Taking up more space on the Net than any other publication itÕs...
Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 141
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Bordello Girls
Chapter Two
Undoing her recent handiwork, Rose untied the wooden blocks from
the men. They had been for pleasure only, letting her play with them,
admire them, as they stood stiffly handcuffed before her. Now she would
watch their butts from behind as they were milked in the milking machine.
Melissa and I, Rose, all of us together, slapping the menÕs butts, laughing
with them, at them, worked to get them hooked up to the machine. The
men were so desperate to cum by now that they gave little protest. Each
cock was put in its little hole, right up to the root. The men had to kneel
on the little girlÕs bed to get themselves into the machine completely.
Kneeling, their butts flexing tensely, they made ready to be milked.
ÒIs it safe?Ó one of the men asked, the last to go in.
ÒIt is safe, darling,Ó Rose assured him. ÒI love your cock even more
than you do.Ó And she popped him in, just like that. He shuddered as he
felt the elastic/rubberized inside of the hole close down around him. They
waited, all six of them. Sweat beaded their brow. ÒThere is another
machine in the barn, for a womanÕs breasts,Ó Rose told the men. ÒPerhaps
you will see it in action sometime.Ó Her finger hovered over the switch. I
gazed at the hoses stretching out from the back of the machine. They ran
through holes, cut in the wall. A curtain had covered them where they
entered the wall but Melissa drew it back now, at RoseÕs command, so that
all could be seen. ÒThe hoses are connected to a vacuum pump,Ó Rose told
the men. ÒThey will provide the suction. It is a mild vacuum, nothing your
cocks canÕt handle. It has been tested before, on other men, according to a
note my aunt left me. The Nazis used it on prisoners, later it was
modified for pleasure. As the vacuum sucks, the machine will grip and
milk. Try to hold out as long as you can. I know I told you to cum, but now
that youÕre hooked up, your lovely cocks inside the thing, I almost canÕt
bear to see you lose all your precious sperm.Ó
Rose waited still, gazing at the men, their knees penitently arranged
on the edge of the bed, their chests tight, muscled. I gazed from behind at
their tense buttocks. I could see Rose weighing her options, wondering if
she really wanted to see these fine stallions give up their seed to a
machine. And then Melissa darted to the switch. She was young. Men did
not have the lure for her that they did for me, for Rose. Her childishness,
her mischievousness, won out over all else. She flicked the switch and
the machine belched to life.
Chapter Three
I will never forget that scene. The men yelping, groaning, as the
milking machine did its work. Melissa and I and Rose got behind them and
entertained their buttocks with whips. We slashed away as they were
denuded in front, stripped of their manhood by the machine. It took from
them their hard-ons, squeeze by gripping squeeze. The guy worried about
his safety came first, squirting into the vacuum, then another guy, my
Lancelot third. The machine pumped them relentlessly, not noticing. At
last the Black Knight came. I admired his fortitude. I rewarded him with
stinging slaps of my bare hand upon his ass, to make sure he got all his
seed out. He scared me. He enthralled me. I squeezed his testicles until
they felt loose in my hands. And then, at last, Melissa herself flicked the
switch off. We separated the men from the machine. We were merciful.
We trotted them downstairs and helped them into their clothes. We did
not uncuff them until the very end. Then, the storm having abated, we
called a cab for them and sent them away.
But I could not forget the Black Knight. Melissa and Rose and I
loitered amidst the close-packed snowdrifts, cozy in our sometime
whorehouse. We took no additional customers. A week passed, two. Yet I
remembered the Black Knight still, wanted him, and not in a milking
machine this time, and not cuffed with police handcuffs. I wanted to meet
him female to man, both of us free, and joust with him on equal terms.
I went shopping. I looked for him in the little town, high in the alps
amidst the snowdrifts. And, standing within the doorway to a lingerie
store, I spotted him. He had a woman with him. I did not care. I ran,
called out. I caught at my fur cap to keep it from flying off. He turned. I
fell into his arms. My breath hot on his chest, I looked up at him. My
cheeks were rosy. Our eyes gazed at each other for eternal seconds.
ÒYes?Ó he asked at last. I was without words. ÒCome,Ó he said at
last. He put me between himself and the woman and they took me home
with them.
We did not arrive within the hour. He placed me in his car, in the
front seat, the woman on the passenger side of me, he in the driverÕs seat.
It was a rental car. He drove down winding hills to an airport. We stopped
twice at roadside inns to use the toilet.
Getting in the car after the second stop, the woman broke her
silence. She had said nothing. She could not speak English well, the Black
Knight had explained to me. HeÕd asked me about my past, hinted at his.
He said little about the woman. I sensed she was his mistress. Her name,
I was told, was Elegina. His was Martin. He was German, she was
Swedish, with lovely blonde hair like mine. His was black. He had Spanish
blood intermingled with his Nazi heritage.
ÒTake off your panties,Ó Elegina said, breaking her silence. I looked,
glanced at her in the tightly packed car, the three of us squeezed in
together. ÒTake off your panties,Ó she repeated. I glanced at the Black
Knight, at Martin. He said nothing, gazed ahead at the road, driving.
Trembling, aware of the beautiful Swedish woman as she gazed at me,
glared at me, I slipped my fingers beneath the fur fringe of my miniskirted
overcoat. Up they slid, along my thigh. I found the him of my leather
miniskirt and slipped within. Higher up, I found my crouch, my pussy-
pouch, sheathed in the fine silk of my panties.
I tugged. I lifted my hips slightly off the seat, tugging at the slip of
fabric between my legs. I drew off my panties. Carefully I freed them
from the spikes of my high heels. They were expensive, from France. I
passed them to the Swedish woman. She held them aloft a moment, a hint
of my scent tickling her nose. Then she rolled down her side window. She
tossed my panties out of the speeding car. ÒYou will not need them,Ó she
said simply.
We drove on. We arrived at an airport. There was a helicopter
waiting. We were ushered aboard, the whirling helicopter blades whipping
at my coat, threatening to lift up my skirt up behind me.
I settled into a seat, again between Elegina and Martin. The trip was
silent. We changed planes a half-hour later. A jet this time. Again the
same seating, more talk this time, a pleasant hostess served us
sandwiches, drinks. We flew over the alps and down past the tip of Italy.
The plane banked left, headed out into the sparkling blue sea of the
Mediterranean.
ÒYou will like my villa,Ó Martin said to me. ÒIt is in Egypt. There
are trees, sand. There are neighbors nearby. It is located at an oasis.Ó
I fell asleep on the plane with my head on MartinÕs shoulder. I
dreamed of Arabs, Lawrence of Arabia. My legs shifted inside my dress. I
was conscious in my dreams that I wore no panties.
We disembarked. A limo whisked us away, the three of us in the
back seat. We enjoyed drinks together. I sipped mine. I had left my
friends behind, my parents. I was with strangers. I felt unsure, uncertain.
It had been a schoolgirl lark, looking for him, finding him, running to him.
I fidgeted in my seat. He ignored my fidgetings.
It was night when we arrived at his house. He took me upstairs to a
bedroom. ÒThis will be yours,Ó he said, a father to his daughter. I was
tired, yet frisky. I had jet lag, not from time but from sitting, from being
confined. ÒI have business to attend to,Ó he told me. ÒElegina will see to
you. Obey her.Ó He left then. He turned and left and locked me in my room.
I sat on my bed. I pouted. A bit later a key turned in the door, Elegina
entered.
ÒTake everything off,Ó she told me. ÒYou must bathe.Ó A maid
entered. She was from Russia. She spoke no English at all. She had dark
hair. She ran bath water for me as Elegina watched me undress. I was led
to the tub. I played in the bubbles. There was a rubber duckie there. He
swam with me in the warm water.
The maid made me soap myself. She watched. Then Elegina entered
the bathroom, ordered me out of the tub. Rinsed, patted dry, I was taken
to bed.
I had to put on pajamas. They were like pantyhose, long stockinged,
attached at the crotch. They were made of cotton, striped with gay red
and white candycane stripes. The buttocks had been cut completely away.
My ass bulged through, bare as could be. I admired its whiteness in a
mirror. In front, all had been cut away again, baring my navel, my pussy.
Only the waistband remained, and the stockings, attached by the slim strip
of material that ran under my crotch.
Elegina made me sit on the edge of the bed in my new stockingpants,
my pajamas without any covering for my heinie or pussy. She sat beside
me, clothed as she had been on the plane, and combed my blonde locks. All
was silence. Perhaps she admired me, I could not guess. At last, done
combing, she fitted a large plaid bow to the top of my head. She kissed my
cheek. ÒGet in bed. Morning will be here soon enough,Ó she breathed.
I scrambled across the sheets and lay back upon them. I put my head
upon a cool, soft pillow. It was comforting. The covers were tucked up
around me by the maid. Elegina fed me a pill to make me sleep. There was
no bedtime story, no need for one. I drifted off at once.
A rustling of my shoulder. ÒGet up.Ó The voice was EleginaÕs. I
lifted my shoulders up, felt the covers pulled down off me in the cool of
the morning. There was brightness in the room, sunlight. I blinked the
sleep from my eyes. Elegina drew me by my legs to the edge of the bed. I
swung my feet down, barely touched my toes to the floor. She admired my
long stockinged legs. There were shoes waiting on the floor, new and
shiny and black, with silver buckles. The maid fitted me into the shoes as
Elegina watched. She held a switch in her hand. She flicked it idly across
her bare thigh. She wore a short skirt, made of chamois. Her legs were
bare to her knees, where moccasin boots proceeded to grip them down to
her ankles, her toes. A beige blouse, her breasts shifting within it,
covered her above the waist. She wore no bra. There was a small rope
tied about her neck, slim, braided from strands of soft leather. It looked
like a cheap dogÕs collar on an animal nobody wanted to buy a real collar
for. She did not seem to mind. Puppies sometimes wore collars like that,
I realized. Perhaps she was MartinÕs pet, a special status, somewhere
below mistress but above that of a whore. What was I, then? A mere
tart? Surely I had presented myself to Martin that way at RoseÕs. Was I
still that?
I shifted my toes within my new shoes. Elegina made me stand.
ÒCome,Ó she said. We walked from the room.
ÒI have no clothes,Ó I said, startled, in my pajamas only, my stocking
pants without the seat or the front to them.
ÒYou have not any need for them,Ó Elegina said. She brought me to
Martin. He waited by the stairs. He took us downstairs to the living room.
I felt awkward passing through it, myself unclothed, he and Elegina neatly
dressed in casual clothes. Martin wore shorts, a shirt with pockets, an
explorerÕs round-brimmed hat. He held a riding crop in his hand. We went
to the rear of the house. Martin opened the back door and we went out.
The sun was hot. We walked across hot sand. I was grateful for my
new shoes. They protected my feet. We passed several cactus, spiny,
hard. Martin said they were imported from America, growing wild now in
his backyard of sand. A desert stretched out before us. There were trees
in the distance. The heat shimmered across the sand. I walked between
Martin and Elegina, then a little ahead. I was curious. I had never been to
Egypt. A bird flew overhead and I gazed up at it, wondering if it was the
Phoenix. Elegina nudged me in the small of my back. ÒRun ahead,Ó she told
me. ÒShow Martin how you can run.Ó
I glanced over my shoulder at them. Martin watched me stern-faced,
but with a twinkle in his eye. I grinned. I leapt ahead of them, racing
across the sand. I tuckered out quickly. I did not wish to run, I wanted
Martin. The sun beat upon my white skin. I could still make out my even
whiter bikini lines, my breasts and pubis like snow, but they would tan
quickly if I did not reach shelter soon. The trees were ahead. I wanted to
go back to the shelter of the house, but walked quickly toward them
instead. A glance over my shoulder showed Martin still following, his
riding crop in hand. He would not let me go back to the house.
Within another minute I was under the trees. I stopped. They were
still, their branches rustling minutely, the desert air just touching them
with the lightest of caresses. Martin and Elegina came up behind me. ÒGo
on,Ó Elegina said, touching my bottom.
ÒThere are Arabs ahead,Ó I said suddenly, freezing. Camel traders
were watering their steeds at an oasis of water. It shimmered like a
glistening diamond amidst the barren desert.
ÒThey will not bother us,Ó Elegina said. ÒThere is a fence between,
electric. Do you see it there?Ó She pointed. I gazed. Running between the
trees I saw it now, a steel mesh barrier, topped with barbed wire.
ÒCome,Ó Martin urged me. His hand gripped my ass and pushed me
ahead. White-bottomed, shivering despite the heat, I padded across the
sand. It was shaded here.
ÒWhere are we going?Ó I asked.
ÒYou will see,Ó Martin replied. ÒIt is a sport among those of us who
are wealthy.Ó Bottom clenching, my ass wriggling now with a frightened
sense of sensuousness, I made my way across the sand. The traders looked
up, saw me. A man picked up a pair of binoculars.
MAGAZINE REVIEWS
by holy joe
Mayfair, Volume 31, Number 9, $6.99. E-mail: mayfair@pr-org.co.uk
I got caught today. I was at the Burger Thing, playing on the
ManagerÕs computer in his office, when he walked in on me.
He is a big time Jesus freak. He heard howling sounds coming out of
his computer and he took one look at it and went nuts! (I was playing
Marathon 2, you see...)
ÒMy God! You fucking pervert! YouÕve infested my computer with
Satanic Demons!!!Ó he cried. But, you know, there must be something cool
about being a Jesus freak because he started shouting stuff about ÒPraise
the Lord!Ó and BANGING away on that computer keyboard. Pretty soon the
demons were falling away, left and right, as he went charging through the
ÒinsideÓ of his computer, as he thought it, blasting those demons! And, as
I stood there in total awe, as the entire restaurant stood there in total
awe, he smashed his way right up to the final level and won the game!
He was still shaking with righteous fear when I (very carefully)
leaned forward and hit Ôcommand-QÕ and quit the game.
Now he is back at work doing his FilePro shit, tabulating all the
accounts and adding up all the hamburgers eaten and docking peopleÕs pay
for coming late to work. And I have to clean the TOILET! Me, a customer. I
mean sure, I guess I do bathe in it every week, and use it a lot, but still,
itÕs very embarrassing to be scrubbing away when some kid walks in and
starts pissing and doesnÕt watch where heÕs going. I tried telling the
manager that I belong to NAMBLA and that I shouldnÕt be in the bathroom
with little boys but he didnÕt believe me. (I was hoping, you know, heÕd
switch me to the other bathroom.)
At least, while in the toilet, I can sneak a little toilet-reading. And
this monthÕs issue of Mayfair certainly fills the bill. It didnÕt impress me
as much as some previous issues, but it still contains many fine photos.
Sandy (pg. 15) begins her pictorial by pulling down her panties to show us
her ass. What a gorgeous ass this girl has! She has fine-nippled teats too,
a little small, but I guess with girls who have small breasts you can
fantasize that theyÕre just 14. (Not that I would ever do that, of course!)
On the same page, Jodie Foster shows us her tits. IÕve never actually
cared what Jodie FosterÕs tits look like, but she shows them anyway.
This monthÕs Ôpretend lesbiansÕ pictorial features Tina and Suzy (pg.
45). They arenÕt all that attractive, but they make up in spunk for their
lack of looks.
My ex-girlfriend, Claire Cass, the most popular Mayfair girl of all
time, makes an appearance (pg. 42). In a multi-page spread she shows all
the different types of liquor you can drink and what their effects are,
including their effects on her sexually. She also pops off a cork in her
lingerie and then bends way over to lick the slender neck of a bottle.
Samantha (pg. 55) gets really serious with her spirits. She strips
off a fuzzy pink sweater and lacy underthings. Then she lines up two
glasses on the floor and kneels above them to pee in them (I guess). And,
just in case you canÕt think of anything to do while sheÕs peeing, she gives
a helpful hint by setting a big uncorked bottle right underneath her,
pointing straight up.
Now, a little truth in advertising here. First, I canÕt quite figure out
when Mayfair is supposed to come out. I thought I got to the bookstore on
time, but only two issues were left! (And that was two weeks ago.) I was
forced to buy a very crappy copy. SandyÕs lovely thighs were marred by
tear marks, right under her bottom. So, in fact, this issue may be
completely sold out by now. A word about the sole copy I left behind: Its
cover was actually ripped--as if guys had been fighting over it.
In my case, of course, I get visited regularly by the Mayfair girls.
But we must remember to be nice to people who arenÕt famous and on the
Internet. So as I see it, hereÕs how we can remember to be kind to our
fellow man in the coming year: donÕt buy a sex magazine until you see it
reviewed in the pages of Fuck Decency. After IÕve bought my copy and
masturbated over it and taken it to bed and to the toilet and written a
review of it, THEN go down to the bookstore and buy it. In this way we can
ensure that everyone gets a fair chance at getting a copy.
AND IN THE END...
WHAT OPRAH KNOWS
ÒTelevision is probably the most effective technique being used
to whip up passions and keep recalcitrant citizens in line.Ó - U.S. News
and World Report, November 11, 1996, pg. 48.
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-Naughty Naked Dreamgirls (Library of Congress ISSN: 1070-1427) is
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-END OF 141 EMISSION