---------------------------------------------------------------
PROBLEMS? Please try viewing this with Netscape Navigator.
---------------------------------------------------------------
ÒMankind is perverted, and has no judgment;
Of all men who are alive, who knows anything?
They do not know whether they do good or evil.
O Lord, do not cast aside thy servant;
He is cast into the mire; take his hand!
The sin which I have sinned, turn to mercy!
The iniquity which I have committed, let the wind carry away!
My many transgressions tear off like a garment!
My god, my sins are seven times seven; forgive my sins!
My goddess, my sins are seven times seven; forgive my sins! . . .
Forgive my sins, and I will humble myself before thee.
What? Too late! Okay, fuck you.Ó
Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Sponsored by: JOE CAMEL
Issue No. 283
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Pussy Playland
Chapter One
I heard a roll of thunder in the distant summer sky. I put my hand
out. A few raindrops, as if offering some bit of feminine sprinkling at
seeing all the men get creamed, fell into my hand. Tabitha came up to me
and lifted a newspaper over my head and sheltered me with it.
ÒItÕs okay, IÕm wearing a bikini,Ó I wanted to say to her, but she
began hurrying me toward her house. Despite the tall, thick hedge and the
phalanx of palms, her private backyard wasnÕt safe from the rain, and I
was, apparently, too special to get wet. It seemed silly to me. Already I
was noticeably moist in the crotch of my swimsuit. But, with a
newspaper keeping me dry, she took me past the rain sprinkled flowerbeds
and up the back steps of her porch. We slipped in the back door. The
others followed. Apparently none of the girls wished to get their bikinis
wet. We regrouped in TabithaÕs living room. Two men, their shoulders
lightly sprinkled with rain, bent down before her fireplace. They put logs
into the brick hearth. They took the logs from a small decorative pile
stacked in a cast iron rack. I watched as they lit the fire. Their rumps
were barely contained in their Speedos. I could see streaks of wetness on
their nylon-covered butts where the rain had struck them. When they
turned back toward us, I saw that there was a substantial wet spot on the
front of their swimsuits, where their cocks lay strangled like captive
snakes within their briefs. The wetness, I knew, wasnÕt from the rain. Or
from TabithaÕs contribution of cream. Had they cum? I hoped not. They
had terrific builds and looked like they could keep me busy all night in
ways my mother would find quite unacceptable.
I touched a finger to the front of my panties and depressed the bulge
in my swim suit where the whipped cream was puffing me up. Was this
what it felt like to be a man? To have sperm?
Tabitha busied herself with a brush, brushing my hair, as if my short
walk to her house had somehow tousled it. I felt like a lamb being
prepared for dinner.
ÒShall I get the clamps?Ó Beth asked Tabitha with a tone of cheery
expectation in her voice.
ÒYes, please,Ó Tabitha replied. She touched a pair of fingers to my
closest nipple and lovingly began arousing it. I looked down, watched her.
Scissorslike, but with deceptive tenderness, her fingers toyed with my
nipple. When sheÕd finished with my first one, she slipped her fingers to
my other one. I thought IÕd been excited before, but her teasing fingers
made me even more responsive. My panties were getting wetter by the
minute.
To my horror Beth returned with a pair of small, shell-like clamps.
They seemed to be made from a pair of oyster shells. She squeezed one
open and I saw that it was lined with felt inside. Opposite the tiny mouth
a tasseled weight was hung. I couldnÕt believe that IÕd been relieved of my
bra only to have these biting little monsters put on instead. The weights,
would they not distort my breasts? I knew African women wore disks
that hung from their neck and made their breasts flat, like pancakes. I
liked my full round breasts. But Tabitha stroked my left nipple and
pressed it up with her tickling finger so that Beth would be able to easily
clamp it. One moment I was fighting an oncoming swoon from TabithaÕs
attentions, and the next I found myself screaming.
ÒThere, there, it doesnÕt hurt that much,Ó Tabitha told me. My
unprotected left nipple had been bitten and enclosed within a clamp. I
feared that the insidious clamp would clip it right off me! Tabitha slipped
a finger between my lips and stifled my scream as best she could. I
watched with frightened, teary eyes as Beth proffered the remaining
clamp and closed it over my right nipple. Oh, how it hurt! When I calmed
down a little bit I found that I could handle it. But the weights made my
breasts feel heavy. I felt as if I had twin babies sucking at my bosoms.
Tabitha turned me by my shoulders and displayed me to her guests. She
pushed me forward with a pat on my bottom and made me walk through the
crowd, showing them my newly clamped teats.
Oh, how I envied the other girls, with their nipples sticking out
erect and free. Mine had jangling weights that, I found as I walked, had
little bells within them. They made my nipples sound like tinkling
aspirants to a bell choir. The men stared avidly. They seemed to wish to
shepherd me into their arms, as if I were a sheep that needed to be put to
pasture.
ÒYou could clip her cunny lips and make them carry weighted bells
too,Ó a woman told Tabitha as she watched me walk by. I showed everyone
my breasts and let them admire me. I liked being the center of attention,
but I suspected seeing me wince as the clamps pinched my boobs was half
the fun for my wicked friends. When I found Alex, at the back of the room,
he was letting a girl scoop the cream out of his Speedos with her fingers.
He looked up at me, surprised.
ÒKelly!Ó he said. His voice choked as he spoke. His new girlfriend, a
girl who looked no older than me, popped her cream-laden fingers into her
mouth. She smiled smugly at me as she licked them clean. ÒThis is
Francine,Ó Alex told me.
ÒPleased to meet you,Ó Francine said to me. But she spoke with an
aristocratic French accent that let me know in no uncertain terms that I
was, in her mind, just a hopeless amateur.
Infuriated, red-faced, I turned away from my boyfriend. I had come
here for him! Now he had hooked up with some 14-year-old slut from
France and was ignoring me completely! My arms hung at my sides but I
felt my hands ball into fists. Did I want to punch somebody? I could feel
my fingernails cutting into the skin of my palms, I was so angry. Suddenly
I belted the man nearest me. I didnÕt know his name. I didnÕt care. I just
slammed my fist into his belly and walked away.
Fortunately, being just a girl, my punch did no more than startle him.
His stomach was hard and flat and segmented into squares of muscle. He
laughed and seemed appreciative that IÕd singled him out for my anger. His
buddies complimented him on his sex appeal. I stomped back to Tabitha
but, just as I reached her, I turned and looked back at my poor victim. Our
eyes met and immediately I knew I wanted him. He was tall, muscular,
dark and businesslike, not like Alex, who was blonde and a beach bum. I
guessed my new friend spent most of his days wearing suits and driving
hard bargains in downtown L.A. while Alex hung around the beach seducing
young girls and waxing his surfboard. Fuck Alex! He was going nowhere.
So what if all us girls adored him? IÕd be different. I let my new friend
know I had an interest in him by letting our gaze linger. Then, on impulse,
I yanked down the back of my bikini and mooned him. I made it look like I
wanted to offend him again. But, from my gaze, he knew offending him
was the last thing I wanted to do.
ÒOh, my! Now youÕre being naughty!Ó Tabitha said. She was standing
in front of me and couldnÕt see my eyes, since my head was turned back.
Abruptly she reached out and yanked on my hair and pulled my head down
so that I found myself looking at my knees. ÒGet the bon-bons,Ó she told
Beth. My girlfriend, her breasts bouncing merrily, fetched a plate that
was sitting on a cocktail table. She presented it to Tabitha. ÒUnwrap one
of the bon-bons, please, while I hold her down,Ó Tabitha told Beth. My
girlfriend put the plate on a chair next to us. She took a bon-bon from it
and unwrapped the gold foil that enclosed it.
ZINE REVIEWS
by holy joe
COSMOPOLITAN, September 1997, $2.95.
ÒYes, sir. Whippings are a part of the daily regimen here at
Punishment Mansion,Ó says the girl on the cover. And you know what
sheÕs holding behind her back, donÕt you? A riding crop!
I was standing behind a little girl at the grocery. It was sort of
annoying (despite the fact that she had a cute ass), because I was just
DYING to pick up the September issue of Cosmopolitan. The moment I
saw that cover, I was blown away! The girl on the cover seemed to be
looking right at me, and speaking to me! I stared into her eyes. Did she
want to whip me, or BE whipped by me? And then, as the little girl
standing in front of me reached up and pulled down a copy of
Cosmopolitan from the magazine rack, the girl on the cover spoke to
me.
ÒBad boys may call Punishment Mansion at 1-800- I PUNISH.
Mistress Mammary will whack their naughty little buns for them. Good
boys, who know how to instruct a young girl like me in behaving, may
call 1-800- BAD GIRL, to whip me into shape.Ó
I was about ready to whack that cute ass of the little girl
standing in front of me, Ôcause, instead of moving out of the way of the
magazine rack so I could get myself a copy, she just stood there,
reading hers, and Ôholding me backÕ (unknowingly), from getting my own!
Mothers, please! You need to instruct your daughters on proper
magazine etiquette. We know all about this down at Tower Books,
where us guys politely get out of the way after picking out which
magazine we want to Ôbrowse.Õ Like, you know, we donÕt just STAND
there! How embarrassing! Who wants to be seen standing in front of a
bunch of porn, with his dick making a big bulge in the front of his
pants? (Especially in my case, since IÕm still having problems learning
ejaculatory control.) (ItÕs not like I have a girlfriend to teach it to me,
you know...)
Anyway, what is it with little girls in the grocery? Please, girls,
donÕt just stand in front of the magazine rack reading Cosmopolitan!
(Well, this particular girl was, I think, too young to read, but she still
managed to block my way, looking at all the magazineÕs pictures.)
FINALLY the mother called to her daughter. ÒOh, Cosmopolitan.
How nice,Ó she said, when her daughter went wandering over to her,
carrying the latest issue. And then I myself was able to pick up a copy.
What great articles they have in this issue! ÒEasy Orgasms - How
to Make Them Mind-Blowing and a Lot Less Work.Ó ÒWhy Men Split the
Morning After.Ó Ò150 Sexiest Fall Looks.Ó
I saw the manager passing by.
ÒMaÕam,Ó I asked her. ÒI like Cosmopolitan as much as the next
guy, but whereÕs Playboy? I can never seem to find it in your store.Ó
ÒPlayboy?!Ó the manager replied. ÒWe DO NOT sell such trash in
this store!Ó the manager answered. And she looked at me as if I was
some guy who spends his time thinking about perverted things like, you
know, ÒEasy Orgasms - How to Make Them Mind-Blowing and a Lot Less
Work.Ó
So I contented myself with the September issue of Cosmopolitan.
ItÕs a great issue, I have to admit. IÕve got it sitting right here, next to
my computer, where a quick look at its cover is already inspiring long,
exacting stories about Punishment Mansion. (Where, incidentally, little
girls who canÕt even read learn to move their cute little asses OUT
from in front of the magazine rack!)
There is another article in this issue: Ò10 Man Types to Avoid at
All Costs.Ó Strangely, they have a photo next to the headline, which
looks a lot like the co-editor of this zine. In any event, 10 different
male personalities are listed. Jerry Seinfeld, having recently seduced
and enjoyed the affections of a 17-year-old schoolgirl (Shoshanna, I
think, was her name) is listed down as being a ÒPerfectionist Pervert.Ó
(pg. 150) (SeinfeldÕs since thrown her out of his house. She had a
really cute face, and wonderful big tits, but rumor had it that she was
too old for him.) (I think sheÕs since moved in with Kelsey Grammer.)
(or was it Michael Kennedy?)
This begs the question, though, who SHOULD a girl marry? Well,
how about guys whose first name starts with ÒhÓ? You never know, his
name might be Òholy,Ó or something. What better way to ensure your
daughter lives a wholesome life than to marry her to some guy whose
NAME is ÒholyÓ?
Then, there are guys whose name begins with ÒjÓ. As in Jesus.
ThereÕs a pretty good husband, if you can keep him from affronting the
authorities and getting himself crucified.
Yep. And then there are fat guys. The reason a fat guy makes a
good husband is that heÕs less likely to go off philandering. After all,
to philander you first have to get up. Who wants to do that? I mean,
itÕs such an effort. You have to get up out of your chair, and go to the
trouble of turning off your computer. Then you have to shave, and put
on underarm deodorant. And you have to think real hard if anyone will
notice that you havenÕt bathed in three weeks, or whether you can just
put on extra deodorant.
Then you have to find a pair of pants. What a chore that is!
Usually theyÕre all the way at the bottom of the laundry hamper, Ôcause
generally I donÕt need pants unless IÕm actually leaving my house, which
isnÕt very often.
Then you have to find the front door. In my case, this involves a
major expedition. (ThereÕs a little porn in my house.) The last time I
found my front door it was only because some Brownies started ringing
my doorbell, and calling out that they were selling Girl Scout Cookies.
That was very helpful, but you canÕt count on little girls ringing your
doorbell every day, can you? (I could use some more cookies, girls, if
youÕre interested. Plus some muffins.)
Anyway, you know what I mean. Fat guys arenÕt likely to be out
committing adultery when they canÕt find their front door! And in the
age of the Internet, and cable T.V., and phone sex lines, who wants to go
try to find some woman, anyway? Then, instead of buying porn, or
Twinkies, (or more girl scout cookies), you have to buy flowers. And
candy. And yucky BrachÕs candy, that comes in a box, instead of out of a
gumball machine, like itÕs supposed to. And then youÕre supposed to
take her to see some dopey romantic movie. (What guy likes a movie
where nobody gets shot?) And then, you have to take her dancing. Can
you imagine a fat guy like me dancing? ItÕs not a pretty sight.
So, us fat guys, especially guys with an ÒhÓ and a ÒjÓ in their
names, just sit at our computers. I havenÕt paid my rent in three
months, though, so I may wind up out on the street after all. In which
case, though, IÕd rather use my time efficiently, looking at naked ladies
in magazines at Tower Books, than trying to convince some real lady in
a bar to take off her dress for me. (I mean, you canÕt even be sure if
sheÕs a 10 underneath. What if she isnÕt?)
So, in my unbiased opinion, girls should marry a fat guy. HeÕll
stay put, and you can always count on him to say ÒYes, Dear,Ó whenever
you tell him anything. (When youÕre on the Penthouse web site youÕre
too busy LOOKING to actually think about what someoneÕs saying to you,
so ÒYes, Dear,Ó is a very handy phrase to know.)
Well, thatÕs my 2 cents worth. A fat guy wonÕt be president, but
he will always be sitting at home with you, where you can enjoy his
masculine scent and his big, rippling body. (Very big, in my case!)
LETTERS
to holy joe
MissLadyAsstor333@titwhittle(elementary) writes: Dear holy
joe, where do you write Fuck Decency?
holy joe replies: I write it on the toilet, when IÕm feeling
constipated. As you can see, there havenÕt been as many issues this
summer, probably because thereÕs a lot of fruit on the market.Ó
AND IN THE END...
DO YOU HATE FUCK DECENCY?
ÒWeÕre not supposed to be popular. I mean, thatÕs constitutionally
built in to our mission. And in fact, if we are popular, weÕre probably
screwing it up.Ó
- Andrew Lack, President of NBC News (on the press).
-------------------------- Fuck Decency! ------------------------
-Free e-mail subscriptions: No longer available due to mailbombing of
my Internet account(s) by right-wing Christians.
-Currently I am: roller39@mail.idt.net
-formerly I was andrewroller@sprintmail.com, roller66@inreach.com,
roller666@aol.com Read my complete works under these names by
going to: http://www.excite.com (Click on ÔnewsgroupsÕ and search
under my various former screen names). (Also you can read irrelevant
bullshit posted by right-wing Christians.)
-Recent back issues at Usenet newsgroup: alt.sex.stories.moderated
-For all back issues, send e-mail to: file.request@backdrop.com
- Free plug: http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/
-Free minicomics: send a stamped, self-addressed envelope & age
statement to: Jim Corrigan, P.O. Box 3663, Phenix City, AL 36868
- JOIN the worldÕs greatest organization! Send $35.00 to The North
American Man/Boy Love Association for a one-year membership.
NAMBLA, P.O. Box 174, Midtown Station, New York, NY 10018.
-Naughty Naked Dreamgirls (Library of Congress ISSN: 1070-1427) is
copyright 1997 and a trademark of Andrew Roller. Work by others
copyright 1997 by the respective copyright holder.
-END OF 283 EMISSION
- ÒMankind is:Ó Babylonian penitential psalm (The Story of
Civilization, by Will and Ariel Durant, Volume 1, pg. 242.)
- Seinfeld and Shoshanna: Star, June 15, 1993, pg. 37.
- Kelsey Grammer and 15-year-old babysitter: The National Enquirer,
November 29, 1994, pg. 24.
- Michael Kennedy and 14-year-old babysitter: Newsweek, May 12,
1997, pg. 50. Globe, May 13, 1997, pg. 32.
- Andrew Lack: Charlie Rose, June 18, 1997.