Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 101
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Bottoms in Bondage
Chapter One
We were naked and lovely and wet, yet our hair, half-dried by the
sun, wet again in places by our playing, fell in tumbling locks of gold and
almond. None of us were artificial in our choices of hair color. My private
mound matched my tresses as sweetly as RoseÕs matched hers, or LindaÕs,
or SandraÕs. We compared pussies, stroked each other softly, examined
each otherÕs boobies for lumps. And then we were Indians again, streaking
about and fighting over the hose and spraying each other. At last we
retreated to the house. We made a picnic basket for ourselves and ate
lunch in the nude out on the porch, sitting on towel-covered benches
around a picnic table. Then we went about preparing our bodies for the
coming night. We took another bath outside, more serious this time,
taking turns underneath the hose, which we held for each other. Then we
made ourselves up in a little bathroom near the kitchen, a bathroom with
just a toilet and sink. There was spare makeup stashed there, and we did
each other up like Geisha dolls might have, seriously and purposefully. We
wondered at our masterÕs absence. Perhaps he was purposely delaying,
giving us a rest from our slavery.
At last night settled in. We were dolled up perfectly, four willing
sex slaves awaiting our master. We had changed the sheets before doing
ourselves, hand-washed them outside, then replaced them with new ones.
Our own bodies were now sparkling clean, our hair and nails perfect, our
lips rimmed with lipstick and our eyes lined as prettily as CleopatraÕs.
We were, of course, still totally nude, and as we stood in the Master
Bedroom contemplating its bed we wondered if we should obey MasterÕs
last order. Would we really tie each other down, leaving only one of us
with, at best, her hands free?
ÒIt is his fault for being so late,Ó Sandra said at last. ÒWe shall
tease him, girls. WeÕll go dancing and make him jealous.Ó
ÒSandra!Ó I said. My eyes were wide, as were RoseÕs and LindaÕs.
ÒHe is a harsh master. We will not be happy if he gets back and finds us
gone!Ó Reflexively I put my hands to my bottom and felt the flesh there.
Lightly I massaged it. Ah, it was healed now. I turned, looked in a mirror.
The marks were gone. My chubby cheeks loomed at me, lightly tanned now,
but still lighter than the rest of me, which had a deeper tan from previous
sunnings.
The bedroom telephone rang. Sandra walked over to it, looking
glorious in her nudity. ÒYes?Ó she asked. Her long auburn hair fell about
her face, perfectly curled and coiffed. A phone sex callerÕs dream. And
then her face fell. She listened.
We spent the night together in bed, crying. SandraÕs husband had
been killed in a car crash, hurrying home to be with us. Feeling awkward
in our clothes, hastily pulled on (Sandra doing as best she could for the
rest of us from her own wardrobe), we visited the hospital where her
husband was pronounced dead. Then, prisoners without our warden, we
returned to SandraÕs. Tearily we consoled each other during the long
night, lying in the very bed heÕd planned to sperm us in. Rose, Linda,
myself, would never feel him within us. And our bottoms remained
unvoilated, untried and untested, though heÕd vowed to see we lost our
virginity there. Wobbling our tits against one another, sharing our tears,
we lay in enforced chastity upon the bed, waiting for a Master who would
never return.
Chapter Two
A week passed. We spent it in mourning, moping about SandraÕs
house. We attended MasterÕs funeral, our faces (mine especially) veiled in
black. Glancing about, I thanked God that nobody had spotted me at the
hospital either, where weÕd conveniently been presented with medical
masks upon our arrival. Morgues were not known for their healthy air.
Sandra stood before me now, almost like weÕd been before, when the
call had come. We were made up perfectly. We were going dancing. Foam
dancing. Sandra wore a nothing bikini, made of paper-thin velvet. It was
mostly drawstrings, though it did boast a full seat in back. Or, rather, it
had. Sandra had insisted on taking a scissors to her bikini, and those we
wore also, cutting up our seats until they were quite frayed, even showing
a bit of buttcrack here and there. ÒThere! Better than thong bikinis, yet
still legal,Ó sheÕd boasted at last, admiring her handiwork. ÒWell,
nightclub legal, at least, for foam dancing!Ó
ÒSandra,Ó I said, rolling my eyes. ÒYou donÕt really expect us to
wear these teensy black velvet bikinis in public, do you?Ó
ÒNot at all,Ó she replied. ÒWeÕll wear clothes to the club, and
undress when we get there. As soon as the dancing starts foam will be
spilling out everywhere and weÕll be up to our necks in it in no time!
HavenÕt you ever gone to a foam party before?Ó
ÒNo,Ó I said, looking down in dismay at my boobs, barely held in by
the frayed, teensy bra that was meant to contain them.
ÒIÕve worn frayed jeans,Ó Rose offered. ÒI cut up the knees and the
bottom too. Me and my girlfriend walked to the mall and got lots of looks
from boys!Ó Linda shot her a disapproving glance.
ÒOne thing I know, and IÕll say it again,Ó Linda announced. ÒMy uncle
bought one of these for me this summer and it FELL APART when I tried to
swim a few laps in it in his swimming pool!Ó
ÒFell off, you mean,Ó I said, tugging at my bra cups to see how much
they could take without bursting open. Not much, I guessed. It would
make for interesting dancing.
ÒNot Ôfell off,Õ silly! Fell apart,Ó Linda harumphed.
ÒWell, you shouldnÕt have gotten it wet,Ó Sandra said seductively.
ÒGood girls never get their bikinis wet. This is just bubble dancing,
anyway. Bubbles are moist, but theyÕre not like being submerged
underwater, are they?Ó
ÒI suppose not, but youÕre the only one whoÕs ever done it,Ó Linda
said.
Impulsively I reached out and felt SandraÕs belly. It seemed flat
enough. SheÕd decided to keep her husbandÕs child, as a memento of his
love. Somewhere in there a baby was growing. SheÕd swell soon enough.
ÒShouldnÕt you stay home, now that youÕre an expectant mother?Ó I
asked.
ÒNot at all, dear,Ó she replied, lightly removing my hand. She turned
and posed herself before a mirror, admired her still-perfect figure,
bikini-clad for perhaps the last time. Or so I hoped. I could hardly
imagine a pregnant woman rushing around in a dance hall, naked but for a
string bikini, foam or no foam.
ÒCome, darlings, we must be on our way,Ó Sandra said at last,
satisfied that she looked desirable despite her impending motherhood.
ÒDonÕt forget to pull on your mittens!Ó Ah, the lacy black mittens she
insisted we wear. Along with our open-toed pumps. We would wear these
dancing in the club, plus our gold hoop earrings that dangled alluringly
from our ears. Foam dancing. I marvelled at how seductive weÕd look.
And, perhaps most intriguing of all, weÕd allowed our breasts and bottoms
to whiten again. WeÕd worn our bikinis outdoors, religiously, so that you
could easily see now where our velvet bikinis failed to cover what our
swimsuits usually did. Sunning ourselves on the porch had become a more
modest activity than public dancing.
Sandra had arranged everything. The sunning, our bikinis, and even
the clothes sheÕd bought us at the mall to cover us until we arrived at the
club. It had gone hand-in-hand with her husbandÕs funeral, giving her
relief from the thought of his passing. Now she was determined to forget
her husbandÕs death, at least for one night. It was what he would have
wanted. A beautiful wife should not be kept at home, heÕd said many
times, except as a love slave.
Sandra had us pull on our clothes. Then she ushered us out of the
bedroom, pausing by the broken bedroom door that sheÕd never repair, out
of respect for her husband. Then we hurried downstairs and met a waiting
cab.
We arrived at the club and piled out. It was well appointed, a gravel
drive leading through trees to a canopied promenade. We lined up there
with the other hopeful guests, certain weÕd be picked to come inside. I
wore a t-shirt, my black bikini bra coyly visible beneath it, plus an open
vest made of black leather. I was going to be a wild child tonight, at least
in appearance. Around my neck, as a personal touch, IÕd tied a black scarf.
Rose had copied me, while Linda was bare-necked (she thought the scarf
too seductive, though her choice of going bare-throated instead seemed, in
my mind, perhaps bolder still, given how little weÕd be wearing when we
danced). For her own touch, Sandra had chosen a dogÕs collar. Like us,
sheÕd keep her neckwear on when we stripped for the foam fest.
I wore shorts around my waist. They were made of tight denim, cut
up beforehand by Sandra with a scissors and a knife. You could catch
glimpses of my swim panties here and there, waiting to be presented.
Inside, when the dancing began, waiting for the foam.
Rose wore a seductive miniskirt, hiked up in back to offer a full
view of her pantied bottom whenever the wind nipped by. It was a soft
skirt, easily blown, colored black. Amidst the blackness of the fabric a
pattern of wine-dark cherries had been imprinted. An invitation to all
save little boys who had yet to learn of such things.
Linda, for her part, wore a sarong low on her waist. It was a
fetchingly makeshift one, made from a bandanna that sheÕd knotted about
herself. It both half-revealed and half-concealed her ripped panties. I
was surprised at her boldness. She squirmed as she stood, and had
silently evinced discomfort sitting in the cab. Suddenly I realized; sheÕd
been alone with Sandra for awhile while Rose gave me an Òinnocents
abroadÓ tour of SandraÕs basement. Sandra had spanked Linda, I guessed.
She would have insisted on foam dancing in a chador if sheÕd had her way.
Wriggling her ass, she kept her annoyance at her display to herself. A
secret humiliation, delivered by mistress, which she hoped we wouldnÕt
discover.
My eyes turned to Sandra. Boldly, sheÕd selected no outer garment at
all. Like me, she wore a t-shirt, with a towel draped round her neck to
hide her perky nipples. Women could not be as openly seductive as girls
were. They were presumed to know better. She had a wide-brimmed
straw hat on, with pretty flowers in its banded crown. She wore
sunglasses. And, below, her bare legs rose to her ass, where her bottom
and pussy were clad only in her frayed swim panties. Made of felt. Not
something sheÕd want to do lifeguarding in, that was for sure. Her tee
covered half her ass, but the lower halves of her cheeks bulged out
prominently. A full young-wifeÕs bottom, deeply cleft and made for more
than just spanks and kisses. Little girls might have their bottoms
admired, or slapped, but women must offer theirs up for full-fledged
marital bedroom games. I glanced about, saw men glancing at her with
special pleasure.
It was an upscale crowd. Some were kids, dressed like us in urban
partywear, others were men in business suits, fresh from work. A number
of women wore elegant evening gowns, sheath-tight with nothing on
underneath. I noticed several ahead of me, sipping champagne. Their rear
cleavage showed nicely through their tight dresses. In front, their low-
swooping necklines offered views of bosoms white and full. Their nipples
rose in various stages of excitement, depending on the girl, and offered
themselves pointedly through the dress fabric.
ÒChampagne?Ó a girl asked me. She worked at the club, moved down
the line offering drinks to keep the customers happy.
ÒItÕs free?Ó Linda asked.
ÒOf course! Even if you donÕt get picked you still can get wasted,Ó
the girl replied. ÒExtras cost, of course, but IÕm not too good in math, so
whoÕs counting?Ó She looked like she might have been sampling a bit
herself before bringing it out, I thought. I took a glass, but Linda refused,
saying she was a strict teetotaler. Except it came out, Òtit-tailer,Ó which
gave us all a laugh. Rose and I took drinks, as did Sandra, while Linda
contented herself with wriggling her nose in disapproval and offering us
various maxims from Molly Hatchet.
ÒMy strict Mormon upbringing would never permit me to drink,Ó Linda
said, quoting from her religionÕs substitute for the Bible, and giving us an
800 number so we could order one. We sipped quietly, pleasantly listening
to her in our little group, with an attentive male ear cocked here and there
nearby. It was shady and cool. In the distance the sun was setting.
The girl with the drinks returned again, and I noticed sheÕd lost her
shirt. She wore a wafer-thin woolen bra, ripped here and there along the
cups to offer glimpses of her bosoms, beyond what already bulged up.
Below, her shorts had been seductively unbuttoned, showing her matching
panties. It was swimwear, or sold as such, so no bluenose (not even
Linda!) could complain. Her shorts, made of denim, hugged her hips so
tightly they seemed unable to fall. Yet I wondered if some errant male
hand might not give gravity a bit of assistance. We took more drinks. The
line began to sluggishly move forward.
At the door, just beyond a bouncer, a woman picked who would enter.
She was Alexis, Sandra told us, and picked on the basis of looks and
status. ÒDonÕt worry,Ó Sandra assured us. ÒThanks to my husband, I have
the status, and you have the looks. Alexis isnÕt fussy about I.D.Õs and such,
if youÕre good looking!Ó To my delight she picked us, and we proceeded
inside. Some people behind us got turned away, but the free drinks theyÕd
gotten more than assuaged their hurt feelings.
The doors to the club closed. ÒGet your things off, everyone!Ó Alexis
called out, smiling. ÒUnless you want them ruined by bubbles, that is! Of
course you must keep SOMETHING on, according to the law, since this is a
public club. But your streetwear, or whatever you wish, can be piled into
the lockers along the wall.
There was much bustling then, as each of us took a waiting key from
a lock on a locker and opened it, then stripped down for dancing. Alexis
herself walked about, keeping everyone happy. I marvelled at her dress. It
was a sheath-dress, like the women outdoors had been wearing. In back,
though, AlexisÕ dress dipped all the way down to her derriere, showing the
uppermost part of her buttcrack. I could make out where her swimsuit
usually covered her, and it certainly wasnÕt there now! Yet despite the
nudity of her entire back, her dress clung to her tightly in front. Alexis
was literally wrapped in it, or so it seemed, for it moulded her breasts as
well as the indipping space where her thighs joined. All over her
shoulders and halfway down her back a ravenous, flowing mane of red hair
made up for her lack of clothing. AlexisÕ hair was more useful to keeping
her properly covered than her dress was, in my opinion. Her nipples,
somnolent at first, perked up as she monitored the ritual of undressing for
the dance. When at last we were all as naked as we could be, and still be
seen in public together, she addressed us.
ÒThere is a Ôno sexÕ pledge you must sign,Ó Alexis said. They were
handed out and we each attested with our signature that we would not
engage in any sex while hidden with the others in the foam.
ÒNext, for you girls, there is a condom required, just in case you feel
your partner might get carried away. Both the men and girls will each
keep a condom somewhere on their person. I recommend to you girls that
you keep the condom reasonably visible, as a warning to the males. Stick
it in your bikini bra or panties. Let it flap around so he can see it. This
will remind him of his Ôno sexÕ pledge. And men, you should have put your
condoms on your penises before you even arrived, to remind yourselves of
what youÕre NOT supposed to do. But just in case here is another one,
courtesy of the club.Ó She pointed to several girls bringing them around
on trays. ÒGo into the restroom and put on a condom, men, if you havenÕt
got one on already.Ó A few took condoms and retreated to the menÕs
lavatory. The rest seemed to have partied in foam before, or been warned
what to have on hand (or on dick!) by friends.
PLAYBOY ON AOL
by holy joe
There are no perverts on the Internet. Especially on AmericaÕs
Ôfamily network,Õ America Online. As proof I present an actual transcript
from America Online. In this transcript PlayboyÕs August 1996 Playmate
Jessica Lee is interviewed:
AOLiveMC11: Jessica, we have LOTS of questions tonight so let's get right
to them. Here's the first one.
Question: I used to live in Tampa, what elementary school did you go to?
JesicaLive: Woodbridge Elementary
(ThereÕs more where she came from! - h.s.)
ZINE REVIEWS
by holy joe
Slip and Smitty #4, 25¢. Minicomic. Brian Kirk, 93 Sunapee St.,
Springfield, MA 01108. mootcomics@aol.com
Review: I loved the cover of this issue. It depicts Slip and Smitty
lifted aloft by a nuclear explosion. The stories inside, however, deal with
other things. A large bug is a bully in the first story. In the second story,
the character ÒSplittyÓ finds itself with a personality clash.
I felt that the main story was dumb. Rational, but dumb. The same
goes for its surprise ending, which, although a little less dumb than the
story as a whole, was also a little less rational. (From the perspective of
someone who majored in Art and Basketweaving, that is!) (Hey, at least I
was a double major!)
As usual, BrianÕs art is very cute. If youÕre looking for a cool
coloring book to buy your girlfriend, I suggest buying her one of BrianÕs
comics.
AND IN THE END...
AMERICA NEEDS FUCK DECENCY
ÒAfter a burst of forward-looking creativity in the 25 years
following the second world war, the West now seems to be marking
time culturally, most comfortable when looking over its shoulder at a
receding set of familiar manners and values.Ó - The Economist, August
10, 1996, pg. 66
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-Naughty Naked Dreamgirls (Library of Congress ISSN: 1070-1427) is
copyright 1996 and a trademark of Andrew Roller.
-END OF 101 EMISSION