Message-ID: <4871eli$9710151328@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: Andrew Roller Subject: FUCK DECENCY 300 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: <34440E8B.655B@idt.net> --------------------------------------------------------------- PROBLEMS? Please try viewing this with Netscape Navigator. --------------------------------------------------------------- Andrew Roller Presents FUCK DECENCY Sponsored by: JOE CAMEL Issue No. 300 Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in Pussy Playland Chapter Four Sherry’s bottom was white. She’d not been whipped and she kept it out of the sun, though her limbs were smoothly tanned. Jeff lit a match. Sherry watched as he put it to the coals beneath her and, suddenly, they flared up. “YeeeeOOOOCH!” Sherry cried. She bolted up, lifting her bottom like a rabbit fleeing a car. The chair was extremely solid and heavy and there was no way she could budge it. In any event, the chafing dish was part of the chair, sitting in the crisscrossing timbers of wood that connected the chair legs. With her legs bound wide apart, and her arms pinned to the arms of the chair, Sherry could do nothing but bounce up and down in her bonds. The flames from the chafing dish licked upward. Her bush, her cunny, her ass were all exposed. I wondered if it was singed pubic hair that I smelt, or just the burning coals themselves. Sherry strained to remain standing but the minute she shot up to escape the flames Jeff was ready for her. Standing beside the chair, he brought his switch smartly down between her thighs. It curled between her open legs and stung her against her precious cunny. Immediately she withdrew, trying to sit again, only to find herself assailed by the flames and forced to stand. Caught in this netherworld of pain, Sherry cried for mercy and, through her gag, promised to love and obey her husband all her life, never crossing him. He relented at last. He tossed water over the coals and they released a misting of hot steam. Sherry sat down and sobbed, her bottom barely supported by the ledge at the back of the chair. Gently Jeff unbuckled her. He lifted her out of the monstrous chair. She cried freely. She turned to me for comfort. I held her a moment. Then I turned her around to examine her fanny. The flames had streaked her ass with red but she seemed otherwise unhurt. I took her to the table and sat her on it, ignoring the cake. She sat down amidst bits of cake and frosting. I hoped the frosting, at least, felt cool upon her bottom. Attentively I examined her pussy and rubbed vaseline into it. She squirmed. I made her keep her legs open. Jeff had been merciful with the switch and had not wounded her too badly. Some marks pinkened her labia lips. She swooned as I rubbed warm oil into her clit. “Now it’s your turn,” Jeff told me. I froze. He drew me from Sherry and she was forced to attend to herself. I walked with frightened eyes and hesitant steps over to a low table. It was covered with felt. “Lie down,” Jeff told me. “Don’t worry, the felt’s fireproof.” I lay down on the felt. It was very soft. It would have been a lovely resting spot except for the hole cut ominously out where my bottom rested. There was nothing under my fanny except this hole, and down, within the hole, there was a brazier. It had coals in it, waiting to be lit. Jeff arranged me on the table so that I lay with my knees bent, my calves tucked under my thighs. He made me spread my thighs so that my pussy showed completely. My elbows were pulled up toward my ears, with my forearms pressed into the table. Sherry walked over to me. She was rubbing oil all over her pussy and she looked down at me with soft, pitying eyes. Her face was stained with tears. Jeff made her buckle me down to the table. Despite the oiled slickness of her fingers she managed to get all the buckles and straps closed over my limbs. My ankles were strapped down but my legs were left otherwise free. My wrists were similarly affixed but my arms were left free beyond that. Each strap was slim and there were two, not one, for each of my wrists, as if the designer of this awful table had wanted to keep a certain artfulness in its design. Lastly Sherry undid my waist corset, and drew it off me. She kissed my tummy. She did not take off my stockings. Jeff leered at me from the base of the table. He enjoyed the sight of my utterly exposed slit. He lit a match and reached beneath the table. “Aaaaaaak!” I cried. My lips were free to speak. Jeff watched the O of my mouth as I struggled above the awakened coals. Flames licked up through the hole, not quite reaching the opening but too close for comfort, and forced me to buck my bottom upward. Frantically I strove to keep my hips arched above the flames. After straining up for a few moments my strength would fail me and I would fall with my fanny back down into the hole, only to rise again as the burning flames assailed my derriere. Sherry laughed. She was weeping, but she couldn’t help laughing at how rudely exposed I was, how helpless, with my tits bouncing atop my chest and my ribs heaving and my ass literally inches from the flames. They toasted my heinie and I felt as desperate as a woman giving birth, heaving and bucking and straining as Jeff and Sherry, like doctor and nurse, watched me. Sherry saw a moist towelette lying near the table, perhaps put there by Angela just in case, and she ripped it open and bathed my forehead with it. “Oh, please stop!” I cried. But Jeff just watched, enjoying the sight. Sherry, having suffered a similar fate, had no wish to see me escape. THE MANY NAMES OF TOM DITTY by holy joe I realize Fuck Decency is a global publication. Not all of my readers are privileged to live in America. And even in these United States, not all my fellow Americans have the ability to locate here in a choice dumpster in North Hollywood. Hence, it is time I reported on some of the gossip that I hear on a daily basis here in Hollywood. (Especially since people keep dumping it on my head.) Take the case of Tom Ditty. He is a celebrity. A musician by trade. You may be wondering how it is that some people get to hang around with him and mooch for free on his money, while others are forced to pay just to listen to his latest CD. It all has to do with knowing what Tom’s name is. Let’s start with his ‘real’ name. Never mind his real name. That is, his real name is Nathaniel Puberton Bilgewater. But that’s neither here nor there in Hollywood. His ‘real’ name is ‘Chubby.’ Sure, you might have thought Tom’s name, which would be a nickname for most people, would be ‘skinny,’ or something vaguely descriptive. Not in Hollywood! Here, a star’s ‘real’ name, the one all the other stars call him by, is some weird name that only they would ever know. That’s why, when I call up Tom and say, ‘Hi, Chubby,’ he says, “Oh, hello Marlon. Have you seen Tom Cruise today?” “No, but I just called him.” (that’s me talking, see? - h.j.) “Oh. Well, here’s my new private telephone number. I’ve got too many girls at my party again, and some guy just pulled up with a dump truck full of caviar. What in God’s name am I going to do with a truck full of caviar?” “God, not that problem again!” (me again, see? - h.j.) “Don’t back it into my Planetarium! Damn immigrants! Guy doesn’t speak a word of English...” “Please, don’t wreck your Planetarium. I’m having a charity again this afternoon. Let me send someone to pick it up.” “Thanks, Marlon. You’re a real pal.” “Anytime, Chubby!” So you see, there’s nothing to ‘making’ it in Hollywood, once you start picking up a few of the ‘real’ names. But Tom Ditty has other names too. Which name you know him by determines how close you get to him. 2. “The Tom” This is a bad level. You’d think it would be the second best level since, after all, it’s the second level. But the people who call Tom Ditty “The Tom” are the people who have to make sure he has clean underwear in the morning. Not a fun job. Stars don’t like any slip-ups in their life. Figure it this way. If you were lucky enough and fortunate enough and savvy enough and worked hard enough to become a Star, a RRRReally Big Star, would you want to put on dirty underwear? So people who call Tom Ditty “The Tom” wind up getting yelled at. My friend holy cow kept calling up “The Tom” and whenever she’d get him on the phone, he’d just yell, “GET RIGHT ON IT!” And she’d be like, “Tom! The Tom! It’s me -- Mary Louise Atherton! I’m your biggest--” But she wouldn’t be that far, even, really, because as soon as Tom heard “The Tom” he’d yell, “I SAID DO IT NOWWWWWWWW!” Well, anyway, she spent all day calling “The Tom” back. Because he kept yelling at her. And you can imagine, say, “The Bill,” if he said, “Get rid of these panties before my wife comes home and finds them. I can’t touch them -- I’d get my finger prints on them and Janet would have no choice but to name a Special Prosecutor.” In the case of poor holy cow, she just kept calling Tom back. She’s very persistent. And each time, you know, Tom just got worse and worse. Soon he was screaming nothing but long strings of obscenities at her. Now she doesn’t like “The Tom” anymore. So she keeps calling him. She says she wants a refund on all his records she bought, because they misrepresented his real self. Tom just gives her more strings of obscenities. 3. “Mr. Ditty” Not a bad level, but it won’t get you anywhere. I tried this tactic once. (Before I lucked onto the name “Chubby” at Spago’s.) I called up Tom and I said, “Good evening, Mr. Ditty.” And Tom said, “Ah, you need my agent. Let me give you his number.” So I wound up on the phone with Al Sharp (relative of the famous Al, who weighs a ton). And Al Sharp spent 3 1/2 hours explaining to me the 100 reasons why I need to design, manufacture, distribute, and make a penny each from Tom’s Final Tour (1999) ‘Memory Mugs’. Then I told Al I was from the press and he spent 5 1/2 hours telling me why Tom needs to be the on the cover of the next issue of Fuck Decency. The fact that our magazine has no cover was of no moment to Al. “Well CREATE a cover!” Al said. “It’s Tom Ditty, for Chrissakes! I’m giving you exclusive rights for $5,999 to use Tom Ditty on your next cover! ...Create a cover and you can afford it! ...Put him on the back too, you can charge twice as much!” And so it went. Finally there was a power outage and I got disconnected. So, you know, don’t think you’ll be getting anywhere with “Mr. Tom”. You will, however, get a limited time, once only opportunity to feature Tom on the cover of your very next issue. Don’t worry. Al has a line for you too. It goes, “Well, CREATE a magazine, damnit! It’s Tom Ditty, for Chrissakes! Let me tell you about the guy in 1957 who had no magazine about Elvis. He owns a castle in Copenhagen now.” 4. “tom” Then there’s the Standard Level. For instance, Tom’s just finished a great concert. A moment ago, he was in front of millions. He was being televised around the world. But now, he’s back in his ‘bubble’. His own life. His own domain. And you, a lucky, enterprising fan, have snuck backstage. You’ve managed to get within earshot of your idol. You know what to do. You’ve seen him on MTV. You’ve read interviews with him in SPIN. You have a friend who says he met Tom once, backstage, and it was so great. So, seeing Tom, finally getting close to him, you say, “Hi, tom!” (Casually, just like the interviewer does on MTV.) Do you know what Tom says? “WHERE’S SECURITY?!” That’s right. Just two words. He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t even act like he heard you. He just blurts out, quickly, reflexively, unthinkingly, “WHERE’S SECURITY?!” And then you don’t see Tom anymore because a big, beefy, unfriendly but not too unfriendly security dude hoves into view. And he peers down at you, and you peer up at him. And you know, looking in his eyes, that he wants very badly to beat you down underneath the pavement with his fists. But you did pay $110 for a back row seat at Tom’s concert. So instead, the security dude says, “Sir you need a specially signed backstage pass to be in here.” And then he looks down. Sort of at your anatomy. And he adds, “...and you’re obviously not a girl.” See? See where “tom” got you? Right out the door! You did get a homophobic security guard to pat you on your fanny, but other than that, you got nothing! (Incidentally, if you sneak in again, you do get something more. You get a ‘Special Deluxe Unsigned but Deeply Imprinted Security Guard Ass Kick Boot Mark on Your Behind’. And you know he wanted to put it right on your balls, but you did buy a $110 ticket, so he doesn’t.) Anyway, that’s how it is here in Hollywood. Even guys like me have different names. For instance, there’s “joe”. That’s level four. I call it the Process Server level. When someone calls me “joe,” that tells me that a Process Server has found me, and if I don’t skedaddle, I’m going to be having to sign my life away and show up in court. (Don’t ask why. How do you think Donald Trump went from near bankruptcy in 1989 to billions today?) 3. “Mr. Joe” The prosecutor level. Someone walks up to you, rather informally, and says, “Mr. Joe?” It could be any number of people. A policeman, an undercover policeman, a police detective, a prosecutor on a special assignment, or one of those pesky bounty hunters who have no respect even for the Sabbath Day. This level solicits a two-pronged reply. I look, I point, and I yell, at the top of my voice, “My God! A child molester!” Then I take off running in the opposite direction. This ‘two-prong reply’ always works. After all, children are our most important natural resource. We wouldn’t want anybody drilling in them illegally. 2. “The Joe” This is the Mob Level. You know, you run up a few gambling debts. But they loan you more. After all, it’s their job. They’re loan sharks. And you get to know these guys real good. You’re sure you’ll pay them back. (I was too.) And you start to get a reputation among the various loan sharks. “The Joe.” You know, that guy with all the debts? Well, loan sharks don’t have a lotta time to spend worrying about the financial condition and physical health of “The Joe”. That guy who was SUCH a big shot last week, wheeling around in a new convertible that he got on credit, placing ‘sure fire’ bets on anything that moved. So when I hear, out of the blue, “The Joe,” I have to pull that ol’ pin out of the hand grenade I found at the armory. I’m not quite sure how many seconds are left on it. I used to have a pretty good count. I figured, you know, “Start with 10”. I figured it was a lost grenade, and probably had the full 10 second count on it. Well, I’ve bumped into those loan shark guys, the big guys who collect for the sharks, about seven times now. So, you know, I’m getting a little short in the seconds department. Please don’t say “The Joe” and think, “He’s on the Internet. He’s a big shot. Better call him a cool but respectful name.” We could spend the rest of eternity together. And I’m not known for remembering my underarm deodorant. 1. “Hef” My real name. Yeah, I know, I probably shouldn’t let this out on the Internet. Next thing you know, some dumb blondes will be using it to try to get featured in ‘The Magazine’. And they’ll say, “Well, if I get a free Body Inspection from Hef, I’ll be Playmate of the Year.” Yep, that’s what I’m worried about. But I figure for my handful of loyal readers, the few who’ve gotten this far down in this article, WAY below that ol’ sex story up there, I figure you can keep it under your hat. See? You’ve probably forgotten my real name already. Don’t tell anyone, okay? Especially don’t tell your little sister. And if she’s growing big tits, and she’s blonde, well, you know what to do. DON’T MENTION IT! That’s right. Keep that name ‘Hef’ deep inside you. Don’t feel guilty about not mentioning it. Sure, your sister won’t get that special deluxe Harvard scholarship all our Playmates get after they’re finished undressing and being photographed but, you know, with feminism these days, it’s important that girls work their way into Harvard. Don’t you agree? I’ll let you know if there’s any changes to my private telephone number. AND IN THE END... The Only (Real) Danger of the Internet “I sat down in an armchair in Los Angeles when I was 23 and when I got up I was 61.” - Orson Welles -------------------------- 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 300 EMISSION - Welles: C-SPAN 2, About Books, August 23, 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> /