[January 31, 1996 EditorÕs Note: Sorry for the delay! IÕve been
redecorating my outhouse with all new girlie posters. Also, IÕve been
watching public television. Tonight I learned that our president, Bill
Clinton, is a child molester! On the T.V. show Charlie Rose, it was said
that in the book Primary Colors (which is about President Clinton), Bill
slept with a 15-year-old virgin. This not only makes our president a child
molester, it makes him a child rapist. When David Koresh was alleged to
be engaged in such activities, the F.B.I. surrounded his house and killed
him. This means that people who have attempted to assassinate the
president should be saluted! They are merely trying to do away with a
child molester. Who can blame them for that? After all, Bill Clinton is
still at large, still capable of victimizing more young girls. Certainly at
the very least he should be permanently confined in Washington StateÕs
Ôtreatment facilityÕ for sex offenders. Hopefully, force will not be
necessary to protect our children. Bill Clinton will turn himself in to
Janet Reno and she will lock him up. Bill, who is widely admired for
telling the truth, will confess everything on Oprah Winfrey (in handcuffs
and leg irons, of course). When we drive along the highway we will see
him picking up litter, with a prison guard at his back, making sure he
keeps his eyes properly lowered, lest the guard roto-rooter his asshole
when they get back to BillÕs cell.
Enclosed is yet another rough draft. Although Love Child still has
many chapters to go, this story forms a possible sequel. Or it will be a
totally separate story. It depends on how the character of Barbi turns out,
and how I feel about her psychological makeup at the end of Love Child.
You will be pleased to know that I got the idea for this deviant fantasy
from Playboy, so America will obviously not be safe for ÔnormalÕ people
until all the issues of Playboy are gathered up and destroyed. (And you
thought getting rid of Ôkiddie pornÕ was the only step that was needed,
right?)
If you have Ôbootlegged dreamgirls,Õ please note that (with your
permission) I am changing the title of Amsterdam Damsels to Holland
Hunnies. Amsterdam Damsels is now the official title of the rough draft
previously known as Ôtemptress.Õ
I am still working on NND125. I do not know when it will be
released. It may be awhile, so donÕt panic if you donÕt get it, I just havenÕt
gotten around to it yet. I still have to put posters up on the ceiling of my
outhouse, and that can be quite a job. It is sort of like the Sistine Chapel.
Also, I am wondering if I can put girlie posters on the outside of my
outhouse. After all, itÕs MY outhouse. Can I help it if itÕs right next to a
preschool? On another matter, whoever stuck his dick through the hole in
my outhouse, donÕt do it again! It is for me to stick my dick OUT of, not
for you to stick your dick IN to, wiseass. Did you really think I was going
to suck you off? And this is not a public restroom, either! I am tired of
construction workers rattling my door trying to get inside to relieve
themselves. Do you see the words Ôporta pottyÕ on the outside? Of course
not! This is a private outhouse. Plus, I donÕt want my magazines getting
wrinkled. You guys might have dirty hands, and put smudges on Miss
January. Myself, I use tweezers to read my girlie magazines, so that I can
make absolutely certain that no finger grease gets on the pages. Also, I
read them from a specified distance, so that my breath does not put any
specks of saliva on the photos. This is a very precise and scientific
operation here, conducted to the most rigorous standards. With all the
books written on the care of comic books, I donÕt know why anyone hasnÕt
written a tome on ÒProper Care and Handling of Pornography.Ó Like, the
first chapter should be Òwatch where you shoot.Ó Once I let this kid read
my porno and he didnÕt watch where he was going. Forever after, I was
forced to look at Miss SeptemberÕs butt with a big semen splotch on it.
Also, it smelled for awhile, which sort of killed the whole mood, you
know? I guess Uncle Ed would have been happy, but I wasnÕt.
Anyway, donÕt think I dislike Bill Clinton. Hey, IÕm a Liberaltarian,
and a long-time member of the Libertine Party. I have long had as my
slogan, ÒLetÕs put a child molester where he belongs--in the White House!Ó
Little did I know one was already there. Bill, youÕve got my vote! Pervert
for President!]
Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
Òpuppy loveÓ
Chapter One
I sat in the office pool typing. With some annoyance I found that I
had mispelt some words in a letter for my boss. The spell checker was
bombing my writing program on my computer, so IÕd dismissed it. Now I
felt like dismissing the entire letter. I reached for the paperback
dictionary beside my desk. Flipping through it, I reflected on my life. Why
hadnÕt I made contact with Helga on my return to Buenos Aires? I guess I
was just young and rebellious. And I was pissed at Kimberly too, for
getting me into my whole misadventure. Still, I found myself feeling a
little homesick all of a sudden. I looked up. I gazed at the huge pane glass
window that fronted our office. It was raining outside. People hurried
along the sidewalk. The wind blew at their clothes. Water streamed down
the outside of the glass, blurring everything a little, making it seem like
another world.
I shifted in my chair. I glanced at the other girls. Did they suddenly
feel restless, like me? IÕd been content with my little job for two months
now. I made a lot more than any of the rest of them did, though only my
boss knew that. It was because of my special service that IÕd performed
for the Argentinean government, in London. There were beginning to be
intimations, though, from above, that I needed to Òput outÓ more. Not on
the job, of course. After hours. Argentina is not known for having the
most perfect government.
I felt ambivalent. I tugged at the hem of my miniskirt. And then,
suddenly, I decided. Yes, I was safe and dry here, warm, comfortable. Yes,
I had a nice desk. But it was boring. They made me work every day, eight
hours. Home every night, back every morning. I pushed back my chair. I
got up. I tugged on the hem of my miniskirt. I picked up my little purse
off the back of my chair, and slung it over my shoulder. And then, without
a sideways glance, without looking back, I walked out.
The rain hit me in the face. It was warm. I tossed my head, didnÕt
mind, didnÕt hurry like the other people on the walk. I felt the wind whip
past and lift my skirt. I smiled. I pulled down the front of my skirt, but
the back flew up with the wind, showing off my pantied bottom. I ran
then, hurrying just like the others, trying not to slip on my five-inch
heels.
I arrived at the safety of a bus stop wet and dripping. I waited a
moment, hoping I looked no worse no sillier, than the other pedestrians
who had crowded inside. Then, seeing the rain abate a bit, I stepped back
out onto the walk. I rounded the corner of our office building. It was a
huge building, a block long. There, down the street, was my small red
sports car. IÕd bought it with the money IÕd made working for the
government. I dashed to it. It felt good running, my skirt flying, my
bottom stopping traffic as the wind made my undies show. I fished out my
keys from my purse. Reaching my car, I got it unlocked and slipped inside.
I would go find Helga, I decided. And Kimberly.
***
Helga sat in KimberlyÕs living room. She looked ambivalent. WeÕd
reunited the day before. ThereÕd been warm hugs, kisses, tears. I was
older now, she could see. I wasnÕt a little schoolgirl anymore. I was a
woman like her, though still 15. IÕd kept them up late, recounting my
adventures. IÕd edited my stories some, made them palatable for a
motherÕs ears.
ÒI want to go on assignments,Ó I said. My voice was high-pitched,
insistent.
ÒDarling, you are too young,Ó Helga said again, for the thousandth
time. She wore neat, conservative clothes, mom clothes. She twisted her
hands in her lap. She sat on the couch like a middle-aged woman, though
she was barely 30.
ÒIf she really wants to,Ó Kimberly offered. ÒI was 15 when I met
you...Ó
ÒThat was different,Ó Helga answered. ÒThe times were different
then.Ó
ÒThey were?Ó Kimberly asked. Her face had a kind of incredulous
smile on it. ÒThey seem the same as now to me.Ó
ÒWell, I was younger, more daring, more irresponsible,Ó Helga said.
ÒI didnÕt care if I got some 15-year-old, some CHILD, into sexual stuff.
Now I do. I understand more.Ó
ÒWell, I donÕt understand,Ó I answered, rebellious. Only two days
home with her and already we were fighting. ÒYou go on assignments.
What do you do on them, hmmm?Ó
ÒShe plays Risk,Ó Kimberly smiled.
Helga blushed. She put her face in her hands. Kimberly sat
uncomfortably, silently. When Helga finally raised her face her eyes were
wet.
ÒI-I canÕt stop you,Ó she said to me. ÒThe number is in my purse. Go
get it, and call it if you wish. Then letÕs hear no more of this nonsense.Ó
I hustled into the kitchen. Her purse was there, on the table. I knew
she might change her mind at any moment. I opened the purse, looked
inside. I rummaged around. There were hundred dollar bills inside,
crumpled, as if they meant nothing. Amidst the money and other things, I
found a little slip of paper. It had lipstick on it. 472-1920. That was it.
No identifying information, nothing describing what it offered to connect
you to. But I knew, just by looking at it. I went to the notepad on the
kitchen counter and copied down the number. Then I put it in the pocket of
my denim vest. I sidled back out to the living room, sat down.
ÒI thought it would be hidden away somewhere,Ó I confessed. ÒI
should have just gone and dug in your purse when you werenÕt looking.Ó
ÒThanks for not,Ó Helga replied. ÒAnd now I want to hear nothing
more of it. Call me if you get in trouble, otherwise not. And I want you to
start school again, young lady.Ó
ÒYes, mother,Ó I answered. ÒI have a car now, so it will be fun to
drive there.Ó
ÒTry not to mention why you were away,Ó she told me. She shot a
glance at Kimberly. The blonde put a hand to her mouth, failed to suppress
a giggle. ÒI told them you had found your father, and went to America to
spend some time with him.Ó
ÒMy father, Lazarus,Ó I smirked.
ÒEnough!Ó Helga said. She was not angry, simply wanted to close off
our current conversation. ÒLetÕs go out in a few hours, get something to
eat.Ó
ÒThat sounds fun,Ó I answered. Kimberly agreed.
***
I woke up bright and early the next morning. I was ready. IÕd heard
all the advice why I shouldnÕt, all the warnings, and now IÕd made up my
mind. I kissed my teddy bear, stepped into the shower, did my makeup
afterward, my nails, brushed my hair until it glowed.
I put on my most daring micromini. There was no use kidding around
with these people. Then I slipped into a blouse that seemed to show more
of me than it hid. It left my belly bare, did little to conceal my bosoms,
but constricted my throat and my arms in tight, stretchy fabric. Then I
put on my shoes. They were new. IÕd bought them yesterday evening,
shopping after dinner with Helga and Kimberly. I think Helga had known
where I would wear them. She looked away as I strutted around the store,
trying them, feeling their fit. Kimberly insisted on paying for them, and
told me never to take them off, unless I was asked to. She didnÕt explain
why, just said not to. I nodded.
I drove myself to the agency. ThatÕs what it was called, simply Òthe
agency.Ó I found the building where it was located, a tall skyscraper
downtown, and parked underneath. I took my parking pass with me so they
would validate it. On the elevator up to the 11th floor, I wrapped my
jacket tight. The men in the car glanced at me. My jacket was as short as
my mini, leaving my thighs, my legs, stretching nakedly down to my heels.
I didnÕt need stockings. The women in the car were jealous of me. When I
got to the 11th floor I exited quick as I could. I felt their eyes pasted on
my ass as I walked with rapid steps down the hall.
I buzzed the door marked ÒAgency.Ó It was a small sign, posted on
the door in paper, as if temporarily, though the office had been here for
years. The door unlocked, and I let myself in. A woman at a desk greeted
me. I smiled. She was gorgeous. She wore a bow tie around her neck and,
strikingly, a string bikini top. I could not see whether she had anything
else on. Her hair, brown and glossy, was piled atop her head. She wore
small, conservative earrings.
ÒAre you Barbi?Ó she asked.
ÒYes,Ó I replied.
ÒKimberly called. She said youÕd be coming,Ó the woman answered.
She seemed very nice. She handed a clipboard across her desk to me.
ÒWould you please fill this out?Ó
ÒSure,Ó I answered.
ÒWould you like some coffee?Ó
ÒOkay,Ó I said. She rose. Instinctively, childishly perhaps, I looked
at her to see if she had anything else on. A bikini bottom. Of course.
Perfect for the office of the 90Õs. Stepping around from behind her desk, I
saw she wore long black boots, above the knee, with little gold spurs
fitted onto them. The spurs seemed to bring out the blonde highlights in
her auburn hair, I thought.
ÒPlease donÕt mind my Ôuniform,ÕÓ she smiled, as if feeling a little
silly under my stare. ÒBossÕs orders.Ó
ÒMen,Ó I agreed.
ÒThey can be so difficult sometimes,Ó she said, and walked away,
into another room, her hiney swaying, nothing but a thong in her ass crack
keeping me from seeing all.
I sat down on a leather couch and filled out the form. It asked my
name, my age, and other questions, rather probing ones. I contemplated
them and filled some out, wondered at others.
ÒJust do the best you can,Ó the woman answered, returning with two
steaming cups of coffee. She sat down beside me and I queried her about a
few questions. She explained them, helped me answer them. We chit-
chatted a bit, mindlessly, enjoying each otherÕs company.
ÒI like your dress,Ó she said after a bit. ÒDo you have panties on?Ó
ÒNo,Ó I answered.
ÒWould you please pull it up for me a minute? I have to do a visual
inspection.Ó
ÒAlright,Ó I replied. I set my clipboard aside. I bit my lip and raised
my mini.
ÒWould you spread your legs for me?Ó she asked. I complied. She
stood, walked to her desk. She returned with a little pencil-shaped
flashlight. She knelt between my legs. She opened my cuntlips and flicked
on the flashlight. She peered into me.
ÒYou have a nice pussy,Ó she said finally. She let go of my private
lips, my softness, my most secret place. ÒSorry, but I had to check. YouÕll
be using it a lot, you know, on your assignments. Would you pull down your
blouse for me?Ó
ÒOkay,Ó I answered. I yanked it down, felt my boobs pop out. I
looked down and saw my nipples were sticking up, hard and ready. The
woman put her hands to them. She palped them. She squeezed them
firmly, like they were melons. Her thumbs tweaked my nipples.
ÒGood,Ó she said. ÒNo breast cancer or anything, and theyÕre natural.
Our customers will like that.Ó She picked up my clipboard, her clipboard
now, and wrote on it.
ÒWhat sort of assignment would you like?Ó she asked. She looked at
me. ÒYou can pull your skirt back down,Ó she smiled.
ÒOh yeah,Ó I answered. I repaired my clothing. ÒI guess, well, IÕd
like an assignment...oh, something challenging.Ó I said. She grinned.
ÒKimberly says youÕve spent the last two months being bored to death in
an office.Ó
I nodded.
ÒWell, I think I might have just the thing for you,Ó she told me.
***
He was an older man. ThatÕs what the woman had told me, anyway.
It was late afternoon. The sun had about an hour of life left before it
would sink back beneath the horizon. IÕd dressed conservatively. I
assumed he had conservative tastes, given his age. I had no idea what heÕd
do with me, but the woman had hinted I might be surprised.
I knocked at the front door of a large home. A woman in an evening
gown answered.
ÒOh, you must be the young lady from the agency!Ó she smiled at me.
I nodded. ÒPlease do come in, weÕve been expecting you,Ó she invited.
ÒSorry IÕm a little late. I got lost driving over,Ó I grinned
sheepishly.
ÒYouÕre not too late, nothing that canÕt be accounted for,Ó she
answered. I wondered a little at her answer, followed her into the
interior of a large, lavishly decorated home. Fine art hung on the walls.
Curtains of lace shrouded the large bay windows. Sumptuous furniture
beckoned, but she drew me on, leading me through the house. We stepped
out back. I saw a lawn, garden furniture, and other guests, all in evening
clothes, the women in shimmering dresses, the men in tuxedoes.
ÒHere is Barbi, from the Agency,Ó the woman called. She introduced
me to the other guests. I was given a drink, sipped it. I met the host. He
was close to 50. His name was Albert. He did not tell me his last name. I
was permitted to chat awhile. Everyone was very pleasant, very polite,
although there seemed to be a bit of tension in the air. The women were
all older than me, though still quite young and pretty. The men were in
their 30Õs and 40Õs. Several told me they were diplomats, from foreign
countries.
ÒCome, dear,Ó the woman who had greeted me at the door said
finally. She drew me over to a the table with the food and punch. ÒWould
you be willing to put on something a little more revealing for us?Ó she
asked. I gulped. I had almost forgotten why I was here.
ÒI-I guess so, I mean, of course, sure,Ó I answered. She opened her
purse. She drew from it a little handful of cloth and strings. ÒYou donÕt
mind being seen in a bikini, do you?Ó she asked. There was a smirk on her
face, as if she were somewhat amused. I heard a woman behind me laugh.
A man cleared his throat.
ÒNo,Ó I answered. I stuck out a finger, poked at the bit of cloth,
received it into my hands.
ÒStep behind the bushes, thereÕs a trellis there, you can hang your
nice dress up,Ó she told me.
ÒOkay,Ó I answered. I felt childish. I took the little bikini,
wandered back behind a stand of rose bushes. I could smell their perfume
on the air. It was sweet. Within their enclosing protection, feeling
precious, I removed my dress. I guessed theyÕd want everything off,
except my shoes. And my earrings, of course. No use taking off those. I
had nice hoop earrings, silver. They matched the silver accents in my
heels. There was a hanger hooked into the trellis. Ivy wove along its top,
along its sides, but the interior of the trellis was bare. It was as if it had
been specially designed for a girl to hang her clothes up on.
I untangled the bikini theyÕd given me. A miniature bra, plus teensy
panties. The parts that were fabric were white and very soft, almost
furry. The rest was nothing but frustrating strings. They all needed to be
tied. Nothing could just be slipped on. Feeling a little frustrated, I got
the bikini tied onto myself. It took several minutes. For all my effort, it
hid very little. I tugged at the bra cups. They were undersized, leaving
the fleshy undercurves of my breasts quite bare and unsupported. I hoped
they wouldnÕt want me to do my cheerleading routines in this. As for the
panties, they were so small in back I knew theyÕd dip entirely into my
buttcrack the minute I started walking. In front, a little triangle of fuzzy
cloth did its best to hide my pubis. It barely managed, leaving all else
quite naked.
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls (Library of Congress ISSN: 1070-1427) is
copyright 1996 and a trademark of Andrew Roller. draft 1