Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 15      

Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in 
Love Child

Chapter Eight

         "Come, you must bathe," the woman said matter-of-factly to me.  
"Then a bite to eat.  You will be wanted again soon."
         I wished to draw back, to retreat, but the rain-spattered window 
blocked me.  To be loved (was it love?) so...thoroughly.  Surely I was not 
being sought so soon.  I wanted to enjoy my chocolates.  To smell the 
roses.
         The woman advanced, took my hand, casually, as if she had taken 
so many girl's hands before mine.  I was the newest prize, the latest 
treat, with my pert young bosoms and ever so desirable bottom.  
Putting a finger in my mouth I let her lead me to wherever my fate lay.  
I was naked, alone.  I was on a kind of magical mystery tour, but not of 
the wonders of the world, or even the better-known tourist attractions.  
Instead I was on a kind of "dungeon tour" of England and South America.  
Rather than visiting the main attractions, I was the main attraction.  
And each new stop on the tour proved to be a place of denouement, 
specially designed just for young girls like myself.  The price of 
admission was my maidenhood.  Once the physical barriers had been 
removed, such as my hymen, they worked upon my innocence, slowly 
stripping it away bit by bit with wicked new perversities at every stop.
         I was taken to a bathroom where a tub waited, overflowing with 
scented bubbles.  My "chaperone" plunged me into the hot water and 
began scrubbing me.  She knelt just outside the tub.  Her big boobs 
swung about as she worked my little body with the bath sponge.  I 
fussed a bit, spoiled.  She scolded me, but in a gentle voice.  She had 
seen it all before.  Little girls both loved and loathed bath time.  I 
myself enjoyed being washed up, but wished to loiter, to play amidst 
the bubbles.  Why the hurry?  Were the men, despite all their other 
female companions, nonetheless straining their dicks thinking of me?  
Surely their testicles must be empty by now.  How could they want me 
so soon?  Shouldn't I be allowed to go home now?
         "Stop squirming so," the woman chided me.  I wanted to play, to 
slither about.  She held me.  Like an otter I would swim to freedom.  
And then I realized:  there was freedom in the dungeon.  A shackled 
freedom, to be sure.  But, twisting about, all raw and exposed, crying 
and weeping and farting and peeing, surely that was a kind of freedom.  
Was being cooped up at school, or in an office somewhere, in a stiffly 
starched blouse freedom?  Type this.  Erase that.  Re-type this for I've 
changed my mind.  It dawned on me that wherever one went there were 
bars, restraints, of one kind or another.  But in the dungeon you were, 
perhaps, more free than elsewhere for you could scream however loudly 
you wished, and say whatever you wished, for the best torturers 
expected you to curse them.  They looked forward to it for it gave them 
even more power over you.  They could lay on additional strokes.  But, of 
course, the best ones would never hurt you, however much you cursed 
them.  They prized your little body more than you yourself valued it.  
One day I would choose pregnancy, childbirth, the burden of wet diapers 
and waking up in the middle of the night to tend a crying child, leaving 
my girlhood behind forever.  But, my torturer, whoever he was, would 
rather imprison me in his dungeon forever, I knew, bottle me up like a 
precious butterfly and make time stand still.
         I was being molded into a young woman, but it was time itself 
that would take the real toll.  An experienced 11-year-old girl, however 
worldly she might become, was still an 11-year-old girl.  But as I 
gazed, with piqued curiosity, at the woman bathing me, I knew she had 
little time left.  When I would be 25 she would be 50.  Her breasts were 
extraordinary, still standing up like soldier and not sagging, but she 
was, like all of us here, a rarity.  She had enviable beauty, not ordinary 
beauty.  And when time closed in on her she would no longer come to the 
dungeon, for she would no longer be able to compete with the younger, 
prettier women.  When I was still making men tremble with need she 
would be in a rocking chair, knitting, consoling herself perhaps with 
the beauty of her grand-daughter, playing at her feet.
         The woman drew me from the tub and quickly toweled me off.  
Then, quickly, she checked my makeup, brushed my hair, trimmed my 
nails and glossed them.
         I was led downstairs, naked as the day I was born.  "Madam?" I 
asked.  My voice was high, lilting, childlike.  "Might not I eat first?"
         "Yes dear, you will join the others at table after all.  They are 
enjoying a quiet repast now, taking a break from the dungeon.  They 
decided that you've earned a place among them.  (Though, frankly, I 
think the men were just too eager to wait for you any longer.)  There is 
still much training ahead for you, though.  So don't get your hopes up 
that you can just do as you please.  Mind your manners and be a proper 
young lady.  And don't wiggle around like you did in the tub!"
With that she presented me at the open door of a large dining room.  She 
gave my bare bottom a little pat, pushing me forward into a roomful of 
strangers.
         I wandered in, hesitant, a finger hooked in my parted lips, newly 
reddened with lipstick.  The color matched my bottom.  The men, some 
barechested, others still wearing the remains of tailored business 
suits, gave me welcoming smiles.  They were happily gorging 
themselves on mashed potatoes and rotisserie chicken.  Sex makes you 
hungry.
         All the females were naked.  Interspersed with the men, they sat 
arranged around a long, elegantly appointed table, their lithe bodies 
lightly tanned, their limbs slim and their figures prettily proportioned.  
Some envious feminist bureaucrat in, say, the Office of Child 
Protection might think the girls got that way by playing women's 
basketball or regularly hitting the gym.  I knew better.  They had those 
figures from frequent "workouts" in the dungeon.
         Blushing at my nudity, I found my way over to an empty chair, 
next to Jill.  She had lost even her teensy, cut-up t-shirt.  She smiled 
at me, I smiled back.  She pointed at the chair and I noticed there was a 
big plump satin cushion on it.  It had the color of strawberries.  I sat 
down shyly, wincing.  She smiled knowingly.
         Glancing around, I met other eyes.  They were bright, expectant.
         "Dig in!  We'll be getting started again soon," Jill advised me.  I 
saw that the others were eating with a certain haste, as if matters 
left undone beckoned.  I reached for a chicken leg, rising slightly from 
my chair.  My breasts swung, dangled.  I plucked the leg from the 
serving tray set in the middle of the table.  There were two of them, 
spaced apart, so that everyone could feed themselves from them.  The 
chicken was piled atop each tray, still steaming, fresh from the oven.
         Scented perfumes mingled with the smell of food.  Tearing the 
skin from my piece of chicken, I realized the women must have all 
bathed after their first round in the dungeon.  I imagined a tubful of 
women, all naked and slithering amongst one another, still amorous 
from their dungeon orgy.  Perhaps the men watched the women soap 
themselves, growing hard again in the process.  No doubt the women 
beckoned the men close and insisted on scrubbing their genitals, at 
least, and their tight asses, their legs, their chests.  So we were all 
squeaky clean now and ready for more action, I thought.  My clitty 
sparkled at the thought, despite my misgivings about what they had 
planned for me.  I opened my legs.  I stroked my thigh with one finger, 
wishing.  I dared not touch myself.  They would punish me for that, 
extra punishment, I was sure.  And it would be so unladylike to 
masturbate at the dinner table.  
         Looking about, I noted with secret admiration how each female's 
naked bosoms swept lightly back and forth, forth and back, as she ate 
her meal.  They all had hard nipples.  I knew their clitties must be hard 
too, like mine.  I glanced over at Jill.  She had fine, proud breasts, firm 
and slightly cantilevered upward, offering her risen nipples.  
         "Eat up, silly!" Jill admonished me.  "We haven't much time.  The 
men say their balls are already bursting.  It will be a long night in the 
dungeon."  I ate more quickly then, for I was hungry.  
         Servants came and went, all elderly men, and the last item 
brought out was a heap of steaming moist hand towels.  He offered one 
to each of us from a silver tray.  Like the rest, I took one and gladly 
wiped all the chicken off me.  Then dessert was served, cherry pie.  It 
was said to be in honor of me, and I blushed fiercely.  When this was 
done, and washed down with sparkling sherry, which made me just a 
little dizzy, a woman rose.  She reminded me of the 40-year-old who 
had bathed me, and was not present.  This female, though, was at most 
25, with fine aristocratic features.  She had a slim body surmounted by 
a pair of breathtaking breasts.  Anna-Nicole Smith without the hips, 
and with longer legs.
         "Our little disciple, I hope, is ready?" she asked, turning in her 
elegance to me.  She seemed stylish and glamorous even though she was 
without any clothing.  I gulped, nodded, not knowing how else to 
respond.  "Good.  Would you cuff her please, Jill?" the radiant beauty 
requested.  Surprised, I turned to see Jill holding a pair of handcuffs 
dangling from one finger.  With meek compliance I held my wrists out in 
front of me and she snapped them on.  I was a full-fledged slave once 
more.
         To my shock, Jill was not yet finished accoutering me.  She 
produced a dog collar, as if I were some female animal!  Buckling it on 
my neck with soft words of encouragement, she then lifted up my 
wrists and drew them over my head.  She snapped my handcuffed wrists 
to a steel ring that was on the back of the dog collar.  
         I felt ridiculous.  My titties wobbled freely before me, utterly 
unprotected.  My legs, spread upon the cushion, offered a moist plum of 
a pussy to any who might thrust down an exploring hand.  I would be 
able to do nothing to stop him...or her.  Even closing my legs would be of 
little help, all the men here were quite strong.  And I knew a wilful 
woman could pry me open, exposing my sex to any depredations she had 
in mind.  
         Such thoughts were interrupted by the lifting of me by my hair.  
Jill pulled me to my feet.  I stood awkwardly, my legs akimbo, 
uncertain.  I got my balance and stood for a moment with all eyes in the 
room upon me.  I was the center of attention.  There was nothing else in 
their minds at that moment except the beauty of my body.  And their 
wicked plans for it.
         I pushed out my breasts.  I felt suffused with a kind of passionate 
pride.  I was privileged.  This was a very exclusive group.  Only the 
prettiest models and females were ever trained here.  When they got 
old, they left.  And new ones took their place.  I was being tested, and if 
I passed, I would become one of them.  If I failed, I would be dismissed, 
a mere visitor, a plaything for them to while away their hours with.  
         "Come, dear," Jill urged, palming my bottom, evoking a wince from 
me.  It was still quite sore.  With steps as abbreviated as I could get 
away with, I let her guide me forward, past the guests, out the door.  
Down a hall we went and then, through another door, and there it was.  
The dungeon!  Surely I could not go through another torment here!
         "Please," I whimpered, suddenly quite afraid.  But, implacably, Jill 
urged me over to an I.V. pole equipped with an enema bottle.  Did anyone 
ever get to take a normal shit here, I wondered.  She forced me to my 
knees.  Then my face was pressed to the stone cold floor, although she 
did slip a small pillow under my chest to protect my stiff-nippled 
breasts.
         Prising me open, Jill inserted an enema tube in my heinie.  I was 
shaking visibly now, terrified that I was to receive another beating on 
my already chastised bottom.  In went the awful enema fluid, as my 
dinner guests pressed close and watched with avid eyes.  Their hands 
stole to each other's genitals.  My suffering stimulated them.
         When I was full, protesting loudly that I could take no more, Jill 
turned off the enema's flow.  Men lifted me up, bodily, and set me 
quickly on the padded edge of a large trough.  As they moved me I 
strained mightily to keep my buttcheeks closed.  I knew they would be 
terribly angry with me if I made a mess on the floor.  
         I felt seized, suddenly, by the impossibility of holding back my 
enema any longer.  It sort of washes over you, that undying need to let 
go.  My legs were open, my pussy offered to all who cared to look.  I 
could not even think any longer of modesty.  
         Jill tickled my cunny, giving me permission, I hoped, to shit.  And 
I did.  My bowels emptied themselves with a mighty, unladylike 
WHOOSH!  Fortunately I was over the trough now, and I hoped it was not 
a feed trough.  Surely it was not meant to contain my breakfast or 
anything, was it?  I prayed not.  The trough was deep and none of my 
liquid excrement splashed back up on me.  It was a nice, clean dump.  
Afterward Jill wiped me, as I sat shivering on the trough's edge.  
         Without moving me from my precarious perch, my captors undid 
my handcuffs.  For a moment I was grateful, until they lashed little 
boards to the backs of my arms.  I wondered at these.  What could they 
possibly be for, I asked.
         "To pop them wide open.  Your breasts, that is," Jill told me.  "I'm 
going to whip them!"  I gasped in horror.  "Surely you don't want me to 
flog your ruined bottom, do you?"  I could not even respond.  Quickly she 
lifted my board clad arms and drew them back on either side of me.  The 
boards extended from my elbows to my wrists.  There was no way to 
wriggle out of them.  They were like a second skin, tied down to my 
arms.  
         Drawn back, farther than I thought possible, my arms were 
chained to the wall behind me.  At the same time the aristocratic girl, 
named Nancy, clipped my ankles into footcuffs on the floor.  My feet 
were wide apart.  There was no closing my legs now.
         I lifted my bottom off the edge of the trough, trying to escape.  
My breasts, thrusting up obscenely, made a spectacle of themselves, 
wobbling helplessly on my chest.  There was no escape.  I couldn't get 
my arms detached from the wall.  
         My bottom thumped back down on the trough's edge.  I began to 
weep.
         "Poor darling," Nancy cooed.  Still kneeling between my open 
thighs, she lifted a finger and twirled it in my pubic thatch.  
         "I don't want my breasts whipped!" I cried.  Jill, ignoring me, 
fetched a little pony whip.  The end was split into several tiny tails, as 
if it had been frayed there from too much use.  
         Jill whisked the frayed tip of the whip over my nipples.  I 
shuddered.  My titties, responsive and utterly unprotected, shivered 
under the playful assault.  
         Breathlessly I hoped Jill had nothing more drastic in store for me.  
But then, with a determined look gathering on her face, she gave my 
right breast a lick that sent me howling.  
         It was fear, mostly, I guess.  The print of the whip on my 
defenseless flesh did hurt, leaving a little red stripe, but it was not 
cruel, not something that would welt me.  
         Another sweeping stroke followed, and other, the whip plying and 
flaying my defenseless titties.  My face stayed upturned, crying.  Once 
or twice when I bent my head down Jill put a finger beneath my chin, 
lifting it.  She told me she didn't want to hit me in the eyes.  
         I suffered nobly, like some young princess, as Jill swept her 
nasty whip all over my breasts.  At last, through my tears, I spied an 
overhead mirror.  My breasts were being painted by the whip to look 
like lightly striped candy canes.  Peppermint pink stripes adorned the 
snowy hillocks, each one laid with sweet affection.  Now and then Jill 
would stop and kiss the nipples, drawing them out, making them stand 
as tall and proud as possible.  Then she would reward them with little 
flaying bites of the whip, "tit torture," as she called it.  She said some 
girls had their nipples pierced, sitting on the trough, with brass rings.  
She said I should be glad I was only getting a little whipping instead.  
         At last a man ordered Jill to stop.  Nonchalantly she tossed down 
her whip, as if bored with the whole affair anyway.  The man presented 
his nakedness to me and, with my titties smarting miserably, thrust 
himself up my cunt.  I could not resist.  
         When the first man had spent, each man in turn took his place.  
Some paid "tribute" to me, others reserved their strength for their 
girlfriends, satisfying themselves with a few mind-numbing pokes in 
my tightness.
         Exhausted, I was at last let down.  My legs were stiff and I could 
only walk with great difficulty, supported on either side by two 
consoling women.  They laid me on a bench, atop a fluffy towel.  For a 
while I stared at the orgy, my head turned on its side, listless.  My 
arms drooped down on either side of the bench.  The backs of my hands 
rested on the stone floor.  My legs, shamelessly wide, fell off either 
side of the bench.  My careless feet lay still upon the floor.
         I watched, half-interested, as my dinner companions fucked each 
other with vigor and wild abandon.  I saw Jill fucked twice, and Nancy's 
ass seemed a special treasure with the men.  They burrowed into its 
delicate whiteness repeatedly, taking turns, until she cried.  Weepily 
she told them she wouldn't be able to shit for a week.  They only 
laughed.

ANCIENT ZINES
Dug up by holy joe

Ubiquitous Funnies #2, 35¢.  Mini.  Brian Kirk, 93 Sunapee St., Springfield, 
MA 01108.
         Headline:  COLA CRAZY
         Story Preview:  Asinine Head buys the same bottle of Moot cola from 
a convenience store over and over again in an attempt to convince the 
cashier that he is drinking gallons and gallons of soda.
         Story Critique:  Who cares if Asinine Head does convince the cashier 
that he is consuming gallons of cola?  Does he win some prize?  
Apparently not.  So whatÕs the big deal?
         1996 Commentary:  Brian Kirk is one of the all-time great stars of 
the 80Õs small press universe.  He seemed to drop out in the 90Õs.  In my 
reviewing days for Comic Update (published by Roller), I saw one or two 
excellent stories by Brian.  I mainly value him, though, for his terrific art.  
Today I just got some brand new minis from Brian.  I will review these 
soon in Fuck Decency!

AND IN THE END...

         Cook County StateÕs Attorney Jack OÕMalley, speaking on Òvery 
young offenders,Ó states:  ÒWeÕve become a nation being terrorized by 
our children.Ó - Newsweek, January 22, 1996, pg. 57

         [What?!  By our precious, innocent children?  Ed.]

Free Fuck Decency e-mail subscriptions:  send (18 or up) age statement 
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addressed envelope & age statement to:  Jim Corrigan, P.O. Box 3663, 
Phenix City, AL 36868 U.S.A.  Naughty Naked Dreamgirls (Library of 
Congress ISSN: 1070-1427) is copyright 1996 and a trademark of 
Andrew Roller.  NEW:  uw.alt.sex.stories    END OF 15 EMISSION