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From: Andrew Roller <roller39@IDT.NET>
Subject: FUCK DECENCY 310 Nudie Nursery (nnd) g2
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Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 310
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Nudie Nursery
Chapter Two
The milking machine was lowered to my breasts as Ray found new
ways to torture my clit and my cunt. He gave me a pap smear and used
the speculum to peer up inside me, all the while brushing my clit with
his thumb. He sprinkled hot chili powder on my clit, making me howl.
He tested my size with dildoes of increasing size, forcing them farther
and farther up within me. Kate, meanwhile, put suction cups to my
nipples, fitted the steel casings of the milk machine around my breasts,
and then turned it on.
I was wrenched upward as the machine pulled on my breasts as if
they were gourds. I felt crushed and held and suctioned within the
machine’s grip. Simultaneously the little pads fixed to my nipples
began to suck upon them like babies’ mouths, while delivering little
electric shocks to them. But that was only the half of it. Down below,
as the machine started milking my breasts, Ray rudely stuck the biggest
dildo he could find up my cunt and turned it on.
It was the first time I’d ever felt an electric dildo in my
cunny. It jolted me to a height of fear and then began jabbing on its
own deep inside me, as if its upper half could work alone, inserting
itself and then drawing a little back, then jamming up higher. Ray,
meanwhile, pressed it within me as much as my cunt would allow.
Kate slapped my tummy. She smiled down at me. The pressure on
my breasts was rhythmic now, fondling, holding, clasping and suckling
them, making them feel as if they were caught in a wonderful vise that
would never let go. I felt like a cow, being milked and inseminated all
at once.
Kate walked to the end of the table and checked my wrist
restraints. They were secure. I had not found any way to wriggle free
of them. Then she bent, kissed my nose, and went to the opposite end of
the table. She raised each of my stirrups so that they stuck up at an
angle. I felt my cheeks on the underside of my bottom exposed. Sure
enough, Ray used the opportunity to begin intruding things into my ass.
I felt like some experimental animal as he and Kate played with dildos
in my two holes, my mouth gagged, my breasts constantly, endlessly
suctioned as if they were udders.
When Kate grew bored with helping Ray she went to the wall and
took down a whip. Methodically, touching herself as she did it, she
began beating my poor tummy. I jerked, I cried out. Ray ordered me to
lie still and warned I might be injured if I didn’t, with him poking
things in my womb. I tried to comply but there was little hope of
that! Devilishly he kept rubbing new salves on my clitty meant to
agonize and arouse it.
Within my bonds I began to build toward an orgasm. Ray heeded
my distress and played upon it. He found ever new ways to tease my
clit, while sticking bigger and bigger things up inside my vagina and my
bottomhole.
Suddenly I climaxed. Kate flicked a switch on the milking
machine and it delivered stronger shocks to my nipples. I rode out my
orgasm with the milking machine working my teats and Ray teasing me
through every rippling wrench of my hips. Kate kept beating my tummy,
lightly marking me with every stroke of the switch.
I was released. I lay upon the table in a daze. My orgasm
drizzled away. I felt wet between my legs. I felt violated. Kate and
Ray smiled down at me, all the evil things taken away, just me, staring
up at them, still wearing my gag but nothing else. Except my heels, of
course, to make me look pretty.
They reached down and I thought they would help me up but
instead they rolled me over. I was still trapped within the twin rails
of the table. They were not electrified, but a mere flick of a switch
could make them so.
“Kneel up, darling,” Kate urged. I could not believe my ears.
But she slapped my fanny and, fearing worse, I stuck up my bottom. My
knees slid up under my belly and I lifted it so that my heinie was
rudely pushed into the air.
Ray let me keep my knees together but he put a spreader bar
between my ankles. Kate, meanwhile, pulled my thumb from my mouth,
where I’d hoped to suck it, and tied my hands together under my face.
I buried my nose in my pillow. I did not want to see what they
were preparing to do to me. I knew it would be horrid. I felt Kate
blow on my bottom and then lick, once, between my cheeks. Then there
was a moment of waiting, as I heard an enema bag swung over me, its
contents sloshing, and its hose unhooked.
With the bag hanging over my bottom, as I suspected, not
looking, quiet in my pillow, I felt long nails part my ass cheeks.
Kate’s tongue intruded again, and this time it was on a mission. She
found my hole and licked it. Then, when I was wet with her saliva, she
put vaseline on her finger and soothed it into my hole.
A jab made me arch my head up from my pillow. My gag silenced
a howl as a nozzle rudely pushed its way into my anus.
“Hold still, dear, don’t waggle your bottom about like a
hussy,” Kate told me. She shoved the nozzle deeper into my hiney-hole
and I heard Ray announce that he’d unclipped the enema bag.
A liquid rushed into my bottoms. I gasped. It filled me up
fast. It was more than sperm ever could do. It filled me to the brim
and I begged, through my gag, for them to stop the flow. After another
minute they did so. I could barely move, I was so full. They laughed.
Kate offered Ray a cookie. They stood watching me a few minutes. She
stroked his penis. It was hard and ready.
The enema tube was detached from the full bag, which was now
empty, and attached to a bag which had been hooked down beneath the
table. It was the waste bag, and I prayed they’d let me release my
bowels into it, and fast.
I heard Ray say he was removing a clip and suddenly all the
fullness inside me began to rush out.
“She should have no problem taking me up her ass, now that
she’s had all that liquid to expand her,” Ray laughed. Kate laughed
with him and began greasing his dick with the vaseline. No sooner was I
rid of the dastardly enema than Ray presented me with himself. I felt
his hardness sink into my fanny and I gasped and cried and begged to be
let up. He would have nothing of it. He jerked within me, going
deeper, then deeper still. I found later that he’d mounted a footstool
just to be the right height to fuck my ass as I knelt on the table. He
urged my hips toward him. I was not tied to the wall now and he was
able to drag me, with my hands tied beneath my face, as far down the
table as he wished.
I began to cry. Ray paid no attention. He reamed me with his
hardness and I felt like a flower being opened by some rude, ruthless
child. Kate stood beside him, slapping his ass with her hand,
encouraging him, and, to a shout of disapproval from Ray, even inquiring
herself in his hole with her finger.
We made love there, in that strange room that took “Playing
Doctor” to its ultimate perversion. Ray fucked me on the table and Kate
finger-fucked him in his ass. When he’d cum I was permitted to rest and
he laid her down on the floor and reamed her cunt with his mouth.
Dazed, aching everywhere, I was led out at last from the
horrible Ob-Gyn room. I’d survived, but I wondered about the nursery
school girls. Had they been given ‘free’ physicals in there? The very
thought of some man, no doctor but only a pervert, exploring their
deepest secrets in there made me shiver. Holding my hands Ray and Kate
took me upstairs. They wiped my bottom and we tumbled into bed and
slept like exhausted rabbits. As I drifted off to sleep I saw myself,
in a pinafore dress, holding a lollipop, being led into the exam room by
a pervert. I pledged to myself that I’d report this evil dungeon to the
police as soon as we’d finished. But, in my dreams, I felt a penis
intruding between the cheeks of my fanny, and I knew we weren’t finished
just yet.
Chapter Three
It was all my mom’s fault. When I was 16, she insisted I get a
job. She said she was tired of me just playing on the beach. My grades
had dropped from a little too much partying. I think she thought I was
up to more than I actually was. But what was I going to say: ‘Don’t
worry, mom, I just blow the guys I like, I don’t bed them’?
I’d had fun at Kate’s, I must admit. I think I walked around
in a daze for about a month after that weekend at her place. She
decided to sell it, and moved back to New York. There were too many
stories hidden down there for her to play in that preschool dungeon
guilt-free.
I went back to teasing guys. I loved to make them lust after
me and then leave them with nothing; yearning for me, desperate, jerking
themselves off someplace as they wished they could have me. It was
especially fun sometimes to make a hunky guy drop dead over me. After
all, what good is it knowing a nerd is creaming his pants for you? But
a hunk is another matter. To think that a cute guy who deserves you is
left with blue balls and sperm that just HAS to cum out, but can’t, but
MUST; that is wickedly fun. Unfair, perhaps, but fun all the same.
Sex just didn’t seem to sizzle after playing in Jeff and
Sherry’s canyon retreat, and at Kate’s. Everything was so heightened
there, so intense, so immediate. I think I missed the challenge of a
dungeon. To be commanded, to know you have to obey. In real life I was
swamped with choices. I could diss cute guys, or not. I got invited to
teen parties where we danced, or just got drunk. There was freedom but
there was boredom too. Pearl Jam on 10 is only so interesting. Beavis
and Butthead might be content to re-run their lives every day, watching
the same old videos, but I got annoyed with it all.
So when mom said I just HAD to get a job, well, I wasn’t really
bothered by it. I imagined I’d wind up in a boutique near the beach
selling cosmetics or trinkets or something but, well, what could you
expect as a teenager? I opened the paper to look for some job like
that, but for some reason my eyes were drawn to the Secretary page. I
don’t know why. I can’t type. I’m a terrible speller. Even my name,
Kelly, I sometimes spell Kellie, or Kellee, just to have fun. But I saw
an ad that said, “Secretary Desired: No Skills Required.” Somehow the
way it was phrased, you know? It seemed tantalizing. Who could
possibly want a secretary who didn’t know how to do anything?
I made an appointment over the phone. Then I had to buy
clothes: you can’t get a secretary’s job wearing ass-high cutoffs! (At
least I don’t think you can.) I bought a prim waist-length jacket and a
white blouse with a neckerchief. I also picked up some nice black
stockings and silvery heels. The skirt, I must admit, was too short.
But I felt daring. I bought a string of pearls to try to compensate.
All businesswomen, I think, wear pearls. It makes them look proper but
elegant. Then I put my Hello Kitty pencil in my jacket pocket and went
off to see my new boss. (Well, I promised myself I’d be successful; I
practise the Power of Positive Thinking!)
As I walked into the lobby of the building in downtown L.A. I
was on pins and needles. The floor tiles echoed my footsteps and I felt
like everyone looked up to watch me pass. I tugged nervously on the hem
of my jacket. It hung down a little lower than my miniskirt and I was
grateful that it could cover me where my skirt couldn’t! I took an
elevator upstairs to the 11th floor. The bellboy in the elevator made
eyes at me. I pretended not to notice. He was pretty cute but I was on
a mission: to become a working woman. Hopefully they’d teach me how to
type at this place.
I was let into Suite 1117 by a woman. She looked lovely, and
seemed to be in her mid-twenties. She had me sit down in a little
anteroom outside the boss’s office and she asked if I’d like some
coffee. I swallowed nervously, said ‘yes.’
“Is this your first job?” she asked politely. I nodded that it
was. In fact, I admitted, it was my first job interview. She smiled.
“I think you’ll like Brent,” she said. She handed me my coffee. It was
hot. I had to wait to let it cool before I could drink it.
I was just starting to sip my coffee when the woman tending to
me told me it was time to go in and see Brent. Another woman had just
left; twenty-something, beautiful, with long legs and a composed
demeanor. I felt a sudden rush of anxiety again. But somehow I
gathered myself together and walked into Brent’s office: my first job
interview!
Life, the Universe, and Boxed Sets
by me, holy joe
In some parts of the country, it is growing cold. This perhaps
is a time for introspection. If you’re young, and reading this, perhaps
you are wondering, “What is the meaning of life?”
I will tell you. It’s to get laid. But, aside from that,
there is at best only one other meaning. Allow me to explain, by way of
example.
I have in my hand a catalog. It’s a video catalog, from a
popular mail order company. I am looking at page 13. Across the top of
this page is written, “Christmas Boxes.” The page is divided into three
columns. In the first column, about halfway down, is a boxed set of
videos. It’s titled, “The Monkees Deluxe Limited Edition Box Set.”
In the second column, about halfway down the page, right next
to “The Monkees,” is another boxed set of videos. It’s titled, “The
Rise and Fall of Adolf Hitler.”
That, my friend, in a nutshell, is the meaning of life. Either
you got a boxed set of videos, starring you, or you didn’t. Everyone
else, the people who didn’t get their own boxed set featuring
themselves, marched straight into oblivion.
In effect, they never lived.
Recently I met a doctor. She had quite a high opinion of
herself. And, not coincidentally, she had quite a low opinion of me.
This is a personality flaw common to doctors. They figure anyone who
isn’t a doctor is shit.
But I have news for this woman. She’s marching straight into
oblivion. Reason? She’ll never get her own boxed set of videos. At
the end of the next century, there will be a catalog. It might be a web
catalog, instead of a paper one. And it won’t be selling boxed sets of
videos. It will be selling boxed video CD’s, or videos that you
download directly from the Internet, for the next century’s equivalent
of $89.00.
The Monkees might be listed in such a catalog. Adolf Hitler
certainly will be. And some new version of the Monkees will be listed,
whether the Monkees themselves are listed or not. But she won’t be
there. Oh, she might make medical history. She might even operate on
the President of the United States in her lifetime. But, odds are,
she’ll never have a boxed set, starring her.
So, if you’re wondering what to do with yourself, besides
getting laid, my advice is to get yourself into a boxed set of videos.
Or, if you can’t manage that, at least write something down that people
might enjoy reading 100 years from now.
There are graveyards in America that aren’t maintained. I
spoke to a man recently who told me about a graveyard he visits, once a
week. He visits it to mow the grass around the graves. Nobody pays
him. Nobody even notices that he’s mowed the grass. But he told me he
got tired of seeing the graveyard in an unkempt condition. Finally he
took it upon himself to mow its lawn. If he didn’t mow the grass around
the graves, nobody else would. Because, despite the triumphs, the
unjust tragedies, despite the lives, fulfilled or unfulfilled, respected
or not, that all those people in all those graves lived, nobody even
knows or cares that they lived. And most certainly nobody cares that
they’re now lying in a graveyard, dead. Even the man doesn’t know, or
care, who’s buried there. He just cares that the grass around the
graves stays properly mowed, out of respect for (whoever it is) that
lies buried there.
And so it is with the doctor. And your stock broker. And your
congressman and your lawyer and your accountant. All respected people,
no doubt, but will anyone care in 100 years that they lived? Will
anyone even know their names?
I doubt it. In the end there will be a catalog, and a few
half-forgotten faces peering out from that catalog. The Monkees. Adolf
Hitler. Jesus. Tom Cruise. A few others, most of them here today,
gone tomorrow. Quick: who’s Lester Lanin? I have no idea, but he’s
billed in a catalog as being the head of “the world’s best dance
orchestra”. I’ve heard of dancing. I’ve never heard of Lester Lanin.
And, by the way, I think Lester is dead. The catalog he’s
featured on the first page of is titled, “Music and Memories”. It has
lots of “famous” musicians in it from the 40’s and 50’s.
I’ve yet to get a catalog titled, “Greatest Medical Doctors”.
Or “Greatest Accountants”. Or even “Greatest Congressmen of the United
States of America”. And would you buy anything from such a catalog, if
you got one? Are you going to pony up, even, for Lester Lanin anytime
soon?
So, that’s my advice. It may be advice from a bum, but I still
think it’s good advice. Get laid. Write something down. Something
interesting. And, if possible, get your own boxed set of videos,
starring you.
Otherwise, in 100 years, you won’t just be dead. You’ll never
have lived.
AND IN THE END...
Last Words of the Accountant:
“I considered my handiwork, all my labour and toil: it was
futility, all of it, and a chasing of the wind, of no profit under the
sun.”
- Ecclesiastes 2:11.
-------------------------- Fuck Decency! ------------------------
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-END OF 310 EMISSION
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