbuing them where my cunny had rubbed softly against them? I fingered the soft fabric. I would keep these always, no matter how old I got. And someday, someday I’d give them to another girl, a girl of 13, a frisky girl who wanted to grow up too fast and couldn’t wait any longer. And, thinking, imagining, I knew who would come if these panties were worn by just the right girl, a well-brought up blonde girl, with a pair of young breasts and long legs that still were too skinny but weren’t quite skinny enough anymore to keep Him at bay, or other men either. Men who liked to see a girl walking along the shore in the breeze of early morning, that clear clean salt air breeze that made everything pure and made young spoilt girls want to lie in the sand sometimes, all alone, and wait for whomever might come by. THE END Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in Pussy Playland Chapter One When I was 14 I had an older boyfriend. His name was Alex. One day I was in his bedroom, going through his things on top of his dresser. Just nosing around, wearing my cuffed jeans and my concert t-shirt. He’d bought it for me last week after I’d taken his dare and bared my boobs to the band. I was feeling daring, suddenly, and perhaps it was some Goddess’s wish that I found a little pin on his dresser and felt curious enough to ask him about it. We had just known each other long enough to be frank. He was. “Oh, that’s a sex club I joined last year,” he told me. He was casual, but I saw something rise up in the crotch of his shorts as he spoke. For a moment I was speechless. Then, blustering, I said, “You belong to a sex club?!” “Not since I met you,” he added hastily. But he seemed about as credible as a boy with one hand in the cookie jar as he said it. It didn’t take me long to go storming out of his apartment. I didn’t care if he was the handsomest surfer dude on the beach, I was NOT hanging with some dude who belonged to a sex club. But, wouldn’t you know, I found myself pining away for him in the middle of the night. Every night. Finally I decided to get back in with him. And, of course, being an older guy, he had no hangups about me being a brat. Older guys who like younger girls don’t seem to mind if they’re brats. It might even make them like us better. One day, gulping down my pride (not to mention my modesty) I agreed to try his sex club myself. He said he’d be proud to ‘show me off.’ That took another week to get over. Finally, when all my reservations had peeled away, I agreed definitely to try it. I should have known I was getting in over my head when he told me I’d have to be ‘interviewed’ by a woman before I could be accepted. “Well, I’m very pleased to meet you, Kelly,” the woman said when I met her at a coffee shop. She quickly assured me that she’d cover the bill. I could have whatever I wanted. The prices were glamorously high, so I decided to have just coffee, the same as hers. Perhaps for my sake she ordered a chocolate-flavored coffee. The Artist’s Studio by David Lescarini The smoky air of the room conceals in a somber state the paint bespeckled walls. it is a spartan dwelling having little more than a kitchen, bathroom, couch and bed, no frivolities only necessities and in the center of the room sits the painter atop a stool with a palette of reds & blues, greens & yellows precariously perched on his thumb long hair, an earring and a butt cheek tattoo mark him as a nouveau, avant-garde artist who embraces his own uniqueness and not that greatness of the masters. he is young, brash and unshaven as he paints his newest canvas, masterpiece in oil. on the couch poses the model. like a snake she writhes in nude formations of imaginative pleasure. she is young, slim, light brown hair on top and below, creamy milk skin in between and dark brown eyes that shine under the florescent bulb overhead. she thinks herself a model and he an artist who will immortalize her in oils. if only she could see the canvas on the easel hiding his face. He is finished. she is spent from her motion on the couch. he ransoms the painting to her; one night, one painting, that’s the price, that’s the offer. she accepts. onto the satin, red sheets he places her young body. it is the first time for her and she is eager. now he is cinematographer. a vid-cam hums. under his caress she smiles. under him, on him, around him she poses. the vid-cam hums. he is master of the art of whatever he chooses. she cries for mercy several times. he laughs and gasps and cums. he finds it enjoyable and realizes she has power over men, the power to please, the power to trap. the vid-cam hums. It is morning, the smoke is cleared, the two lie in each others arms. the vid-cam is stopped. the painting is hers he says. she gasps. the canvas is splotched. he shows her the video tape, how she enjoyed herself, how she squealed with delight when her cherry popped. he will sell the tape he says and make some smoking money. she pleads, and begs. he laughs. he won’t sell it, he’ll keep it if, if she comes every day and poses, poses for his canvas. (Poem was slightly edited and revised by me. - h.j.) AND IN THE END... ELVIS THE CHILD MOLESTER Why wasn’t this monster castrated? “Europe provided the perfect setting for the 23-year-old’s libido to come out. As one of his friends remembers, ‘He just let loose sexually.’ That included everything from dating 16-year-old Margrit Buergin, to... an army brat named Priscilla Beaulieu. Fourteen years old, she was the precise age Elvis liked in a ‘woman’.” - Penthouse, August 1997, pg. 34, on Elvis Presley. (no wonder Elvis is so popular. He’s a pedophile! - h.j.) -------------------------- Fuck Decency! ------------------------ -Free e-mail subscriptions: No longer available due to mailbombing of my Internet account(s) by right-wing Christians. -Currently I am: roller39@mail.idt.net -formerly I was andrewroller@sprintmail.com, roller66@inreach.com, roller666@aol.com Read my complete works under these names by going to: http://www.excite.com (Click on ‘newsgroups’ and search under my various former screen names). (Also you can read irrelevant bullshit posted by right-wing Christians.) -Recent back issues at Usenet newsgroup: alt.sex.stories.moderated -For all back issues, send e-mail to: file.request@backdrop.com - Free plug: http://www.netusa.net/files/Authors/eli/www/erotica/assm/ -Free minicomics: send a stamped, self-addressed envelope & age statement to: Jim Corrigan, P.O. Box 3663, Phenix City, AL 36868 - JOIN the world’s greatest organization! Send $35.00 to The North American Man/Boy Love Association for a one-year membership. NAMBLA, P.O. Box 174, Midtown Station, New York, NY 10018. -Naughty Naked Dreamgirls (Library of Congress ISSN: 1070-1427) is copyright 1997 and a trademark of Andrew Roller. Work by others copyright 1997 by the respective copyright holder. -END OF 281 EMISSION - “Remembers Lamar Fike, one of Elvis’s sidekicks... ‘he was the worst.’” - Penthouse, August 1997, pg. 26, on Elvis Presley. -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | \ .../assm/faq.html> /