Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 132
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Bordello Girls
Chapter One
Downstairs came a heavy tread. It was a man. Then two. Then a
third. Across the room they came, fully dressed, in stylish casual work
clothes, not formalwear. They had not been at the earlier party, had not
see me jump out of my cake. Melissa had not served them as maid.
Eddie Bauer catalog-hunks, studmuffins, they approached. Arriving
at us they looked down, at me, Melissa, as if regarding poached game.
They looked at Steve and laughed at his cock. It was stiff, exposed.
Sylvia had placed her hands on the insides of his thighs and was
deliberately holding his thighs apart. She smiled at the men. They smiled
at her, as if they were former lovers, all.
A man reached down, grabbed SteveÕs cock, roughly, uncaring. He
was a policeman and Steve the strip-searched prisoner. No drugs here,
sir, in this little pee hole, at least I hope not! WeÕll have to see, son, this
will hurt you more than it does me ha! ha!
A slap on my bottom. Hard, making my heinie tingle, blush with new
redness. Not from modesty but from the hardness of the slap. His
calloused palm engulfed my ass completely as it came down, or so it felt.
MelissaÕs little ass is whacked too, making her scream. We are truly
frightened now. I am no longer debating running home in the back of my
mind. It is front and center as I am pulled up from the softness of my
towel, losing my protection. My breasts, my pussy, are examined with
covetous eyes.
ÒThey will do.Ó That is all that is said. Nothing more, nothing
complimentary, not even ÒWhat a great ass!Ó Just Òthey will do,Ó as if we
are furniture. I long for southern gentility, for white gloved Citadel men
who know how to woo a lady (or claim they do). I long for lusty men and
boy/men who know how to compliment a girl on her bare white ass, icing
covered. But instead Òthey will doÓ is my only compliment. Hard,
emotionless. I try to savor it and find myself excited by its remoteness.
Is this some new game? An accident? They push us forward, all bare and
wriggly, stumbling on our heels, still wearing our collars. I think they are
going to rape us here but they shove us on toward the stairs. Soon we are
mounting them, step by step, hastily, fearing to fall as they urge us
higher.
We are hustled through the living room. It is like it formerly was,
before the party. There is no sign of the events which so lately transpired
here. The chandelier is hanging even once more, undisturbed. There are
soft candles glowing in the corners, to ward off the settling in of dusk. A
soft fire crackles in one corner, crackles to itself, no one listening. The
guests are gone. The walls have no stray icing on them, no thrown
pineapple-cream pies. The carpeting is immaculate, sedate. There is no
sign of the burst cake which contained me inside it.
Outside. Fresh air. The sounds of early evening, nightfall. And the
sound of an engine. There is a van waiting. We are pushed toward it. A
metal door along its side slides back. I glance over at the rising of my
home beyond the trees. They sway in the breeze, pine trees, my home
stands mute. My borrowed home for my unforgettable summer in Italy.
Except someone else wants me now, is offering their home to me. To me,
not my parents. But the price seems very steep.
The step up to the van is too high for me. I lift my leg, my bottom is
cupped, pushed, calloused hands burnishing my bare soft skin. Melissa
squeaks as she is thrust in behind me, her arms flailing. I go quietly. I
know I cannot escape. The men are too huge, too determined. Steve next,
his cock bobbing, stiff beyond belief, despite his obvious fright.
ÒWhat are you--fags?!Ó Steve protests. The men give his ass a hard
slap. His balls bounce from the blow.
Sylvia stands outside. Nakedly she presses herself to one of the
men. With brazen lust she grinds her pelvis into his. He in his work
clothes, she fresh from a Playboy centerfold, nude and ready for action.
Together they stand as one, their hips doing most of the work as they
share kisses. Finally they part. Sylvia turns to me, blows me a kiss,
smiles.
ÒWhere?Ó I want to ask. And ÒWhyÓ too. But I am upset, angry,
gulpingly fearful. The van door slams shut. The noise of it hurts my ears.
I put my hand to them, momentarily, then realize how naked I am, how
utterly bare and exposed. We are sitting on seats. They are plastic, yet
seem clean, newly scrubbed, as if just for us. I wiggle my tushy on it. I
speculate about climbing through the window but the van moves, stops,
one man aboard already, the other two joining him. They slam shut the
front passenger door, one man sits down, the other kneels behind his seat,
glances at us.
ÒHey, man--what the fuck?!Ó Our naked Tarzan rises to defend us.
His cock risen, he means to lift himself up, to take on the kneeling man, to
slay him.
ÒShut up, kid!Ó the man replies. He brandishes a Bowie knife. It is
big. Our Tarzan draws back, warily. He does not know how to get past a
knife. We are trapped. His dick is showing in all its glory and he has no
loin cloth to protect it. He does not want to meet the fate of John Wayne.
He doesnÕt want his cock bobbed. To be cut short at such a young age, it
would be tragic. I press against him, urge him to wait. Courageously
Melissa grasps his penis, holds it protectively in her small hands, though
it sticks well out, beyond her grasp.
ÒGo down,Ó I say, touching my Tarzan. I tickle the underside of his
cock helpfully, hoping to make him spurt and shrink.
ÒNo,Ó he says, absently, pushing my fingers away. He does not
understand.
ÒIÕll help you,Ó I reply. Despite my overwhelming fright, my greatest
fear is that he will challenge them. I cannot let him get cut. He must be
small, withdrawn, at rest. Urgently I frig him. He plucks at my fingers,
tries to snap them up with his own. Helpfully, Melissa yanks on his shaft.
Back and forth she yanks. Two females with a mission: make Steve spurt.
ÒDonÕt jack off in the back of my van!Ó the driver yells at us. We
shrink back. We desist. Gradually we draw apart. We sit quietly. We are
curious in our nudity. My eyes trace the points of MelissaÕs nipples. Hers
run up and down SteveÕs cock, fascinated. We are skinnydippers. We want
a pool to splash in. We dream of a bed for the three of us. King size, with
Steve our king between us. Even now he sits between us, though we are
too scared to touch one another.
Time passes. We feel more relaxed. The van travels along a road,
past intersections. After a bit Melissa and I begin looking about, craning
our necks as we go down the highway. We gaze out at the bright lights of
an unknown city. We sense that we are coveted, that the men in the van
are delivery boys only. They have not raped us, have not touched us, save
to show us where to walk, where to go. If we obey we will be safe.
Somehow I know this. I feel like a songbird, caught in a cage. Cosseted,
pampered, property, indeed, but very special property. Glancing about like
schoolgirls on a school bus we go down the highway, naked, feeling the
glow of the streetlights as they wash over us. Our bodies tanned, healthy.
Topless bathing is allowed in Italy, eyes glance but do not pry. Our
breasts are admired, there are a few titters, nothing more. I want to cry
ÔhelpÕ to them but the vanÕs windows are shut, locked. The man with the
knife watches us constantly. I gaze out at the people. They do not know
our pussies are bare. They do not know that our bottoms press to the
plastic seats of the van, nothing between us, not even Calvins. Aimlessly
my hand passes now and then over SteveÕs organ, possessively, but lightly,
even while I look outside I feel the urge to touch him. It is not passionate,
just light, a light touch, caring. Melissa does the same. His penis is our
property even as we are property of the men in the van.
At last we come to our destination. It is a large house. It looms
before us. The moon rises over its gables. It is ancient, forbidding.
Shadows enshroud its entrance. The van pulls close, halts. Suddenly
figures dart out from the shadows, four-legged. Snarling beasts,
dobermans, black at the night, attack our van. They leap up. I shrink back,
amazed. For once I am glad the windows cannot be opened.
The men get out of the van, all but the man with the knife. They exit
through the passenger-side door only, leaving the driverÕs side door
closed. The side of the van is opened, baring us to whatever lay outside.
The man with the knife motions for us to get up. I comply, drawing
Melissa with me. Steve follows. Holding hands, Melissa and I step out.
Our pumps touch down on a walk. It is futura-stone, cobbled, uneven. I
step most carefully so as not to fall in my high, teetering heels. I hold
Melissa to keep her from falling. Strong, athletic, naked but for his black
formal shoes, Steve steps out, his feet clattering on the walk behind us. I
breathe a sigh of relief that he made it past the knife-wielding man
without losing his balls.
The walkway is fenced on both sides. I had fancied running, but
there is no escape. Nor would one want to run, for the dobermans lurch at
the fence, outside it on both sides, frustrated, barking and snarling. One
of the men yells at them to shut-up. They poke their snouts at us,
seething, desperate. Slowly we walk up the walkway, our bottoms
jiggling fearfully, our tits mounds of quivering jello, butterflies in our
tummies. Melissa and I, sisters almost, holding each other. Before us
waits a dark entryway. There is no one there. We approach, it engulfs us.
A huge anteroom opens before us. It is panelled in expensive
hardwood. The mood is dark, sedate. As if the room is waiting for
something, someone. Steve enters behind us. His cock is as rigid as ever,
a twin of our nipples. In our fear we are excited. None of us has ever been
teased like this before. I pray we are only being teased. By Marla,
perhaps, a grand joke. I tremble. Men had not even noticed me until this
year. Before I was ignored, just a girl, a slim slip of a female with little
to show for up front, a bottom too narrow in back. Suddenly I was
blossoming, full-grown almost, and Melissa beside me was curve for curve
my competitor in almost every way. Steve too, I sensed, had not been
lusted after like this before. I felt some elaborate grand design was being
played out in honor of our bodies; their youth, their beauty.
Naked like gods and goddesses we advanced into the center of the
room. Our beauty was our protection. Nobody would harm such lovely
young bodies, I assured myself. Was it me? How could I have such
thoughts? I was but 16, buxom for my age, suddenly quite a body when in
a bikini, and now I was without! Melissa, I guessed, a year younger, her
tits high and firm, newly sprouted. And Steve behind us, always Steve, our
protector, with his big thing for fucking, for prodding us forward.
The men entered behind us. They stayed in a half-circle around us,
following by a step or two, the knife always present, other weapons
perhaps hidden in their clothes. They said nothing. Only if we disobeyed
did they speak, otherwise they were mute.
A figure. On the stairs, swiftly descending. I had not noticed it
until it was almost down, a tossing of head, golden locks, a woman. She
approached us softly, quietly. From the gloom of the anteroom she took
shape before us. She was a bit taller than me, slim, willowy, with a
pronounced bust. Her breasts were high, like MelanieÕs, as if just newly
grown from her chest; or like mine, thrusting forth with all the vigor of
female youth. She had hair down to her waist and wore a plain, simple
white blouse. The way her breasts shook I knew she wore no bra
underneath. Around her waist was a skirt, dark, flowing down to her
knees. She was thin, with softly curving hips sloping out from a wasp-
thin waistline.
ÒGood evening, girls,Ó the woman introduced herself. She seemed
not to mind that we were naked. Almost as if she expected it, would have
been upset if weÕd arrived with clothing on. I saw that a thin rawhide
rope was knotted around her throat. It held her swan-like neck as if she
were but a pet, the rope slim, inexpensive. A trinket rope you might buy at
an Indian store. It had twin laces from the knot at her throat that
descended down into her blouse. They were braided, though the part
encircling her neck was plain. I stared at it, fascinated. She returned my
unspoken admiration by glancing at the dogÕs collar which bound my throat.
I sensed she was a prisoner like us, though of a higher rank. She had a
slim collar, easily cut off. She was trusted, her collar more a mark of
subservience, though she might still be pulled about by its dangling laces.
We were padlocked into our collars. We were new, untried. We had much
to learn and do before we could wear a collar like hers. These thoughts
rushed through my mind, unbidden, unwanted, but I was naked and
surrounded by men.
ÒHi!Ó our blonde hostess said. Their was a blush in her face,
suddenly, unexpectedly. Her shoulders drooped a moment and then she
straightened up, as if remembering some past transgression. She fidgeted
with her skirt, pulled at it. ÒIÕm Alison.Ó There was a significant lisp in
her voice. As she opened her lips to pronounce the ÒAÓ in her name a small
silver chain tumbled out of her mouth. It dangled there a moment, hanging
down below her chin, and I stared at it. We all stared at it. Finally,
admitting to herself the obvious, Alison opened her mouth once more,
silently. She stuck out her tongue. There was a large, slim ring through
her tongue, stuck right through about halfway back. The chain dangled
from it, waiting to be pulled. With slim fingers Alison replaced the chain,
tried to hold it in her mouth as she spoke again: ÒIÕve been pierced,Ó she
explained. ÒI talk less that way.Ó Her voice had a soft, Swedish accent. I
shuddered that someone would want to shut up someone with such a
lovely, feminine voice. ÒCome upstairs,Ó she said simply. She turned. The
men herded us after her. She mounted the stairs, flouncing, her
movements conscious, affected. We walked behind, unsteady in our
teetering heels, our bottoms teasing our male captors, provoking them
with shivering displays of frightened female flesh. I felt like jello all
over, and I knew Melissa did too. We walked with our hands crossed over
our tummies, our palms flat against the smooth skin. We were guarding
our wombs from interlopers. We would not bear children of anyone here.
We would resist, fight. Yet in our nudity we knew we had little chance of
anything save what our hidden master wished for us.
There was a room. It was just down the hall, and Alison led us to it.
I sensed from the moment I reached the top step that there was something
sinister about the room. Perhaps it was the marks I spied, along the door
frame. I saw them from the top steps. The hallway here was more
brightly lit and I spotted them at once. There were scratch marks across
the door frame, as if some girl had been dragged inside, her fingernails
cutting into the wood as they struggled to get her past the open door.
WHY I WANT TO BE ON THE SCHOOL BOARD
Elect holy joe!
1. I could play Bush over the intercom.
2. We could pledge allegiance to Kurt Cobain.
3. Larger class sizes (more girls per class).
4. Teacher testing. (As in: ÒWho is Saffron?Ó)
5. I could flunk people I donÕt like.
6. I could call mothers and say, ÒYour daughterÕs been found smoking pot
and having sex in the boysÕ locker room.Ó
7. I could send paychecks to the students and suspensions to the teachers.
8. Topless dress code requirement.
9. Teachers have to ride the bus to school... we drive.
10. It would be easier to plant bombs at the school.
11. Cafeteria food would be served at the White House, and White House
food would be served at my school. (Ooops! Elect me president AND to the
school board for that one.)
GOLLIWOGG
Copyright 1996 by Alan Freer
CROSSTITCH
76 mph religious crisis
hurtles toward
Golliwogg:
a Texas cyclone of perdition.
Golliwogg clasps to a death-repentant God;
lashes down his soul
like wrists
stitched to a bloody cross.
MONGREL
-- for Ken Brewer
Golliwogg gazes into the mirror
and beholds
Mongrel
staring back at him.
ÒYou and I are one,Ó
Golliwogg says.
Mongrel lifts his leg
and pisses
on GolliwoggÕs shoe.
AND IN THE END...
OUR CHILDREN, OUR PRISONERS
ÒWhen a weapon is found, the police have to be called.Ó Columbia,
S.C., school superintendent Don Henderson, on an 11-year-old suspended
and arrested for packing a smooth-edged knife in her lunch box so she
could eat some leftover chicken.
- Newsweek, November 4, 1996, pg. 21.
ÒIt were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his
neck, and he cast into the sea, than that he should offend one of these
little ones.Ó - Jesus Christ, Luke 17: 2
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-END OF 132 EMISSION
- Alan FreerÕs e-mail: FAFREER@wpo.hass.usu.edu