Message-ID: <6472eli$9712161637@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: Andrew Roller Subject: FUCK DECENCY 320 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: <3495AAE1.1AF1@idt.net> --------------------------------------------------------------- PROBLEMS? Please try viewing this with Netscape Navigator. --------------------------------------------------------------- Andrew Roller Presents FUCK DECENCY Sponsored by: Crab the dog Issue No. 320 Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in Nudie Nursery Chapter Four Missy reached for her own can of whipped cream. It was, like mine, a miniature can, offered by Redi-Whip to restaurants to promote its brand name. It was housed in a little bucket of ice and Missy’s eyes glowed as she grabbed for it. Fortunately, Brent found his wits and grabbed her wrist just as she picked up the can. “No, Missy,” he said. He drew the can from her fingertips. “I need it for my strawberries!” Missy whined. “I’ll squirt it,” Brent replied. He put the whipped cream on her strawberries liberally, hoping to empty the can. Missy watched, pouting, frowning, and crossed her arms. When Brent was done he replaced the whipped cream in the bucket. Missy grabbed it and put it down between her legs. The waiter appeared. “May I take any of your plates?” he asked. Missy did not see him. SPLURT! Missy gasped. “Ooooh! That’s cold!” she squeaked. Then, realizing we had company, she looked up at the waiter, guiltily. Stray locks from her chestnut coiffure fell into her eyes. “I was just playing,” she whispered contritely. “Oh! May I get you a napkin?” the waiter asked helpfully. He did not understand. “Noooo,” Missy murmured. She replaced the can in the bucket. “I could use some more whipped cream, though. This one’s almost out.” “She’d like a bib,” Brent scowled. The waiter, at last, caught on a little (hopefully no more) and nodded politely. Several of our plates were removed. Missy picked up her glass of orange juice and gurgled it down noisily. Besides our champagne we had hot chocolate and the juice, or anything else we wished. Brent nursed a cup of coffee. The establishment, I guessed, charged an extravagant price for brunch, and could afford to shower us with food. When the waiter left Brent dipped a hand into his tux and drew out a handkerchief. I could see it was concealing something. “You girls have been very naughty,” he said quietly. He handed me the handkerchief and I accepted it. “I want one too!” Missy piped up. Her eyes were wide. She was like a younger sibling, always afraid of being left out. I opened my handkerchief. Handcuffs! I felt my throat constrict. “Put them on,” Brent said somberly. “Brent! You wouldn’t--” I was having such a nice meal, albeit a messy one. He looked at me with his hard, demanding eyes, the ones that made my heart skip beats. I’d never had a father. Not to speak of, anyway. I couldn’t refuse. If he’d been a woman I’d have said ‘no,’ but I couldn’t refuse that scowling, unshaved jaw, stubbled like a pirate’s or a prisoner’s. He had prisoner’s eyes, too. Were we not illegal? Yet he owned us. He owned us and our furs and the food in our bellies and the risque bikinis we’d worn into the restaurant. I drew the handcuffs into the sleeve of my coat. Brent passed a handkerchief parcel to Missy so she could be just like me. She accepted it, poor child. She was desperate not to be outdone by me, even if it meant her doom. I’d noticed that the handcuffs Brent had given me were connected by a long chain. I guessed why, now, reaching behind myself and snapping on the first cuff. The chain allowed enough room for my cuffed hand to secure my uncuffed hand. Looking at Brent, feeling my hunger for him rise within my creamed, slitted womb, I snapped the second handcuff into place. “Very good,” Brent said to me. His eyes smoldered. Mine showed fear, resignation, and a tinge of love. Did I wish it any other way? He’d promised a spanking for me. Jasmine had promised it, and she was fierce. I felt a new sensation in my bottom, a memory of last night’s whipping, gone now, except in my mind, mixed with the tension and fear of a new assault. The seat, warm and soft, was meant to offer me the ultimate comfort. Yet I would abandon it and follow Brent home, where I would be displayed and forced to suffer. I yanked on my handcuffs. The chain snapped taut, offered me no escape. I yanked again. My wrists banged within the grasping steel of the handcuffs. Yes, I was his prisoner now. Fully, completely. Unless, that is, I chose to be a tattletale. I could tell all to the maitre d’ and be flying home on the next plane, back to my real home, back to L.A. I set my teeth. Brent watched me do it. He saw my determination, he smiled wanly at my cupid face. I was an angel. I was a lover. I was a prisoner. A raw metal click announced Missy’s own imprisonment. “I’m trapped!” she realized. She had locked herself in without understanding the consequences. “How do I unlock this?” “You don’t,” Brent said. “The bib, sir,” our waiter announced, returning suddenly. “I don’t want to wear a bib!” Missy proclaimed. Diners looked up from their meals. Like explorers in a cave they gazed uncertainly, into the darkness of ignorance but finding small gleams of knowledge. Was the girl not too big for a bib? Yet perhaps she’d been difficult. The bib was meant as a threat to control her. “The bib will not be needed. She’s agreed to behave,” Brent told our waiter. “No I haven’t!” Missy contradicted. The waiter withdrew, letting us settle the matter ourself. He left the bib on the table, beside Missy’s undies. Did he know they were undies? I could not tell. Brent finished his breakfast. It was odd sitting there, watching him eat, unable to eat myself. My arms were pinned behind me now, inside the confines of my coat. Nobody knew, nobody guessed. My nipples were sticky. They felt like they were adhering themselves to the inside of my coat as the honey on them dried. Would my nipples be ripped from my chest when I stood up? I was wet all down my tummy, with honey drippings and chocolate syrup. From the neck up I was a picture of politeness, with dazzling earrings, perfect hair, and sensational makeup. Yet between my thighs I was wet with oozing whipped cream. I felt decadent. Brent finished his meal and rose. He drew out Missy’s chair. She was quiet. She was a brat, not a tattletale. She would not betray our captivity. Brent came to my place and helped me up. I walked with expansively swaying hips through the restaurant. I could not help myself. I was being taken home to be spanked. I was going to get it. My bottom rubbed against the soft inside of my coat, unknowing, comfortable. Yet my mind was a whirl of confusion. I should tell! I should run! But how humiliating to be discovered naked under my fur coat, and handcuffed, and messy with cream and chocolate and honey. And all put there by me, little guiltless me, except nobody would believe I was guiltless. They’d say I was, of course. They’d be politically correct in speaking to me. But behind my back they’d say, “Such little tramps those two were! Imagine! Messing themselves like that!” Missy wriggled exceedingly as she walked. She was frightened, frisky, a girl compassing between the known and the unknown. How hard would Jasmine hit us? Would we really be made to stand before ladies, at tea? I almost opted to blurt out my fate just then, passing the maitre d’. Yet it would be a private humiliation, between lovers. Only a few would know. It would not be on the evening news, with my name blocked out but all my friends knowing. My mom knowing. “Here’s your daughter, ma’am,” the F.B.I. man would say. “We found her in Caracas. She was staying with a man who kept her as a pet and...” I curled my fingers around the underside of my coat, in back. To get a grip. To reassure myself. Did the maitre d’ see my fingers? Did he wonder why I had my hands inside my coat, and behind me, with my fingertips sticking out and curled round the fur trim of my coat? I did not know whether our coats were real or artificial, but they were fur on fur, blonde fur surrounded by a lighter fur trim. Probably they were ersatz, I concluded. Missy and I were still a bit too irresponsible for real fur. Perhaps Brent would buy us real fur coats when we parted, when we’d proven ourselves to him, that we were real women and not just little brats. Would there be a parting? I speculated on that, passing out of the restaurant. I wanted to glance back over my shoulder. Had I left a trail of drips behind me? It felt like the cream on my pussy was dripping. I hoped not. Brent made me so ecstatic, but he was fierce, under his smooth demeanor. His control-oriented nature appealed to me, yet would it always? Surely I must be free sometime. But now, just now, I was his. Myself, and Missy too, probably, unless I could rid myself of her. He liked having two of us. It made him King. Had he seen her and requested her? Had he heard her sobbing screams somehow, and asked for her? “I have to go to the bathroom,” Missy confided to Brent as he halted us. We were out of the restaurant now, thankfully, and under the end of a tented entryway. A valet saw us and hurried off for our limo. “When we get home,” Brent said. “I have to go NOW,” Missy whined. “Unlock me.” “No,” Brent answered. “I’ll pee in the car,” Missy warned. “We’ll see about that,” Brent replied. I rode sitting on the way back. I was cuffed, sitting barebottomed on the car’s leather seat. I could feel the leather adhering itself to my ass. It would sting a little when I stood up, like my nipples stung when, on rising, I forcibly detached their honeyed tips from the inside of my coat. But I was better off than Missy. She rode lying over Brent’s lap. Barelegged, bare-bottomed, she was forced to present him with her naked wriggling ass all the way home. She begged to pee but he refused. “You’re putting on quite a show,” Brent smirked at Missy. “Oooh! Let me up! I need to pee and I don’t like lying on my tummy! Quit sticking your finger in my hole!” Missy begged. Brent just laughed. I laughed. She looked absolutely silly lying with her fanny all exposed, her feet tossing in the air and her legs kicking. Yet her hands were fastened within the cuffs, trapping her, and Brent, oiling his finger with his spit, was entertaining himself by plunging his digit in Missy’s anus. She dared not misbehave too much or he’d go deeper with his finger, or try penetrating her with two, or three. She was forced to accept him in her butthole and offer only pleading resistance. She might have kicked at his chin with her heel but she would have instantly found her guts impaled. Like a man drilling for oil, Brent eased his finger in and out of her, enjoying his power over her, the fear he induced. “Do you have to pee on my pants leg, minx? Hmmmm? Go ahead, pee! Here, let me tickle your cunny!” “Oh no sir please, stop! Don’t! I weally WILL pee! Ack!” And so our ride proceeded. Missy was getting her comeuppance now, for all her mischief at brunch. Yet, as we neared our destination, Brent thought of a way to punish me too. “Open your legs,” he told me. I obeyed. Sitting there, on the seat with my arms trapped behind me, I felt desperately vulnerable. Exposing my slit to him only made it worse. Yet there was nothing I could do. “Eat her,” Brent told Missy. “Lick up all that whipped cream on her pussy!” “Oh, no! PLEASE! I don’t like eating girls! I--” Brent took Missy’s face and manhandled it into my dell. To keep her ever-compliant he rammed his finger to its deepest point yet in her butthole. I gasped and heaved my chest forward as little Missy’s tongue delved within me. I heard a soft lapping sound and looked down, wishing she wasn’t there, yet unable to escape her. She mooed and moaned and pleaded, but Brent made her lick me clean. When at last he allowed her to raise her face a little I saw her mouth was circled with cream. Missy licked her lips. Perhaps she had a sweet tooth after all. “Alright you two, time to get out!” Brent told us. Our limo entered Jasmine’s property. We were safe again, free to play out our games without anyone knowing. Yet we were at our most vulnerable, Missy and I, for we were the game. We were the pieces and Brent was our Chessmaster. We trooped within the house. We were taken into a parlor. Brent admitted us himself. He was happy, ushering us along, happy like a man who owns property and enjoys doing with it what he pleases. He wiped his finger with his handkerchief so it wouldn’t betray traces of Missy’s shit. ------ “The U.S. Supreme Court refused to hear an appeal from Mike Diana, who was convicted in Florida in 1994 for creating and distributing obscene drawings (see “Loony Toons,” “The Playboy Forum,” August 1994). He must now serve out his original sentence, which includes 1248 hours of community service. Diana is donating his time to the Comic Book Legal Defense Fund.” - Playboy, January 1998, pg. 52. Keep your mind clean and pure! Why read an obscene comic when you can read: Stories by Andrew Roller: A Mansion for Masochists Liquid Pleasures Watermelon Moon Bondage Bliss A Party for Perversion Desire Isle Las Vegas Lust Erotic Estate Office Slave Bottoms in Bondage Field of Desire Alice Amore Jack and Jill The Beach Western Vegas Vixen Sarajevo Sexfest Lady Fontaine Holland Hunnies Amsterdam Damsels Bordello Girls Chambers of Love Love Child Puppy Love Private Places Cunt Castle Bush League Pussy Playland Nudie Nursery Dungeon of Desire Passion’s Playpen The Fading Universe Permanent Perigee Dis’s Sojourn There and Not Back Again Purpose Shall be the Firmer (poem) All Life Needs Life to Live (poem) Candyland Cunny Love Lessons Pussy Pals Pussy Valley Lust’s Lair Baby Pussy Football Frolics Dancing Diva Captive Cock The First Temptation of Christ Party Pussies Honey Haven Amazonia Summer of Sin Punished for Pleasure Gold Diggers Enslaved to Eros Bikini Brigade Labors of Love Sins of the Flesh kiddie clitties All of the stories listed above are now available for free on the Internet. See below for where to find them. AND IN THE END... WHY FUCK DECENCY? “Since governments everywhere are forever trying to expand their reach and authority.” - The Economist, December 6, 1997, pg. 96. -------------------------- Fuck Decency! ------------------------ -Back issues (and stories): 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 320 EMISSION -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ |