Message-ID: <5573eli$9711111051@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: Andrew Roller Subject: FUCK DECENCY 310 Nudie Nursery (nnd) g2 Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Reply-To: roller39@IDT.NET 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: <34672508.68E6@idt.net> --------------------------------------------------------------- PROBLEMS? Please try viewing this with Netscape Navigator. --------------------------------------------------------------- Andrew Roller Presents FUCK DECENCY Issue No. 310 Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in Nudie Nursery Chapter Two The milking machine was lowered to my breasts as Ray found new ways to torture my clit and my cunt. He gave me a pap smear and used the speculum to peer up inside me, all the while brushing my clit with his thumb. He sprinkled hot chili powder on my clit, making me howl. He tested my size with dildoes of increasing size, forcing them farther and farther up within me. Kate, meanwhile, put suction cups to my nipples, fitted the steel casings of the milk machine around my breasts, and then turned it on. I was wrenched upward as the machine pulled on my breasts as if they were gourds. I felt crushed and held and suctioned within the machine’s grip. Simultaneously the little pads fixed to my nipples began to suck upon them like babies’ mouths, while delivering little electric shocks to them. But that was only the half of it. Down below, as the machine started milking my breasts, Ray rudely stuck the biggest dildo he could find up my cunt and turned it on. It was the first time I’d ever felt an electric dildo in my cunny. It jolted me to a height of fear and then began jabbing on its own deep inside me, as if its upper half could work alone, inserting itself and then drawing a little back, then jamming up higher. Ray, meanwhile, pressed it within me as much as my cunt would allow. Kate slapped my tummy. She smiled down at me. The pressure on my breasts was rhythmic now, fondling, holding, clasping and suckling them, making them feel as if they were caught in a wonderful vise that would never let go. I felt like a cow, being milked and inseminated all at once. Kate walked to the end of the table and checked my wrist restraints. They were secure. I had not found any way to wriggle free of them. Then she bent, kissed my nose, and went to the opposite end of the table. She raised each of my stirrups so that they stuck up at an angle. I felt my cheeks on the underside of my bottom exposed. Sure enough, Ray used the opportunity to begin intruding things into my ass. I felt like some experimental animal as he and Kate played with dildos in my two holes, my mouth gagged, my breasts constantly, endlessly suctioned as if they were udders. When Kate grew bored with helping Ray she went to the wall and took down a whip. Methodically, touching herself as she did it, she began beating my poor tummy. I jerked, I cried out. Ray ordered me to lie still and warned I might be injured if I didn’t, with him poking things in my womb. I tried to comply but there was little hope of that! Devilishly he kept rubbing new salves on my clitty meant to agonize and arouse it. Within my bonds I began to build toward an orgasm. Ray heeded my distress and played upon it. He found ever new ways to tease my clit, while sticking bigger and bigger things up inside my vagina and my bottomhole. Suddenly I climaxed. Kate flicked a switch on the milking machine and it delivered stronger shocks to my nipples. I rode out my orgasm with the milking machine working my teats and Ray teasing me through every rippling wrench of my hips. Kate kept beating my tummy, lightly marking me with every stroke of the switch. I was released. I lay upon the table in a daze. My orgasm drizzled away. I felt wet between my legs. I felt violated. Kate and Ray smiled down at me, all the evil things taken away, just me, staring up at them, still wearing my gag but nothing else. Except my heels, of course, to make me look pretty. They reached down and I thought they would help me up but instead they rolled me over. I was still trapped within the twin rails of the table. They were not electrified, but a mere flick of a switch could make them so. “Kneel up, darling,” Kate urged. I could not believe my ears. But she slapped my fanny and, fearing worse, I stuck up my bottom. My knees slid up under my belly and I lifted it so that my heinie was rudely pushed into the air. Ray let me keep my knees together but he put a spreader bar between my ankles. Kate, meanwhile, pulled my thumb from my mouth, where I’d hoped to suck it, and tied my hands together under my face. I buried my nose in my pillow. I did not want to see what they were preparing to do to me. I knew it would be horrid. I felt Kate blow on my bottom and then lick, once, between my cheeks. Then there was a moment of waiting, as I heard an enema bag swung over me, its contents sloshing, and its hose unhooked. With the bag hanging over my bottom, as I suspected, not looking, quiet in my pillow, I felt long nails part my ass cheeks. Kate’s tongue intruded again, and this time it was on a mission. She found my hole and licked it. Then, when I was wet with her saliva, she put vaseline on her finger and soothed it into my hole. A jab made me arch my head up from my pillow. My gag silenced a howl as a nozzle rudely pushed its way into my anus. “Hold still, dear, don’t waggle your bottom about like a hussy,” Kate told me. She shoved the nozzle deeper into my hiney-hole and I heard Ray announce that he’d unclipped the enema bag. A liquid rushed into my bottoms. I gasped. It filled me up fast. It was more than sperm ever could do. It filled me to the brim and I begged, through my gag, for them to stop the flow. After another minute they did so. I could barely move, I was so full. They laughed. Kate offered Ray a cookie. They stood watching me a few minutes. She stroked his penis. It was hard and ready. The enema tube was detached from the full bag, which was now empty, and attached to a bag which had been hooked down beneath the table. It was the waste bag, and I prayed they’d let me release my bowels into it, and fast. I heard Ray say he was removing a clip and suddenly all the fullness inside me began to rush out. “She should have no problem taking me up her ass, now that she’s had all that liquid to expand her,” Ray laughed. Kate laughed with him and began greasing his dick with the vaseline. No sooner was I rid of the dastardly enema than Ray presented me with himself. I felt his hardness sink into my fanny and I gasped and cried and begged to be let up. He would have nothing of it. He jerked within me, going deeper, then deeper still. I found later that he’d mounted a footstool just to be the right height to fuck my ass as I knelt on the table. He urged my hips toward him. I was not tied to the wall now and he was able to drag me, with my hands tied beneath my face, as far down the table as he wished. I began to cry. Ray paid no attention. He reamed me with his hardness and I felt like a flower being opened by some rude, ruthless child. Kate stood beside him, slapping his ass with her hand, encouraging him, and, to a shout of disapproval from Ray, even inquiring herself in his hole with her finger. We made love there, in that strange room that took “Playing Doctor” to its ultimate perversion. Ray fucked me on the table and Kate finger-fucked him in his ass. When he’d cum I was permitted to rest and he laid her down on the floor and reamed her cunt with his mouth. Dazed, aching everywhere, I was led out at last from the horrible Ob-Gyn room. I’d survived, but I wondered about the nursery school girls. Had they been given ‘free’ physicals in there? The very thought of some man, no doctor but only a pervert, exploring their deepest secrets in there made me shiver. Holding my hands Ray and Kate took me upstairs. They wiped my bottom and we tumbled into bed and slept like exhausted rabbits. As I drifted off to sleep I saw myself, in a pinafore dress, holding a lollipop, being led into the exam room by a pervert. I pledged to myself that I’d report this evil dungeon to the police as soon as we’d finished. But, in my dreams, I felt a penis intruding between the cheeks of my fanny, and I knew we weren’t finished just yet. Chapter Three It was all my mom’s fault. When I was 16, she insisted I get a job. She said she was tired of me just playing on the beach. My grades had dropped from a little too much partying. I think she thought I was up to more than I actually was. But what was I going to say: ‘Don’t worry, mom, I just blow the guys I like, I don’t bed them’? I’d had fun at Kate’s, I must admit. I think I walked around in a daze for about a month after that weekend at her place. She decided to sell it, and moved back to New York. There were too many stories hidden down there for her to play in that preschool dungeon guilt-free. I went back to teasing guys. I loved to make them lust after me and then leave them with nothing; yearning for me, desperate, jerking themselves off someplace as they wished they could have me. It was especially fun sometimes to make a hunky guy drop dead over me. After all, what good is it knowing a nerd is creaming his pants for you? But a hunk is another matter. To think that a cute guy who deserves you is left with blue balls and sperm that just HAS to cum out, but can’t, but MUST; that is wickedly fun. Unfair, perhaps, but fun all the same. Sex just didn’t seem to sizzle after playing in Jeff and Sherry’s canyon retreat, and at Kate’s. Everything was so heightened there, so intense, so immediate. I think I missed the challenge of a dungeon. To be commanded, to know you have to obey. In real life I was swamped with choices. I could diss cute guys, or not. I got invited to teen parties where we danced, or just got drunk. There was freedom but there was boredom too. Pearl Jam on 10 is only so interesting. Beavis and Butthead might be content to re-run their lives every day, watching the same old videos, but I got annoyed with it all. So when mom said I just HAD to get a job, well, I wasn’t really bothered by it. I imagined I’d wind up in a boutique near the beach selling cosmetics or trinkets or something but, well, what could you expect as a teenager? I opened the paper to look for some job like that, but for some reason my eyes were drawn to the Secretary page. I don’t know why. I can’t type. I’m a terrible speller. Even my name, Kelly, I sometimes spell Kellie, or Kellee, just to have fun. But I saw an ad that said, “Secretary Desired: No Skills Required.” Somehow the way it was phrased, you know? It seemed tantalizing. Who could possibly want a secretary who didn’t know how to do anything? I made an appointment over the phone. Then I had to buy clothes: you can’t get a secretary’s job wearing ass-high cutoffs! (At least I don’t think you can.) I bought a prim waist-length jacket and a white blouse with a neckerchief. I also picked up some nice black stockings and silvery heels. The skirt, I must admit, was too short. But I felt daring. I bought a string of pearls to try to compensate. All businesswomen, I think, wear pearls. It makes them look proper but elegant. Then I put my Hello Kitty pencil in my jacket pocket and went off to see my new boss. (Well, I promised myself I’d be successful; I practise the Power of Positive Thinking!) As I walked into the lobby of the building in downtown L.A. I was on pins and needles. The floor tiles echoed my footsteps and I felt like everyone looked up to watch me pass. I tugged nervously on the hem of my jacket. It hung down a little lower than my miniskirt and I was grateful that it could cover me where my skirt couldn’t! I took an elevator upstairs to the 11th floor. The bellboy in the elevator made eyes at me. I pretended not to notice. He was pretty cute but I was on a mission: to become a working woman. Hopefully they’d teach me how to type at this place. I was let into Suite 1117 by a woman. She looked lovely, and seemed to be in her mid-twenties. She had me sit down in a little anteroom outside the boss’s office and she asked if I’d like some coffee. I swallowed nervously, said ‘yes.’ “Is this your first job?” she asked politely. I nodded that it was. In fact, I admitted, it was my first job interview. She smiled. “I think you’ll like Brent,” she said. She handed me my coffee. It was hot. I had to wait to let it cool before I could drink it. I was just starting to sip my coffee when the woman tending to me told me it was time to go in and see Brent. Another woman had just left; twenty-something, beautiful, with long legs and a composed demeanor. I felt a sudden rush of anxiety again. But somehow I gathered myself together and walked into Brent’s office: my first job interview! Life, the Universe, and Boxed Sets by me, holy joe In some parts of the country, it is growing cold. This perhaps is a time for introspection. If you’re young, and reading this, perhaps you are wondering, “What is the meaning of life?” I will tell you. It’s to get laid. But, aside from that, there is at best only one other meaning. Allow me to explain, by way of example. I have in my hand a catalog. It’s a video catalog, from a popular mail order company. I am looking at page 13. Across the top of this page is written, “Christmas Boxes.” The page is divided into three columns. In the first column, about halfway down, is a boxed set of videos. It’s titled, “The Monkees Deluxe Limited Edition Box Set.” In the second column, about halfway down the page, right next to “The Monkees,” is another boxed set of videos. It’s titled, “The Rise and Fall of Adolf Hitler.” That, my friend, in a nutshell, is the meaning of life. Either you got a boxed set of videos, starring you, or you didn’t. Everyone else, the people who didn’t get their own boxed set featuring themselves, marched straight into oblivion. In effect, they never lived. Recently I met a doctor. She had quite a high opinion of herself. And, not coincidentally, she had quite a low opinion of me. This is a personality flaw common to doctors. They figure anyone who isn’t a doctor is shit. But I have news for this woman. She’s marching straight into oblivion. Reason? She’ll never get her own boxed set of videos. At the end of the next century, there will be a catalog. It might be a web catalog, instead of a paper one. And it won’t be selling boxed sets of videos. It will be selling boxed video CD’s, or videos that you download directly from the Internet, for the next century’s equivalent of $89.00. The Monkees might be listed in such a catalog. Adolf Hitler certainly will be. And some new version of the Monkees will be listed, whether the Monkees themselves are listed or not. But she won’t be there. Oh, she might make medical history. She might even operate on the President of the United States in her lifetime. But, odds are, she’ll never have a boxed set, starring her. So, if you’re wondering what to do with yourself, besides getting laid, my advice is to get yourself into a boxed set of videos. Or, if you can’t manage that, at least write something down that people might enjoy reading 100 years from now. There are graveyards in America that aren’t maintained. I spoke to a man recently who told me about a graveyard he visits, once a week. He visits it to mow the grass around the graves. Nobody pays him. Nobody even notices that he’s mowed the grass. But he told me he got tired of seeing the graveyard in an unkempt condition. Finally he took it upon himself to mow its lawn. If he didn’t mow the grass around the graves, nobody else would. Because, despite the triumphs, the unjust tragedies, despite the lives, fulfilled or unfulfilled, respected or not, that all those people in all those graves lived, nobody even knows or cares that they lived. And most certainly nobody cares that they’re now lying in a graveyard, dead. Even the man doesn’t know, or care, who’s buried there. He just cares that the grass around the graves stays properly mowed, out of respect for (whoever it is) that lies buried there. And so it is with the doctor. And your stock broker. And your congressman and your lawyer and your accountant. All respected people, no doubt, but will anyone care in 100 years that they lived? Will anyone even know their names? I doubt it. In the end there will be a catalog, and a few half-forgotten faces peering out from that catalog. The Monkees. Adolf Hitler. Jesus. Tom Cruise. A few others, most of them here today, gone tomorrow. Quick: who’s Lester Lanin? I have no idea, but he’s billed in a catalog as being the head of “the world’s best dance orchestra”. I’ve heard of dancing. I’ve never heard of Lester Lanin. And, by the way, I think Lester is dead. The catalog he’s featured on the first page of is titled, “Music and Memories”. It has lots of “famous” musicians in it from the 40’s and 50’s. I’ve yet to get a catalog titled, “Greatest Medical Doctors”. Or “Greatest Accountants”. Or even “Greatest Congressmen of the United States of America”. And would you buy anything from such a catalog, if you got one? Are you going to pony up, even, for Lester Lanin anytime soon? So, that’s my advice. It may be advice from a bum, but I still think it’s good advice. Get laid. Write something down. Something interesting. And, if possible, get your own boxed set of videos, starring you. Otherwise, in 100 years, you won’t just be dead. You’ll never have lived. AND IN THE END... Last Words of the Accountant: “I considered my handiwork, all my labour and toil: it was futility, all of it, and a chasing of the wind, of no profit under the sun.” - Ecclesiastes 2:11. -------------------------- Fuck Decency! ------------------------ -Back issues: type http://www.dejanews.com/ into your browser’s “Location” window. Press your “return” key. Under “Quick Search”, type in: roller39@idt.net Press your “return” key. -Other providers: Usenet Newsgroup: alt.sex.stories.moderated or by e-mail: file.request@backdrop.com or via the Web: http://www.netusa.net/files/Authors/eli/www/erotica/assm/ -Free minicomics: send a stamped, self-addressed envelope 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 310 EMISSION -- +--------------' 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> /