[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.