Message-ID: <4900eli$9710161141@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: Andrew Roller Subject: FUCK DECENCY 301 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: <34456754.7239@idt.net> --------------------------------------------------------------- PROBLEMS? Please try viewing this with Netscape Navigator. --------------------------------------------------------------- Andrew Roller Presents FUCK DECENCY Sponsored by: JOE CAMEL Issue No. 301 Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in Pussy Playland Chapter Four “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. As she bathed my forehead she kept touching her poor abraded pussy. Jeff had seen to it that she should never have anything there but a gash. In my agonies, feeling the flames and with Sherry petting me, I imagined I was a girl in Egypt, having her clit cut away. I moaned and pleaded. I screeched at the top of my lungs and promised to be good. At last, feeling merciful, Jeff doused the coals and I felt a rush of hot steam scald my bottom. Whimpering, I settled back onto the table. I felt my bottom sink through the hole in the table and did not try to stop it. Jeff lifted me off the soft felt and kissed me and held me. Sherry squirted lotion on my bottom and rubbed it briskly. I was rosy cheeked in back, nothing more. I’d escaped unharmed, but I was sighing and weeping and my chest was heaving with fright. Jeff held me close and I felt my bosoms press into his hairy chest. His manhood rose between my legs and I felt it bump against my twat. “Ohhh, please don’t hurt me!” I sobbed. I bit into the flesh of his chest and he flinched and I tried to draw blood. Carefully, he separated my teeth from his body. He kissed my lips. “Silly girl, I’m only training you,” he said gently. I cried more loudly and Sherry, sensing I was pitying myself just to please him, gave my poor bottom, glossy with lotion she’d just applied, a firm slap. Jeff felt me bounce against him as Sherry’s slap hit my bottom. I emitted a heartfelt cry of pain into his ear. He gripped me tightly. His hands, hard and calloused, slid down over my pampered bottom and held my cheeks wide apart, exposing my hole. Sherry lurked behind me. I trembled from my head to my toes, fearing a new assault by her. But the rest of my ass, held in Jeff’s palms, was protected. How awkward to be so nicely protected, yet left with my hole open and vulnerable! And the man who was now keeping me from being slapped again by Sherry was the same man who’d just tried to burn my bottom off! I wept. The emotions were too much for me. Yet as I wept, wanting to break free of Jeff and, at the same time, relishing the feel of his holding me, not letting me escape, I was aware of his penis. It was deathly hard, and jammed up between my legs. It ran from his groin under my cunny and then, tantalizingly, stuck out behind my thighs, where Sherry could admire his drooling, unemployed cockhead waiting for permission to enter me. “I want to be your master, and also your slave,” Jeff confided hotly in me. He bent over me, whispering in my ear. I was on tiptoe against him, yet my head only rose up to his shoulder. He had to bend close to tell me his secrets. Sherry could not hear. “I want to work you, to exert myself in you every day, forever...” Jeff said to me in a rushed, hushed voice. “I want to be like a horse to you, and ride you every day, fucking you, again and again, stopping only to rest a moment, and then to begin again!” I swooned. I could picture what he wanted. To be hard forever (it was possible with Jeff!) and to have me under him, ramming himself into me, exerting himself in me, spilling his seed in MY womb, just mine, not hers, over and over. As soon as his balls would fill up again I’d be on my back again. I’d be his slave, but he’d be mine. We would couple forever, never working, never even playing, really. Just mating. The two of us doing our duty to each other. Our reproductive duty. Sherry bobbed from one side of us to the other. She was aware, now, that Jeff was telling me something special. Something that might not include her. Jeff pushed me back and away from him. It was as if we’d disagreed, from all outward appearances, and he’d shoved me away. But we hadn’t. He’d breathed his lust to me and I’d sighed agreeable in response, in between my tears. “Take everything off,” Jeff said to both of us. His words were words of command. Much in the dungeon had to do with commanding, obeying. “Everything. Right down to and including your earrings.” We did not deny him. We could not. We were just two frail, big-bosomed girls, Sherry older, but still a teen, and me younger. We stripped ourselves of all of civilization’s baubles. We were Indian maidens, without even our feathers. We put our stockings and Sherry’s corset and our earrings and heels in a little pile on the floor. Jeff watched us with possessive eyes. When we were quite nude, he left us standing together a moment. He went to a shelf along the wall and picked up a sweatband and put it on. It would keep the perspiration out of his eyes. Then he put on two wrist sweatbands. Sherry and I, watching him, huddled together. We weren’t the best of friends, but with his hard cock and his menacing eyes, Jeff made us both feel like victims. On his way back, Jeff picked up his switch. He stood before us and let the sight of his cock impose itself on us. We were all nude, like babies or, more likely, the first man and (two!) women in the world. Except instead of being in a garden, we were in a dungeon. Jeff slapped the switch into the open palm of his free hand, once, then again. “Jeff, my ass still hurts from that hot seat you made me sit on,” Sherry confessed. “Mine too,” I piped up. I put my hand behind myself and wondered if I hadn’t been licked a little by the flames, after all. We were both pretty red-bottomed. I hoped we wouldn’t peel. “It’s not your bottoms I’m interested in right now,” Jeff said to us gruffly. “We’ve been playing without protection. I’m afraid I may have made you girls pregnant. You’ve been totally remiss in taking your pills. But there are other ways to make sure you don’t bear me children I don’t want.” With our hair still lovely, though unpinned, Jeff walked Sherry and I over to a rape rack. It was made of lumber, boards that had been worn down over many years until, in certain places, you could see where the boards held a person bound to them. Sherry and I stood staring. “This ‘rape rack,’ as its called, can be used for conception, or to terminate a conception,” Jeff told us. A topmost bar, higher than our heads, waited for upraised wrists to be bound against it. I reached up, touched where the wrists of many past girls had been set firmly against the wood. The board was smooth there. Instinctively Sherry reached out and palmed, then held, the nearest cheek of my bottom as I, on tiptoe, examined the place where the arms were bound. We were both, I think, quite frightened of it, but she must have been put here at least once before. Now we would, it seemed, share the experience. But Jeff was not rushing, not pushing us. He was letting us drink in our fate, perhaps even to agree to it? “A girl,” Sherry began, then her voice broke off. She began again, nervous. “A girl is bound against the wood with fresh vines from the jungle, in the olden days, or now, with rubber cuffs,” Sherry gulped. I could see that Jeff had his options with us. The arms could be bound directly over the head, together, or wide apart. Below, where a girl’s hips would hang, a board pushed them forward, so her tormenter could amuse himself with the sight of her bare pussy shoved outward at him. That board was also worn down, in the center, where my hips would be, if I ‘accepted my mission,’ as a certain film might say. And, lastly, the feet were not simply allowed to drop down to the floor. A separate foot stool rose up on either side of the rack. There, spread apart, a girl’s feet would be held open so that her cunny would be the lowest point on her body. “This is how a woman should give birth,” Sherry said to me. “Upright, with her cunny split open. The baby simply falls out. Gravity helps pull it out of her.” “Yes,” I agreed. I ran my finger along the wooden beams. They were big and old and had the aura of ancient wisdom about them. But the cuffs, made of soft rubber, were new. Fresh chains with no weak links promised to hold a girl remorselessly to the rack. “It is used for birthing, but also for insemination?” I asked. I turned and looked over my shoulder at Jeff. “Right now it will just be used for an abortion,” Jeff answered. I gasped. “Jeff’s going to beat any baby you have right out of you,” Sherry taunted me. Her fingers glided over my shoulders and then dropped down to cup and offer my bosoms to him. She nudged me around so that I faced him full on. She pinched my nipples. I gasped. I ran my fingers over my tummy. It felt smooth, flat. But you could never be sure, could you? Jeff’s penis stared up at me like a huge hose. It throbbed, hungry with his desire. I almost felt certain, for a moment, staring speechless at it, that it might spew sperm all over me at any moment. And he’d already been inside me; albeit, considerately, in my ass instead of my pussy. But you could never be sure, could you? Some might have leaked thru, I guessed, between the membrane that separated my back channel from my front. “Doctor, our patient here thinks she might be pregnant,” Sherry teased. She slid a hand over my tummy, poked in my belly button. Then, stepping back suddenly, she slapped both my bottom cheeks hard. “YEEEEEOWCH!” I cried. The flames had burnt my bottom a little and her handslaps sent pain bursting through my hind cheeks. My palms flew back. I cupped myself. My bosoms jutted out at Jeff and my cunny arched forward as I clapped my hands to my bottom. “Get her a towel,” Jeff ordered his wife. She grinned, wickedly, and walked with her bottom rolling grandly to a shelf. There, next to bottles of antiseptic and beneath a collection of neatly hung whips, was a small stack of towels. She picked one up. It was white. She returned to where I stood and unfolded it slowly for me. She let me run my hand over it. It was fluffy. “This will protect your back,” Sherry said. She wrapped the towel several times around the central beam. It was a big towel and when she was done wrapping it there was no question it would stay put. “Upsie daisy,” Sherry said. She pushed on my bottom with her palm. I did not want her to slap me again. I stepped up with one foot, then both, on a low rung that hung, ladder like, near the base of the frame. I think if I’d thought about the fact that I was mounting a rape rack I would have run, or tried to escape, but my mind was awhirl with the burning in my bottom and the stiffness of my teats and the tingling of my cunny, with the closeness of Sherry, alternately my friend and foe, and Jeff, too, my master and, somehow, my worshipper. He gazed with awed eyes as I turned my back to the rape rack and fitted my 14-year-old body into it. The uppermost beam was a little high. I had to stretch to reach it, leaning back, seeing if I could. Just as I felt my fingers touching the rubber cuff waiting there, Sherry intervened. Quickly, before my inquisitiveness faded, she bound the cuff round my wrists so that I could not escape. Next a soft collar was put round my neck and my head was pinned back to a crosswise beam. It ran parallel to the one my wrists were bound to. I felt the small of my back press against the towel where my hips hit the central beam. My bottom hung below that beam and, fearfully, I felt each of my feet lifted up and put on top of one of the toadstool-like footrests. Quickly my ankles were bound with soft cuffs to keep my thighs wide apart. “Well, doctor, there you have her,” Sherry grinned at her husband. I expected my tummy to have something bound over it, a wide belt perhaps, but it was left quite exposed. Only my neck, my wrists, and my feet were collared or cuffed. But to keep me wide apart Sherry ran decorative black ribbons out from the sides of the rack and around my bent knees. I hoped they wouldn’t hold me but, even if they broke, I was so distended and open that I had little hope of closing myself. I was squatting, but with my arms drawn so high and my hips so awkwardly thrust out that I was as much hanging as squatting. “Oh, you poor little cunt!” Sherry laughed. She ran a finger over my cheek. Our bottoms were still red from being ‘toasted’ by Jeff and I looked at her, hoping for mercy. “Please, Sherry,” I breathed. My bosoms rose and fell with my every gasping breath. “This is interesting but, I’m, I’m quite sure I’ve had enough now,” I pleaded. My mom had sent me to a Catholic elementary school and, strung up like this, I knew I was being too unladylike even for a rebellious 14-year-old. I wished suddenly I was sitting back in 3rd grade, clad in my little saddle shoes and my neat blouse and dress. I’d count properly this time, and not make naughty words with the alphabet letters. “Dear, you must first learn to suck,” Sherry giggled. She and Jeff were just making up games now, with me as their victim. She walked casually to a shelf. There was no hurry. She picked up a huge dildo. She walked back over to me but I was determined not to take it. I feared she would make me choke on it. Sherry pushed the dildo against my belly button. “I wonder if I should shove this up your ass first, to make it nice and tasty,” she asked me. “Or will you be a good girl and practise your sucking on it just as it is?” BOOK REVIEW by holy joe Driving Blind, by Ray Bradbury. Avon, $23.00. Review: Yesterday I decided to be a Man. I went down to the Marine Recruiting Office. I figured I’d get a job and, more importantly, I’d get laid, since girls love Marines. A bum I met on the street, who’d been in Vietnam, warned me about the U.S. Military. “Everything is hurry up and wait in the military,” he told me. So I took a book along with me when I went to the Marine Recruiting Office. That was my first mistake. I made some other mistakes too, which is why I’m now writing this review instead of learning how to blow up buildings. For one thing, how was I supposed to know the sergeant would be a woman? I thought, you know, I’d be greeted by some man with a big cigar. Instead I was greeted by a woman with big bosoms. When the sergeant asked all us guys who were waiting to enlist if we had any questions, I made another mistake. “Ma’am,” I asked. “Why did you decide to become a sergeant instead of a Playboy Playmate?” This was not a good question to ask. I tried to repair the damage by adding, “Actually, ma’am, I’d be more interested in your daughter than I am in you.” That was a mistake. But, anyway, you’re probably wondering why it was a mistake for me to take a book along to the Marine Recruiting Station. I’ll tell you why. It made me cry. I’ve read other books by Ray Bradbury. They’re about Mars, and Illustrated Men, and stuff like that. Usually they contain lots of science fiction and horror. So I figured it would be safe to take Bradbury’s latest book, Driving Blind, to the Marine Recruiting Station. I figured I’d be reading about astronauts being eaten alive by alien cities on extraterrestrial planets. Red-blooded, manly stuff like that. But Driving Blind contains no science fiction stories. It contains no horror stories. Instead, it contains ordinary stories. For some reason, many of them made me cry. I have no idea why. They’re not particularly sad stories. Perhaps they’re melancholy stories. In any event, it did me no good to be sitting there in the Marine Recruiting Office crying. So, if you’re thinking of being a Marine, here’s some tips. Don’t look at the sergeant’s boobs, no matter how big they are. Don’t mention to her that you’d like her daughter better than her. And for God’s sake don’t take a book along. It might be a sad book, and you’ll wind up being a crybaby. Despite getting kicked out of the Marine Recruiting Office, I must say that Driving Blind is one of the most enjoyable reading experiences I’ve had in years. If you’re looking for a good book, this is it. I must warn you, however, that Driving Blind gets off to a slow start. It’s a collection of short stories. The first few stories are mindless entertainment. However, the stories get better as you go along. By the time I got to the middle of this book, I was enjoying it immensely. The copy of Driving Blind that I bought is a First Edition. Now is the time to go buy this book if you want a First Edition by Ray Bradbury. At first I didn’t like the cover, but now I like it a lot. It’s purple, with a ‘glow in the dark’ feel about it. The book costs $23.00 because this is a hard back edition. Now that I’ve finished this book, I’m wondering: maybe I didn’t get into the Marines, but there’s still the Army, the Navy, the Air Force, and the Coast Guard. They don’t know I’m a sexist pedophile crybaby. I wonder if I could get into one of them? And then, in addition to that, there’s the Federal Civil Service. Somehow, I think being a federal bureaucrat might be my best option. What do you think? AND IN THE END... YOU OWE THE I.R.S. ! “Over the past decade, the IRS has spent $4 billion to upgrade its computers; they still do not work properly.” - The Economist, September 20, 1997, pg. 33. -------------------------- 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 301 EMISSION - “80 percent of taxpayers who call the IRS are confronted by a busy signal.” (Ibid.) -- +--------------' 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> /