Message-ID: <7068eli$9801072258@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: Andrew Roller Subject: FUCK DECENCY 328 Dungeon of Desire NND 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: <34B2C27E.5DD1@idt.net> --------------------------------------------------------------- PROBLEMS? Please try viewing this with Netscape Navigator. --------------------------------------------------------------- Not to worry! Seinfeld may be gone, but you still have... Andrew Roller Presents FUCK DECENCY Sponsored by: Crab the dog Issue No. 328 Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in Dungeon of Desire Chapter One Except for my heels and my earrings, I was completely naked. I bit my lower lip and hung my head a little, letting him gaze at me. I stuck my chest out a little bit more, rudely, obscenely, given that my arms were already padlocked behind my back. I was proud of myself. I felt the newness of my body, newly grown, my plump young breasts. They hung free, firm and full, like fresh fruit discovered in a hothouse on a clear Spring morning. I wanted them always to be free now. I never wanted to have them confined in a bra again. I would live here always, I pledged to myself, where my bosoms could swing with my steps and my bottom, round and full as my tits, could sway and sashay and tease. I was eager to let him see me. I could feel the heat of his breath even now, or imagined I could. He was just a few steps away. Older than me by at least two lifetimes, mine plus his, and hard from working in the sun, building additions to his house and improving his dungeon. He was wealthy. An inheritance. It freed him to play games and do as he pleased. And what he pleased to do, I knew, though nothing had been said, not directly, anyway, was fuck. But he was particular. Only certain girls appealed to him. He savored power. You would think, at over six feet, he could accommodate equality. But his housekeeper was slim and small and dainty, an Oriental. Her every motion spoke of deference and humility. Yet, as she grasped my arm, urging me into his presence, her slim nailed fingers, exquisitely polished, gripped me fiercely. Underneath that humble exterior I felt a dragon lurking. She would be as cruel as he. She would show me the rites of Oriental Tea even as she subjected me to the most degrading pleasures. I wanted to be tested. There was no use kidding myself. It was too late for that now, anyway. (Though it settles the nerves, lying a little to yourself.) In my new body, just turned sixteen, I wanted to meet a man who could really appreciate me and show me everything I needed to know to be a woman. I wanted him to concentrate just on me, nobody else. I wanted his full attention. I wanted him to tell me what I was, what I must be, how I must act and behave. I’d had enough of feminists with their musty tomes, counseling abstinence, and my mom, dear fool, telling me I must finish college first, and after that graduate school and then, as a professional woman, I might meet some man who deferred to me as his equal. Here I was not equal, or superior, or inferior either, though I was inexperienced. I was just me. Me with my breasts and their nippled thorns, poking inquisitively into the stare of my master. His chest heaved, he sighed. He was barechested and as I watched he began to unzip his pants. “Kneel,” the Oriental, Katy, told me. I saw her as an extension of him. His female side. She was not competition. They would train me together. She was there to make sure I complied. I knelt. There was a soft towel that had been laid on the floor, perhaps by accident, perhaps for me. It was pink. It accepted my knees and I dared to look up at my master. I watched as he tugged down his zipper. I waited. A growth of hair appeared and I saw with a gasp that he was wearing no underpants. I snake curled forth, its head still trapped in his pants. “Put out your tongue. Let him know you want him,” Katy told me. She knelt beside me and reached round me and pinched one of my nipples to make sure I complied. I offered. I parted my lips and let him see the pinkness of my tongue. It was wet. A dollop of my saliva pooled upon its curling surface. I flattened my tongue and the saliva dropped off, fell to strike one of my breasts. With a huge explosive wangling extrusion, his cock burst from his opened zipper. It greeted my eyes and seemed Alien-like; self-possessed, harmful. It trembled with his need. Huge veins ran along its giant, tree-trunk length and the head stood out purplish and raw. I found myself gazing at his pee hole. As I watched, a spermy glob of pre-cum emerged from his pee slit and hung waiting. “Lick it,” Katy told me. “No!” I protested. I was in Kindergarten again, learning of Strangers. Katy grabbed my blonde hair and shoved my face forward. I tried to close my lips but she forced me forward so fast I found him wide within my mouth, choking me, ramming into me and filling me and making me gag. With a slow, sadistic wry laugh, Katy eased my head back until Master’s penis popped from my lips. She waited. I gazed with my head gripped by her, my chin flung back, up into my Master’s eyes. Gradually, knowing I must, knowing I could not refuse, I extended my tongue again. It touched his pee hole. I flicked it. I soothed the flat of my tongue against it. And Katy, moving my head forward as I accepted the contact, made me take him full in my mouth again. “Yes. Suck,” Katy ordered. I suckled his cock like a baby mouthing a cucumber. He was so big! I could hardly do him justice with my little mouth. But I tried. I tried my best, and that was what they were after. I must perform to the best of my ability, I must not hold back, not anything, and I must be willing to learn all I could. Master watched me suck him. He was big beyond belief and he knew that’s what I’d come for. I could not tolerate boys. I needed men. And I needed, in my needing, Men with big Ones, as little girls delicately put it. “She should have the taste of you, Master,” Katy told her employer. He laughed. They both laughed, as he let himself cum, spurting and spurting and spurting into my mouth, and I gobbled at his cock and tried to swallow him all. I failed miserably. His sperm gushed over my chin and splattered my breasts and ran down my tummy into my sweet nest of curls. A puddle formed on the towel. His essence. His sperm, saved for me, but now lost due to my inexperience. “You have much to learn,” Master told me. I looked up at him wide-eyed, my mouth limned with his sperm and feeling abashed. Katy lifted me up by my hair. She turned me to face her. She was naked as I, her breasts hanging free, full and plump and with nipples risen. She had a dough-eyed face, round and Japanese, with a perky nose and a long swan-like throat. She mashed my mouth to hers. I felt her breasts, quite large for an Oriental, crush themselves against mine. “Let me clean you,” she said, and her tongue stabbed into my mouth, not asking permission, just sticking itself in as if I were owned by her. My mouth was hers and my body was hers and as I felt her palms against my bottom, hefting it, grabbing me and pulling me to her, I knew I was not myself anymore but theirs. Our games had begun upstairs. They’d made me undress the minute I stepped into their house. Out back, on their porch, they’d shown me their patio. A blanket covered its cement surface to protect my bare feet. And my knees. They made me kneel and drink from a dog food bowl. “The water is fresh. I just poured it before you arrived,” Katy told me. “It’s Perrier. Drink it all.” She led me forward to the bowl. I glanced back at her, at Him, the man who would be my Master here. My blonde hair, long and soft and beautiful, catching glints of the setting sun, swirled around my frightened face. And then I knelt. It was awkward, kneeling before a dog dish. I had to get right down and not use my hands. They were still free then. I put my palms on the carpet and felt my breasts swing freely under me as I put my mouth down to the dog dish. In back, my bottom, sheathed in my jeans out on the street, now bulged freely behind me. I felt the crack of my small tight seat open as I bent down to tongue the dish. I kissed the water. It was cool. The dish had my name on it. “Kelly,” it read. They’d personalized it just for me. Dutifully I lapped at the water. My bosoms, like gourds, hung and swung under me. My nipples were stiff and they grazed the blanket. “Drink it all. You must pee for us, like a doggie,” Katy said. She stood over me, watching, holding the whip I’d brought with me for them to beat me with. It had been required. I had no choice in that, none at all, unless I chose not to come. I lifted my head. I felt rebellious. They had a marvelous backyard pool and I’d never skinny dipped in my life. I watched the water ripple across it in the wind and expected we’d swim in it. “Will we swim?” I asked simply. “No,” Katy replied. She opened a parasol over my heinie. I felt the rays of the setting sun, warm a moment ago, blocked and kept out by the parasol. Under its shadow my bottom was cool. A mountain breeze kissed my ass cheeks, as if urging them wider apart. “Why?” I asked. “Not ‘til after dark, love. You must stay out of the sun. You must protect your skin.” I glanced up at her. A lock of my hair fell into the bowl and became wet in it. She was Oriental, and her skin was white, delicate. Her hair was rich and black and it tumbled down in strands over her shoulders where her simple coiffure was coming undone. “But,” I breathed. She held the parasol in one hand the whip I’d brought in the other. “You have lovely skin,” Katy said, looking down at me. “I’ll enjoy marking it.” COMIC REVIEW by holy joe Zipwad, No. 1, 25 cents. Minicomic. Tan paper, eight pages. Brian Kirk, Moot Comics, 93 Sunapee Street, Springfield, MA 01108. e-mail: mootcomics@aol.com web: http://www.the-spa.com/bear/moothome Review: On January 5, 1998, on a reprise interview on Charlie Rose, Jerry Seinfeld told Charlie, referring to Seinfeld, “It’s a hand-made show.” Well, for all those viewers who enjoyed the loving care lavished on a self-described hand-made T.V. show, what better way to get over the loss of Seinfeld than by ordering a bona fide, hand-made comic? Brian’s comics are drawn by hand, then xeroxed and collated by hand, and, finally, stapled by hand. I still remember the days when he couldn’t find a decent xerox machine, and was forced to xerox his comics on sub-standard equipment. Those days are, fortunately, gone, but the loving care of a hand-made product persists. Due to market demand or, more likely, to the whim of the artist, Brian has given a character from Pissed Off comics his own title. This is it! Zipwad, number one. In this issue Zipwad invents a chair that can travel through time. There’s just one drawback. To make the chair work, you have to sit on a tack that’s been embedded in the chair’s seat. (Perhaps Brian has read too many bottom-stinging issues of Fuck Decency!) Zipwad takes a painful journey back in time to Christ’s last supper. He clues Jesus in on who is betraying him. Then it’s off to the Middle Ages, Rome, and, finally, with the perfection of the chair (the ‘tack problem’ is finally resolved) to a place Zipwad finds even more painful than his time-travelling chair. Each panel in this comic is drawn with loving care. Electricity sizzles across the comic’s title: “Zipwad”. A screw falls out of a cabinet as Zipwad opens it to look for a way to make his chair more comfortable. Shadows line a hallway that Zipwad escapes down, and play across his bottom as he prepares to sit in his time-travelling chair. “Zipwad” is a cute little comic featuring a man who goes boldly where no man has gone before... with his bottom! MAGAZINE REVIEWS by holy joe Playboy’s Voluptuous Vixens, $6.95. Web: http://www.playboy.com Review: This is a collection of previously published photos, plus some new ones. Did you miss the very first photos of Tiffany Taylor, published in Playboy’s College Girls? The best photo from that set is reprinted here. It’s a photo of Tiffany staring with awe-struck eyes, her shirt uplifted to expose her bountiful bosoms, while her fingers curl hesitantly near her mouth. Right next to that classic photo, on the opposite page, is one of Tiffany’s tummy. Her childish hands pull down her panties to expose her bush; her shirt is pulled up to offer a tantalizing, close-up view of her breasts. Perhaps you missed Playboy’s Nude Playmates, published last spring. Not to worry! The best photo from that issue, of Angel Boris clinging to Priscilla Taylor, is reprinted. Both girls are nude. Angel’s breasts press against Priscilla’s, and the close contact between the two girls causes Angel’s nipples to sprout. One important note: the copy I bought of Playboy’s Voluptuous Vixens had manufacturer’s damage on all the photos listed above. It wasn’t too bad, but check your copy before you buy it if you can. What else is in this issue? Well, if you want to see what Alley Baggett looked like before she stupidly frizzed her hair, check out page 52. As she stares into the camera, her bare bosoms looming below her pixie face, she juts a finger into her tempting mouth. The opposite page shows her ready to party in a bosom-baring corset. (Incidentally, I called Alley’s parents and asked about her name. “Her older brothers are named ‘Street,’ and ‘Avenue,’” her father told me. “She was just a girl, and small, so we named her ‘Alley.’ Her baby brother is named ‘Lane.’” Clever family, eh?) Recently a Playboy Playmate visited me. She wanted to be sure I mentioned her when she appeared in Playboy. I told her I would, but she’d have to have sex with me. She agreed. You can see what she looked like when I was through fucking her, on pages 56 and 57. (Friends tell me Vikki Neil was sore for days following our meeting!) Playmate Vanessa Taylor (what is it with the Taylors... how many beautiful daughters do they have?!) went to the doctor. She had to get a physical exam before she could start college. You can see her undressed, waiting to meet the doctor, on pages 62-63. If you’re wondering why she’s holding a pencil in one of the photos, it’s so she can fill out those pesky insurance forms everyone has to fill out before they see the doctor. (As you can see, the doctor wasn’t stupid. He had her undress first. Then he gave her the forms to fill out!) Young Vanessa, being a little scared about seeing the doctor, brought along her favorite teddy bears to keep her company. They couldn’t help her with the forms though... If you’ve never been breast-fed, take a look at pages 86-87. Playmate Jennifer Perry demonstrates the proper technique. In my opinion, except for Tiffany Taylor, these were the best photos of the issue. Her breasts are wonderfully large, beautifully tanned, and she handles them with loving, expert fingers. God, what a set of photos! There is a new style of layout in this issue. It’s very clever. On one page is a glorious photo of the girl, printed nice and large, that includes her face. Then, on the opposite page, are one or more photos that zoom in on her most important parts, excluding her face. By looking at both pages at the same time, you get quite a pleasurable viewing experience. True, it isn’t as wonderful as reading an article by Andrea Dorkin, but we can’t just sit around enjoying ourselves all the time, can we? Us us us by Paul Magnuson Pushing for an out like steam in the tea kettle before it sings energy energy energy trying to get loose like four jet engines screwed to wings tension tension tension till the release and the peace that finally comes in a rush and a gush. I ... am ... yours. AND IN THE END... “God knows what he does with himself and the magazines all night.” - Frank McCourt, Angela’s Ashes, pg. 346. -------------------------- Fuck Decency! ------------------------ -Back issues (and stories): type http://www.dejanews.com/ into your browser’s “Location” window. Press your “return” key. Click on “Quick Search”, then type in: roller39@idt.net Press your “return” key. Scroll to the very bottom of the page that appears. Change “Standard” to “Complete” roller39@idt.net is already typed into the window. Click in the window behind the “t” in “.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 1998 and a trademark of Andrew Roller. Work by others copyright 1998 by the respective copyright holder. -END OF 328 EMISSION - To hell with Seinfeld. It’s his 17-year-old girlfriend Shoshanna that I want to see on T.V.! (Source: Star, June 15, 1993, pg. 37) -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ |