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From: ROLLER666@aol.com
Subject: FUCK DECENCY 250 Cunt Castle (nnd)
E A R T H D A Y !
Celebrating turds, flies, mosquitoes, and poison ivy.
Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 250
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Cunt Castle
Chapter Two
"What- what's your name?" I asked the woman now shepherding me to
some new fate.
"Beverly," she replied. She had long lustrous brown hair, piled
atop her head at the moment, just as mine was. Her bosom, caught up in a
dress that had a single strap looping behind her neck, joggled freely, no bra
beneath, the dress itself serving as her only support. I guessed she was
approaching 30, though she looked quite beautiful. She had an air of
experience, helping me peg her age. She was taller than me, and held me
close to her, as if to keep me from harm. As the door closed behind us I
heard the rain falling quite heavily outside. The last word I heard from
Rose was a demand to the maid to close up the windows lest they all be blown
away.
With me naked, wearing my manacles which Beverly did not,
thankfully, insist on suiting me up in, in the behind-the-neck posture, we
travelled through the house and up the wooden staircase by the front door. I
saw no one else, though I heard laughter in the distance, and what seemed
like idle conversation. It was mid-afternoon. Not normally, perhaps, a time
for sex, except for unsupervised schoolchildren. But Beverly and her
boyfriend seemed ready to go, and I sensed there would be no delay.
"I'm Jack," the man told me. I did my best to seem demure, looking
up at him with lowered lashes. I let him take my hand and, holding it
limply, I watched as he kissed it. Beverly laughed.
"He won't be quite such a gentlemen when he puts it to you," she
said. I glanced down at his pants again and saw he was stiffer than ever.
Our time in bed promised to be most exacting, with a tool like that to be
satisfied!
"Did somebody powder your bottom?" Beverly asked as we walked,
patting my heinie.
"Yes," I replied a little guiltily. She asked no more. We came to
a door in the upstairs hallway and Jack withdrew a key from his coat pocket
and opened it. We stepped inside. It was a bedroom, with a large bed, big
enough to easily handle all three of us. Jack closed the door behind us and
locked it.
"Oh, I see you've come with your own bondage gear," Beverly said.
She touched a finger to my dog collar, inserted it, checked its tightness.
"Good." She put a hand to my wrist and felt the steel which bound it.
"These may come in handy," she said, with a look of promise in her eyes, as
if taking them off, perhaps (though in fact they were locked) would be
wasting an opportunity.
I stood between her and Jack, looking up at her, feeling Jack behind
me. It was a tense moment for me, with two strangers staring down at me in
my nudity, literally evaluating me for sex. "Have you been taken up your
behind?" Beverly asked me. Sheepishly I replied that I had.
"Fine," Beverly answered. "And your cunt, too?"
"Yes," I nodded.
"Jack and I prefer companions with a little experience," Beverly
assured me. "Let's dress up, shall we?" She took me by the crook of my arm,
pulled me away from Jack who, I think was about to encircle my waist with his
arms and grind his pelvis into me. I was surprised at this move. I think
Jack was too. Perhaps Beverly, sensing the level of Jack's interest in me,
wished to delay things a bit, cool him down, make him wait, re-establish her
control.
"Take off your clothes, please, Jack," Beverly told him. "We're
going to give you a treat you've never had at any of those engineering
conferences." Jack's face turned red. I realized what she meant. He'd been
getting some 'on the side,' away from her, while off conventioneering. I
guessed he must be an engineer. With a fleeting look at his risen erection I
knew it was a perfect occupation for him. He'd need a crane, I thought, to
hoist him up when he got old, he was so big. I saw him undoing his belt just
as Beverly pulled me inside the bedroom's adjoining bath. How was it that I
kept meeting men with oversized cocks? Perhaps my oversized bosoms had
something to do with it.
"Unzip me, please," Bev said in no-nonsense fashion once we were
alone inside the bathroom. It was plush, with a pink rug and pink towels and
a big sunken bath that I could already imagine myself soaking quite happily
in once Jack had riven me with his tool. Standing on tip-toe, though I
didn't really have to, but feeling a little precious, perhaps, I unzipped the
back of Bev's dress.
The slinky black leather gown, made of the slimmest possible
material, came off Bev like leaves opening to let a flower bloom. Inside the
black sheath her skin was porcelain white. She stepped from her gown like
the Venus I'd envisioned rising from the sea. She primped before a mirror,
pushing at her hair atop her head, and then turned to me.
"What do you think?" Bev asked me. "Do you think I'm a suitable
playmate?"
"You LOOK like a Playmate," I answered truthfully. She had big,
bold bosoms that stood right up on their own, despite her maturity. Her
waist was slim and her hips full, with a neat delta of pubic hair twixt her
legs, offering more pleasure than most men could hope to bear (save Jack,
perhaps, with his big tool). I shivered in her presence and dipped my knees
a little in tribute to her amazing figure. I wondered what Polly would say
if she were here. She'd probably just look, then go back to sucking on a
straw or something, she was so little, compared to me. But I'd snuck
Playboy's as a child out of my Dad's bathroom and I knew a gorgeous woman
when I saw one. "I hope I grow up to be as beautiful as me," I admitted. I
felt my bosoms hanging from my ribs, big but smaller, of course, than hers,
and wondered if I'd be lucky enough to grow as big as she had.
Beverly reached out and cupped my girlish gourds with both her
hands. She hefted them. "I wish I'd looked as pretty as you do at your
age," she complimented. "Just how old are you, anyway? You don't look a day
over 15."
"I'm fourteen," I answered. She started, letting her head flinch
back, then gave a warm sigh. "So you'll be even chestier than me in a few
years, and I'll be over 30 by then," she said. "I'm jealous. I'll make good
use of your manacles for sure, young lady," she said. Then she smiled. She
kissed my forehead. "You are lucky to be able to enjoy the fullness of your
sex at such a young age," she told me. "I had such strict parents! They
sent me to a baptist college and I, fool that I was, let them. I didn't get
sexually active until just a few years ago and now, with due respect to the
feminists, bitches that they are, I'm heading fast for the Over the Hill Bar
and Grill, as one might call it. The 30 plus crowd. You at least will make
up for all the time I lost. Don't worry, I at least won't make it difficult
for you. We'll have fun. Come, lets get on some sexy little corsets and
give Jack a wild ride. Or ourselves, actually, considering the state his
prick will be in when we come out."
I followed her to a folding closet door, which she bent back.
Within were piles of towels, washcloths, a bath pillow, a bristled brush, a
Loofah sponge, and a rubber ducky. Under the ducky were, folded very neatly,
as if just put there a few minutes earlier, two female nighties. Bev reached
in, moved the duck, and unfolded what turned out to be a corselette. "This
one's for you," she said. It was pretty, colored pastel red with blue ties.
She drew it on me. "Take a deep breath," she said, and I obeyed. With my
cheeks turning blue from holding my breath as long as I could, she laced the
corselette tightly up my front, squeezing my belly and, at last, my bosoms,
so that I was sure they'd burst out the top. Somehow they hung in there,
making the lace trimming along the top of my corselette tremble. To my
surprise, inspecting it once I had it on, I realized that little decorative
ties actually held aloft satin triangles over my corselette's otherwise open
cups. My corselette, but for the twin triangles, would have been a
bare-bosom corselette, despite being tightly tied on. The triangles had such
a job covering me that, in straining outward with my fullness, they left
narrow slits of flesh on either side of themselves, showing what a little
slip of the drawstring that held them up would reveal.
"Here, put these on," Bev said with a mischievous grin. A pair of
panties, but with the same nasty little triangle in front, which, if untied,
would show off my mons without Jack even having to go to the trouble of
pulling my undies down. The back, of course, was a g-string, but with a neat
flutter bow, big and wide and flirtatious, to show off at the top of my
asscrack. I slipped into the panties. Pulling them up, I found they didn't
get much higher than the top of my pubic hair. Little curls of my hair
sprang out between the slits where the triangle didn't cover me. Here, it
wasn't a question of being too full. I had fleecy pubic hair and a tight
pussy. The danged triangle at the front of my panties just didn't quite
cover me along the sides of itself, that's all. So wisps of pubic hair
showed, leaving me feeling quite naked despite the fact that the panties were
actually supposed to help me be modest. More modest, at least, than I had
been, with nothing on, yet somehow I felt more indecent now!
I pulled on stockings that went up almost to the tops of my thighs.
Then Bev gave me gloves which, it turned out, were full length and even had
fingers. They were my most modest piece of clothing but, covering just my
arms, they hardly did me any good. Lastly Bev helped me into a pair of
adjustable heels. They fit quite nicely, I found. They were made of many
little buckles and straps which she diligently laced together so that I felt
more bound on my feet than anywhere else. Mercifully, perhaps, for our
bedroom play, the spiked heels were blunted at their tips. Maybe the
manufacturer knew where these would end up! They were brand new, of course.
I guessed they never left this closet, except to visit the bed.
Bev gave herself a more liberal garment. She slipped into a
bustier. It had many little ties down its front, all made of lace. I had to
take my gloves off to do them up for her. She drew in her breath a little,
but not much, for the bustier was so filmy it wouldn't have held her.
Brimming over the top of it, her bosoms offered just their nipples. Below
the rest was held in. But the effect was obscene, for with the base of each
breast compressed, her nipples extruded over the top like tiny cow's udders
begging to be milked. The straps, each tied with a bow, lest they come off,
were alongside the outer edges of her bosoms, squeezing them together to make
her look even more milkable.
Garter straps hung down from the bustier and Bev had to find
stockings to attach to them. For some reason, the stockings were hidden
under a towel. Perhaps somebody liked the effect of a bustier with dangling
garters, but Bev didn't want to start off that boldly. With prim hands,
slipping on fingerless gloves tied off at the elbow, she slid on stockings
and attached them to her garters. I hoped Jack didn't detach them. The
stockings had no elastic in their tops and would fall down instantly the
moment the garters were unclipped from them. She looked quite delicate, all
dolled up in her bustier. Yet I watched as she rummaged about in the closet
until she found a crop, way at the back, behind the towels, perhaps hidden
there by somebody with the courage of Polly, whom, I knew, liked not the
least the thought of having her heinie whacked. I didn't either, but I knew
I could find the courage to endure it if I had to. Bev handed me the crop to
hold (I knew she would take it back, in my heart) and put on a pair of
panties. I guess she pulled those on last because, after all, they'd
probably come off first. They had to be tied along the sides to stay up.
They trapped her garters beneath them.
In a final touch of femininity, Bev put on a lace mini-robe. It
matched her bustier, gloves, and stockings. It was open in front (there was
nothing to close it with) and had short sleeves that didn't even come down to
her elbows. The hem fell to her hips and left all below bare. Yet it added
a kind of glamorous quality to her that I envied. She wasn't just in a
little bedroom playsuit. She had a robe on too, albeit a filmy one,
patterned in see-through patterns of lace and making her more mature. I was
just a little toy, suited up tightly, with my tailbone flourish, a bow that
teased the eye with the sight of my naked fanny waggling beneath it.
Putting on heels, Bev piouretted before the mirror. The heels were
new ones she'd brought just to play in the castle. Then she walked over to
me, took the crop out of my hand, and placed my hand in her free one.
I felt a sudden panic of fear. We were done with dressup. Now it
was bedtime, and I had the manacles and she had the crop. I knew only her
first name, nothing more. She could be an escaped convict for all I knew,
straight from the women's prison, all dolled up to find a man and then,
having him, to return to the lesbian games she'd learnt behind bars. And who
was Jack?
"I haven't had anything at all to eat except a croissant," I told
her. My stomach felt empty but, in fact, not hungry, though I tried to look
like it did.
"We'll order room service," Bev smiled. "Something gooey to get us
started."
"I-I have to pee," I admitted. I could feel those drinks and that
Purple Slurple in my bladder.
"There's a chamber pot in the bedroom," Bev replied.
"There's a potty right here!" I said, pointing to the toilet with my
gloved hand.
"Jack's not here," Bev said. "Would you like me to invite him in?"
"No," I admitted.
"Then let's go!"
"But-" I began, only to find her dragging me straight to the
bathroom door and then, opening it, through it and out to Jack.
Omigod! He lay on the bed, buck naked, with a huge staff sticking
up as if he were Moses about to herd all Israel's sheep. It was the biggest
penis I'd ever seen! Now I knew why Bev had said they both preferred girls
with a little experience. You'd need a lot to take a member like that!
The maid entered. Magpie, Matilda, waht was her name? I'd
forgotten it. Flushing from my tip to my toes I watched as she passed me in
my birthday suit-playsuit and placed the tray neatly on Jack's belly. It was
hard. It could have held up an elephant. The tray brimmed with a New Year's
revelry of gooey, slurpy items. Pancakes soaked in syrup, a basket of hot
buns, a bottle of honey, three cups of steaming cocoa (I hoped the tray
didn't tip over!) and a tube of whipped cream. In addition, right on the
tray with our food, was a string of new Ben-Wa balls, vaseline, colored
condoms, and a big plastic bottle of Hershey's Chocolate Syrup, with no
discernible use for it as far as I could see, at least with respect to the
food.
ZINE REVIEWS
by holy joe
Moot Comics Digest #1, $1.00 Digest, 22 pages plus orange cover. Brian
Kirk, Moot Comics, 93 Sunapee St., Springfield, MA 01108. E-mail:
mootcomics@aol.com or 76365,273@comp.com Web:
http://www.the-spa.com/bear/moothome.htm
Review: What would you do if your nose kept running? This is the
problem faced in the first story in this comic. A man tries everything to
stop his nose from running, to no avail. Finally, a solution appears to be
at hand.
The man smiles happily and remembers a pleasant tune as his nose,
finally, stops running. But in the world of Moot, happiness can never last
long. A helpful friend assumes the man's solution is itself a problem. When
the friend intervenes, the small problem of a runny nose becomes a nightmare
of earth-shattering proportions.
What would you do if a flying saucer landed in your kitchen?
"Domestic Aliens" grapples with this problem. A bystander, nearly killed by
the arrival of a flying saucer, decides to play Captain Kirk. Soon he's
put-putting through the sky, and peeking in people's windows.
If you're feeling pissed off at the world, "Shmuck" will make your
day. In this story, a man manages to steal a gun. He sets off on a killing
spree. While that doesn't sound funny, it is, because he is hilariously
lacking in any remorse whatsoever. While, say, the Terminator might be on
some 'do or die' mission, and Judge Dredd is grimly enforcing law and order,
Shmuck is simply a loose 2-year-old. He blows away person after person, for
no reason, like some wild, self-satisfied toddler. In the end, "Shmuck"
finds himself face to face with God. Shmuck is as rude to the Almighty as
he's been to his fellow man.
"Bobnoxious" is a two-panel joke on the back cover. "Boxnoxious"
operates a Lost and Found department, with less compassion than the job
requires. In the story, "Bobnoxious" is only handling lost articles. But it
would be funny if, in a future story, we could see how he handles lost
children.
This is the best Moot comic I've ever read! Brian's art is always
nice, but sometimes his stories are a little weak. However, he can turn out
great stories occasionally. This issue's stories were all well written.
AND IN THE END...
Too Young to Vote?
HANG UNTIL DEAD
"Twenty-one [U.S.] states permit executions of individuals as young
as 16, four set the minimum age at 17.
"...Besides the U.S., only Bangladesh, Barbados, Iran and Iraq allow
the execution of minors."
- Chicago Tribune, April 15, 1997, Document ID: S7105023.
-------------------------- Fuck Decency! ------------------------
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-Naughty Naked Dreamgirls (Library of Congress ISSN: 1070-1427) is
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copyright 1997 by the respective copyright holder.
-END OF 250 EMISSION
- the U.S., Bangladesh, Barbados, Iran, and Iraq. Birds of a feather kill
together.
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