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Subject: FUCK DECENCY 300 Pussy Playland (nnd) g2
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Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Sponsored by: JOE CAMEL
Issue No. 300
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Pussy Playland
Chapter Four
Sherry’s bottom was white. She’d not been whipped and she kept
it out of the sun, though her limbs were smoothly tanned. Jeff lit a
match. Sherry watched as he put it to the coals beneath her and,
suddenly, they flared up.
“YeeeeOOOOCH!” Sherry cried. She bolted up, lifting her bottom
like a rabbit fleeing a car. The chair was extremely solid and heavy
and there was no way she could budge it. In any event, the chafing dish
was part of the chair, sitting in the crisscrossing timbers of wood that
connected the chair legs. With her legs bound wide apart, and her arms
pinned to the arms of the chair, Sherry could do nothing but bounce up
and down in her bonds. The flames from the chafing dish licked upward.
Her bush, her cunny, her ass were all exposed. I wondered if it was
singed pubic hair that I smelt, or just the burning coals themselves.
Sherry strained to remain standing but the minute she shot up to escape
the flames Jeff was ready for her. Standing beside the chair, he
brought his switch smartly down between her thighs. It curled between
her open legs and stung her against her precious cunny. Immediately she
withdrew, trying to sit again, only to find herself assailed by the
flames and forced to stand. Caught in this netherworld of pain, Sherry
cried for mercy and, through her gag, promised to love and obey her
husband all her life, never crossing him. He relented at last. He
tossed water over the coals and they released a misting of hot steam.
Sherry sat down and sobbed, her bottom barely supported by the ledge at
the back of the chair. Gently Jeff unbuckled her. He lifted her out of
the monstrous chair. She cried freely. She turned to me for comfort.
I held her a moment. Then I turned her around to examine her fanny.
The flames had streaked her ass with red but she seemed otherwise
unhurt. I took her to the table and sat her on it, ignoring the cake.
She sat down amidst bits of cake and frosting. I hoped the frosting, at
least, felt cool upon her bottom. Attentively I examined her pussy and
rubbed vaseline into it. She squirmed. I made her keep her legs open.
Jeff had been merciful with the switch and had not wounded her too
badly. Some marks pinkened her labia lips. She swooned as I rubbed
warm oil into her clit.
“Now it’s your turn,” Jeff told me. I froze. He drew me from
Sherry and she was forced to attend to herself. I walked with
frightened eyes and hesitant steps over to a low table. It was covered
with felt.
“Lie down,” Jeff told me. “Don’t worry, the felt’s
fireproof.” I lay down on the felt. It was very soft. It would have
been a lovely resting spot except for the hole cut ominously out where
my bottom rested. There was nothing under my fanny except this hole,
and down, within the hole, there was a brazier. It had coals in it,
waiting to be lit. Jeff arranged me on the table so that I lay with my
knees bent, my calves tucked under my thighs. He made me spread my
thighs so that my pussy showed completely. My elbows were pulled up
toward my ears, with my forearms pressed into the table.
Sherry walked over to me. She was rubbing oil all over her
pussy and she looked down at me with soft, pitying eyes. Her face was
stained with tears. Jeff made her buckle me down to the table. Despite
the oiled slickness of her fingers she managed to get all the buckles
and straps closed over my limbs. My ankles were strapped down but my
legs were left otherwise free. My wrists were similarly affixed but my
arms were left free beyond that. Each strap was slim and there were
two, not one, for each of my wrists, as if the designer of this awful
table had wanted to keep a certain artfulness in its design. Lastly
Sherry undid my waist corset, and drew it off me. She kissed my tummy.
She did not take off my stockings. Jeff leered at me from the base of
the table. He enjoyed the sight of my utterly exposed slit. He lit a
match and reached beneath the table.
“Aaaaaaak!” I cried. My lips were free to speak. Jeff watched
the O of my mouth as I struggled above the awakened coals. Flames
licked up through the hole, not quite reaching the opening but too close
for comfort, and forced me to buck my bottom upward. Frantically I
strove to keep my hips arched above the flames. After straining up for
a few moments my strength would fail me and I would fall with my fanny
back down into the hole, only to rise again as the burning flames
assailed my derriere.
Sherry laughed. She was weeping, but she couldn’t help
laughing at how rudely exposed I was, how helpless, with my tits
bouncing atop my chest and my ribs heaving and my ass literally inches
from the flames. They toasted my heinie and I felt as desperate as a
woman giving birth, heaving and bucking and straining as Jeff and
Sherry, like doctor and nurse, watched me. Sherry saw a moist towelette
lying near the table, perhaps put there by Angela just in case, and she
ripped it open and bathed my forehead with it.
“Oh, please stop!” I cried. But Jeff just watched, enjoying
the sight. Sherry, having suffered a similar fate, had no wish to see
me escape.
THE MANY NAMES OF TOM DITTY
by holy joe
I realize Fuck Decency is a global publication. Not all of my
readers are privileged to live in America. And even in these United
States, not all my fellow Americans have the ability to locate here in a
choice dumpster in North Hollywood.
Hence, it is time I reported on some of the gossip that I hear
on a daily basis here in Hollywood. (Especially since people keep
dumping it on my head.)
Take the case of Tom Ditty. He is a celebrity. A musician by
trade. You may be wondering how it is that some people get to hang
around with him and mooch for free on his money, while others are forced
to pay just to listen to his latest CD.
It all has to do with knowing what Tom’s name is. Let’s start
with his ‘real’ name. Never mind his real name. That is, his real name
is Nathaniel Puberton Bilgewater. But that’s neither here nor there in
Hollywood. His ‘real’ name is ‘Chubby.’
Sure, you might have thought Tom’s name, which would be a
nickname for most people, would be ‘skinny,’ or something vaguely
descriptive. Not in Hollywood! Here, a star’s ‘real’ name, the one all
the other stars call him by, is some weird name that only they would
ever know. That’s why, when I call up Tom and say, ‘Hi, Chubby,’ he
says,
“Oh, hello Marlon. Have you seen Tom Cruise today?”
“No, but I just called him.” (that’s me talking, see? - h.j.)
“Oh. Well, here’s my new private telephone number. I’ve got
too many girls at my party again, and some guy just pulled up with a
dump truck full of caviar. What in God’s name am I going to do with a
truck full of caviar?”
“God, not that problem again!” (me again, see? - h.j.)
“Don’t back it into my Planetarium! Damn immigrants! Guy
doesn’t speak a word of English...”
“Please, don’t wreck your Planetarium. I’m having a charity
again this afternoon. Let me send someone to pick it up.”
“Thanks, Marlon. You’re a real pal.”
“Anytime, Chubby!”
So you see, there’s nothing to ‘making’ it in Hollywood, once
you start picking up a few of the ‘real’ names. But Tom Ditty has other
names too. Which name you know him by determines how close you get to
him.
2. “The Tom” This is a bad level. You’d think it would be
the second best level since, after all, it’s the second level. But the
people who call Tom Ditty “The Tom” are the people who have to make sure
he has clean underwear in the morning. Not a fun job. Stars don’t like
any slip-ups in their life. Figure it this way. If you were lucky
enough and fortunate enough and savvy enough and worked hard enough to
become a Star, a RRRReally Big Star, would you want to put on dirty
underwear?
So people who call Tom Ditty “The Tom” wind up getting yelled
at. My friend holy cow kept calling up “The Tom” and whenever she’d get
him on the phone, he’d just yell,
“GET RIGHT ON IT!”
And she’d be like, “Tom! The Tom! It’s me -- Mary Louise
Atherton! I’m your biggest--”
But she wouldn’t be that far, even, really, because as soon as
Tom heard “The Tom” he’d yell,
“I SAID DO IT NOWWWWWWWW!”
Well, anyway, she spent all day calling “The Tom” back.
Because he kept yelling at her. And you can imagine, say, “The Bill,”
if he said, “Get rid of these panties before my wife comes home and
finds them. I can’t touch them -- I’d get my finger prints on them and
Janet would have no choice but to name a Special Prosecutor.”
In the case of poor holy cow, she just kept calling Tom back.
She’s very persistent. And each time, you know, Tom just got worse and
worse. Soon he was screaming nothing but long strings of obscenities at
her.
Now she doesn’t like “The Tom” anymore. So she keeps calling
him. She says she wants a refund on all his records she bought, because
they misrepresented his real self. Tom just gives her more strings of
obscenities.
3. “Mr. Ditty” Not a bad level, but it won’t get you
anywhere. I tried this tactic once. (Before I lucked onto the name
“Chubby” at Spago’s.) I called up Tom and I said, “Good evening, Mr.
Ditty.” And Tom said, “Ah, you need my agent. Let me give you his
number.” So I wound up on the phone with Al Sharp (relative of the
famous Al, who weighs a ton). And Al Sharp spent 3 1/2 hours explaining
to me the 100 reasons why I need to design, manufacture, distribute, and
make a penny each from Tom’s Final Tour (1999) ‘Memory Mugs’.
Then I told Al I was from the press and he spent 5 1/2 hours
telling me why Tom needs to be the on the cover of the next issue of
Fuck Decency. The fact that our magazine has no cover was of no moment
to Al.
“Well CREATE a cover!” Al said. “It’s Tom Ditty, for
Chrissakes! I’m giving you exclusive rights for $5,999 to use Tom Ditty
on your next cover! ...Create a cover and you can afford it! ...Put
him on the back too, you can charge twice as much!”
And so it went. Finally there was a power outage and I got
disconnected. So, you know, don’t think you’ll be getting anywhere with
“Mr. Tom”. You will, however, get a limited time, once only opportunity
to feature Tom on the cover of your very next issue.
Don’t worry. Al has a line for you too. It goes, “Well,
CREATE a magazine, damnit! It’s Tom Ditty, for Chrissakes! Let me tell
you about the guy in 1957 who had no magazine about Elvis. He owns a
castle in Copenhagen now.”
4. “tom” Then there’s the Standard Level. For instance,
Tom’s just finished a great concert. A moment ago, he was in front of
millions. He was being televised around the world. But now, he’s back
in his ‘bubble’. His own life. His own domain. And you, a lucky,
enterprising fan, have snuck backstage. You’ve managed to get within
earshot of your idol.
You know what to do. You’ve seen him on MTV. You’ve read
interviews with him in SPIN. You have a friend who says he met Tom
once, backstage, and it was so great.
So, seeing Tom, finally getting close to him, you say, “Hi,
tom!” (Casually, just like the interviewer does on MTV.)
Do you know what Tom says?
“WHERE’S SECURITY?!”
That’s right. Just two words. He doesn’t turn around. He
doesn’t even act like he heard you. He just blurts out, quickly,
reflexively, unthinkingly,
“WHERE’S SECURITY?!”
And then you don’t see Tom anymore because a big, beefy,
unfriendly but not too unfriendly security dude hoves into view. And he
peers down at you, and you peer up at him. And you know, looking in his
eyes, that he wants very badly to beat you down underneath the pavement
with his fists.
But you did pay $110 for a back row seat at Tom’s concert. So
instead, the security dude says,
“Sir you need a specially signed backstage pass to be in
here.”
And then he looks down. Sort of at your anatomy. And he adds,
“...and you’re obviously not a girl.”
See? See where “tom” got you? Right out the door! You did
get a homophobic security guard to pat you on your fanny, but other than
that, you got nothing!
(Incidentally, if you sneak in again, you do get something
more. You get a ‘Special Deluxe Unsigned but Deeply Imprinted Security
Guard Ass Kick Boot Mark on Your Behind’. And you know he wanted to put
it right on your balls, but you did buy a $110 ticket, so he doesn’t.)
Anyway, that’s how it is here in Hollywood. Even guys like me
have different names. For instance, there’s “joe”. That’s level four.
I call it the Process Server level. When someone calls me “joe,” that
tells me that a Process Server has found me, and if I don’t skedaddle,
I’m going to be having to sign my life away and show up in court.
(Don’t ask why. How do you think Donald Trump went from near
bankruptcy in 1989 to billions today?)
3. “Mr. Joe” The prosecutor level. Someone walks up to
you, rather informally, and says, “Mr. Joe?” It could be any number of
people. A policeman, an undercover policeman, a police detective, a
prosecutor on a special assignment, or one of those pesky bounty hunters
who have no respect even for the Sabbath Day.
This level solicits a two-pronged reply. I look, I point, and
I yell, at the top of my voice, “My God! A child molester!”
Then I take off running in the opposite direction.
This ‘two-prong reply’ always works. After all, children are
our most important natural resource. We wouldn’t want anybody drilling
in them illegally.
2. “The Joe” This is the Mob Level. You know, you run up a
few gambling debts. But they loan you more. After all, it’s their
job. They’re loan sharks. And you get to know these guys real good.
You’re sure you’ll pay them back. (I was too.) And you start to get a
reputation among the various loan sharks. “The Joe.” You know, that
guy with all the debts?
Well, loan sharks don’t have a lotta time to spend worrying
about the financial condition and physical health of “The Joe”. That
guy who was SUCH a big shot last week, wheeling around in a new
convertible that he got on credit, placing ‘sure fire’ bets on anything
that moved.
So when I hear, out of the blue, “The Joe,” I have to pull that
ol’ pin out of the hand grenade I found at the armory. I’m not quite
sure how many seconds are left on it. I used to have a pretty good
count. I figured, you know, “Start with 10”. I figured it was a lost
grenade, and probably had the full 10 second count on it.
Well, I’ve bumped into those loan shark guys, the big guys who
collect for the sharks, about seven times now. So, you know, I’m
getting a little short in the seconds department. Please don’t say “The
Joe” and think,
“He’s on the Internet. He’s a big shot. Better call him a
cool but respectful name.”
We could spend the rest of eternity together. And I’m not
known for remembering my underarm deodorant.
1. “Hef” My real name. Yeah, I know, I probably shouldn’t
let this out on the Internet. Next thing you know, some dumb blondes
will be using it to try to get featured in ‘The Magazine’. And they’ll
say, “Well, if I get a free Body Inspection from Hef, I’ll be Playmate
of the Year.”
Yep, that’s what I’m worried about. But I figure for my
handful of loyal readers, the few who’ve gotten this far down in this
article, WAY below that ol’ sex story up there, I figure you can keep it
under your hat.
See? You’ve probably forgotten my real name already. Don’t
tell anyone, okay? Especially don’t tell your little sister. And if
she’s growing big tits, and she’s blonde, well, you know what to do.
DON’T MENTION IT!
That’s right. Keep that name ‘Hef’ deep inside you. Don’t
feel guilty about not mentioning it. Sure, your sister won’t get that
special deluxe Harvard scholarship all our Playmates get after they’re
finished undressing and being photographed but, you know, with feminism
these days, it’s important that girls work their way into Harvard.
Don’t you agree?
I’ll let you know if there’s any changes to my private
telephone number.
AND IN THE END...
The Only (Real) Danger of the Internet
“I sat down in an armchair in Los Angeles when I was 23 and
when I got up I was 61.”
- Orson Welles
-------------------------- Fuck Decency ------------------------
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-END OF 300 EMISSION
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