Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 201
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Private Places
Chapter Four
I wriggled free of Candi and watched as Karen received the tribute
of cream inside her panties. She stood wobbly-kneed, her asscheeks
grinding together apprehensively, as hostess finished and let her panties
snap shut.
ÒThere,Ó hostess said consolingly, but pressed a hand firmly against
KarenÕs cunt so as to fully impress the cream into her privates. Karen
mumbled something but nobody cared. The men sat enthralled, the women
too, all of them desperate with arousal, the women all nude, the men still
politely suited but with their flies open and their organs standing stiffly
up like toadstools. Precum glistened in rivulets down the sides of their
cocks. They were excellent in their stiffness, all of them naturally wet,
more precum bubbling from their peetips as time passed. Now and then a
woman would glance under the table, for it had no tablecloth to block her
view, and check on the status of her loverÕs cock. There it would rear,
across from her, all ready to ream her at the first sign of permission from
hostess. And beside it, on either side, would be other cocks, equally
ready, equally eager. The night promised to be a full one for our cunts if
hostess would ever let the men get at us. All of them could surely have
stayed home and enjoyed each other, but instead theyÕd chosen to let
hostess guide them on this evening. And I wondered, too, if sheÕd put the
females to their own hubbies, or insist that opportunity must be made of
the diversity, putting each female to someone other than the male who had
so gallantly escorted her to this feast. I sleeked my hands up my own
thighs, feeling the creaminess of them along the inside. How fleshy and
soft I felt within the confines of my thighs. How many men, sitting
across from me, were plotting to spread them wide before the night was
through and plant himself within them? Candi took my face into her hands
again, finished my makeup. She proceeded next to Gwen, who insisted on
sharing a long, probing kiss with her before letting her start. Seeing them
so engaged, I reached over and pinched CandiÕs rubbery bottom.
ÒOuch!Ó Candi squawked.
ÒThatÕs what you get for making me look like a million dollars,Ó I
giggled. She put a hand behind herself and rubbed her hiney ruefully as
Gwen, undeterred, held her fast in a kiss that I knew was making her
tongue go down CandiÕs throat.
Jill passed me a silver mirror. ÒYou look lovely, dear,Ó Jill
complimented.
ÒI donÕt feel lovely,Ó I replied. I shifted tensely in my seat, upon the
velvet cushion which felt so, so arousing now... making me want it even
worse than I already did.
ÒTake a moment and admire yourself. You really do look lovely,Ó Jill
answered. She held the mirror up for me, since I refused to take it.
Uncertainly I glanced at myself. Ah! A catch of longing in my throat. Was
that me? I looked like a lovely woman seated at the City Opera, my hair
so perfect, despite streaks of icing in it, my eyes bright, my lashes long
and fuller even than they naturally were. My cheeks blushed brightly, my
lips were glossy. Indeed, I would have thought myself at some State
Banquet, but for the fact that my shoulders in the mirror were bare, and
my bosoms, the nipples just out of view, loomed so nakedly. Where was
my pretty gown to go with my lovely made-up face? I was so nude, buck-
naked. How decadent this was!
Hostess, ever one to make us yet more agitated, now focussed her
attention on the men. She ordered little Karen to take an eye-dropper and
squirt wine into the menÕs pee holes. ÒGet your pants down off your hips,
gentlemen,Ó hostess ordered. ÒThatÕs right, just shuck them down. You
can sit your buns right on the velvet cushions just like the girls are doing.
FairÕs fair here. Take your pants right down, sir! Down to your ankles!
Well, I know you wonÕt be able to just get up and walk over to the toilet if
you need to pee. ThatÕs the point. LetÕs see those pants around your
ankles, imprisoning your feet in your own trousers and underpants! ItÕll
keep us females safer, I think, knowing you men canÕt just leap up and rape
us!Ó
Under hostessÕ implacable, otherworldly stare, as if she were
Persephone herself, come to strip the men of their souls, our hubbies and
boyfriends pushed their trousers down their legs to the floor. Karen
danced up to the first one, clearly intrigued by her assignment. Delicately
she took hold of the gnarly knob of the first manÕs penis, the one closest
to hostess. Was it her husband, I wondered. No, it must not be, I decided.
He seemed younger than her. Perhaps ten years younger. He was her
boyfriend. It was not just her husband, the governor, who kept lovers. She
kept them too, having perhaps one male one month, and another the next.
He looked like a young college graduate, just going out into the world. No
doubt heÕd gotten a job with the state in the governorÕs province and, to
his surprise, found himself meeting the governorÕs wife also. She would
take him for a ride he never guessed possible, I thought, draining him of
his life and finally leaving him.
The young man gazed down with amazed eyes as Karen, his junior by
at least a decade, took firm hold of his most precious asset. With aplomb
I would have thought possible only in an older girl, she pressed the tip of
the eye-dropper into the manÕs peehole and squirted forth its contents.
Red wine, which made his penis look like it was bleeding. I learned later
from her that sheÕd found his balls the most exciting. They seemed to
churn under the assault on the nearby cock, desperate not to shoot, yet so
very excited at having this wicked, awful deed done to their brother the
penis. She said those proud balls looked like ripe coconuts, after theyÕve
been shelled but before the husk has been broken open to reveal the milk.
With gasping mouth and wide eyes the young man received his
punishment in his peehole. Certainly it must have felt uncomfortable, to
say the least, to have alcohol squirted into such a sensitive organ. The
very peehole, that which we all try to keep soap out of when we bathe,
lest it sting. His cock wiggling, the man strove to contain himself as he
felt the stinging within his hole. If only he could shoot out his sperm!
That would soothe it, coat it, protect it. But no, he must hold, hold, hold,
perhaps for hours still, until mistress was ready for his performance.
Karen went to the next man, sitting bare-assed on the velvet
cushion. I could see he wanted to say Ôno,Õ to deter her, to stop her.
All the men did. But their naked asses on the velvet reminded them of the
straps and the canes and the tawses and all the other wicked implements
that hostess had slashed across their buns prior to giving them permission
to come tonight. Before they could even get the day and date of this
memorable party, before they even could obtain the location from her,
hostess had insisted on giving each man a through flogging. Now, tonight,
each man sat in his chair, his ass newly healed, and not daring to risk
another flogging at the hands of the governorÕs wife.
I watched them with interest. All of them were tall and strong,
each a powerhouse in his own right, a muscle machine, yet they sat
dutifully, like guards for the Queen, each man daring the other to take his
eyedropperfull of wine. And each was done in turn, by Karen, her own
pussy chilly in her close-fitting undies. She was but a girl, accomplished
in her little dinner table tasks but, otherwise, innocent as me, I thought.
Yet the men accepted the terrible wine from her, letting this slip of a girl
torment their organs with her stinging dropper.
When the men had been attended to, Gwen volunteered we girls as
subjects for the same experiment. She spoke with her hand raised up to
her ear, palm outward, as if she were a student at school, and hostess our
teacher.
ÒThank you, Gwen,Ó hostess answered. ÒIt is very nice of you girls
to join your husbands in this little agonizing rite of passage. WeÕll use
full 100% bourbon for you girls, straight, since I do like to be more
merciless with the females than the males, being a woman. I always have
a bit of pity for the men. But women are, in the end, just competition,
arenÕt they? LetÕs be quick about it, though. Each of you do the girl next
to you. Pass the dropper and bottle down the line.Ó
We did as she ordered. A bottle was passed, each girl doing herself
or letting the girl next to her do it for her. Jill took the bottle and
dropper, poured some bourbon into her empty champagne glass and,
gritting her pretty teeth, inserted the tip of the dropper into her peehole
after first filling it in the glass. She did me then, not washing the
dropper off inbetween, but simply taking it from her peehole to mine.
SheÕd only given herself half a dropperful, I got the rest. Gwen did herself
next, refilling the dropper first from JillÕs glass. She held back her hair
from her face, so blonde and beautiful, and watched her own hand as it
maneuvered the dropper into her peehole. Gwen held it within herself a
minute, not squirting anything, afraid to. Finally she squeezed the little
rubber bulb.
ÒOh!Ó Gwen ejaculated, feeling the bourbon squirt into her tiny hole.
Next to her cunt it seemed so insignificant, yet now it would sting
awfully, making her aware of it every moment. Jill giggled. I rubbed
myself surreptitiously to try to assuage the sting which now plagued me.
ÒIs everything alright, madam?Ó a man asked, appearing suddenly
from the kitchen. It was the restaurantÕs maitre dÕ. He was outfitted in a
suit with tails, his eyebrows raised. Our hostess turned, smiled at him,
even as Gwen finished filling her peehole with the bourbon. The maitre dÕs
eyes seemed to take us in, sitting with our titties wiggling nakedly, the
men with their ramrod cocks standing up so fine, on display like soldierÕs
rifles. Yet, at the same time, he seemed not to notice us. It was the
practised non-glance, yet all-seeing, of a headwaiter.
ÒWeÕre quite fine, Armand,Ó hostess answered. ÒThe girls are trying
out your bourbon where itÕs sure to be appreciated, even in tiny
quantities.Ó
ÒVery well,Ó Armand answered. He disappeared as quickly as heÕd
come. I wondered if his trousers bulged a little now, as he returned to the
main part of the restaurant. Would 6-year-old girls notice something in
his pants as he stood close to their table, taking their order? I hoped, for
their sake, that heÕd be able to contain himself and talk himself out of any
erection.
Only hostess remained clothed amongst us. She sat regally in a
high-necked gown, its collar stiff and tall around her neck, but with the
gown open in front, showing just enough of her bosom to be daring. With
long-nailed fingers she now undid the buttons down the front of her dress.
She pulled apart the halves of her gown as if some event must occur, for
which she must be topless. And then, my breath catching, I saw her
bosoms spill freely from her gown even as she reached out and picked up
one of the tattooing needles. It was as straight and stiff as her nipples
which now sprang into view. They were excited nipples, I could tell.
Excited at the prospect of seeing us tattooed in our most intimate places.
Hostess replaced the needle upon the table. She saw the menÕs eyes
on her tits and smiled.
ÒNow boys, letÕs not be indecent, please. I just wanted to give my
breasts a little freedom, thatÕs all, now that Armand has made his check
of the evening. He wonÕt be back. We can proceed with the main
festivities.Ó She surveyed us all. ÒMy, my, what fun weÕve had already.
And we havenÕt even had dessert yet!Ó she said.
I raised my hand. Timidly, just up to my ear, as Gwen had done. But
I figured if I was to ask permission to leave it must be now.
A NATURAL BURIAL
by holy joe
The bad thing about not being a Catholic is that you have no one to
tell your deep, dark secrets to when youÕre bad. ThereÕs no confessional
booth with a nice priest sitting in it waiting to hear from you. So IÕm
forced, I guess, to share my crimes and misdemeanors with you.
The other day I became a thief. See, I was planting nice tulip bulbs
all around the porta potty. And I was cleansing the toilet with herbal
potions and making it smell nice by sprinkling rose petal powder all over
the seat.
Well, the men at the construction site had no appreciation of my
services. They stepped on my tulips and forgot to wipe after they pooped,
leaving a big brown ring of shit all over MY toilet seat! (Construction
dudes eat shitty food that sticks to their butts when they poop and gets
smeared all over their asses when they wipe.)
Anyway, I was pissed. I mean, to them it may have just been a
porta-potty, but to me it was my HOME! I got fed up and decided to steal
the damn thing. I know, I know, itÕs wrong and I couldnÕt take the tulips
with me, but I just felt compelled. I felt an irresistible impulse to claim
some part of the American Dream for myself, even if it was just a smelly
porta-potty.
You may think, ÒHow in GodÕs name does a penniless hobo steal a
porta-potty?Ó DonÕt worry. IÕm smart. After dark, I hauled my porta-
potty across the street to the local truck stop. I hitched up my porta-
potty to the back of a truck parked there. When the driver came back to
his truck he didn't even notice my little porta-potty. Off we went! I got
to travel thousands of miles, masturbating over my girlie zines on my very
own potty while someone else took care of the driving.
Now as I was going across the country, I read that my friend Lynn
Hansin had died. It was a great loss to me. (Not to mention to him.)
Lynn was living in Rosehole, New Mexico at the time. He had ordered
in his last will and testament that, in the event of his death, ÒNo services
will be held and my remains will be returned to nature.Ó
When I got to Rosehole I found out that LynnÕs friends had cremated
him but nobody had quite figured out how to return him to nature. The
preferred way, you know, is to scatter the remains of the dead in the
ocean. Well, New Mexico may have once been an ocean, eons ago, but Lynn
missed out on that era and now itÕs just a desert. What to do? (I wanted
only the best for my friend Lynn, even if he did write for Factsheet Five in
his final years.)
There I was, with a big heavy brass urn full of LynnÕs ashes. His
friends all said goodbye to me and thanked me for handling the matter.
(Not to mention the urn, which they were kinda afraid to touch, having a
dead guy in it.) I figured, oh well, IÕll just take a trip out to the Gulf or
something and ditch LynnÕs ashes there. But then I started getting scared
myself. Sure, IÕd been real noble, accepting the job of Òreturning LynnÕs
remains to nature,Ó but I was still mad at him for quitting my zine and
writing for Factsheet Five. What if his ghost appeared, and said, ÒWhat
are you doing with MY ashes, you fucking pervert?Ó He might haunt me and
then I might never meet a girl, what with a spooky ghost lurking around
me. I thought about Greeks who kill their parents, who are pursued by the
Furies wherever they go, and I could just see LynnÕs ghost following me
wherever I went.
Plus, how would you like carrying around the remains of some dead
guy? I mean, youÕre in a coffee shop. You see some nice girl sitting at a
table. You sit down next to her, hoping maybe sheÕll buy you some coffee,
and she says, ÒWhatÕs that?Ó And you say, ÒWell, itÕs a dead guy.Ó
I was lugging LynnÕs urn around Rosehole, New Mexico. I was seeing
nice girls in coffee shops and wondering if theyÕd buy me coffee but
always I was too scared to go in. I mean, I donÕt look that great, and
adding a dead guy to my image wasnÕt helping. Then I walked past a public
restroom.
"Well,Ó I thought, Òthe water in those toilets flows eventually out to
the ocean, doesn't it? I mean, it wouldn't be the most expensive burial in
the world, but then Lynn was always against pretension.Ó
So I went inside. It was a gay part of town and most of the stalls
were filled. (Two men each.) I did find one empty, however, right in the
middle. I slipped in with my urn.
Have you ever tried to flush pieces of paper down your toilet at
home? It's not easy at all. Well, I had the same problem with Lynn's
ashes. So I figured, ÒMaybe if I pee on these ashes floating around in the
toilet that will break them up and make them flush easier.Ó So I did. It
worked sorta okay. But about halfway through I began to feel the
rumblings of diarrhea. (Don't eat at Jack in the Box right before you need
to bury someone.)
I was mortified. I didnÕt want to do it. But I soon realized the
choice was between Lynn and my underpants. One of us was going to get
shitted upon. My underpants were good Hanes ones, that IÕd got from a nice
lady at the Goodwill. Lynn was dead. I was trying to get rid of him. My
underpants I needed to keep. So I sat down and had a good shit. Then I
wiped and got back to work.
I was still busily flushing the toilet, trying to get rid of the last of
Lynn's ashes, when I heard sirens. Uh-oh. The Homo Patrol, I figured.
Some little boy in the bathroom must have reported all the gay men in the
stalls to the police. Not being the most respectable looking person, I knew
they'd have their finger up my ass if I didn't hustle out of there.
I fled the restroom. Unfortunately, I had to leave the rest of LynnÕs
remains behind. I left the brass urn too. It was almost empty. If you see
a big brass urn in a toilet stall, would you please finish the job for me?
You can keep the urn.
I decided to leave Rosehole that night. It was just too scary a place
with LynnÕs remains there. When I got back to the truck stop where my
porta potty was parked I saw the driver of the truck it was hitched to was
getting ready to leave. I guess I should pause to say that I'd have used my
porta-potty to bury Lynn in but it doesn't flow to the ocean. The shit just
stays in a holding tank until someone vacuums it out. I had no intention of
travelling across the country with Lynn Hansin floating in the bottom of
my porta potty! (Plus heÕd fill up the tank and IÕd have to vacuum it out
sooner.)
As I travelled that night across America, I thought of Lynn back in
the Rosehole restroom. I felt awful that I had not managed to return him
to nature. However, I had at least managed to commingle him with nature;
so I hope, even though he knows IÕm mad at him, that heÕs not too angry
with me.
AND IN THE END...
ÒHe plans, he explains, to keep samples of their DNA, so that when
Jurassic Park technology is eventually invented, he can grow his own
angelic, virginal schoolgirls.Ó
- The Economist, February 15, 1997, pg. 17 (review section).
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-Naughty Naked Dreamgirls (Library of Congress ISSN: 1070-1427) is
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copyright 1997 by the respective copyright holder.
-END OF 201 EMISSION
- Senator Exon, let me know if you need someone to write your obituary
for you.