Message-ID: <3213eli$9708211119@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: Andrew Roller Subject: FUCK DECENCY 283 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: <33FB6C60.1F73@mail.idt.net> --------------------------------------------------------------- PROBLEMS? Please try viewing this with Netscape Navigator. --------------------------------------------------------------- “Mankind is perverted, and has no judgment; Of all men who are alive, who knows anything? They do not know whether they do good or evil. O Lord, do not cast aside thy servant; He is cast into the mire; take his hand! The sin which I have sinned, turn to mercy! The iniquity which I have committed, let the wind carry away! My many transgressions tear off like a garment! My god, my sins are seven times seven; forgive my sins! My goddess, my sins are seven times seven; forgive my sins! . . . Forgive my sins, and I will humble myself before thee. What? Too late! Okay, fuck you.” Andrew Roller Presents FUCK DECENCY Sponsored by: JOE CAMEL Issue No. 283 Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in Pussy Playland Chapter One I heard a roll of thunder in the distant summer sky. I put my hand out. A few raindrops, as if offering some bit of feminine sprinkling at seeing all the men get creamed, fell into my hand. Tabitha came up to me and lifted a newspaper over my head and sheltered me with it. “It’s okay, I’m wearing a bikini,” I wanted to say to her, but she began hurrying me toward her house. Despite the tall, thick hedge and the phalanx of palms, her private backyard wasn’t safe from the rain, and I was, apparently, too special to get wet. It seemed silly to me. Already I was noticeably moist in the crotch of my swimsuit. But, with a newspaper keeping me dry, she took me past the rain sprinkled flowerbeds and up the back steps of her porch. We slipped in the back door. The others followed. Apparently none of the girls wished to get their bikinis wet. We regrouped in Tabitha’s living room. Two men, their shoulders lightly sprinkled with rain, bent down before her fireplace. They put logs into the brick hearth. They took the logs from a small decorative pile stacked in a cast iron rack. I watched as they lit the fire. Their rumps were barely contained in their Speedos. I could see streaks of wetness on their nylon-covered butts where the rain had struck them. When they turned back toward us, I saw that there was a substantial wet spot on the front of their swimsuits, where their cocks lay strangled like captive snakes within their briefs. The wetness, I knew, wasn’t from the rain. Or from Tabitha’s contribution of cream. Had they cum? I hoped not. They had terrific builds and looked like they could keep me busy all night in ways my mother would find quite unacceptable. I touched a finger to the front of my panties and depressed the bulge in my swim suit where the whipped cream was puffing me up. Was this what it felt like to be a man? To have sperm? Tabitha busied herself with a brush, brushing my hair, as if my short walk to her house had somehow tousled it. I felt like a lamb being prepared for dinner. “Shall I get the clamps?” Beth asked Tabitha with a tone of cheery expectation in her voice. “Yes, please,” Tabitha replied. She touched a pair of fingers to my closest nipple and lovingly began arousing it. I looked down, watched her. Scissorslike, but with deceptive tenderness, her fingers toyed with my nipple. When she’d finished with my first one, she slipped her fingers to my other one. I thought I’d been excited before, but her teasing fingers made me even more responsive. My panties were getting wetter by the minute. To my horror Beth returned with a pair of small, shell-like clamps. They seemed to be made from a pair of oyster shells. She squeezed one open and I saw that it was lined with felt inside. Opposite the tiny mouth a tasseled weight was hung. I couldn’t believe that I’d been relieved of my bra only to have these biting little monsters put on instead. The weights, would they not distort my breasts? I knew African women wore disks that hung from their neck and made their breasts flat, like pancakes. I liked my full round breasts. But Tabitha stroked my left nipple and pressed it up with her tickling finger so that Beth would be able to easily clamp it. One moment I was fighting an oncoming swoon from Tabitha’s attentions, and the next I found myself screaming. “There, there, it doesn’t hurt that much,” Tabitha told me. My unprotected left nipple had been bitten and enclosed within a clamp. I feared that the insidious clamp would clip it right off me! Tabitha slipped a finger between my lips and stifled my scream as best she could. I watched with frightened, teary eyes as Beth proffered the remaining clamp and closed it over my right nipple. Oh, how it hurt! When I calmed down a little bit I found that I could handle it. But the weights made my breasts feel heavy. I felt as if I had twin babies sucking at my bosoms. Tabitha turned me by my shoulders and displayed me to her guests. She pushed me forward with a pat on my bottom and made me walk through the crowd, showing them my newly clamped teats. Oh, how I envied the other girls, with their nipples sticking out erect and free. Mine had jangling weights that, I found as I walked, had little bells within them. They made my nipples sound like tinkling aspirants to a bell choir. The men stared avidly. They seemed to wish to shepherd me into their arms, as if I were a sheep that needed to be put to pasture. “You could clip her cunny lips and make them carry weighted bells too,” a woman told Tabitha as she watched me walk by. I showed everyone my breasts and let them admire me. I liked being the center of attention, but I suspected seeing me wince as the clamps pinched my boobs was half the fun for my wicked friends. When I found Alex, at the back of the room, he was letting a girl scoop the cream out of his Speedos with her fingers. He looked up at me, surprised. “Kelly!” he said. His voice choked as he spoke. His new girlfriend, a girl who looked no older than me, popped her cream-laden fingers into her mouth. She smiled smugly at me as she licked them clean. “This is Francine,” Alex told me. “Pleased to meet you,” Francine said to me. But she spoke with an aristocratic French accent that let me know in no uncertain terms that I was, in her mind, just a hopeless amateur. Infuriated, red-faced, I turned away from my boyfriend. I had come here for him! Now he had hooked up with some 14-year-old slut from France and was ignoring me completely! My arms hung at my sides but I felt my hands ball into fists. Did I want to punch somebody? I could feel my fingernails cutting into the skin of my palms, I was so angry. Suddenly I belted the man nearest me. I didn’t know his name. I didn’t care. I just slammed my fist into his belly and walked away. Fortunately, being just a girl, my punch did no more than startle him. His stomach was hard and flat and segmented into squares of muscle. He laughed and seemed appreciative that I’d singled him out for my anger. His buddies complimented him on his sex appeal. I stomped back to Tabitha but, just as I reached her, I turned and looked back at my poor victim. Our eyes met and immediately I knew I wanted him. He was tall, muscular, dark and businesslike, not like Alex, who was blonde and a beach bum. I guessed my new friend spent most of his days wearing suits and driving hard bargains in downtown L.A. while Alex hung around the beach seducing young girls and waxing his surfboard. Fuck Alex! He was going nowhere. So what if all us girls adored him? I’d be different. I let my new friend know I had an interest in him by letting our gaze linger. Then, on impulse, I yanked down the back of my bikini and mooned him. I made it look like I wanted to offend him again. But, from my gaze, he knew offending him was the last thing I wanted to do. “Oh, my! Now you’re being naughty!” Tabitha said. She was standing in front of me and couldn’t see my eyes, since my head was turned back. Abruptly she reached out and yanked on my hair and pulled my head down so that I found myself looking at my knees. “Get the bon-bons,” she told Beth. My girlfriend, her breasts bouncing merrily, fetched a plate that was sitting on a cocktail table. She presented it to Tabitha. “Unwrap one of the bon-bons, please, while I hold her down,” Tabitha told Beth. My girlfriend put the plate on a chair next to us. She took a bon-bon from it and unwrapped the gold foil that enclosed it. ZINE REVIEWS by holy joe COSMOPOLITAN, September 1997, $2.95. “Yes, sir. Whippings are a part of the daily regimen here at Punishment Mansion,” says the girl on the cover. And you know what she’s holding behind her back, don’t you? A riding crop! I was standing behind a little girl at the grocery. It was sort of annoying (despite the fact that she had a cute ass), because I was just DYING to pick up the September issue of Cosmopolitan. The moment I saw that cover, I was blown away! The girl on the cover seemed to be looking right at me, and speaking to me! I stared into her eyes. Did she want to whip me, or BE whipped by me? And then, as the little girl standing in front of me reached up and pulled down a copy of Cosmopolitan from the magazine rack, the girl on the cover spoke to me. “Bad boys may call Punishment Mansion at 1-800- I PUNISH. Mistress Mammary will whack their naughty little buns for them. Good boys, who know how to instruct a young girl like me in behaving, may call 1-800- BAD GIRL, to whip me into shape.” I was about ready to whack that cute ass of the little girl standing in front of me, ‘cause, instead of moving out of the way of the magazine rack so I could get myself a copy, she just stood there, reading hers, and ‘holding me back’ (unknowingly), from getting my own! Mothers, please! You need to instruct your daughters on proper magazine etiquette. We know all about this down at Tower Books, where us guys politely get out of the way after picking out which magazine we want to ‘browse.’ Like, you know, we don’t just STAND there! How embarrassing! Who wants to be seen standing in front of a bunch of porn, with his dick making a big bulge in the front of his pants? (Especially in my case, since I’m still having problems learning ejaculatory control.) (It’s not like I have a girlfriend to teach it to me, you know...) Anyway, what is it with little girls in the grocery? Please, girls, don’t just stand in front of the magazine rack reading Cosmopolitan! (Well, this particular girl was, I think, too young to read, but she still managed to block my way, looking at all the magazine’s pictures.) FINALLY the mother called to her daughter. “Oh, Cosmopolitan. How nice,” she said, when her daughter went wandering over to her, carrying the latest issue. And then I myself was able to pick up a copy. What great articles they have in this issue! “Easy Orgasms - How to Make Them Mind-Blowing and a Lot Less Work.” “Why Men Split the Morning After.” “150 Sexiest Fall Looks.” I saw the manager passing by. “Ma’am,” I asked her. “I like Cosmopolitan as much as the next guy, but where’s Playboy? I can never seem to find it in your store.” “Playboy?!” the manager replied. “We DO NOT sell such trash in this store!” the manager answered. And she looked at me as if I was some guy who spends his time thinking about perverted things like, you know, “Easy Orgasms - How to Make Them Mind-Blowing and a Lot Less Work.” So I contented myself with the September issue of Cosmopolitan. It’s a great issue, I have to admit. I’ve got it sitting right here, next to my computer, where a quick look at its cover is already inspiring long, exacting stories about Punishment Mansion. (Where, incidentally, little girls who can’t even read learn to move their cute little asses OUT from in front of the magazine rack!) There is another article in this issue: “10 Man Types to Avoid at All Costs.” Strangely, they have a photo next to the headline, which looks a lot like the co-editor of this zine. In any event, 10 different male personalities are listed. Jerry Seinfeld, having recently seduced and enjoyed the affections of a 17-year-old schoolgirl (Shoshanna, I think, was her name) is listed down as being a “Perfectionist Pervert.” (pg. 150) (Seinfeld’s since thrown her out of his house. She had a really cute face, and wonderful big tits, but rumor had it that she was too old for him.) (I think she’s since moved in with Kelsey Grammer.) (or was it Michael Kennedy?) This begs the question, though, who SHOULD a girl marry? Well, how about guys whose first name starts with “h”? You never know, his name might be “holy,” or something. What better way to ensure your daughter lives a wholesome life than to marry her to some guy whose NAME is “holy”? Then, there are guys whose name begins with “j”. As in Jesus. There’s a pretty good husband, if you can keep him from affronting the authorities and getting himself crucified. Yep. And then there are fat guys. The reason a fat guy makes a good husband is that he’s less likely to go off philandering. After all, to philander you first have to get up. Who wants to do that? I mean, it’s such an effort. You have to get up out of your chair, and go to the trouble of turning off your computer. Then you have to shave, and put on underarm deodorant. And you have to think real hard if anyone will notice that you haven’t bathed in three weeks, or whether you can just put on extra deodorant. Then you have to find a pair of pants. What a chore that is! Usually they’re all the way at the bottom of the laundry hamper, ‘cause generally I don’t need pants unless I’m actually leaving my house, which isn’t very often. Then you have to find the front door. In my case, this involves a major expedition. (There’s a little porn in my house.) The last time I found my front door it was only because some Brownies started ringing my doorbell, and calling out that they were selling Girl Scout Cookies. That was very helpful, but you can’t count on little girls ringing your doorbell every day, can you? (I could use some more cookies, girls, if you’re interested. Plus some muffins.) Anyway, you know what I mean. Fat guys aren’t likely to be out committing adultery when they can’t find their front door! And in the age of the Internet, and cable T.V., and phone sex lines, who wants to go try to find some woman, anyway? Then, instead of buying porn, or Twinkies, (or more girl scout cookies), you have to buy flowers. And candy. And yucky Brach’s candy, that comes in a box, instead of out of a gumball machine, like it’s supposed to. And then you’re supposed to take her to see some dopey romantic movie. (What guy likes a movie where nobody gets shot?) And then, you have to take her dancing. Can you imagine a fat guy like me dancing? It’s not a pretty sight. So, us fat guys, especially guys with an “h” and a “j” in their names, just sit at our computers. I haven’t paid my rent in three months, though, so I may wind up out on the street after all. In which case, though, I’d rather use my time efficiently, looking at naked ladies in magazines at Tower Books, than trying to convince some real lady in a bar to take off her dress for me. (I mean, you can’t even be sure if she’s a 10 underneath. What if she isn’t?) So, in my unbiased opinion, girls should marry a fat guy. He’ll stay put, and you can always count on him to say “Yes, Dear,” whenever you tell him anything. (When you’re on the Penthouse web site you’re too busy LOOKING to actually think about what someone’s saying to you, so “Yes, Dear,” is a very handy phrase to know.) Well, that’s my 2 cents worth. A fat guy won’t be president, but he will always be sitting at home with you, where you can enjoy his masculine scent and his big, rippling body. (Very big, in my case!) LETTERS to holy joe MissLadyAsstor333@titwhittle(elementary) writes: Dear holy joe, where do you write Fuck Decency? holy joe replies: I write it on the toilet, when I’m feeling constipated. As you can see, there haven’t been as many issues this summer, probably because there’s a lot of fruit on the market.” AND IN THE END... DO YOU HATE FUCK DECENCY? “We’re not supposed to be popular. I mean, that’s constitutionally built in to our mission. And in fact, if we are popular, we’re probably screwing it up.” - Andrew Lack, President of NBC News (on the press). -------------------------- 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 283 EMISSION - “Mankind is:” Babylonian penitential psalm (The Story of Civilization, by Will and Ariel Durant, Volume 1, pg. 242.) - Seinfeld and Shoshanna: Star, June 15, 1993, pg. 37. - Kelsey Grammer and 15-year-old babysitter: The National Enquirer, November 29, 1994, pg. 24. - Michael Kennedy and 14-year-old babysitter: Newsweek, May 12, 1997, pg. 50. Globe, May 13, 1997, pg. 32. - Andrew Lack: Charlie Rose, June 18, 1997. -- +--------------' 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> /