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Subject: FUCK DECENCY 281 NEW! Pussy Playland (nnd) g2
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Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 281
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Bush League
Chapter Six
Over the years, before the sea finally cut a path between the
peninsula and the mainland, flooding in where the blasting had gone down
too deep, forcing the mine to swing back away from the castle, the
laborers had come and stolen stones from the demolished castle. It had
crumbled slowly at first, I learned. I’d asked of it in the bars in the
mining town. One day, I was told, a particularly vicious blast, set off
by too much dynamite, that killed 30 workers, had brought the whole
antique structure down.
The people in the town had kept me up late last night. They’d
told me of the castle’s fate. I’d arrived fresh from America and passed
through the streets, buying drinks until dawn for anyone who might tell
me of it. At dawn I’d met Maria. I’d found her washing dishes in the
back of one of the bars. She’d remembered me reluctantly. I think she
wished to have nothing more to do with me, but money talked. Or, at
least, it talked to the man who appeared to be her husband. He’d agreed
that she’d give up her day’s sleep to row me out here and show me the
ruin of tumbled rocks.
Rose’s title to the property had been defective. At least,
that was what the courts ruled. It made it easier for the government to
nationalize the property if they didn’t have to pay anyone. Even the
workers digging out the gold worked at no expense to the government.
Arrests had gone up in the town the year after the gold was discovered.
The government had imported other prisoners from far away. They were
all brought to the mine, given long sentences, hard labor, time off when
you die.
I walked up to the pile of old stones and kicked one. It
wobbled. A stone on top of it fell to the ground, nearly hitting my
foot. We walked round the pile of stones and found the pool out back.
It was empty, cracked, with rainwater in the bottom of it. The diving
board was gone. Only the stand for it remained. In the distance, where
the laborer’s shacks should have been, there was nothing but weeds. A
mile on and the top of the land suddenly disappeared. The gorge.
Man-made, filled by the sea after the mine dug down and depleted the
gold in between.
“I want to eat lunch here,” I said to Maria. I walked back
toward the pile of rocks.
“Before dark...we must leave before dark,” she told me. I took
off my knapsack and knelt and unzipped it. Such a superstitious lady.
Standing, I unfurled my white tablecloth.
“Why?” I asked. Something made me want to stay the night.
There was nothing here, just the wind, the gulls, but I felt a desire to
stay just one night, and leave in the morning. Or at least to spend the
afternoon eating and enjoying the sea and the play of the light upon
it. And perhaps taking a nap. We could leave at sunset, couldn’t we?
I was too sleepy from my night on the town to just hop back into the
boat after lunch. The climb down would be hard. My lunch would make me
want to nap.
Maria watched me put my tablecloth down on the grass. She said
nothing. She went and sat down on some rocks that had once been the
castle and watched me eat. I offered her a sandwich. She declined it.
I was glad because I was hungry and I ate it myself. She took out a
canteen and drank from it. I wondered if it was liquor. She should not
drink if she was going to row me back across the water. But I said
nothing. She was a large woman. A whole tub of liquor would probably
have gone down with her and not made her the least bit tipsy.
When I was done eating I let myself lie back on my tablecloth
and, despite Maria’s protests, I let myself fall asleep. I put my
knapsack under my head, just in case. I didn’t intend to tip her until
we arrived safely back on the mainland.
I awoke at sunset. I did not see Maria. I looked about,
called her name, but she was gone. My knapsack was untouched, but she
was nowhere to be seen herself, and when I ran to the cliffside and
looked down I saw our boat was not there. Had she finally exacted some
jealous revenge on me?
I glanced back at the rubble of the castle, feeling quite alone
suddenly. I could not escape the island tonight. I could shout, but
the miners would not be able to hear me. I got out my compact and tried
flashing it at them, but the sun was sinking fast. I could not get the
proper light.
Slowly the stars came out. I could hear the roar of the waves
all around me, dashing the rocks below and sluicing in and out of the
channel at the island’s rear. I sat down amidst the rubble and consoled
myself with my fate. Perhaps Maria would return tomorrow. I would
scold her. She would simply nod, saying nothing, and not listening,
either, I suspected, enjoying her little peasant’s joke on the rich girl
turned woman visiting from America. I returned to my tablecloth at last
and lay down on it. I pulled a small blanket from my knapsack and drew
it around me to protect myself from the wind. It was woolen, not too
warm, but warm enough, I felt, as the wind seemed to die where I lay
though, in the distance, it still whipped at the long grass and the
weeds.
When the stars had almost completely wheeled about and dipped
their evening places into the sea I heard footsteps. I woke, looked
up. There, in the distance, where nothing should have been, I swear I
saw him. Lord Shaftsbury, uncloaked, for there was nothing but
starlight here. Barbi stood in her bikini beside him, gold rings
through her nipples, wearing just her panties. They seemed to shimmer
in the starlight and I saw Lord Shaftsbury looking at me, his chest
bare, his hair flying back in the wind I could not feel. And then,
lying in the grass at their feet, I thought I saw myself. Barbi knelt
and drew down the back of my panties from my bottom, which stuck up with
the impudence of youth for I was just 13 again and my bottom was white
in the starlight and I was lying on my belly. Lord Shaftsbury revealed
himself and drew me up just enough, and knelt between my legs and took
me. Barbi helped him, then went and knelt by my face to urge me to let
him take me, right in my bottom, with his shaft gleaming and finally
pumping in and out of me as I moaned into her hands and she untied her
panties to let me lick at her cunt.
I awoke with a start. Sunlight blazed in my face. The wind
had picked up again but my blanket kept me warm in the rising sun.
Instinctively I twisted my head round, to where I’d seen myself. There
was nobody there. And then I saw them. A child’s panties, swim
panties, lying on the ground. They were printed with my favorite
color. Had they been swept up here by the wind? And then-- beside
them, I saw the panties that a slightly older girl might wear, untied,
fluttering loosely in the breeze. A sudden gust caught them and they
blew away over the cliff.
I leapt up. I ran to catch them but I was too late, and I
stopped instead where my own panties lay, or ones just like mine, and I
bent and picked them up before they too were swept away by the wind.
Looking out toward the horizon, I wondered if Maria would
come. If she did not I could signal the miners with my compact when the
sun was higher. I turned and looked at the old castle, clutching the
panties that must have been mine yet could not be mine but somehow I
knew were mine, blown in from the beach from years ago, where I’d left
them and my childhood behind. The castle was just a pile of old rubble,
but the panties I clutched in my hands were brand new, just like when
I’d left them on the beach at Montevideo all those years ago. I looked
down at them. Had some pervert found them, and kept them in his
collection all these years, so that they did not age as I had? Had they
been kept carefully bagged in plastic, with just a touch of my youthful
essence imbuing them where my cunny had rubbed softly against them? I
fingered the soft fabric. I would keep these always, no matter how old
I got. And someday, someday I’d give them to another girl, a girl of
13, a frisky girl who wanted to grow up too fast and couldn’t wait any
longer. And, thinking, imagining, I knew who would come if these
panties were worn by just the right girl, a well-brought up blonde girl,
with a pair of young breasts and long legs that still were too skinny
but weren’t quite skinny enough anymore to keep Him at bay, or other men
either. Men who liked to see a girl walking along the shore in the
breeze of early morning, that clear clean salt air breeze that made
everything pure and made young spoilt girls want to lie in the sand
sometimes, all alone, and wait for whomever might come by.
THE END
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Pussy Playland
Chapter One
When I was 14 I had an older boyfriend. His name was Alex.
One day I was in his bedroom, going through his things on top of his
dresser. Just nosing around, wearing my cuffed jeans and my concert
t-shirt. He’d bought it for me last week after I’d taken his dare and
bared my boobs to the band. I was feeling daring, suddenly, and perhaps
it was some Goddess’s wish that I found a little pin on his dresser and
felt curious enough to ask him about it. We had just known each other
long enough to be frank. He was.
“Oh, that’s a sex club I joined last year,” he told me. He was
casual, but I saw something rise up in the crotch of his shorts as he
spoke.
For a moment I was speechless. Then, blustering, I said, “You
belong to a sex club?!”
“Not since I met you,” he added hastily. But he seemed about
as credible as a boy with one hand in the cookie jar as he said it.
It didn’t take me long to go storming out of his apartment. I
didn’t care if he was the handsomest surfer dude on the beach, I was NOT
hanging with some dude who belonged to a sex club.
But, wouldn’t you know, I found myself pining away for him in
the middle of the night. Every night. Finally I decided to get back in
with him. And, of course, being an older guy, he had no hangups about
me being a brat. Older guys who like younger girls don’t seem to mind
if they’re brats. It might even make them like us better.
One day, gulping down my pride (not to mention my modesty) I
agreed to try his sex club myself. He said he’d be proud to ‘show me
off.’ That took another week to get over. Finally, when all my
reservations had peeled away, I agreed definitely to try it. I should
have known I was getting in over my head when he told me I’d have to be
‘interviewed’ by a woman before I could be accepted.
“Well, I’m very pleased to meet you, Kelly,” the woman said
when I met her at a coffee shop. She quickly assured me that she’d
cover the bill. I could have whatever I wanted. The prices were
glamorously high, so I decided to have just coffee, the same as hers.
Perhaps for my sake she ordered a chocolate-flavored coffee.
The Artist’s Studio
by David Lescarini
The smoky air of the room
conceals in a somber state
the paint bespeckled walls.
it is a spartan dwelling
having little more than a
kitchen, bathroom, couch and bed,
no frivolities only necessities
and in the center of the room
sits the painter
atop a stool with a palette of
reds & blues, greens & yellows
precariously perched on his thumb
long hair, an earring and
a butt cheek tattoo mark him
as a nouveau, avant-garde artist
who embraces his own uniqueness
and not that greatness of the masters.
he is young, brash and unshaven
as he paints his newest canvas,
masterpiece in oil.
on the couch poses the model.
like a snake she writhes in nude
formations of imaginative pleasure.
she is young, slim,
light brown hair on top and below,
creamy milk skin in between and dark
brown eyes that shine under
the florescent bulb overhead.
she thinks herself a model
and he an artist who
will immortalize her in oils.
if only she could see the canvas
on the easel hiding his face.
He is finished. she is spent
from her motion on the couch.
he ransoms the painting to her;
one night, one painting,
that’s the price, that’s the offer.
she accepts.
onto the satin, red sheets he
places her young body. it is
the first time for her and
she is eager. now
he is cinematographer.
a vid-cam hums.
under his caress she smiles.
under him, on him, around him
she poses. the vid-cam hums.
he is master of the art of
whatever he chooses.
she cries for mercy several times.
he laughs and gasps and cums.
he finds it enjoyable and realizes
she has power over men,
the power to please, the power
to trap. the vid-cam hums.
It is morning, the smoke is cleared,
the two lie in each others arms.
the vid-cam is stopped.
the painting is hers he says.
she gasps. the canvas is splotched.
he shows her the video tape,
how she enjoyed herself,
how she squealed with delight
when her cherry popped.
he will sell the tape he says
and make some smoking money.
she pleads, and begs. he laughs.
he won’t sell it, he’ll keep it
if, if she comes every day
and poses, poses for his canvas.
(Poem was slightly edited and revised by me. - h.j.)
AND IN THE END...
ELVIS THE CHILD MOLESTER
Why wasn’t this monster castrated?
“Europe provided the perfect setting for the 23-year-old’s
libido to come out. As one of his friends remembers, ‘He just let loose
sexually.’ That included everything from dating 16-year-old Margrit
Buergin, to... an army brat named Priscilla Beaulieu. Fourteen years
old, she was the precise age Elvis liked in a ‘woman’.”
- Penthouse, August 1997, pg. 34, on Elvis Presley.
(no wonder Elvis is so popular. He’s a pedophile! - h.j.)
-------------------------- Fuck Decency! ------------------------
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roller666@aol.com Read my complete works under these names by
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-Recent back issues at Usenet newsgroup: alt.sex.stories.moderated
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- JOIN the world’s greatest organization! Send $35.00 to The North
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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 281 EMISSION
- “Remembers Lamar Fike, one of Elvis’s sidekicks... ‘he was the
worst.’” - Penthouse, August 1997, pg. 26, on Elvis Presley.
--
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