From roller666@aol.com Sat May 03 19:38:46 1997
Path: news1.infoave.net!news-dc-10.sprintlink.net!news-east.sprintlink.net!news-dc-26.sprintlink.net!news-peer.sprintlink.net!news.sprintlink.net!Sprint!newsxfer3.itd.umich.edu!portc01.blue.aol.com!audrey02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail
From: roller666@aol.com (ROLLER 666)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: rare dreamgirls 10
Date: 3 May 1997 23:38:46 GMT
Organization: AOL http://www.aol.com
Lines: 333
Message-ID: <19970503233700.TAA15180@ladder01.news.aol.com>
NNTP-Posting-Host: ladder01.news.aol.com
X-Admin: news@aol.com
[January 31, 1996 Editor's Note: Sorry for the delay! I've been
redecorating my outhouse with all new girlie posters. Also, I've 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 State's
'treatment facility' 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 Bill's 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
'normal' people until all the issues of Playboy are gathered up and
destroyed. (And you thought getting rid of 'kiddie porn' was the only
step that was needed, right?)
If you have 'bootlegged dreamgirls,' 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 'temptress.'
I am still working on NND125. I do not know when it will be
released. It may be awhile, so don't panic if you don't get it, I just
haven't 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, it's MY outhouse. Can I help it
if it's right next to a preschool? On another matter, whoever stuck his
dick through the hole in my outhouse, don't 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 'porta
potty' on the outside? Of course not! This is a private outhouse. Plus,
I don't 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 don't
know why anyone hasn't written a tome on "Proper Care and Handling of
Pornography." Like, the first chapter should be "watch where you shoot."
Once I let this kid read my porno and he didn't watch where he was going.
Forever after, I was forced to look at Miss September's 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
wasn't.
Anyway, don't think I dislike Bill Clinton. Hey, I'm a
Liberaltarian, and a long-time member of the Libertine Party. I have long
had as my slogan, "Let's put a child molester where he belongs--in the
White House!" Little did I know one was already there. Bill, you've got
my vote! Pervert for President!]
Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
"puppy love"
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 I'd 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 hadn't 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? I'd 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
I'd performed for the Argentinean government, in London. There were
beginning to be intimations, though, from above, that I needed to "put
out" 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,
didn't mind, didn't 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. I'd bought it with the money I'd 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 Kimberly's living room. She looked ambivalent.
We'd reunited the day before. There'd been warm hugs, kisses, tears. I
was older now, she could see. I wasn't a little schoolgirl anymore. I
was a woman like her, though still 15. I'd kept them up late, recounting
my adventures. I'd edited my stories some, made them palatable for a
mother's ears.
"I want to go on assignments," I said. My voice was
high-pitched, insistent.
"Darling, you are too young," 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.
"If she really wants to," Kimberly offered. "I was 15 when I met
you..."
"That was different," Helga answered. "The times were different
then."
"They were?" Kimberly asked. Her face had a kind of incredulous
smile on it. "They seem the same as now to me."
"Well, I was younger, more daring, more irresponsible," Helga
said. "I didn't care if I got some 15-year-old, some CHILD, into sexual
stuff. Now I do. I understand more."
"Well, I don't understand," I answered, rebellious. Only two
days home with her and already we were fighting. "You go on assignments.
What do you do on them, hmmm?"
"She plays Risk," 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.
"I-I can't stop you," she said to me. "The number is in my
purse. Go get it, and call it if you wish. Then let's hear no more of
this nonsense."
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.
"I thought it would be hidden away somewhere," I confessed. "I
should have just gone and dug in your purse when you weren't looking."
"Thanks for not," Helga replied. "And 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."
"Yes, mother," I answered. "I have a car now, so it will be fun
to drive there."
"Try not to mention why you were away," she told me. She shot a
glance at Kimberly. The blonde put a hand to her mouth, failed to
suppress a giggle. "I told them you had found your father, and went to
America to spend some time with him."
"My father, Lazarus," I smirked.
"Enough!" Helga said. She was not angry, simply wanted to close
off our current conversation. "Let's go out in a few hours, get something
to eat."
"That sounds fun," I answered. Kimberly agreed.
***
I woke up bright and early the next morning. I was ready. I'd
heard all the advice why I shouldn't, all the warnings, and now I'd 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. I'd 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 didn't explain why, just said not to. I nodded.
I drove myself to the agency. That's what it was called, simply
"the agency." 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 didn't 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 "Agency." 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.
"Are you Barbi?" she asked.
"Yes," I replied.
"Kimberly called. She said you'd be coming," the woman answered.
She seemed very nice. She handed a clipboard across her desk to me.
"Would you please fill this out?"
"Sure," I answered.
"Would you like some coffee?"
"Okay," 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 90's. 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.
"Please don't mind my 'uniform,'" she smiled, as if feeling a
little silly under my stare. "Boss's orders."
"Men," I agreed.
"They can be so difficult sometimes," 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.
"Just do the best you can," 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 other's company.
"I like your dress," she said after a bit. "Do you have panties
on?"
"No," I answered.
"Would you please pull it up for me a minute? I have to do a
visual inspection."
"Alright," I replied. I set my clipboard aside. I bit my lip
and raised my mini.
"Would you spread your legs for me?" 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.
"You have a nice pussy," she said finally. She let go of my
private lips, my softness, my most secret place. "Sorry, but I had to
check. You'll be using it a lot, you know, on your assignments. Would
you pull down your blouse for me?"
"Okay," 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.
"Good," she said. "No breast cancer or anything, and they're
natural. Our customers will like that." She picked up my clipboard, her
clipboard now, and wrote on it.
"What sort of assignment would you like?" she asked. She looked
at me. "You can pull your skirt back down," she smiled.
"Oh yeah," I answered. I repaired my clothing. "I guess, well,
I'd like an assignment...oh, something challenging." I said. She grinned.
"Kimberly says you've spent the last two months being bored to
death in an office."
I nodded.
"Well, I think I might have just the thing for you," she told me.
***
He was an older man. That's 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. I'd dressed conservatively. I
assumed he had conservative tastes, given his age. I had no idea what
he'd 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.
"Oh, you must be the young lady from the agency!" she smiled at
me. I nodded. "Please do come in, we've been expecting you," she
invited.
"Sorry I'm a little late. I got lost driving over," I grinned
sheepishly.
"You're not too late, nothing that can't be accounted for," 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.
"Here is Barbi, from the Agency," 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 30's and 40's. Several told me they were
diplomats, from foreign countries.
"Come, dear," the woman who had greeted me at the door said
finally. She drew me over to a the table with the food and punch. "Would
you be willing to put on something a little more revealing for us?" she
asked. I gulped. I had almost forgotten why I was here.
"I-I guess so, I mean, of course, sure," I answered. She opened
her purse. She drew from it a little handful of cloth and strings. "You
don't mind being seen in a bikini, do you?" 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.
"No," I answered. I stuck out a finger, poked at the bit of
cloth, received it into my hands.
"Step behind the bushes, there's a trellis there, you can hang
your nice dress up," she told me.
"Okay," 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 they'd 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 they'd 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 wouldn't want me to do my cheerleading
routines in this. As for the panties, they were so small in back I knew
they'd 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
NOTE TO FUCKHEADS: "True rollers, like east Africa's Lilac-breasted roller (Coracias caudata), spend much of their time airborne, guarding their territories in a spectacular rolling flight, hence the name "roller."
- WWF Calendar, April 1997.