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From: Andrew Roller <roller39@IDT.NET>
Subject: FUCK DECENCY 283 Pussy Playland (nnd) g2
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“Mankind is perverted, and has no judgment;
Of all men who are alive, who knows anything?
They do not know whether they do good or evil.
O Lord, do not cast aside thy servant;
He is cast into the mire; take his hand!
The sin which I have sinned, turn to mercy!
The iniquity which I have committed, let the wind carry away!
My many transgressions tear off like a garment!
My god, my sins are seven times seven; forgive my sins!
My goddess, my sins are seven times seven; forgive my sins! . . .
Forgive my sins, and I will humble myself before thee.
What? Too late! Okay, fuck you.”
Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Sponsored by: JOE CAMEL
Issue No. 283
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Pussy Playland
Chapter One
I heard a roll of thunder in the distant summer sky. I put my
hand out. A few raindrops, as if offering some bit of feminine
sprinkling at seeing all the men get creamed, fell into my hand.
Tabitha came up to me and lifted a newspaper over my head and sheltered
me with it.
“It’s okay, I’m wearing a bikini,” I wanted to say to her, but
she began hurrying me toward her house. Despite the tall, thick hedge
and the phalanx of palms, her private backyard wasn’t safe from the
rain, and I was, apparently, too special to get wet. It seemed silly to
me. Already I was noticeably moist in the crotch of my swimsuit. But,
with a newspaper keeping me dry, she took me past the rain sprinkled
flowerbeds and up the back steps of her porch. We slipped in the back
door. The others followed. Apparently none of the girls wished to get
their bikinis wet. We regrouped in Tabitha’s living room. Two men,
their shoulders lightly sprinkled with rain, bent down before her
fireplace. They put logs into the brick hearth. They took the logs
from a small decorative pile stacked in a cast iron rack. I watched as
they lit the fire. Their rumps were barely contained in their Speedos.
I could see streaks of wetness on their nylon-covered butts where the
rain had struck them. When they turned back toward us, I saw that there
was a substantial wet spot on the front of their swimsuits, where their
cocks lay strangled like captive snakes within their briefs. The
wetness, I knew, wasn’t from the rain. Or from Tabitha’s contribution
of cream. Had they cum? I hoped not. They had terrific builds and
looked like they could keep me busy all night in ways my mother would
find quite unacceptable.
I touched a finger to the front of my panties and depressed the
bulge in my swim suit where the whipped cream was puffing me up. Was
this what it felt like to be a man? To have sperm?
Tabitha busied herself with a brush, brushing my hair, as if my
short walk to her house had somehow tousled it. I felt like a lamb
being prepared for dinner.
“Shall I get the clamps?” Beth asked Tabitha with a tone of
cheery expectation in her voice.
“Yes, please,” Tabitha replied. She touched a pair of fingers
to my closest nipple and lovingly began arousing it. I looked down,
watched her. Scissorslike, but with deceptive tenderness, her fingers
toyed with my nipple. When she’d finished with my first one, she
slipped her fingers to my other one. I thought I’d been excited before,
but her teasing fingers made me even more responsive. My panties were
getting wetter by the minute.
To my horror Beth returned with a pair of small, shell-like
clamps. They seemed to be made from a pair of oyster shells. She
squeezed one open and I saw that it was lined with felt inside.
Opposite the tiny mouth a tasseled weight was hung. I couldn’t believe
that I’d been relieved of my bra only to have these biting little
monsters put on instead. The weights, would they not distort my
breasts? I knew African women wore disks that hung from their neck and
made their breasts flat, like pancakes. I liked my full round breasts.
But Tabitha stroked my left nipple and pressed it up with her tickling
finger so that Beth would be able to easily clamp it. One moment I was
fighting an oncoming swoon from Tabitha’s attentions, and the next I
found myself screaming.
“There, there, it doesn’t hurt that much,” Tabitha told me. My
unprotected left nipple had been bitten and enclosed within a clamp. I
feared that the insidious clamp would clip it right off me! Tabitha
slipped a finger between my lips and stifled my scream as best she
could. I watched with frightened, teary eyes as Beth proffered the
remaining clamp and closed it over my right nipple. Oh, how it hurt!
When I calmed down a little bit I found that I could handle it. But the
weights made my breasts feel heavy. I felt as if I had twin babies
sucking at my bosoms. Tabitha turned me by my shoulders and displayed
me to her guests. She pushed me forward with a pat on my bottom and
made me walk through the crowd, showing them my newly clamped teats.
Oh, how I envied the other girls, with their nipples sticking
out erect and free. Mine had jangling weights that, I found as I
walked, had little bells within them. They made my nipples sound like
tinkling aspirants to a bell choir. The men stared avidly. They seemed
to wish to shepherd me into their arms, as if I were a sheep that needed
to be put to pasture.
“You could clip her cunny lips and make them carry weighted
bells too,” a woman told Tabitha as she watched me walk by. I showed
everyone my breasts and let them admire me. I liked being the center of
attention, but I suspected seeing me wince as the clamps pinched my
boobs was half the fun for my wicked friends. When I found Alex, at the
back of the room, he was letting a girl scoop the cream out of his
Speedos with her fingers. He looked up at me, surprised.
“Kelly!” he said. His voice choked as he spoke. His new
girlfriend, a girl who looked no older than me, popped her cream-laden
fingers into her mouth. She smiled smugly at me as she licked them
clean. “This is Francine,” Alex told me.
“Pleased to meet you,” Francine said to me. But she spoke with
an aristocratic French accent that let me know in no uncertain terms
that I was, in her mind, just a hopeless amateur.
Infuriated, red-faced, I turned away from my boyfriend. I had
come here for him! Now he had hooked up with some 14-year-old slut from
France and was ignoring me completely! My arms hung at my sides but I
felt my hands ball into fists. Did I want to punch somebody? I could
feel my fingernails cutting into the skin of my palms, I was so angry.
Suddenly I belted the man nearest me. I didn’t know his name. I didn’t
care. I just slammed my fist into his belly and walked away.
Fortunately, being just a girl, my punch did no more than
startle him. His stomach was hard and flat and segmented into squares
of muscle. He laughed and seemed appreciative that I’d singled him out
for my anger. His buddies complimented him on his sex appeal. I
stomped back to Tabitha but, just as I reached her, I turned and looked
back at my poor victim. Our eyes met and immediately I knew I wanted
him. He was tall, muscular, dark and businesslike, not like Alex, who
was blonde and a beach bum. I guessed my new friend spent most of his
days wearing suits and driving hard bargains in downtown L.A. while Alex
hung around the beach seducing young girls and waxing his surfboard.
Fuck Alex! He was going nowhere. So what if all us girls adored him?
I’d be different. I let my new friend know I had an interest in him by
letting our gaze linger. Then, on impulse, I yanked down the back of my
bikini and mooned him. I made it look like I wanted to offend him
again. But, from my gaze, he knew offending him was the last thing I
wanted to do.
“Oh, my! Now you’re being naughty!” Tabitha said. She was
standing in front of me and couldn’t see my eyes, since my head was
turned back. Abruptly she reached out and yanked on my hair and pulled
my head down so that I found myself looking at my knees. “Get the
bon-bons,” she told Beth. My girlfriend, her breasts bouncing merrily,
fetched a plate that was sitting on a cocktail table. She presented it
to Tabitha. “Unwrap one of the bon-bons, please, while I hold her
down,” Tabitha told Beth. My girlfriend put the plate on a chair next
to us. She took a bon-bon from it and unwrapped the gold foil that
enclosed it.
ZINE REVIEWS
by holy joe
COSMOPOLITAN, September 1997, $2.95.
“Yes, sir. Whippings are a part of the daily regimen here at
Punishment Mansion,” says the girl on the cover. And you know what
she’s holding behind her back, don’t you? A riding crop!
I was standing behind a little girl at the grocery. It was
sort of annoying (despite the fact that she had a cute ass), because I
was just DYING to pick up the September issue of Cosmopolitan. The
moment I saw that cover, I was blown away! The girl on the cover seemed
to be looking right at me, and speaking to me! I stared into her eyes.
Did she want to whip me, or BE whipped by me? And then, as the little
girl standing in front of me reached up and pulled down a copy of
Cosmopolitan from the magazine rack, the girl on the cover spoke to me.
“Bad boys may call Punishment Mansion at 1-800- I PUNISH.
Mistress Mammary will whack their naughty little buns for them. Good
boys, who know how to instruct a young girl like me in behaving, may
call 1-800- BAD GIRL, to whip me into shape.”
I was about ready to whack that cute ass of the little girl
standing in front of me, ‘cause, instead of moving out of the way of the
magazine rack so I could get myself a copy, she just stood there,
reading hers, and ‘holding me back’ (unknowingly), from getting my own!
Mothers, please! You need to instruct your daughters on proper
magazine etiquette. We know all about this down at Tower Books, where
us guys politely get out of the way after picking out which magazine we
want to ‘browse.’ Like, you know, we don’t just STAND there! How
embarrassing! Who wants to be seen standing in front of a bunch of
porn, with his dick making a big bulge in the front of his pants?
(Especially in my case, since I’m still having problems learning
ejaculatory control.) (It’s not like I have a girlfriend to teach it to
me, you know...)
Anyway, what is it with little girls in the grocery? Please,
girls, don’t just stand in front of the magazine rack reading
Cosmopolitan! (Well, this particular girl was, I think, too young to
read, but she still managed to block my way, looking at all the
magazine’s pictures.)
FINALLY the mother called to her daughter. “Oh, Cosmopolitan.
How nice,” she said, when her daughter went wandering over to her,
carrying the latest issue. And then I myself was able to pick up a
copy.
What great articles they have in this issue! “Easy Orgasms -
How to Make Them Mind-Blowing and a Lot Less Work.” “Why Men Split the
Morning After.” “150 Sexiest Fall Looks.”
I saw the manager passing by.
“Ma’am,” I asked her. “I like Cosmopolitan as much as the next
guy, but where’s Playboy? I can never seem to find it in your store.”
“Playboy?!” the manager replied. “We DO NOT sell such trash in
this store!” the manager answered. And she looked at me as if I was
some guy who spends his time thinking about perverted things like, you
know, “Easy Orgasms - How to Make Them Mind-Blowing and a Lot Less
Work.”
So I contented myself with the September issue of
Cosmopolitan. It’s a great issue, I have to admit. I’ve got it sitting
right here, next to my computer, where a quick look at its cover is
already inspiring long, exacting stories about Punishment Mansion.
(Where, incidentally, little girls who can’t even read learn to move
their cute little asses OUT from in front of the magazine rack!)
There is another article in this issue: “10 Man Types to Avoid
at All Costs.” Strangely, they have a photo next to the headline, which
looks a lot like the co-editor of this zine. In any event, 10 different
male personalities are listed. Jerry Seinfeld, having recently seduced
and enjoyed the affections of a 17-year-old schoolgirl (Shoshanna, I
think, was her name) is listed down as being a “Perfectionist Pervert.”
(pg. 150) (Seinfeld’s since thrown her out of his house. She had a
really cute face, and wonderful big tits, but rumor had it that she was
too old for him.) (I think she’s since moved in with Kelsey Grammer.)
(or was it Michael Kennedy?)
This begs the question, though, who SHOULD a girl marry? Well,
how about guys whose first name starts with “h”? You never know, his
name might be “holy,” or something. What better way to ensure your
daughter lives a wholesome life than to marry her to some guy whose NAME
is “holy”?
Then, there are guys whose name begins with “j”. As in Jesus.
There’s a pretty good husband, if you can keep him from affronting the
authorities and getting himself crucified.
Yep. And then there are fat guys. The reason a fat guy makes
a good husband is that he’s less likely to go off philandering. After
all, to philander you first have to get up. Who wants to do that? I
mean, it’s such an effort. You have to get up out of your chair, and go
to the trouble of turning off your computer. Then you have to shave,
and put on underarm deodorant. And you have to think real hard if
anyone will notice that you haven’t bathed in three weeks, or whether
you can just put on extra deodorant.
Then you have to find a pair of pants. What a chore that is!
Usually they’re all the way at the bottom of the laundry hamper, ‘cause
generally I don’t need pants unless I’m actually leaving my house, which
isn’t very often.
Then you have to find the front door. In my case, this
involves a major expedition. (There’s a little porn in my house.) The
last time I found my front door it was only because some Brownies
started ringing my doorbell, and calling out that they were selling Girl
Scout Cookies. That was very helpful, but you can’t count on little
girls ringing your doorbell every day, can you? (I could use some more
cookies, girls, if you’re interested. Plus some muffins.)
Anyway, you know what I mean. Fat guys aren’t likely to be out
committing adultery when they can’t find their front door! And in the
age of the Internet, and cable T.V., and phone sex lines, who wants to
go try to find some woman, anyway? Then, instead of buying porn, or
Twinkies, (or more girl scout cookies), you have to buy flowers. And
candy. And yucky Brach’s candy, that comes in a box, instead of out of
a gumball machine, like it’s supposed to. And then you’re supposed to
take her to see some dopey romantic movie. (What guy likes a movie
where nobody gets shot?) And then, you have to take her dancing. Can
you imagine a fat guy like me dancing? It’s not a pretty sight.
So, us fat guys, especially guys with an “h” and a “j” in their
names, just sit at our computers. I haven’t paid my rent in three
months, though, so I may wind up out on the street after all. In which
case, though, I’d rather use my time efficiently, looking at naked
ladies in magazines at Tower Books, than trying to convince some real
lady in a bar to take off her dress for me. (I mean, you can’t even be
sure if she’s a 10 underneath. What if she isn’t?)
So, in my unbiased opinion, girls should marry a fat guy.
He’ll stay put, and you can always count on him to say “Yes, Dear,”
whenever you tell him anything. (When you’re on the Penthouse web site
you’re too busy LOOKING to actually think about what someone’s saying to
you, so “Yes, Dear,” is a very handy phrase to know.)
Well, that’s my 2 cents worth. A fat guy won’t be president,
but he will always be sitting at home with you, where you can enjoy his
masculine scent and his big, rippling body. (Very big, in my case!)
LETTERS
to holy joe
MissLadyAsstor333@titwhittle(elementary) writes: Dear holy
joe, where do you write Fuck Decency?
holy joe replies: I write it on the toilet, when I’m feeling
constipated. As you can see, there haven’t been as many issues this
summer, probably because there’s a lot of fruit on the market.”
AND IN THE END...
DO YOU HATE FUCK DECENCY?
“We’re not supposed to be popular. I mean, that’s
constitutionally built in to our mission. And in fact, if we are
popular, we’re probably screwing it up.”
- Andrew Lack, President of NBC News (on the press).
-------------------------- Fuck Decency! ------------------------
-Free e-mail subscriptions: No longer available due to mailbombing of
my Internet account(s) by right-wing Christians.
-Currently I am: roller39@mail.idt.net
-formerly I was andrewroller@sprintmail.com, roller66@inreach.com,
roller666@aol.com Read my complete works under these names by
going to: http://www.excite.com (Click on ‘newsgroups’ and search
under my various former screen names). (Also you can read irrelevant
bullshit posted by right-wing Christians.)
-Recent back issues at Usenet newsgroup: alt.sex.stories.moderated
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- Free plug: http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/
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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 283 EMISSION
- “Mankind is:” Babylonian penitential psalm (The Story of
Civilization, by Will and Ariel Durant, Volume 1, pg. 242.)
- Seinfeld and Shoshanna: Star, June 15, 1993, pg. 37.
- Kelsey Grammer and 15-year-old babysitter: The National Enquirer,
November 29, 1994, pg. 24.
- Michael Kennedy and 14-year-old babysitter: Newsweek, May 12, 1997,
pg. 50. Globe, May 13, 1997, pg. 32.
- Andrew Lack: Charlie Rose, June 18, 1997.
--
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