Message-ID: <5696eli$9711191342@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: Andrew Roller Subject: FUCK DECENCY 314 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: <3472081D.2E0@idt.net> --------------------------------------------------------------- PROBLEMS? Please try viewing this with Netscape Navigator. --------------------------------------------------------------- Andrew Roller Presents FUCK DECENCY Sponsored by: Crab the dog Issue No. 314 Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in Nudie Nursery Chapter Three “Drink from the toilet, bitch!” he yelled. I gasped. My hands clutched at my throat. I crept to the door to see into bathroom. They’d passed by my door, both of them, not seeing me, and were now out of sight. I snuck up to the door, frightened as a deer, but curious about its hunter. I looked in and, to my shocked surprise, I saw the poor sobbing girl bent down, dog-like, on her hands and knees with her lovely auburn hair tumbling all over the open bowl of the commode. Her face was somewhere down inside, and I heard a lapping sound. The big monster-like man was behind her. He was hugely muscular but in an obnoxious way, like those weightlifters you see in the Olympics, not sculpted brawn but just raw, almost unformed brawn. He was hairy and he wore a big belt with rivets in it, as if the belt had been bolted to his stomach. He was not fat, though. He was hard and lean in his bulging, unsculpted hugeness. He was not overly tall and he had big huge legs and wore boots, as if he were some medieval fetishist. Gloves of leather contained his enormous hands and, thankfully perhaps, he wore a hood of black leather over his head. In his hand was a cat o’ nine tails. It looked as if it was made of soft leather strips, but he made up for that by striking it hard against the weeping girl’s bottom. “Drink more, bitch!” the ogre-man commanded. I saw that the girl had indeed been getting spanked, for her bottom was bright red, like a tomato, even though her skin on her limbs and her back and her breasts, squished against the rim of the toilet bowl, was creamy white. “Why are you making her drink from the toilet?” I blurted. It was a mistake, but I was so shocked I couldn’t help myself and my words escaped before I could stop them. The Hunchback of Caracas turned and noticed me for the first time. “INTO your bedroom, slave!” he roared. I retreated, scared out of my wits. I heard a voice behind me. “The toilet is clean,” Jasmine said. I whirled about. Jasmine! “We wouldn’t harm a girl by making her drink from a dirty bowl,” she said to me. She didn’t smile but I sensed there was a smile lurking behind her lips. “Get on the bed for your first whipping,” she said. She gestured at my bed. “I-I don’t want one,” I said. “I can tie you down or Olaf can,” she said, actually smiling now. With her hand, which held a long, thin riding crop, she gestured at the bathroom door. “You will, of course, be whipped much more sternly if I have to put you down forcibly,” she added. “Either way is acceptable to me. Olaf can have you chained down in no time. I only handle the whip.” “I-I’ll go with you,” I said meekly. I put my hand to my breasts. I was completely nude and defenseless. What could I do? Jasmine simply gestured at my bed. With greatly hesitant steps I inched toward my bed, all the while the whipped girl in the toilet sobbing in my ears. Reaching the bed, I pressed my knees against it. “Get in, get on your knees,” Jasmine said. “Don’t make me get mean about it, dear. Your bottom will be sore enough as it is.” I dropped down onto the bed and crawled forward. I plunked my head down on my pillow, but let my bottom stay up in the air. “Where’s Brent?” I asked. “Brent’s busy,” Jasmine answered. And I knew doing what, too. Getting his penis sucked by all the other girls, as if he were King Tut or something. Jasmine kneed onto the bed behind me. She placed a hand on the small of my back and brushed me lightly with her fingers. “You have a fine darling ass,” she complimented. “A bottom like this is always a delight to whip. Scream and cry if you like. Crying is preferred. It lets me know I’m doing my job. Try not to wiggle around too much. And whatever you do, don’t put your hands over your seat. That will earn you extra strokes.” She patted my long golden hair. “Bite your pillow, dear. This is going to hurt, I won’t kid you.” I obeyed, wordlessly, and put my teeth into my pillow. It felt so soft. Was I really to be whipped? Jasmine raised her hand, her whip hand, lofting her whip high. It was stiff and whippy, springy, a cross between a crop and a whip. She let me look over my shoulder at it, fearfully, mouthing my pillow, my eyes wide. “You should see how you’re tensing your bottom cheeks,” Jasmine laughed. “Such a little kitten. Lisa will come and make you all better when it’s done.” And then her hand swung down. I felt a biting, scorching line of heat dig into my bottom. I bounced forward. My mouth sprung from its hold on the corner of my pillow. My bosoms smooshed onto the silky surface of the sheet beneath me and my hands flew back and clapped themselves to my tush. “WAAAAAH!” I shouted. And in my shouting, to my utter humiliation, I realized that the ugly ogre, Olaf, in the bathroom could hear me. “Take your hands away,” Jasmine said sternly. “No, please,” I blubbered. She caressed my hair. “I have trained so many girls,” she murmured. “Some submit willingly, others refuse. Still others try to submit and then find they can’t. It’s up to you, my dear. You are not the first to kneel upon this bed, and you are far from the last.” “Oh please,” I sobbed. I buried my head in my pillow. Quietly she lifted my hands from my bottom and placed them beside my face. She was naked as I, and lovely in her nakedness, wearing just a frill round her neck to show her own submission to... whom? And her stockings, pulled tight, plus her pumps, and glistening earrings which dangled down from her ears, making her look delicate even as she was uncompromising. “This is just a taste,” she said. “There is much more to come, poor baby. What did you think being a love slave involved?” “I don’t know,” I sobbed. “Well, neither did I, when I started,” she said. “Now lift up your bottom high. This is not gym class, and I am not your gym instructor. There you’re given demerits if your shorts are too short. Here you must bare all, yes, your precious fanny. And you must let me whip it so I can see your cheeks clench and release. It will help me judge your tightness so I can open you more effectively.” She slapped my fanny, making me clutch at my pillow. “Bottom up, girl! Open your thighs. Very good. Dip your back. Now you’re showing as you should.” My reward was another stinging sweep of the whippy cane across my fanny. I howled, lifting my head, but somehow I managed to clutch onto my pillow. “OooooWhooo!” I shouted. Jasmine stroked my back, as if pitying me. I heard small footsteps. I turned my teary face and saw the spanked girl from the next room enter. Her tears were drying now. Sniffling, she held a lollipop and was softly licking it. It was a huge lollipop, swirled, colorful. She held it above her nakedly swinging breasts. Her tummy sighed. Her bush was chestnut colored and fleecy. A heavy tread followed and Olaf stood behind her. She did not notice him now. Her punishment was done and she watched me, bug-eyed, as I received mine. She looked no older than me, younger, perhaps. Olaf crossed his arms behind her. I could not see his face because of his hood and I was glad. WAHCK! Came the cane again. It whirr-whipped down onto my tushy and I rolled it urgently about, burying my face in my pillow again, somehow holding on to it. “She’s been bad,” our nude visitor said over her lollipop. “No, Missy, she’s being very good,” Jasmine corrected. “She is not like you, brought here by your parents because you’re unruly and insist on playing with boys when they tell you not to. She didn’t pee on my flowers outside like you did. She’s being trained for love, to serve her loving master in whatever way he pleases.” Jasmine smacked my bottom hard again, with the whip, sending me into a new ululation of urgent appeal. She ignored my pleadings. She didn’t even bother to answer my ‘no’s’ anymore, because I kept my hands on my pillow, and my ass, somehow, up high. Another blow fell, searing itself into my soft ass flesh, and I howled and spilled new tears on my pillow. “Well, good or bad, she’s being punished just the same,” Missy piped up again, showing remarkable spunk given the state of her bottom and Jasmine’s unremitting discipline on mine. Jasmine whacked me again, very hard, as if angry with Missy but taking it out on the most immediately convenient target, me! I hissed and hooted with pain and lurched forward, bumping my head against the brass rails of the bed. My hands flew back to my fanny and I collapsed onto my tummy. I held my bottom tight and shouted, “NO MORE! NO MORE! NO MORE!” Jasmine bent and gave a lick between the lowest part of my hinds, right along my crack. Then she leapt up from the bed, tossed her hair, and walked with the gait of an Olympic victor to the outer door. She opened it, turned, and spoke to Olaf. “See that they behave, Olaf,” she ordered. “Missy, you are insufferably naughty and I’ll have a crack at your hiney just as soon as I’m done partying in the West Wing. Until then, you can worry and wait for it. Kelly, you’ll be whipped again in the morning. And we’ll start your dildo training then, after you’ve been turned to toast to make you more receptive. For now, enjoy the last hours of your tight little ass. Olaf, make sure Missy drinks from the toilet all night!” “Aye, Miss!” Olaf responded to Jasmine. “...And Missy, to show your contrition, put some lotion on poor Kelly’s bottom. Lisa’s probably too busy having fun at our orgy. Tootle-loo, kids. You’ll play with us as soon as you both grow up!” Oh, I felt horrible, lying there on the bed, clutching my burning bottom, knowing Brent was having the time of his life without me in the West Wing, with the women, leaving me here bereft, with a bratty insouciant child and some big molester dude in a hood. I coughed, I wept, I held my hinds, rubbing my bush against the sheets, squeezing my thighs and my cheeks. Small knees dented the sheet beside my hips and I felt sticky hands lift my palms from my ass. A cold squirt hit my shuddering hinds. “This will help,” Missy said to me. She began rubbing lotion into my wounded bottom with her lollipop fingers. It lay on my vanity, staining the wood. I imagined by the time she was finished Missy would find to her dismay that it was stuck there. And I’d have a big sticky swirled lollipop to keep me company in my bedroom for the rest of my stay. “You’ll have to pee in the chamberpot under your bed if I’m to drink from the toilet,” Missy said to me. I was beginning to see why her parents didn’t like her. Despite her impish size, smaller than me, she seemed to have no qualms about assuming command. She was blessed with large tempting breasts that I had no doubt had gotten her in trouble. Perhaps she bared them, I thought, in Sunday School, or on the Playground. Her legs were breathtaking. Their slimness made up for her undeveloped height. She was grow, I was sure, but she was, at least, a year or two younger than me, perhaps more. I looked at her over my shoulder, still clutching the sides of my bottom as she spread oil in between. “Missy, how old are you?” I inquired. My voice was trembly with my subsiding sobs. “13 and a half this month,” Missy replied proudly. She lifted her breasts as she spoke, arching her back, and let out a big contented sigh. Olaf stood in the background, silent, mute, his arms crossed. “Why were you sent here?” she asked before I could ask her the same. “I-I don’t know,” I answered. “Of course you do,” she said. “All girls do. Don’t pretend you don’t when you do. You can’t fool me!” She grinned and moved my hands off my fanny onto the sheet beside my hips. She squirted more lotion on my bottom. It warmed as she spread it on my seat. I was beginning to feel a slowly increasing glow there, and the lines of the crop were fading into sharp striations of burn amidst a deeper more fulfilling warmth. “I met a man and...” I began. My voice caught in my throat. “I wanted to submit?” The last word trilled high, making a question, though perhaps I’d not intended it to be. Missy patted my bottom. “You’ll learn to submit here, that’s for sure,” she said. ZINE REVIEWS by holy joe Exotic Magazine, Volume 5, Number 4, $1.95. 8 1/2” x 11” magazine, 48 pages with a slick cover. X Publishing, Inc., 625 SW 10th Avenue, Suite 324B, Portland, OR 97205. E-mail: xmag@teleport.com Web: http://www.xmag.com Review: Some people get no respect. Some people deserve none. Take the case of Frank Faillace. He publishes a magazine called Exotic. It features beautiful young females with no clothes on. Their sole objective in life is to be nude. With you. For a fee, of course, but since most of these girls are fresh out of high school, they don’t ask a lot. (One girl, for instance, asks “$39.95 for 30 minutes of private pleasure”. You probably paid that much to see Mike Tyson lose his last fight.) But Frank, despite being surrounded by beautiful young girls, can’t think of anything to say about them. So, last month, he left the space blank where he usually writes his column. On page 2 of the September 1997 issue of Exotic, where his column usually is, the space is blank. I assumed it was a printer’s error. This month, on page 2 of the October issue of Exotic (which I received in mid-November), Frank says this: “Sorry if you missed me last month... but I was on vacation and having way too much fun to write a column.” The space where Frank’s column appears measures four inches long and 3 3/4 inches wide. I called Frank up and asked why he couldn’t fill such a small space. “It’s four inches long!” Frank replied. “Four inches. That’s longer than my penis!” Now, I ask you reader, is that a decent excuse? In addition, Frank pointed out to me that the first four letters of his last name are “Fail”. “Fail,” Frank told me. “Fail. Get it? As in, ‘Failure to write a column, failure to ejaculate, etc. I am fulfilling a long (well, not that long) and proud family tradition.” Frank expected me to let him off the hook, due to the letters of his name, and the length of his penis. But here at Fuck Decency we are not so forgiving. I mean, take a look at the space next to the blank space in the September, 1997 issue of Exotic. To the left of Frank’s (non-existent) column, there is a photograph. It is of a young woman. She’s nude, and lying on a white bearskin rug, like a baby. Behind her, next to her bare, upturned bottom, is a big, stuffed teddy bear. Has Mr. Faillace not heard of the Hatch Act? What does such a photograph conjure in the mind of the viewer, if not sex with infants? Does Mr. Faillace intend to make a profit flaunting the law, or did he merely “fail” to take note of it? To the right of Mr. Faillace’s (non-existent) column, there is another photograph. It is of a young woman. She is not wearing a shirt. One would think she might at least wear a brassiere, if she’s not going to wear a shirt. Instead, she’s topless. She has big juicy bosoms that hang off her chest, as if she were Venus, newly arisen from the ocean. Worse, the tips of her nipples are hard. Looking at them, one is inspired to think of cows, and milk, and suckling. Good God! Women posed as children to the left, and as animals to the right, of Faillace’s (non-existent) column, and he is unable to write anything! Mr. Faillace, Andrea Dorkin could write something. Naomi Wolf could write something. Even I, holy joe, can write something. Such is life, as a reviewer. Wealthy dudes surrounded by young girls send me their magazine, with blank space, and say, “Here, joe. Review me.” If you’re wondering what was on the cover of last issue, it was a wonderfully bosomy babe, with a face to kill for. This month’s cover of Exotic features a bad-assed bitch. She’s getting a boob job. It’s from Wolverine, of all people. He doesn’t look to be doing a very good job of enlarging her bosoms. I think she might wind up with less, not more, when he’s through. Perhaps he couldn’t get any breasts at Kentucky Fried and decided to have hers for dinner instead. Well, I could say more, but I don’t want to go on real long. People would get upset if I went on as long as my dick is. AND IN THE END... CHILD ABUSE ! Moms Get Their Due “In late October The New York Times reported on an upswing in arrests of mothers for child neglect, including one woman who left her 10-year-old and 4-year-old home alone for an hour and a half while she went to the supermarket.” - The Nation, November 24, 1997, pg. 9. -------------------------- 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/ - JOIN 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. -END OF 314 EMISSION - ANOTHER CRIMINAL DISCOVERED: “My daughter, Sophie, is 10 years old. I leave her at home alone when I go out for groceries.” (Mom Katha Pollitt, 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> /