Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 109
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Bottoms in Bondage
Chapter Two
Bare-bottomed I go to the magazine rack. The magazines are crisp,
new. This is a pleasant doctorÕs office. I remember going with my
mommy, a little girl, wondering if I should pop the question, ask for birth
control. I was in the third grade and just starting to kiss. I decided I
wanted a baby and did not ask.
Naked I sit on the chair. It feels smooth, comforting under my skin.
Another woman enters, with a man. She is naked also. Buck naked, her
hair tousled. She turns, I see whip marks lightly dashed across her
bottom. The man is dressed, though perhaps hastily so. ÒBe seated,Ó he
tells his girlfriend, his mistress. ÒWe must see to that bottom of yours.Ó
She sits down across from me. My eyes flick at her, return to my
magazine. I see her watching me from across the room. There is a low
coffee table between us.
ÒYoung lady?Ó A sweet voice. It snaps out from the receptionistÕs
desk, floats a bit at the end. I do not notice it. Deliberately I read how to
impress boys. ÒYoung lady?Ó Hastily I look up. The voice cannot be
ignored. It is always so in a doctorÕs office. The voice calls and you do
not hear, calls again, you look up, in haste you drop whatever you have,
rush up to be seen to, inoculated, injected. The receptionist is looking
right at me. I stand, move quickly to her. It is the young adult girl, the
college girl in her early 20Õs. She is dressed differently now. She has on
a nurseÕs hat and a white dress. Somehow I sense she wears nothing
underneath. Her dress is unzipped unusually low in front, the sweet inner
curves of her bosoms show. ÒPlease sign in,Ó the nurse explains, handing
me a clipboard. I a pencil from a cup on the counter. ÒJust your first
name is fine,Ó the nurse says. ÒAnd the questions. Answer all the
questions in complete detail.Ó
I stand at the counter. My hips sway, move agitatedly as I realize
what I must answer. I bend low, my feet shift. My bosoms, peaked, hang
perilously close to the wicked form. It does not ask my medical history.
Instead it reads, under the place for my name, ÒSexual History.Ó All kinds
of questions are asked. The ones I do not know I answer with Ò42.Ó That
is the answer. When I am 42 I will know, Ôtil then donÕt ask me. Tell, but
donÕt ask. ÒI got pregnant from kissing boys,Ó I write in a space. ÒBut I
spit afterwards, so there was no baby.Ó In the girlsÕ bathroom in
elementary school I spit, daintily, sweetly. My friends had taught me how
to do it.
Poking my eraser tip in my mouth, I read the last questions. I write
in my answers. Some of them are silly answers, others truthful, others
still snide jokes, comments, girlish pranks. I hand the clipboard back. The
nurse reviews it. I look at her nametag. It sits high on her chest, on her
bosoms. It is pinned to her uniform. I expect to read a last name. Instead
it says simply ÒGwen.Ó A nice name. I like my nurse.
ÒYou may sit down,Ó Gwen tells me. I return to my chair. I go back
to my girlish fantasies. ÒMaÕam?Ó I hear in the distance. The
receptionist calls up the woman. She goes, rising in stately manner, but
absolutely naked, her bottom already caressed by the whip. I admire her
from over the top of my magazine. Her hips are full, womanly. They move
with a grace beyond my years. Sitting on my pert cheeks I wish I had her
motherly ones. Her waist is narrow, her back straight, proper. Her hair is
pinned up but coming loose. I watch the graceful smooth walking of her
legs. Somewhere up between them her cunny lies, wet, waiting. She
tosses a strand of hair from her eyes and takes the clipboard from the
nurse. I sense something. I stand, quickly, impulsively. Peeking over the
women, drawing closer, pretending to return my magazine to the magazine
rack, I glimpse the receptionist. Her dress is unzipped to her waist now,
pulled back. Her bare breasts show in all their natural glory. Like
newborns fresh from the womb they stand up, squeezed slightly by her
still-tight dress. She smiles at the woman, the woman lets a smile slip
out in return. The receptionist sees me. She rises. She does not re-close
her dress. ÒI must admit our brand new patient,Ó she says to the woman.
The woman glances over her shoulder at me. She is temporal, worldly.
There is a look of uncaring in her eyes. She has already played the games I
am about to embark on. She glances at me.
ÒYes,Ó the woman says. She turns back to the form in her hands.
ÒYou have different questions from what I have seen before,Ó she says.
ÒWe have different instruments,Ó the nurse replies. Gwen
disappears a moment, reappears at a doorway leading deeper into the suite
of offices. ÒCome in, please,Ó she says brightly. She is holding my
paperwork. My first name is written across the top, in large, girlish
letters. The ÒiÓ in my name is a sprouting flower.
I step within. It is air-conditioned, chilly. Gwen takes me into a
small dressing room. There are clothes there. A pinafore dress, apron
like, a bib in front but nothing but a big bow in back. It is made of taffeta.
There are panties beside it. Bows for my hair, long stockings for my
coltish legs. And new shoes, with buckles.
ÒPut these on,Ó Gwen tells me. She offers no explanation. I am
grateful for the clothes. She leaves me, closing the door behind me. I slip
on the panties, sit on the chair and roll the delicious nylon stockings up
my legs. They grip my thighs, stay put by their own elastic-topped bands,
encircling me, holding me modestly within their sheathing. I slip on the
pinafore, tie it in back. I put the ribbons in my hair. Curiously, there is
nothing else. I turn, display my back in a mirror. My panties are on full
view, my bare back, the backs of my stockinged thighs. I find a brush and
brush my hair. There is a tube of toothpaste. Aqua-Fresh for Kids. There
is a childÕs toothbrush. I squirt some flavored white gel onto my
toothbrush and relish the taste of it. I am bending over and rinsing my
mouth when Gwen returns.
ÒThe doctor will see you now,Ó she breathes. She breathes into my
hair. I straighten. I feel her opening my panties in back. There is a brush
of coldness. She deposits an ice cube into the back of my panties. I
shiver. She puts a hand to the back of my head, presses my face down
toward the sink. ÒRinse,Ó she tells me. I rinse my mouth again. She uses
my pose to her advantage, to impress the cube within my girlish
bottomcheeks. I feel the edge of it come in contact with my anus. My
cheeks clench, the cube is too big to get completely between them.
ÒWhy?Ó I ask. I am bent over, looking up at her, in the mirror. There
is a smear of white toothpaste across my upper lip. She fondles my
bottom as if it is a new fruit, fresh-picked at harvest time.
ÒThere are many tests we must do,Ó she replies. ÒDoctorÕs orders.Ó
I splash the toothpaste cream from my lips and stand erect. Gwen
steps back, admires me a minute. I turn around to her. I am ready to go. I
feel wet in my panties.
ÒCome,Ó she says. I take her hand. We go to another room. It is
small. There is a table here, leather-covered, for examining women. It
has steel stirrups protruding from its base. ÒSit down,Ó Gwen says. She
offers me the only chair with a wave of her hand. I seat myself. I reach
behind me to smooth my dress as I sit but find there is nothing there but
my bulging bottom. Uncomfortably I sit on the wet ice cube. It impresses
more deeply, more thoroughly against my anus. It is smaller now. I fear it
may go up me. Gwen turns, leaves the room, locks the door behind her. I
reach in back of myself and lean forward. I pluck the ice cube from the
rear of my panties. I look at it. It is small now. I contemplate popping it
in my mouth. Then I toss it toward the sink instead, a scrubbing sink for
the doctor to wash his hands in.
I settle onto my chair. It has no arms. I let my eyes drift along the
counter-top that runs along the wall next to me. I spot a soft cloth, black.
It reminds me of a blindfold we used to use at birthday parties to play
Pin-the-Donkey with. I pick it up. I see a gleam of metal beneath it. Twin
cuffs. I gasp. Lightly I touch them, still holding the blindfold aloft with
my other hand. I am curious. I fetch the handcuffs also, draw them to me.
The metal is cold. I cup the handcuffs in my palms, the big police
handcuffs. I blow on them to warm them.
I feel my pulse racing. I lay the cuffs on my stockinged thigh.
Gently I drape them over my thigh. I do not want to let them fall to the
floor. They might break. They could not, but they might. I am silly.
The blindfold. Would the naked woman wear it, put in on, if she were
sitting in here? Would it make her a slut? I feel the aphrodisiac coursing
in my veins, the wicked fluid we were all forced to drink in the carriage.
But then, is there any such thing as a true aphrodisiac? Surely there must
be. We were all wild in the carriage, bucking, thrusting. Such could not
only exist in the mind, could it?
My heart beating, I lift the blindfold to my mouth. I will gag myself.
I want to see who my doctor is. I do not want to go through the exam
blinded. I must report him afterward. Yes, for abusing me. Just looking
at me like this would be abusing me, wouldnÕt it? To have such desires, in
a MAN! The F.B.I. will send him a photo of me like this and arrest him.
I wrap the blindfold around my mouth. I wedge it between my lips,
so that they will show despite the gag. Carefully I tie my gag in back, in
the nesting of my hair. I will not tell on my doctor. I cannot. Not now.
I pick up the handcuffs from my thigh. I rotate them, let them
dangle. They will keep me from being naughty. I cannot do anything with
them on. That is how I want it. I am innocent, pure. They are the wicked
ones. They are the ones whoÕs desires must be arrested.
I gaze across the counter. Is there no key for these cuffs? I spot
something gleaming next to a urine container, empty, new, waiting for a
mare to pee into it. There. Yes! A key. A key for my cuffs. Now where
shall I put it?
The front of my panties lie beneath the bib of my apron. I lift up the
bib. I open the front of my panties. I drop the key in, deposit it in my safe
deposit box. I can feel it pressing against the lips of my pussy. It feels
cold, hard.
I put my arms behind me. I thrust my wrists through the ribs of the
open chair back. I lift the first cuff with one hand, guide it, so that it
will snap shut over my left wrist. Click. One down, one to go. Then I will
be patient. I will have to wait for the doctor then. I hope he is not long. I
might have to go to the bathroom eventually. I would not want to wet my
new panties.
A problem. I cannot get myself cuffed. My arms behind me, a rib of
the chair running up the middle of my back. I have my wrists thrust
through the ribs that form the back of the chair, my one hand cuffed. I
must cuff the other wrist if I am to be secured to the chair. I struggle. I
bend forward, my tongue at the corner of my mouth, protruding.
Click. It is simple, easy suddenly. And I am captive. Now I must
wait.
I hear a door open, shut. Someone has entered the exam room next
door. I hear talking. Something falls over. ÒNo!Ó I hear. And then the
crack of leather. A scream. Suddenly I realize. It is the bare-bottomed
woman, the one brazenly naked, come for her exam. She does not sound
quite so confident now, though I am sure she is still quite as naked as
when I first met her. More smacks of leather. More shouts, cries, a sound
of a woman barking commands at her. Then the grunts of a man. Moans,
screamy-moans. At last silence. I listen to it all, shivering, wishing I
were free of my cuffs now. Yet I cannot help rubbing my thighs together, a
little bit. Then I wait some more, my legs spread much wider than they
should be when I am waiting to meet a strange man.
Suddenly my door opens. The nurse steps in. Her hair is tousled. Her
hat is gone. Her white dress is rumpled, her bosoms still showing. There
seems to be an awkwardness to her stance. Her face, flushed, she looks at
me. At first she is too preoccupied with herself to notice my
Ôattachments.Õ Then she smiles.
ÒDr. Alexander, this is Lisa,Ó she says to me, to him. The doctor
enters. He is large, looks more like a football player than a doctor. He is
perhaps 40. He wears a stethoscope, watch, and carries a clipboard with a
stick sticking partly out from behind it, on the far side of his body. Then I
realize. It is the handle of a riding crop.
And there is one other instrument besides. Neat in his starchly
stiffed uniform, but with his fly unzipped, his most precious and
important instrument hangs out, ready for use. His schlong. It is a long
schlong. It swings easily with his stride. He has used it already, I can
see. It is not hard like it is supposed to be. It looks moist, as if someone
has just washed it.
ÒIÕm sorry to make you wait,Ó Dr. Alexander tells me. ÒI was busy
attending to another patient.Ó He exchanges a glance with his nurse, who
briefly blushes a deeper hue.
ZINE REVIEWS
by holy joe
Exotic Magazine, Volume 4, Number 3, $1.95. 8 1/2Ó x 11Ó magazine, 40
pages plus a slick cover. X Publishing, Inc., 625 SW 10th Avenue, Suite
324B, Portland, OR 97205. email: xmag@teleport.com www:
http://www.xmag.com
Review: Lately IÕve run out of underpants. As a hobo, I canÕt afford
too much. And since Buying Porno always comes first, and Buying More
Porno always comes second, you can imagine where buying underpants is
on my hierarchy of needs.
My most recent pair lasted 13 weeks. That wasnÕt too bad, actually.
Not a record, but pretty decent. They might have lasted longer, but cholera
does take its toll. IÕve had diarrhea in my underpants before (it just sort
of sloshes around, no big deal). But with cholera my underpants were
REALLY tested! I finally had to admit to myself (and my underpants) that
our relationship was over. I tried singing ÒI Got You BabeÓ to them, but it
didnÕt help. (It was the Beavis and Butthead version, anyway.)
So I am without underpants. IÕm hoping that Bill Clinton will read
this and make a donation. I called the I.R.S., Bill. They said if you donate
your underpants to me you can write them off, just like you did before. (I
didnÕt get his previous pair. Some charity did. Every now and then my
friend Holy Shit, who claims to have a real Bill Clinton Fruit of the Loom
pair of underpants, shows them to a little girl to explain to her about our
president and what kind of underpants he wears and what his boner
probably looks like inside his underpants.)
No such luck for me. Not only donÕt I have any of Bill ClintonÕs
underpants, I donÕt think my trusty 3 incher would look like his does inside
a pair of shorts. But, nonetheless, I am preserving my penis for posterity.
A woman yesterday asked me what I do for a living, and I told her, ÒI paint
my genitalia.Ó And she was offended! Perhaps she thought I meant that I
BODY paint it. No. No. I am a wholesome painter. I just look at it, and
then paint a picture of it on canvas. IÕm going to take my collection
around to the gay bars soon and see if I can drum up any interest in my
penis. (I wonÕt tell them IÕm planning to use the money to buy Playboy
videos!)
If my penis doesnÕt bring in the money, IÕll try painting my asshole. I
have a really big one (I guess to make up for my dick). Then IÕll hit the gay
bars again and see if my ÔAsshole Collection, by a Real OneÕ excites them.
Since itÕs a cherry ass, IÕm hoping it will. And if that doesnÕt work, IÕll
try painting my balls. Maybe some cops will take an interest in those.
Fortunately, a magazine that IÕm liking more and more costs just
$1.95. This monthÕs Exotic Magazine features an excellent article about
B-movies. HereÕs an excerpt:
ÒNow-a-days the drive-in movie has become the... straight-to-
video-release competing for your money and attention right alongside the
major... theatrical releases.
Ò...Your typical straight-to-video release is written in three days,
[and] shot in seven on a budget that wouldnÕt cover catering for a major
theatrical release. And the most popular theme for straight-to-video is
erotic suspense.
Ò...Unlike the major motion picture... world, where male actors grab
the lionshare of the spotlight and salaries, the erotic suspense B-movie
revolves around the female lead. B-movie queens like Shannon Tweed
always take the top billing and top salary. The film is their vehicle from
start to finish, even if they canÕt act their way out of a paper bag or their
acting range is two notes on the scale: IÕm scared, IÕm sexy (pg. 5).Ó
On page 21 Philip Ray Simon weighs in with comics reviews. He
reviews Diary of a Dominatrix, which, he says, upped its sales by changing
its name in subsequent issues to Saucy Little Tart. He also reviews a
comic called The Perversion Rug which he describes as follows: ÒYoung
farmgirl masturbates while watching her mother screw, has a few freaky
penis dreams, then wakes up with a penis of her own (pg. 21).Ó
Right next to SimonÕs comic review column is an ad for Frolics, a
store which buys and resells Òused adult magazines and periodicals.Ó I
almost moved to Oregon when I read that. In case the Moral Majority
hasnÕt noticed, some of the best Playboys ever printed now sell (from
Playboy) for $100.00. (The cheap ones cost $40.00.) What a benefit it
would be to acquire those fine old issues at a reasonable price from a
second-hand dealer! Unfortunately, where I live, ÒYuppie MoralityÓ
prevails. (What I do is fine, what you do sends you to prison for life.) So,
here, where IÕm stuck, there are no second-hand magazine shops. If you
want a back issue of anything, itÕs unavailable or, if itÕs Playboy, you can
send them your life savings.
There is the usual allotment of semi-nude photos in this issue, all of
them, of course, selling the services of Oregon businesses. The cover
features two bitch-goddesses. And there are other articles too, including
one on the moral deficiencies of our most famous Americans, the ones the
right-wing always trots out as exemplars of American virtue. All in all, a
nice collection of articles and photos.
AND IN THE END...
PORNO RULES!
ÒLast year, Americans bought approximately 1.5 billion books,
about two-thirds of them adult titles.Ó - The Economist, September 7,
1996, pg. 23.
----------------------- Fuck Decency! -----------------------
-Free Fuck Decency e-mail subscriptions: send (18 or up) age
statement to: roller666@aol.com
-To unsubscribe: Send $100.00 to The North American Man/Boy Love
Association, P.O. Box 174, Midtown Station, New York, NY 10018.
-My ftp site is: members.aol.com/roller666 Diapergirls! (CuntCastle2d)
-My ftp site is: members.aol.com/roller6666 CuntCastle3b here!
-My ftp site is: members.aol.com/nnd666 NudieNursery5 here!
-Back issues at Usenet newsgroup: alt.poop?
-or send e-mail to: file.request@backdrop.com
-Free minicomics: send a stamped, self-addressed envelope & age
statement to: Jim Corrigan, P.O. Box 3663, Phenix City, AL 36868
U.S.A. VIOLATED by AOL? Call 1-800-IDT-8996 No censorship!
-Naughty Naked Dreamgirls (Library of Congress ISSN: 1070-1427) is
copyright 1996 and a trademark of Andrew Roller.
-END OF 109 EMISSION