Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 28
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Love Child
Chapter Twelve
We were forced to stand. The grandee told us heÕd see us again soon
and we were filed out, taken out into the drafty, summer hall, the smell of
palm fronds on the breeze. Down the hall we went, and then off into a side
room. There we were made to sit on stools. Our feet dangling, we were
shod in sharp-heeled pumps. Then spectacular diamonds were brought
forth and clipped to our ears. We gasped, amazed.
ÒDonÕt worry, you wonÕt be able to keep them,Ó a spanish woman said
to us in broken english. ÒThey are for temporary decoration only.Ó
Beauticians came and did up our faces and our hair as we sat,
breasts outthrust, our hands still helplessly bound behind us. Then each of
the beauticians went behind us and did our nails, drawing out our fingers
one by one but never unlocking our iron cuffs. Our bottoms shivered
nakedly just inches from their eyes. I farted once, apologized. The
beautician said something back to me in Spanish.
Out across the lawn we trooped at last, more beautiful I think than
ever before, but utterly naked also. We were loaded into the van by the
guards. Off we went then, without seatbelts on but with our hands bound
unhelpfully behind us. Our bosoms bounced as the van left the fine-clipped
grounds of the grandee and lurched down a pitted country road.
The van pulled to a stop in the square of a little village. Small
houses with adobe walls and dusty red-tiled roofs slept in the afternoon
sun. The inside of the van was uncomfortably cool, the air blowing on our
white skin from chilled air conditioning vents. But outside you could see
that the air was heavy, thick with centuries of unremitting heat. Dogs
lounged by a dead fountain in front of a grocery with a sign that needed
paint. Two horses, looking sad, their tails flipping futilely at several
buzzing flies (more interested no doubt in the fresh turds at the horses
feet than in the horses themselves), were tied to a hitching post.
From the buildings lining the town square people began to emerge.
The men, short and fat and bald, or with shaggy black locks coming down
to their eyes, stepped out with their hats still in their hands, fanning
themselves a little more before being forced to cover themselves from the
sunÕs glare. Women emerged too, and little children, scuttling amidst the
adults. And then the grandee pulled in, riding in a Rolls Royce, coming
apparently from the same road weÕd travelled, though far enough behind us
so as not to catch any of the dust our van had churned up in its passing.
And then I saw them. We all saw them at once, I think, for a hushed
gasp passed over all of us in the van. Five pairs of iron shackles, fixed to
a brick wall, across from the church. The shadow of the church steeple
fell across the town square, pointing at the wall. And at one end of the
wall there was a bucket. Dried salt clung in rivulets to its sides. And
standing in the bucket was a clutch of rods, birch rods I think, bound
together with a black rope.
ÒNo!Ó one of the girls sobbed. I felt myself fighting to hold back
tears. Did the grandee really intend such a horrid fate for us? It looked
awful and unmerciful and utterly demeaning. I could see slaves whipped
there, or heretics, but not college girls, not a high school freshman like
myself! Did he expect to put little Sylvia against such an implacable wall,
with her skinny coltish legs and her unformed, unfinished body, to squash
her newly grown tits up against those awful bricks? And Tiffany? Did he
wish to place her chic, smooth-bodied form, with her sleek long legs and
her inviting bottom, so deeply cleft and properly if sparingly fatted, up
against that wall? Must sensitive, shy Amber be thrown up against that
wall? Or lovely Cheryl?
And then I saw a spanish woman walk up to the wall with an armful
of thick shawls. They were fringed, with subtle earth hues spun into them
in Spanish and Incan designs. She hung one shawl right beneath each pair
of shackles, right under the cuffs of the shackles, actually, but beneath
the place where their dangling chains sprouted from the wall. There were
little hooks provided in the wall for the hanging of the shawls, one for
either of the shawlÕs topmost corners. The van driver told us the shawls
were provided as a favor by the grandee himself, that criminals and
heretics whipped against the wall had no such comfort provided them.
The door to the van was yanked open with a harsh, grating sound.
The sheriff of the town stepped aboard. He was a dandified gentleman,
with a swarthy look and a slim curled mustache. He introduced himself to
us politely, tipping his broad hat to us. He wore a military uniform, stiff
and unyielding, hesitating it seemed even to crinkle when he bent toward
us in greeting.
ÒLadies, IÕm afraid drug usage is a criminal offense, and I shall have
to punish you for it,Ó he explained with utmost gentility. ÒIf you will
please proceed across the square to the wall we can amend your sins with
the least difficulty for you and the exemplary justice it deserves.Ó Little
Sylvia broke into tears. I felt myself shimmering with fright, my skin all
prickled up in the cool air, scared out of my wits. I hunched my shoulders
but my titties stuck out resolutely, my nipples like thorns.
ÒWe--canÕt,Ó Tiffany gasped.
ÒIÕm afraid you must, young lady,Ó the Sheriff replied simply. ÒWith
exaggerated deference he took her by her lovely silky hair and pulled her
to her feet. TiffanyÕs mouth opened wide, speechless. Chained to her,
watching her drawn by her hair, we could not help but rise as she was led
from the van.
The women from America, so delicate, with lovely hair and smooth
fine bodies, from genteel upper class neighborhoods up north or leafy
small towns, stepped across the square. A long carpet had been hastily
unrolled for us, by order of the grandee, so that our feet would not be
soiled by the dust. Trippingly, wearing only spiked stiletto heels and
diamond earrings jangling from our ears, we were taken across the square
to the wall. One by one we were put to the wall and our hands quickly
unbound and re-bound above our heads.
With silk-sheened bottoms we stood in the hot sun now, still feeling
the lingering effects of the vanÕs air conditioning upon our skin. Our hair
glistened in the sunlight. Our earrings sparkled. A spanish woman began
putting up my hair. The grandee stopped her, saying only our bottoms were
to Òhave it,Ó as he put it. Slim legged we stood there, our hair cascading
down our backs, with all eyes now fixed on our shivering asses.
A man was selected from the crowd. He swaggered forth, young and
strong. He took the rods from the bucket. The grandee told him to pull one
forth from the bunch, to save the rest in case they were needed later. He
took the stoutest, longest one. He played with it in the air a moment,
sweeping it out before himself. Our gently curving backs, half-hidden by
our manes of hair (though some had less protection than the others),
presented themselves sweetly, our ribs showing with our every indrawn
breath, our waists narrow, our bottoms sticking out below.
The man took up position before Sylvia. She looked back at him
fearfully. She began to sob openly now, big suffering sobs that belched
from her small lungs.
ÒNo! Give me hers!Ó Tiffany begged. She turned her head wildly to
the grandee.
ÒYou are generous, my dear,Ó the grandee said. But you are all
equally sinful. Except your newest friend, that is. She I will punish just
for the erotic pleasure of it. I am a generous man, but a wicked one too,
and my people have so little to entertain them. ÒBegin!Ó he shouted to the
young man at our rear.
WHACK! The first slicing thud of the birch sounded against SylvieÕs
bottom. She screamed aloud, her shriek rustling the pigeons from atop the
church steeple. Then, as she bent her head forth and cried into her shawl,
the whipmaster sauntered casually over to the next girl. Sylvie would be
left to feel her punishment until it was her turn again. Tremblingly Amber
begged to be let off. The master just looked at her, ignorant and uncaring.
He had not gone to her protected suburb up in America to punish her. She
had come to him. Why would she now ask him for mercy? He had lived in
the same small town all his life. For a white Anglo girl to get all the way
down here, well she must have done SOMETHING. And what would her
people have done to him if heÕd gone up north to where she lived? Why, the
American sheriff would not be as polite to him as his sheriff had been to
her.
The man drew back his hand, and AmberÕs shy eyes blinked wide as
the birch swooped in and struck her hard on the tushy.
ÒYEEEOWL!Ó Amber yelped. Her naked legs danced about, first her
left foot lifting, then her right, rapidly, desperately. The townspeople
laughed heartily. Sylvie in her sadness, and perhaps receiving a lesser
blow than her sister (though you couldnÕt have told it by her cry), had
stiffened her legs. Even now they still were frozen in some kind of rictus,
as if still refusing to believe that her tender bottom had been struck by
the birch. But Amber, shy and ever-so-concerned with justice and fair
play, put on a venerable show, letting the whole world know sheÕd been
wrongly struck, in her opinion.
Cheryl was next. With flinching, hesitant eyes she watched as the
master drew himself up before her.
ÒPlease sir, not on my hams,Ó Cheryl peeped. ÒDo my thighs, or my
back, but not my bottom.Ó The master simply drew back his hand and let
loose his stroke.
ÒNOOOO!Ó Cheryl cried. She sobbed and danced, though not so
explicitly as Amber or with the morose attitude of Sylvie.
I was next. Gazing at my master, I knew he would not spare me
either. I tried to bend my knees, to somehow lower the profile of my
bottom, present less of a target with it. But it was impossible. WeÕd all
been stretched high until only our toes touched the ground. The balls of
our feet, actually. Bending my knees only brought me up onto my tippie
toes. And that is when master struck.
ÒYEEEOCH!Ó I shouted. A fairly aimed stroke split my white peach,
leaving a blazing red line of heat right across the summits. I dangled from
my manacles, twisting about, flexing my bottom hard as I tried to throw
off the sting. The crowd laughed again, delighted, amused by these Anglo
girls with their white bottoms that the grandee had provided for their
pleasure. It was how he stayed in power, providing these simple
entertainments. In the city you could not find such as this. There was
only smog and prostitution, corrupt priests and churches that prayed only
for the government. But out here, deep in the jungled countryside, here
life was simple and direct. Pain was sharp, simple. It was delivered upon
penitent bottoms owned by rich white Anglo girls, who no doubt went
home then with tales of the remorsefulness of using drugs in their
country, warning their little sisters to beware of waywardness, to follow
the straight and narrow of church and farm and home. Bill Bennett, had he
known, would no doubt have joined the Mexicans and applauded. And how
many Anglos had applauded the caning of the boy in Singapore? Yes, there
was justice to be found in Mexico, at least out here in the countryside.
Here even the whitest girls could find justice, while the simple peasant
was protected by the grandee. All these tumultuous thoughts raced
haphazardly through my mind as I twisted from my manacles. These
people would not help me. They would not offer any assistance. Any pity
we received would come from the grandee, and him alone.
Tiffany did not turn her head to look at the whipmaster. Instead she
looked once at the grandee. He returned her gaze, wearing an ice cream
white suit of vanilla, twin spanish women fanning him as he watched her.
Tiffany stuck out her tongue at him. Then she turned her blonde head
away, toward the wall. The crowd gasped, realizing what sheÕd done to
their grandee. Impudently Tiffany stuck out her bottom, offering it. When
the master arrived, his weapon ready, she bent her knees wide and farted.
Curses erupted from the crowd. Fists shook. Yet TiffanyÕs bottom
remained boldly displayed, defiant. It did not tremble as ours had, but
jutted out bold and brave. The master looked at the grandee. He bade him
wait. And then slowly, gradually, TiffanyÕs bottom began to tremble. Just
a little, but showing that she too felt fear. Perhaps more than the rest of
us now. Still she held it out at the Mexicans, proud of her white seat and
making them look at it, forcing them to gaze at her mooning ass.
ÒTwo for her for every one for the others,Ó the grandee told the
whipmaster.
Quickly the master delivered two solid strokes upon TiffanyÕs
pumpkin. She bit her lip and shook like a doggie, her long blonde hair
thrashing from side to side. But she did not cry out. With trembling legs
she bore the cuts and remained silent.
ÒYou do well, Tiffany,Ó the grandee complimented her. ÒBut you are
older than the others and I expect it from you.Ó Alas, she had set a
standard for herself now, one the grandee would expect her to uphold.
Could she do it? I wondered. She was only a year older than Amber, only a
few years older than the rest of us.
And now the master returned to little Sylvie. He gave her another
juicy swat, and she cried the loudest of all of us again, though I wondered
if he wasnÕt actually going easy on her, for he seemed to smile at her and
slow his hand a little when he delivered the stroke. Out of compassion or
because of some wicked hope that heÕd get to treasure her bottom all by
himself later on I knew not. Perhaps he was hoping for some reward for
his work. He could be saving her for later, when he might give her a more
thorough swatting in his own bedroom, tied to his own bedpost. But Sylvie
bawled away, certain that she was suffering the cruelest cuts on her
heinie. And then Amber was struck again, sending the girl into more self-
righteous displays of the pain inflicted on her bottom, letting all of us
know by her dancings that she felt every last bit of it. Perhaps she hoped
the man who filmed Rodney King would film her, and she could show the
world what she had suffered, and sue the grandee for his estate. In any
event her antics brought the most laughter from the crowd, while
TiffanyÕs bold display brought the most scorn.
Cheryl offered her peach this time, softly though, humbly, sticking it
out in offering rather than defiance. Perhaps she hoped to earn some
compassion from the master, but it did not help her. He struck her just as
firmly as before. She broke into tears then, remorseful over her bottom,
not wanting it marked.
I did not look at the master this time. I hung my head and waited,
bit my lip. In came the stroke. Hot, hard, extorting a quick shrill cry from
me. I took my punishment and danced about a little, then quieted. My
nether cheeks squeezed shut, opened, squeezed again, trying to rid away
the pain.
Tiffany was not so wanton this time. She held her bottom aloft but
did not try to make some rude presentation with it. The master gave her
two, well-placed, sparing her a hit on skin already marked, but striking
her hard nonetheless. Tiffany barely suppressed her ululation. I knew
next time sheÕd offer it up, pierce the sky with it, for I could see her
trembling beside me. Her will was cracking. The whipping was so slow,
one could not maintain oneÕs composure for long. The tension was
overwhelming as you waited for the master to return.
Back to Sylvia he went. He struck her harder this time, making her
dance like Amber. She was almost out of tears now, sheÕd cried so much
already. But she shouted as loudly as before. Perhaps she thought she was
on the playground, tussling with boys. Amber next again, a regular go-go
girl by now, jumping about with her white legs flashing and her bare hips
revolving. Who says only New York City has such girls? And then Cheryl,
her poor bottom given another fiery stripe, sending her cringing into self-
absorbed tears. And then me! How awful the birch felt, striking my heinie
in some new spot, bringing flaring heat to some new area of my bottom. I
wriggled atop my upstanding toes, cried a little, bit my lip. Lastly Tiffany
bore her two in turn, her ass quite red now, suffering more than the rest
of us because sheÕd rudely insulted the grandee and his simple village folk.
She was regretting it now, I knew, for she wept openly this time, and
howled like a werewolf. Even Sylvie looked over at her. The grandee
laughed, tossed a large glimmering coin to the master. The people
applauded.
In the distance a jeep drove up. The crowd turned. The grandee
looked over his shoulder, the women on either side of him still fanning
him dutifully even as they looked also. The jeep came closer. Turning my
head back, straining my bottom back even as I turned, my wrists still
caught in the cuffs, I watched as the jeep drove up. In the distance
thunderclouds were building. I saw a flash of summer lightning upon the
far mountains.
The jeep parked by the van. After the dust settled, a woman stepped
out, followed by a man. He was dressed in a smart blazer. With my nude
bottom poking out I felt utterly ridiculous. I felt the other girls rustling
in their bonds, admiring the handsome man even as they felt utterly,
completely embarrassed.
ÒOh, how luscious!Ó the woman gasped, approaching, gazing at us.
She was a cultured woman, finely dressed, though her skirts looked just a
little rumpled now, as if sheÕd been dallying in the jeep with her lover.
Dallying as they drove through the jungle and admired the monkeys and
macaws.
She was a Spanish woman from the city, I learned, guessing at her
dialogue as she and her lover spoke to the grandee. He was very gracious
to her, to him. The woman, hot blooded, kept turning toward us. She
seemed overwhelmed by our display, in thrall to our suffering. Hot
bottomed we wiggled before her, five tushies arranged against a wall.
Once American girls, now just white flesh with bottoms the color of ripe
tomatoes. Glancing over my shoulder at her well-coiffed face, her fine
spun black Spanish hair drawn up in a loose bun, I wondered how she would
bear up under similar treatment.
P E N I S 2 !
(to be accompanied by bell choirs)
My schlo0ng is so long
And it goes ding-dong
So I made up this song
You can sing along
If all the world would sing of my schlong
There would be no war, just peace, ding dong!
And Exon too, if he could sing
IÕm sure heÕd find that my ding-ding
Is much preferred to laws and strife
(As long as nobody gets out her knife!)
And Pat Schroeder, sheÕd like my song too
As much as IÕm sure you do
The world will be healthy and free
And we will live in harmony
All because you sang along
To this song of my ding-donggg!
AND IN THE END...
ÒAny sufficiently advanced civilization is indistinguishable from
magic.Ó - Arthur C. Clarke
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-END OF 28 EMISSION
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