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From: Andrew Roller <roller39@IDT.NET>
Subject: FUCK DECENCY 276 Bush League (nnd) g2
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YES, I GOT KICKED OFF SPRINT
As an author, I must say that I’m not entirely displeased. The
worst thing for an author isn’t to generate controversy. Far from it.
The worst thing for an author is to be ignored. I want everyone on the
planet to read my work. Please, Christians, keep complaining about me.
Sure, it’s a pain in the ass for me to get kicked off ISPs. But I’m
learning more about the Internet each time I have to switch to a new
ISP. (For instance, I now know what kind of a modem I have.)
So please, Christians. Don’t stop now. We have a good thing
going. With your help, all these things will come to pass:
1. Everyone will know who ‘Andrew Roller’ is.
2. Everyone will read everything I’ve ever written.
3. holy joe will get to move to a better dumpster.
Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 276
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Bush League
Chapter Four
“Ahh, Chrissakes!” Andre howled. We watched as the cream
splashed onto his dick, found its way to his balls underneath, and made
a white mess of his pubic hair. When Kelly had made Andre slick with
the cream Polly was told to resume her lap dance. A little gingerly she
retook her seat, wetting her bottom in the cream as she sat down on
Andre. Then she began to wriggle once more, lifting her arms and
letting her breasts shake. Her bottom moved like quicksilver. Andre
gritted his teeth and waited for his orgasm. There was no question of
his sperming the sofa now. Permission had been given. He ached to hold
himself back now, knowing he must loose himself. Men always like the
forbidden. Now that Rose was permitting him to cum, he didn’t want to.
But he wasn’t about to make Polly stop her wonderful dance.
I was next. Kelly came to me, made me get up. She stood
admiring Louis’s manhood for a moment, then doused him with the cream.
She emptied her pitcher in his lap. Louis tried to look calm but his
cock twitched under the pouring cream, clearly enjoying the decadence,
the warmth, the deliciousness of it all. When Kelly was done I climbed
back onto him and made him accept my squirming bottom in his lap.
“I can hold on longer than you,” Louis boasted to Andre.
“You had a later start than me,” Andre replied through gritted
teeth. He was farther along than my boyfriend and teetering, perhaps,
beyond the point of release, when the male knows he must cum but is
hoping for a few more seconds on the precipice. I saw the muscles in
Andre’s neck tighten. He let his head fall back. Yet Polly felt
nothing yet. She kept at him, moving her heinie in tight little
circles. Then Andre let out a hollar and I knew he must be cumming, for
Polly looked up at me like some child just wetting her diapers. Andre
came and came and came. Polly forgot to keep dancing and Andre took
hold of her small childish waist and urged her to move briskly upon
him. Haltingly she tried to start again. But she was used to being
naughty, not making peace with sex and enjoying it. She could not bring
herself to squirm on him now that he was actually cumming. I think she
wanted to stand up but Andre held her tightly to himself. Rose tutted.
“Squirm, Polly. He needs it most now,” Rose urged. Polly just
sat still, feeling his seed squirt itself underneath her heinie. “She
must be trained,” Rose lamented. I moved my fanny faster and vowed not
to stop until Louis had spermed me completely. I did not want anymore
training. I just wanted to enjoy Louis, he and I together in my bed.
“Stop,” Louis said. He touched my shoulder. “Let’s go
upstairs and get started on your receptivity training.”
“My what?” I asked. I sat still as he wished.
“Spooning,” he said.
“Oh.” He wanted to stick his thing in my butthole. “Alright.
But it’s only early afternoon,” I answered.
“We are lovers,” he replied.
I rose from his lap. He took my hand. We bid farewell to
Rose. Polly was being put over Andre’s knee to smell his sperm on the
couch and get a spanking for failing in her lap dance. Sylvia, rising
off Rose’s lap, begged to spank Polly for Andre, to save his hand the
work of it.
Louis and I mounted the staircase together, his arm around my
waist. I felt my wet bottom wiggling distinctly behind me. I did not
want him up my ass but, but... I wanted to please him. In the distance
I could hear Polly blabbering that she needn’t be spanked. Then there
was a crack of palm to bottom, and Polly, I knew, was being spanked over
Andre’s knee, by Sylvia’s hand. It was a light, distinctive smack, like
a woman would give another woman. Polly disliked it all the same. She
blubbered her penance. Her voice and her screams faded as Louis guided
me up the stairs and to my room.
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Christians: what are you doing reading this? Get off your ass and
complain to my ISP!
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The sounds of insects was heavy, continuous. It was
mid-summer, the mating season. The air was warm and still.
I had been watching the phases of the moon from my bedroom
window at night, lying over a bolster, with my Louis slowly, inexorably,
working himself into my bottom each night. We played at it. We spent
all night at it. He would prepare me with vaseline and then finger me,
finally putting himself in. I would lie beneath him, captive, complete
somehow, with his penis up my fanny, fingering my pussy, or letting him
finger me, both of us feeling our need, toying with it, putting it off,
finally releasing ourselves to it. When the new moon came it was time
for Sylvia to receive her brand.
I gazed at Sylvia. She looked sheepish, frightened. She wore
just her corset, her breasts quite free, with little sandal-like heels
on her feet to make her seductive. I showed her the twin brands that
would be pressed simultaneously into the flesh of her bottom, right
beside her anus, within the crack of her fanny where only her lover
would ever peer, afterward, keeping her all to himself. I let her touch
them. They were cool, fresh from the cellar.
“They’re so small,” Sylvia said aloud. She pressed her
fingertip into the surface of each one. The disk was about half the
size of her fingertip, with a small V on each. I think she was trying
to console herself to the branding.
“Yes, they’re small,” I replied. “Fashionably small, Rose
says. She is merciful, is she not? She wants me to do you.” I
swallowed hard. Sylvia, without meaning to, copied me. We were
partners in crime, but it was her bottom that was on the line. The fire
in the parlor fireplace glimmered beyond, throwing out soft light on the
two of us. A metal bar stood in front of the fireplace, waiting to
receive the brands. They would lie atop it, being heated by the
simmering flames. Then, hot and burny, they would be pressed into the
fold of Sylvia’s pried apart bottomcheeks.
“Come, you two. Enough chit-chat!” Rose said. She walked into
the room wearing a scarf on her head, a full blouse, and an ankle-length
skirt. She was the very picture of modesty, but she did not have modest
plans. A wooden trestle stood in the center of the parlor. Rose held
two leather thongs in her palm. They dangled, they were thin. I gazed
at them, at the wooden log that formed the top of the trestle. I was to
tie Sylvia down. There could be no more musings, no more shared words
of condolence.
With my bottom as naked as Sylvia’s, I walked to the
fireplace. I lay the branding irons carefully into the slots on the
metal bar. There was a second bar just beyond the first, running
parallel to it, so that the branding irons would be supported properly
as they lay over the coals of the fire. There were twin dips in each
bar to receive the irons. I set them down and returned to Sylvia. She
was standing with an abashed look on her face, feeling her bottom with
her hands. I brushed her hands away.
“Be brave,” I told her.
“I’ll try,” Sylvia replied. I lifted a hand to her eye and
wiped away a tear. She bit her lip. She was clad in a corset but I was
entirely nude. I would have to be careful of the brands, lest I burn
myself. Rose had dictated all. She wished for us both to be
sensitive. Our bare skin guaranteed it.
“You’ll need a gag,” I said to Sylvia. We’d grown close during
the last day of her freedom. We’d played in the pool that morning,
before the sun became too bright. We’d swum like seals, buck naked,
with Polly floating bare-bottomed in an innertube.
All was arranged. I went to the couch, picked up a leather
gag. It was a new, freshly refurbished couch. It had flowers on it.
The gag was a simple strip of canvas. I returned to Sylvia. I took her
to the trestle in the center of the room. It was low to the floor. I
made her kneel down on a soft, broad platform in front of it. Then I
pushed her forward so that her weight pressed onto the trestle. She
dipped her back in the process. She showed me her bottom like an animal
might, hoping to be made a mother by some steed. I kneed her legs
apart. She allowed me to put her into a wide-kneed posture, kneeling on
the platform in front of the wooden trestle. There was a spreader bar
lying on the floor and I picked it up, placed it between her opened
knees, and bound them to either end of it. Then I snapped chains along
the sides of the platform up over the spreader bar’s center. Now she
could not rise, no matter what. And she could not close her legs. The
platform was deceptive. It looked lightweight, but it was actually a
heavy block of broad, dense redwood underneath its soft covering. It
took two men to lift. Sylvia would not get up again until her legs were
freed.
I placed her wrists softly atop the trestle’s hard, polished
wood. A whole log formed the top of the trestle, cut and polished with
many layers of wax. When Sylvia was properly positioned, bent forward
with her bosoms cushioning themselves against the wooden trestle, I
gagged her. Pushing the canvas gag deep into her mouth, forcing her
lips apart, I pushed her tongue back. Speaking was no longer an option
now for her. A guttural moan, a pleading whine, a stifled
acknowledgement, perhaps, but dictation, conversation, usually so highly
prized in the parlor, was now out of the question.
I fetched the thongs from Rose. They were soft but thin, raw
leather cut into two identical strips. Sylvia waited with her wrists
resting on the trestle. Her fingers hung beyond it, dainty, the nails
brightly polished. I bent down and bound the thongs round Sylvia’s
wrists, pinning them to the trestle.
“These will cut into your wrists a little,” I warned her.
“I know,” she gulped. The gag made her difficult to
understand, but I knew what she said. It was what I would have said if
I were her. It was Rose’s wish that the thongs be unplaited. Let
Sylvia strive to keep calm if she didn’t want wristburns from the thongs
as well as burns on her bottom. It was an additional test, one we all
knew Sylvia would fail. It did not matter if she passed or failed, only
that she have an incentive, however small, to behave as best she could.
There was a final precaution. A stump stood upright in the
floor, bolted there by the men who’d set up the trestle and the
platform. Atop it lay a cushion. Sylvia’s tummy pressed against it.
There were ropes coiled around the stump. I lifted them, bound them
round the small of Sylvia’s back. They were mercifully broad and soft.
I knotted them securely so she could not buck or rear as the brands were
applied.
Maria brought tea. She served Rose and Rose thanked her,
sipped her tea. Before leaving, Maria gazed at Sylvia. How amazing it
must seem to her, to see this beautiful young woman being bent double,
waiting to be marked by a brand on her lovely bottom as if she were a
cow that might run away to another pasture. In a way, she was like a
cow, for her master wanted him all to himself. Any man who dallied with
her forever after would encounter the brands, and see that she belonged
to another.
“The brands are hot now,” Rose observed. I had been slow in
tying Sylvia down. I did not want to break my nails, knotting the
insidious thongs, or the tummy ropes. I kissed Sylvia on her cheek for
luck. Then I stood up, brushed my hair back. I patted her bottom to
reassure her.
“I’ll try not to make it hurt,” I said, but I knew it would
burn terribly, and she did too. That was it’s purpose. Polly entered
at the doorway and stood there naked, clutching her bottom. Andre came
up behind her and took her by her shoulders. Would she be next? We
both knew she wouldn’t but still, I felt butterflies in my tummy, just
seeing her there.
“I don’t want to ever be branded,” Polly intoned in her sweet,
high-pitched voice.
“Neither do I,” I told her. Sylvia, hearing us, knew she had
no choice, and felt remorseful, I think. I heard her whimper.
NAKED AT THE NEWSSTAND
by holy joe
WANK, August 1997, $6.99. Web: http://www.swankmag.com
Review: One look at the cover of this issue, and you know
you’re in for a good ‘read,’ if only the cover is truthful. And it is!
These are the same two girls from a recent issue of Mayfair.
“Jade and Yasmin” (pg. 52) are probably the two most alluring
females to pose nude together in porno mag history. How beautiful they
look! Most female/female pictorials feature heavily made-up tramps, who
look about as interested in exploring each others’ bodies as I am in
getting mailbombed. But not these two. They seem very natural, very
loving. Two happy girls, baring each other just for me, while I get my
zipper unstuck. Don’t forget to check the Table of Contents (pg. 3).
There’s another absolutely lovely picture of them there.
It says in “Swank Talk” (pg. 1) that Jade and Yasmin are from
the Island of Sappho. Well, that settles that. I now know what I’m
going to do with my life. I’m going to become a lesbian. (I’d cut off
my dick but, I figure, it’s just a ‘natural dildo.’ Right?)
Now, Christians. Let me tell you something. If you see me
walking down the street with a wig on, and makeup, wearing a dress,
please don’t insult me. I’m going to the Island of Sappho. You can
stay here and go to church and worship some man if you like. Maybe
you’re gay or something. But I’m interested in worshipping females.
(And not some fat ‘mother goddess’ either, ladies.)
Yes! Young, voluptuous, soft, tender girls. That’s for me!
Speaking of which, “Karolina” is busy taking her bath on page
177. You and I may be on the Internet, but for a little girl like
Karolina it’s bath time. How beautiful she looks! I know, I know,
there’s nothing like hanging around with a bunch of guys. I mean, you
can drink beer together, and burp, and talk about bashing fags and
pedophiles. And you can smell each others’ farts and listen to each
other urinate. Sure, of course, that’s much better than being with
little Karolina.
And yes, of course, nothing compares to having sex with some
adult woman. Especially one who’s a lawyer, or a CEO, or a construction
worker. I mean, what a pleasure that sort of life is! She works, and
the man gets to stay home. He diapers the babies, and breast feeds
them, and chit-chats with other homebody men. Yes, yes. Of course I
would prefer to have that sort of life.
But, Christians. (And feminists). I’m deprived. You see, I
don’t have beer swilling guys to hang out with. And I don’t know any
strong, assertive woman who can kick my ass and make me be a nursemaid
for her. It’s a tough life I have, I admit. So I’m forced to be with
little Karolina instead. I know, I know. How horrifying it is to see
her undress. How terrible it is for me to look upon her nude body. And
of course, having breasts, and nice pussy hair, she’s curious about
sex. What a pain in the ass it is for me to have to explain to her all
about sex! What an annoyance to have to put my dick in her mouth, so
she can feel what it’s like to suck it. And that damn hymen! Good God,
don’t tell me I have to go to the trouble of popping it. Why can’t she
have a big, wet, wide, loose snatch, like an experienced woman has? One
I can just stick myself into, as if I’m going to the bathroom? Such
trouble it is to have to be gentle with Karolina, and WORK at getting
myself into her. What an annoyance it is for me to have to ask her if
she feels okay, and if my penis is hurting her.
Worst of all, Karolina is going to wonder about her tight
little ass. Hopefully she won’t ask what it’s like to have my penis up
her there!
Well, like I said, I’m deprived. Ho hum, such a life. Such
trouble and difficulty. Well, let me tell you something, Christians.
(And feminists). Just as soon as I meet some fat-bellied men, I’ll
become a pedo-hater and fag-basher. And, just as soon as a demanding
and assertive woman strides into my life, I’ll become a married
househusband. But, until then, I’m going to try to get to the Island of
Sappho, where I can join Jade and Yasmin. And if, on my way there, I’m
unfortunate enough to meet little Karolina, I guess I’ll have to stop
and be with her too.
AND IN THE END...
ATTENTION, SPAMMERS!
“Woe to him who builds his palace
by unrighteousness,
his upper rooms by injustice.”
- Jeremiah 22:13
-------------------------- Fuck Decency! ------------------------
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roller666@aol.com Read my complete works under these names by
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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 276 EMISSION
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