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From: Andrew Roller <roller39@IDT.NET>
Subject: FUCK DECENCY 312 Nudie Nursery (nnd) g2
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NOT HERE, AMERICA !
Recently I was reading about a new novel. It’s by Rick Moody.
It’s titled, “Purple America.” It has, apparently, been receiving rave
reviews. And, from the single line quoted in the review, the guy is a
good writer.
But his subject matter stinks. Here’s what the review says
“Purple America” is about:
“In the course of 24 hours, [The lead character] stirs the
flames of an old hometown romance, confronts his stepfather, fends off
his mother’s pleas for euthanasia, and battles his own alcoholism.”
(QPB Review, Holiday 1997, pg. 6.)
Well, you will never read that kind of crap in the pages of
Fuck Decency!
Who cares about some guy trying to stir the flames of an old
hometown romance? Boring, boring, boring.
And about this “confronting his stepfather” business: the
entire 1980’s and 1990’s has been about nothing but “confronting”
supposedly delinquent men. Boring, repetitive propaganda, is how I’d
classify that subject.
Euthanasia? Another boring subject. Lots of old people these
days want to have the option to kill themselves. In the end, it will
result in our society asking people to die, because it’s “too expensive”
to give them (expensive) medical treatment. That might make a good
novel, a future where old people are deliberately killed, by being
denied needed treatment. But, as framed in this novel, “Purple
America,” the subject of an old lady who wants to die is boring. I read
the newspaper. I don’t need a novel on the subject.
Alcoholism? Another boring subject. How many novels have been
written about alcoholism? Probably millions.
So, don’t worry. Here at Fuck Decency you will never read
about boring crap like I’ve detailed above. Of course, I haven’t
actually read “Purple America.” But, in America, that doesn’t mean I
can’t criticize it!
Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 312
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Nudie Nursery
Chapter Three
Brent picked up the feather again. He slid it back inside my
dress.
“Don’t,” I begged, but I felt the feather touch me again as I
spoke, right where my legs met, where my cunny dwelled in all its
girlish ambivalence.
“You’re not permitted to say ‘Don’t,’” Brent reminded me. I
felt like screaming out to betray him but I kept my lips pressed
together. I wanted, even as he made me feel feelings I knew were
immoral, that could get us both in trouble (him especially!), I felt an
urgency. The binding of my wrists behind me threw my breasts out. I
felt my nipples standing up inside my bra. Why, oh why, had I let this
man, twice my age, steal me away? I didn’t know. All I knew was I
liked him better than boys. They were fun too but he was, well,
awesome. No boy would pay to fly me first class and then lock up my
hands and make me cum on a feather. But did he love me? I wanted to
look at him but the feather between my legs was so intense... I had to
fight hard not to scream. Despite his ruthlessness he seemed to judge
my every breath. Just as I toppled on the brink of crying out he drew
the feather slightly back. I gasped, my eyelashes fluttered. He waited
for my crisis to subside. And then, insidiously, he delved into me with
the feather again. We played like that seemingly for hours, though
probably no more than five minutes passed. I was only 16. Too much of
it and I would surely have blurted out my passion, lost my senses, gone
babbling down the aisle, perhaps, and confessed everything to the flight
attendants.
The plane descended into the clouds. The movie was over.
Brent’s feather was put away. He buckled my seatbelt over my lap. My
hands were still cuffed behind me. He’d fed me my in-flight dinner
himself, with his hand, stopping when a stewardess approached so our
intimacy would not be noticed. My drinks, too, he put to my lips
himself. He made me drink more than I wanted, insisting I drink it
all. I couldn’t refuse; I didn’t want to spill anything onto my
blouse. I wasn’t allowed to pee after he cuffed me. As the plane
descended I found myself wriggling in my seat.
When we left the airplane I was wearing my fur coat again, just
as I had when we boarded. But this time I had my hands secretly cuffed
behind me, inside the coat. And my panties were gone. And I had to pee
pretty badly. Brent had taken control of me, there was no escaping
that. He even carried my purse for me. The stewardesses didn’t
notice. They thought he was merely being a gentleman. All was
concealed, thanks to my fur. It had proved a wise purchase for a man as
decadent as Brent.
We travelled by airport limo a short distance to a small villa
in the city of Caracas. We were in Venezuela. I could smell the scents
of the Carribean sea as we stepped out of the car. Brent bustled me up
to the front door of the villa, passing through an iron gate hinged to a
tall concrete wall. A woman answered, we were let in quickly.
Brent took off my fur. The woman, dressed in a pantsuit and
vest, showed no emotion at seeing me handcuffed. She was a brunette,
perhaps 23, with tanned skin and lovely hair that was pinned up
seemingly for the sake of efficiency. Her eyes possessed a cold
diffidence, almost a tired look, jaded. “Come,” she said, and crooked a
finger at me. I followed. My hips rolled more than they should have as
I followed her. I needed to pee badly and there was no concealing it
anymore. She led me into a living room where two couples stood
chatting. They were holding drinks, wearing business clothes. They
looked at me with little emotion. They were as jaded as the woman who’d
brought me to them.
“I-” I began, wondering if I dared to speak to any of them of
my need.
“Yes?” the woman who’d led me in asked. Her eyes were
expectant. I felt my throat constrict. I had to pee so badly! My eyes
bulged. My cheeks puffed.
Brent entered the room behind me. I turned to him.
“Tell Jasmine if you wish anything,” Brent said with eyes that
seemed suddenly hard. I looked at the woman who’d brought me into the
living room. From the corner of my eye a woman, waiting perhaps for me
to speak, plucked a little cream-topped cracker from a tray on a piano
and put it in her mouth and ate it. She sucked her finger a moment to
lick off some cream that had smeared onto her fingertip.
“I-I have to pee!” I blurted suddenly to Jasmine. The others
laughed.
“Well, why didn’t you say so? All the necessary accommodations
are provided here,” Jasmine said with a smile. She walked to the piano,
reached underneath it, and took out a low, broad urn. It was made of
fired clay. She placed it down on the rug. “Step over it,” Jasmine
urged me, coming round behind me and pushing me forward. I found myself
standing with my legs apart over the urn. She lifted the tail of my
jacket and matter-of-factly unzipped the back of my miniskirt. It
skittered down my legs. She lifted my feet, one by one, and removed
it. I gazed at the other guests. I’d just arrived, yet I was already
naked below my waist! My knees trembled. How silly I must have looked,
standing there, bare-legged, showing my bush.
“Kneel,” Jasmine said. “Kneel down over the pot and release
your pee.” I trembled into a squat. Gently she held me from behind to
guide me as I lowered myself. With the guests watching, I suddenly
released my urine into the pot. I heard it hit the clay and then
listened as the pot slowly filled. Everyone listened. The room was
silent, all eyes on me, I unable to hide anything at all.
My very public private duty complete, Jasmine helped me stand
up again. Brent came up behind me and unlocked my handcuffs. I rubbed
my wrists. The woman who was eating the cream-topped crackers offered
me some. Another woman put a drink in my hands. They surrounded me,
seemed not the least abashed that they’d just seen me pee, or that I was
standing bare-hipped in their midst, wearing only my blouse, my jacket,
and (though they hardly counted for anything) my black thigh-high
stockings. And my pumps, of course. I tried to compose myself, to
forget that I was utterly nude from my tummy on down. The women chatted
politely, the men also. But they looked freely at my bush as we
mingled.
“If her breasts are as nice as her pussy she’ll prove a fine
mount,” one man said to another. His friend nodded. A woman plucked at
my pubic hair with her fingers while telling me she’d gone yachting the
day before, out on the carribean sea.
“You’d like it, really,” she said. “We did a little fishing
off the side of the boat. I didn’t catch anything, though.” I felt her
hands roving down between my legs and had to stifle an urge to tell her
that she was catching something now, and I didn’t like her not asking
permission. She fondled for my cunt and explored with tracing fingers
the lips of my vagina. Her touch was feather-light, almost not there,
yet it was there, and I was too scared to stop her.
“Brent, you must display also,” Jasmine said to him. “How was
your flight,” she asked casually, reaching down and undoing his zipper.
She felt within his pants as he murmured something in reply. A moment
later and his dick was exposed. I turned around and looked at it. I
gasped. The others laughed, sensing I’d not seen him before. He was
big and long and the tip of him was wet already, oozing forth the
precursor to his seed.
I was offered a hot dog bun. “Put it around his penis,” a
woman told me. I knew not what to do; she guided me forward and pushed
on my shoulders and made me drop to my knees.
I gazed up at Brent. His huge thing pulsed just inches from my
face. “Do as they say,” he ordered. “They always make new lovers
perform for them.” His words made me feel warm and somehow reassured
me. We were lovers, yes. I fitted the bun to his rod. It was like a
big knockwurst sausage. I had difficulty getting the bun to hold him.
“Do you have a bigger bun?” I asked aloud.
“No, that is fine,” Jasmine answered. Her voice was
Spanish-French, it seemed. Foreign, exotic. She handed me a bottle of
Hershey’s chocolate. It was a squirt bottle, made of plastic. “Put as
much or as little as you like on him,” she told me. “Have you ever had
a chocolate dog before?”
“No,” I breathed.
“You’ll like it,” she said.
Carefully I squirted some chocolate syrup along the length of
Brent’s cock. It was so strange, holding him within a hot dog bun,
applying the chocolate as if it were mustard and he he was a human
hotdog.
“Now eat all of the bun, sucking him into your mouth just as if
he were a real knockwurst,” Jasmine told me. I heard the others laugh.
Opening my mouth wide, struggling to make him fit inside me, I put the
head of his cock between my lips. He urged himself forward. He was
eager. I gagged, found myself drawing him back a little, out of my
mouth, then I bit very carefully into the bun, biting his cock too, and
sucked the bread away from his pulsing meat.
“She’s not half bad at it,” a man said. Another agreed. I
took another bite. It was odd, biting him from below to get a chunk of
the bun, while making sure I didn’t bite too hard on top lest I bite
into his cock. Brent grunted and thrust himself at me. He wanted, I
think, for me to eat faster. Or perhaps he simply wanted to cum.
“Sir, this is a chocolate dog, not a sperm dog,” I reminded
him, feeling a sudden blush of confidence. I kissed his pee hole. Then
I bit more deeply, taking more of him, and chewed the bun. He waited
for me to swallow.
We played like this for some time. As I gradually devoured the
bun it suddenly occurred to me that I’d like to squirt his balls. I
picked up the Hershey’s and spritzed some chocolate up onto his hairy,
hanging nuts. Then, ignoring his cock a moment, merely rubbing my cheek
against it, I mouthed each of his twin nuts in turn, licking them clean
of chocolate.
Brent groaned. He was enjoying me very much, even as I enjoyed
him. I finished the bun. I stood up and whirled around and greeted the
other guests again, a bright happy look on my face.
“Take off your jacket and blouse,” Jasmine said to me. Their
eyes glowed but they showed no sign of granting me any reprieve. I
swallowed. I flushed. Red-faced, I looked down and slowly removed my
jacket and then unbuttoned my blouse. I wanted to hand my nice new suit
to somebody to put away but they made me just drop my clothes on the
floor. “And your bra,” they added, when I’d stripped down to that. I
reached behind myself and undid it. My breasts popped out as the cups
fell away. I was truly free now, yet captive at the same time.
“Go to the piano, put your hands on it,” Jasmine told me. I
obeyed. I let my hips sway behind me as I walked. I wanted to show
them what I had. I was proud of my figure. “Brace yourself against
it. Stick out your bottom,” Jasmine said. Turning my head, looking
fearfully back at her, I offered her my heinie. What did she have
planned for me?
“You do know how to pick a nice ass,” one of the men said to
Brent. A woman, the one who had been sampling the crackers when I’d
squatted over the urn, bent and took Brent’s cock in her mouth. Jasmine
undid her vest. She slipped her pantsuit down and stepped out of it.
Wearing just her undies, she came up behind me. The others began to
undress, except the woman who was busy suckling Brent’s penis.
“Why did you come here?” Jasmine asked me. She placed a hand
on my bottom and felt it as one might caress a pumpkin, picking it out
for slicing on Halloween night.
“Brent brought me,” I answered truthfully.
“To be a love slave?” she asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
Jasmine shocked me by suddenly slapping my bottom hard with her
palm. I gasped. I lurched in toward the piano and she waited for me to
recover my balance.
“A love slave requires training,” Jasmine told me. “We do that
here.” She slapped me again. It was a burning slap. It seemed to
engulf my bottom. When her hand fell away I could feel the impress of
her slim fingers against myself and it made my heinie wriggle. I felt
shameful, showing my ass to them, clenching my cheeks. They laughed at
the sight of my waggling bottom.
“Kiss my hand,” Jasmine said. She presented it palm upward,
the very palm that had just slapped me!
I DO GET FAN MAIL
by Steve De France
It must be easy to be a poet.
At least
the kind of poet
you are.
I mean
you don’t even make
the end of your lines
rhyme, or anything.
And what’s the point?
Do you have some moral value,
or spiritual beauty
in these words?
I read one of your
published poems
in my class.
Everyone was offended.
In fact, the students
wrote this review of you.
Your poems would make
an Arizona buzzard puke,
a Tijuana rat gag, a graveyard maggot retch,
a starving hyena toss his cookies,
a shit house mouse find religion,
a scum eating bottom fish rise to the top,
a yellow dog stop licking his balls,
a skid row cockroach regurgitate,
a lawyer stop evicting the handicapped and the
blind, all single celled life forms stop having
sex,
Or Educators admit they’re destroying
education,
Or politicians resign from fucking the country,
Or world disease miraculously cure itself,
Or lawyers stop evicting the handicapped and
the
blind...
Okay
So we found
one thing
even worse
Than
your lousy poems.
AND IN THE END...
Why Wasn’t This Monster Castrated?
“Marie Terez is very beautiful part Scandinavian, part German,
part French girl he picked up outside the Gallery Lafayette when she was
underage, so she had to be kept very hidden, both from his wife and from
the authorities.”
- Art Historian John Richardson on child rapist (and painter) Pablo
Picasso.
-------------------------- Fuck Decency! ------------------------
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-Free minicomics: send a stamped, self-addressed envelope to: Jim
Corrigan, P.O. Box 3663, Phenix City, AL 36868
- JOIN the world’s greatest organization! Send $35.00 to The North
American Man/Boy Love Association for a one-year membership.
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 312 EMISSION
- Picasso: Charlie Rose, November 7, 1997. (Burn your Picassos,
America! He’s a child molester!)
--
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