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From: Andrew Roller <roller39@IDT.NET>
Subject: FUCK DECENCY 319 Nudie Nursery (nnd) g2
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Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Sponsored by: Crab the dog
Issue No. 319
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Nudie Nursery
Chapter Four
Stately palms lined the road. At the end of a long driveway
the Mont Vernale waited, its cuisine the best in Caracas. Our limo
pulled up and a doorman opened our door for us. Brent stepped out. He
wore a tuxedo. The restaurant permitted nothing less, even at brunch.
Missy was next, a choker of pearls round her neck. It had replaced her
collar. I wore an identical choker, four strands of pearls, tightly
bound round my throat. If you looked closely you could see that a tiny
gold lock, hanging at the back of my neck, made the choker more than
just a piece of jewelry. I could not remove it. Thankfully my fur
coat, high on my neck, kept the back of my choker from being seen.
We were quite a pair of fashion plates, I thought, as I ducked
out of the limo behind Missy. We each wore long lovely earrings. Our
hair was piled loosely atop our heads, to make us sophisticated. Our
fur coats were waist-length, leaving our legs bare. My coat barely
covered my fanny. Missy, seeing a dime on the asphalt, bent down and
carefully picked it up. Her fur coat was no more concealing than mine,
leaving her thighs completely bare, and her calves too, right down to
her five-inch spiked heels. She was a little unsteady in her shoes.
She was used to wearing sneakers. I scolded her for bending down and
took her hand.
Brent smiled at the valets. They were a little surprised to
see girls in such short coats, with bare legs, but it was warm in
Caracas and a little insouciance on the part of female attire was no
doubt permitted. Had they guessed that we wore nothing but string
bikinis underneath, I’m sure we would have been refused.
“Your coat, madam?” the butler inside the entrance asked as
Missy and I walked in. Missy, dear girl, made to open her coat, but I
caught her in time.
“They are not used to the air conditioning,” Brent said to the
butler. It was chilly in here. He nodded, we passed on. The maitre d'
observed us with a stuffy gaze. His voice, when he spoke, was polite,
but a trifle condescending, as if he’d once served the Queen and now had
to earn his living less agreeably, catering to mere mortals with money.
Missy and I walked as obediently as we could, following him. The
restaurant was hushed, like the inside of a church. A string quartet
was in the center, playing soft, lyrical notes, entertaining the diners
without intruding into their conversations. Chandeliers hung at regular
intervals. Their light reflected off the silverware and fine china set
out on the tables.
Curtains of brocaded silk divided up the interior of the
restaurant. Each table could be viewed by several others yet none could
be seen by all. The diners liked their privacy, yet, dressed in pearls
and diamonds, they did not want to go completely unseen. Older ladies
dined with their husbands, exchanging the day’s gossip. I saw no one as
young as myself.
I tried not to let my hips wriggle overmuch as I walked. With
my bare legs flashing, I was dressed more daringly than the other
females I saw. I bit my lip. The string between my cunny lips was
driving me wild! Missy let her bottom sway unnaturally, too childish to
constrain its movements. I knew the little cashmere string between her
legs must be tormenting her at least as mine was tormenting me. Even
the little bra, with its cups over my nipples, seemed to stimulate me.
I felt my boobies bobbing within my coat. I sighed, and knew Brent was
smirking behind me. He followed us in his tuxedo, making everything
look normal, a man with his two daughters perhaps, taking them out to
lunch.
-------------------------- FREE PLUG ! ---------------------------
MORE great sex stories are available for free! Simply:
type:
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(The stories are written by various people and posted by someone named
“ass.reposter”)
-------------------------- FREE PLUG ! ---------------------------
We came to a table and the maitre d' pulled out a chair for
me. I sat. I held my coat close to my bottom as I sat down so the
maitre d' wouldn’t see I was bare. My bikini hid nothing. It served
only to tantalize me. It was a teensy thong where it should have been a
pouch, a crack belt, infuriating me with my every movement, which only
made me squirm more. I glanced at Missy. Her cheeks were puffed and
she seemed ever more distracted. How could we possibly enjoy an elegant
brunch in this place when we were both steaming in our dells.
Only Brent was at ease. He watched as the maitre d’ lit a
candle at our table. For a moment he looked like my father, sitting
there, and I could almost hear him saying, “Now girls, I know this is
the first time I’ve taken you to my club. I know you’re both immature.
Please don’t embarrass me. Try to behave. Don’t make a paper airplane
out of your napkin and try not to spill anything.”
But fathers weren’t quite like that, were they? I didn’t know;
I spent too much time with my mom to know anything about fathers.
Fathers, I think, simply expected you to be grown up, and you were.
Mothers were always the ones warning you and berating you. I looked at
Missy with a confused look on my face. But she was no help at all. She
was eyeing her spoon and I could just imagine her making it into a
catapult.
“Do you have any strawberries?” Missy piped up.
“Strawberry pancakes?” Brent asked. I wanted to shout, ‘No!
Don’t! She’ll shoot them at you!” but the maitre d’ was standing right
there and I couldn’t.
“Yes, strawberry pancakes, with LOTS of strawberries!” Missy
begged. Brent, of course, the poor innocent, was clueless.
“Whatever she wishes,” he said, tugging absently on the sleeves
of his tux. The maitre d’ nodded and wrote down her order.
“Would you like ham?” the maitre d’ asked Missy.
“I want...” Missy paused and looked thoughtful for a moment.
“I want sausages! BIG ones!” She grinned merrily. Somehow, with a
sinking heart, I began to realize our elegant brunch was going to be a
complete disaster.
I glared at her. I was enjoying it here. I didn’t want her
spoiling it with her antics. I was bigger than her. We could settle
this in a way that would get her extra smackings from Jasmine, or from
me!
Missy seemed taken aback. She shrugged her shoulders and sank
a little into her chair. The maitre d’, oblivious, wrote down her
order.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“Ummm, honey. Toast and honey,” Missy said. “And some ice
cream.”
“Ice cream?” the maitre asked.
“Yes, for my pancakes,” Missy said.
“And you, madam?” the maitre d’ asked.
“An omelette,” I said.
The maitre d’ took down my order. Missy squirmed in her seat
and fidgeted. She played with her spoon. Brent ordered, something in
French that I didn’t understand.
“Omelette,” Missy said aloud as soon as the maitre d’ left.
She was teasing me. She lifted her spoon into the air and waved it
about. “An omelette. I’ll have an omelette, please!” She giggled. I
glared. Our waiter arrived, bringing us water.
“You would like an omelette?” he asked, thinking Missy wanted
to add to her order.
“Why yes. I’ll have an omelette, sunny-side up,” Missy said,
feigning elegance.
“Sunny side up?” the waiter asked. “An omelette,”
“Just bring her an omelette,” Brent said dismissively. He
pointed at me: “And bring her what she is having,” he added. “There,
now you’re both getting everything. And champagne,” he added. “Bring
us all some champagne.”
“Yes, sir,” the waiter said, scribbling. I liked him. He was
younger than the maitre d’. He was tall and slim but looked, well,
handy... He returned to our table within a minute of leaving, bearing a
tray brimming with champagne glasses and condiments. He set everything
down quickly, smoothly. I wondered if he could despatch me just as
smoothly. I would gasp and with quick fingers he would finish me off,
leave me gasping.
I slipped my arms from my sleeves and dropped them within my
coat. I was sick of my infernal panties. I wanted to have a pleasant
breakfast without moaning every time I shifted my hips. I untied the
drawstrings of my panties. I returned my arms to my coatsleeves, taking
the panties with me.
I plopped my panties onto the table beside my plate. Brent
looked at me.
“Hi darling,” I smiled. My voice was sweet. Missy thought I
was teasing him. Our waiter came with our food, glanced down. I saw
his eyes gazing at my little pile of string and cloth next to my spoon.
The string was damp where it had threaded my nest. Gracefully he put
down my omelette, then my pancakes.
Missy, not wanting to be any less daring than me, buried her
arms in her coat. As the waiter laid down her plates her hand suddenly
returned to her coat sleeve, bearing the fruit of her reconnaissance;
her undies. She dropped them onto the table. The waiter noticed. I
saw him miss a breath and I wondered if he guessed all our secrets.
Brent looked at me, at Missy. Our waiter bustled off.
“Try not to embarrass me, girls,” Brent said. “They do have
statutory rape laws her in Caracas.”
“Oooh, you mean you might go to jail?” Missy said. She reached
out with her fingers and played with her panties.
“No, but you might get spanked if you misbehave,” Brent warned
her. “Stop playing with your panties.” He reached out and took them
from her. He put them into the pocket of his tuxedo.
“A string is dangling down,” I said.
“Hmmm?” Brent asked. But our waiter returned just then,
bringing fruit. Grapefruit and pineapple and orange slices, all piled
up on a tray. Brent nodded, unaware that a string connected to Missy’s
underpants was hanging out of the pocket of his tuxedo.
The waiter left again. Missy sipped her champagne. I drank
mine and enjoyed the flow of little bubbles running down my throat.
They settled into my tummy. Missy, intrigued by the idea of staging a
strip show for our waiter, drew her arms into her coat once more. Brent
tried to stop her, but our waiter reappeared and refilled our champagne
glasses. As he turned to leave Missy’s hands popped from the sleeves of
her coat again, bringing up her bra this time, and she laid it onto the
table. The waiter, a perplexed look on his face, turned and left.
“Missy, you’re going to get spanked extra hard for that,” Brent
said.
“But Brent, you’re going to have Jasmine spank us anyway when
we get home,” I said. I pouted and my own arms disappeared inside my
coat. I shifted my breasts forward, arching my back, and reached behind
myself and untied my bra. I liked having it off. It kept tickling my
nipples. Now, perhaps, I could enjoy my meal. I slipped my arms back
into my sleeves and laid my bra beside my bottoms.
Brent looked at my little bikini, laid in a tangled pile next
to my silverware. He gulped, shifted his hips. Was he at last feeling
a little discomfited? Good. It was all his fault, anyway. He should
have let us wear dresses and blouses to brunch, instead of naughty
bikinis.
Missy picked up a pitcher of syrup. I thought she was going to
pour it on her pancakes but, instead, she hovered the lip of the syrup
pitcher over her bosom.
Brent, who sat between Missy and I, with she and I facing each
other across the table, shot his gaze from me to her. Missy grinned at
him. She poured the syrup into her coat.
“Oooh! I seemed to have spilled something!” she said with a
high, spoilt voice. I watched in disbelief as she poured the syrup over
her bosoms.
Our waiter returned. He brought us slices of watermelon. He
seemed solicitous of our appetites. He wished that we should lack
nothing. Missy drew her coat closer. Her syrupy bosom could not be
seen within the closely held halves of her coat. She poured syrup on
her pancakes.
The waiter left. I decided to eat my toast while it was hot.
I buttered it. Then I lifted up the bottle of honey to squeeze some on
my toast. I glanced at Brent. He was grinning at Missy, bemused,
admiring her daring. She had entranced him. He liked her mischievous
ways.
I held the squeeze bottle of honey between the tips of my
fingers. I didn’t like losing my boyfriend to Missy. I was going to
put the honey on my toast but, suddenly, I put it over my chest.
“Do you think I’m sweet, Brent?” I asked. He turned his head
to me. Liberally I squeezed the bottle of honey and it spurted a stream
of itself into my coat. I felt it splash onto my breasts. It felt like
Missy’s lollipop. I kept squirting as the sticky goo ran down to the
tips of my nipples inside my coat.
Missy decided she must not be outdone. There was a plastic
bottle of Hershey’s syrup on our table, for her ice cream pancakes. She
picked it up and squirted it down inside her coat. “I’m getting gooder
all the time,” she said with an invitational smile to Brent. “Would you
like to give me a licking?”
Brent was both pleased and displeased. He desperately didn’t
want to be embarrassed by us, yet seeing us squirt ourselves down with
the condiments was making him hard. He shifted in his chair, yet it
offered him no relief. I picked up the chilled bottle of whipped cream
that the waiter had brought for our strawberries. I scooted my chair
back a little and dropped it down to the level of my legs. Daintily,
with Brent’s eyes gazing in aroused horror, I lifted the front of my
coat and spread my legs. I aimed the can of whipped cream at my pussy.
I looked at Brent and smiled. I depressed the top of the can. A
squirting rush came to my ears. I gasped as a spurt of whipped cream
struck my dell. It was cold! I bit my lower lip, squirted some more,
and then replaced my coat. I put the can back up on the table. Let
Missy top that!
HYDRANT SONG
by Kenneth Pobo
Sometimes my lover’s
dick reminds me of a hydrant:
a reddish plug
suddenly come
into view -- how lucky
for me as sometimes
I feel like a fire.
I need putting out.
LUSTY LETTERS
to holy joe
ogle@aol.com writes: “While reading your previous issue, I
kept seeing the name ‘Alexa’ sprinkled throughout the text. Did
something go wrong, or is it me?”
holy joe replies: While we did write a brief article about
Alexa Brinkley in our previous issue, there is no mention of her except
in the article itself. I’m afraid, if you are seeing her name in places
other than the article, you may be a pedophile.
Try not to be alarmed. Help is available. Simply call your
local police and tell them, “I think I’m a pedophile.” Our wonderful
officers of the law will be more than happy to render assistance. If
for some reason you can’t get through, please don’t wait. It’s
important to seek help *immediately* for pedophilia. Go to the nearest
house and knock on the door and when someone answers, tell them, “I
think I’m a pedophile.” Hopefully they’ll help you.
If the person answering the door is a child, don’t hesitate to
confess your newfound predilection. It’s your duty to warn them, so
they can’t be harmed by you. And, if it is a child, don’t use a big
word like ‘pedophile,’ that they might not understand. And don’t say ‘I
might’. This is a concept that the young mind, still developing, may
not be able to grasp. Say simply, “Hi! I’m a child molester.”
Then, since the person is a child, go on to the next door.
*Keep knocking* until you meet an adult. It’s very essential that you
get help for your problem right away.
Please let us know if we here at Fuck Alexa can be of any
further assistance.
Thank you for writing.
AND IN THE END...
“Thank goodness there still is a right in this country for
anybody that wants to to go up and advocate an idea or an issue that’s
important to them.”
- Jim Nicholson, Chairman, The Republican National Committee.
-------------------------- Fuck Decency! ------------------------
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copyright 1997 by the respective copyright holder.
-END OF 319 EMISSION
- Nicholson: The NewsHour with Jim Lehrer, November 7, 1997.
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