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From: Andrew Roller <roller39@IDT.NET>
Subject: FUCK DECENCY 320 Nudie Nursery (nnd) g2
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Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Sponsored by: Crab the dog
Issue No. 320
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Nudie Nursery
Chapter Four
Missy reached for her own can of whipped cream. It was, like
mine, a miniature can, offered by Redi-Whip to restaurants to promote
its brand name. It was housed in a little bucket of ice and Missy’s
eyes glowed as she grabbed for it. Fortunately, Brent found his wits
and grabbed her wrist just as she picked up the can.
“No, Missy,” he said. He drew the can from her fingertips.
“I need it for my strawberries!” Missy whined.
“I’ll squirt it,” Brent replied. He put the whipped cream on
her strawberries liberally, hoping to empty the can. Missy watched,
pouting, frowning, and crossed her arms. When Brent was done he
replaced the whipped cream in the bucket. Missy grabbed it and put it
down between her legs.
The waiter appeared. “May I take any of your plates?” he
asked. Missy did not see him.
SPLURT!
Missy gasped. “Ooooh! That’s cold!” she squeaked. Then,
realizing we had company, she looked up at the waiter, guiltily. Stray
locks from her chestnut coiffure fell into her eyes. “I was just
playing,” she whispered contritely.
“Oh! May I get you a napkin?” the waiter asked helpfully. He
did not understand.
“Noooo,” Missy murmured. She replaced the can in the bucket.
“I could use some more whipped cream, though. This one’s almost out.”
“She’d like a bib,” Brent scowled. The waiter, at last, caught
on a little (hopefully no more) and nodded politely.
Several of our plates were removed. Missy picked up her glass
of orange juice and gurgled it down noisily. Besides our champagne we
had hot chocolate and the juice, or anything else we wished. Brent
nursed a cup of coffee. The establishment, I guessed, charged an
extravagant price for brunch, and could afford to shower us with food.
When the waiter left Brent dipped a hand into his tux and drew
out a handkerchief. I could see it was concealing something. “You
girls have been very naughty,” he said quietly. He handed me the
handkerchief and I accepted it.
“I want one too!” Missy piped up. Her eyes were wide. She was
like a younger sibling, always afraid of being left out. I opened my
handkerchief. Handcuffs! I felt my throat constrict.
“Put them on,” Brent said somberly.
“Brent! You wouldn’t--” I was having such a nice meal, albeit
a messy one. He looked at me with his hard, demanding eyes, the ones
that made my heart skip beats. I’d never had a father. Not to speak
of, anyway. I couldn’t refuse. If he’d been a woman I’d have said
‘no,’ but I couldn’t refuse that scowling, unshaved jaw, stubbled like a
pirate’s or a prisoner’s. He had prisoner’s eyes, too. Were we not
illegal? Yet he owned us. He owned us and our furs and the food in our
bellies and the risque bikinis we’d worn into the restaurant.
I drew the handcuffs into the sleeve of my coat. Brent passed
a handkerchief parcel to Missy so she could be just like me. She
accepted it, poor child. She was desperate not to be outdone by me,
even if it meant her doom.
I’d noticed that the handcuffs Brent had given me were
connected by a long chain. I guessed why, now, reaching behind myself
and snapping on the first cuff. The chain allowed enough room for my
cuffed hand to secure my uncuffed hand. Looking at Brent, feeling my
hunger for him rise within my creamed, slitted womb, I snapped the
second handcuff into place.
“Very good,” Brent said to me. His eyes smoldered. Mine
showed fear, resignation, and a tinge of love. Did I wish it any other
way? He’d promised a spanking for me. Jasmine had promised it, and she
was fierce. I felt a new sensation in my bottom, a memory of last
night’s whipping, gone now, except in my mind, mixed with the tension
and fear of a new assault. The seat, warm and soft, was meant to offer
me the ultimate comfort. Yet I would abandon it and follow Brent home,
where I would be displayed and forced to suffer. I yanked on my
handcuffs. The chain snapped taut, offered me no escape. I yanked
again. My wrists banged within the grasping steel of the handcuffs.
Yes, I was his prisoner now. Fully, completely. Unless, that is, I
chose to be a tattletale. I could tell all to the maitre d’ and be
flying home on the next plane, back to my real home, back to L.A.
I set my teeth. Brent watched me do it. He saw my
determination, he smiled wanly at my cupid face. I was an angel. I was
a lover. I was a prisoner.
A raw metal click announced Missy’s own imprisonment.
“I’m trapped!” she realized. She had locked herself in without
understanding the consequences. “How do I unlock this?”
“You don’t,” Brent said.
“The bib, sir,” our waiter announced, returning suddenly.
“I don’t want to wear a bib!” Missy proclaimed. Diners looked
up from their meals. Like explorers in a cave they gazed uncertainly,
into the darkness of ignorance but finding small gleams of knowledge.
Was the girl not too big for a bib? Yet perhaps she’d been difficult.
The bib was meant as a threat to control her.
“The bib will not be needed. She’s agreed to behave,” Brent
told our waiter.
“No I haven’t!” Missy contradicted. The waiter withdrew,
letting us settle the matter ourself. He left the bib on the table,
beside Missy’s undies. Did he know they were undies? I could not tell.
Brent finished his breakfast. It was odd sitting there,
watching him eat, unable to eat myself. My arms were pinned behind me
now, inside the confines of my coat. Nobody knew, nobody guessed. My
nipples were sticky. They felt like they were adhering themselves to
the inside of my coat as the honey on them dried. Would my nipples be
ripped from my chest when I stood up? I was wet all down my tummy, with
honey drippings and chocolate syrup. From the neck up I was a picture
of politeness, with dazzling earrings, perfect hair, and sensational
makeup. Yet between my thighs I was wet with oozing whipped cream. I
felt decadent. Brent finished his meal and rose. He drew out Missy’s
chair. She was quiet. She was a brat, not a tattletale. She would not
betray our captivity. Brent came to my place and helped me up.
I walked with expansively swaying hips through the restaurant.
I could not help myself. I was being taken home to be spanked. I was
going to get it. My bottom rubbed against the soft inside of my coat,
unknowing, comfortable. Yet my mind was a whirl of confusion. I should
tell! I should run! But how humiliating to be discovered naked under
my fur coat, and handcuffed, and messy with cream and chocolate and
honey. And all put there by me, little guiltless me, except nobody
would believe I was guiltless. They’d say I was, of course. They’d be
politically correct in speaking to me. But behind my back they’d say,
“Such little tramps those two were! Imagine! Messing themselves like
that!”
Missy wriggled exceedingly as she walked. She was frightened,
frisky, a girl compassing between the known and the unknown. How hard
would Jasmine hit us? Would we really be made to stand before ladies,
at tea? I almost opted to blurt out my fate just then, passing the
maitre d’. Yet it would be a private humiliation, between lovers. Only
a few would know. It would not be on the evening news, with my name
blocked out but all my friends knowing. My mom knowing. “Here’s your
daughter, ma’am,” the F.B.I. man would say. “We found her in Caracas.
She was staying with a man who kept her as a pet and...”
I curled my fingers around the underside of my coat, in back.
To get a grip. To reassure myself. Did the maitre d’ see my fingers?
Did he wonder why I had my hands inside my coat, and behind me, with my
fingertips sticking out and curled round the fur trim of my coat? I did
not know whether our coats were real or artificial, but they were fur on
fur, blonde fur surrounded by a lighter fur trim. Probably they were
ersatz, I concluded. Missy and I were still a bit too irresponsible for
real fur. Perhaps Brent would buy us real fur coats when we parted,
when we’d proven ourselves to him, that we were real women and not just
little brats.
Would there be a parting? I speculated on that, passing out of
the restaurant. I wanted to glance back over my shoulder. Had I left a
trail of drips behind me? It felt like the cream on my pussy was
dripping. I hoped not. Brent made me so ecstatic, but he was fierce,
under his smooth demeanor. His control-oriented nature appealed to me,
yet would it always? Surely I must be free sometime. But now, just
now, I was his. Myself, and Missy too, probably, unless I could rid
myself of her. He liked having two of us. It made him King. Had he
seen her and requested her? Had he heard her sobbing screams somehow,
and asked for her?
“I have to go to the bathroom,” Missy confided to Brent as he
halted us. We were out of the restaurant now, thankfully, and under the
end of a tented entryway. A valet saw us and hurried off for our limo.
“When we get home,” Brent said.
“I have to go NOW,” Missy whined. “Unlock me.”
“No,” Brent answered.
“I’ll pee in the car,” Missy warned.
“We’ll see about that,” Brent replied.
I rode sitting on the way back. I was cuffed, sitting
barebottomed on the car’s leather seat. I could feel the leather
adhering itself to my ass. It would sting a little when I stood up,
like my nipples stung when, on rising, I forcibly detached their honeyed
tips from the inside of my coat. But I was better off than Missy. She
rode lying over Brent’s lap. Barelegged, bare-bottomed, she was forced
to present him with her naked wriggling ass all the way home. She
begged to pee but he refused.
“You’re putting on quite a show,” Brent smirked at Missy.
“Oooh! Let me up! I need to pee and I don’t like lying on my
tummy! Quit sticking your finger in my hole!” Missy begged. Brent just
laughed. I laughed. She looked absolutely silly lying with her fanny
all exposed, her feet tossing in the air and her legs kicking. Yet her
hands were fastened within the cuffs, trapping her, and Brent, oiling
his finger with his spit, was entertaining himself by plunging his digit
in Missy’s anus. She dared not misbehave too much or he’d go deeper
with his finger, or try penetrating her with two, or three. She was
forced to accept him in her butthole and offer only pleading
resistance. She might have kicked at his chin with her heel but she
would have instantly found her guts impaled. Like a man drilling for
oil, Brent eased his finger in and out of her, enjoying his power over
her, the fear he induced.
“Do you have to pee on my pants leg, minx? Hmmmm? Go ahead,
pee! Here, let me tickle your cunny!”
“Oh no sir please, stop! Don’t! I weally WILL pee! Ack!”
And so our ride proceeded. Missy was getting her comeuppance
now, for all her mischief at brunch. Yet, as we neared our destination,
Brent thought of a way to punish me too.
“Open your legs,” he told me. I obeyed. Sitting there, on the
seat with my arms trapped behind me, I felt desperately vulnerable.
Exposing my slit to him only made it worse. Yet there was nothing I
could do. “Eat her,” Brent told Missy. “Lick up all that whipped cream
on her pussy!”
“Oh, no! PLEASE! I don’t like eating girls! I--” Brent took
Missy’s face and manhandled it into my dell. To keep her ever-compliant
he rammed his finger to its deepest point yet in her butthole.
I gasped and heaved my chest forward as little Missy’s tongue
delved within me. I heard a soft lapping sound and looked down, wishing
she wasn’t there, yet unable to escape her. She mooed and moaned and
pleaded, but Brent made her lick me clean. When at last he allowed her
to raise her face a little I saw her mouth was circled with cream.
Missy licked her lips. Perhaps she had a sweet tooth after all.
“Alright you two, time to get out!” Brent told us. Our limo
entered Jasmine’s property. We were safe again, free to play out our
games without anyone knowing. Yet we were at our most vulnerable, Missy
and I, for we were the game. We were the pieces and Brent was our
Chessmaster.
We trooped within the house. We were taken into a parlor.
Brent admitted us himself. He was happy, ushering us along, happy like
a man who owns property and enjoys doing with it what he pleases. He
wiped his finger with his handkerchief so it wouldn’t betray traces of
Missy’s shit.
------
“The U.S. Supreme Court refused to hear an appeal from Mike
Diana, who was convicted in Florida in 1994 for creating and
distributing obscene drawings (see “Loony Toons,” “The Playboy Forum,”
August 1994). He must now serve out his original sentence, which
includes 1248 hours of community service. Diana is donating his time to
the Comic Book Legal Defense Fund.” - Playboy, January 1998, pg. 52.
Keep your mind clean and pure! Why read an obscene comic when
you can read:
Stories by Andrew Roller:
A Mansion for Masochists
Liquid Pleasures
Watermelon Moon
Bondage Bliss
A Party for Perversion
Desire Isle
Las Vegas Lust
Erotic Estate
Office Slave
Bottoms in Bondage
Field of Desire
Alice Amore
Jack and Jill
The Beach Western
Vegas Vixen
Sarajevo Sexfest
Lady Fontaine
Holland Hunnies
Amsterdam Damsels
Bordello Girls
Chambers of Love
Love Child
Puppy Love
Private Places
Cunt Castle
Bush League
Pussy Playland
Nudie Nursery
Dungeon of Desire
Passion’s Playpen
The Fading Universe
Permanent Perigee
Dis’s Sojourn
There and Not Back Again
Purpose Shall be the Firmer (poem)
All Life Needs Life to Live (poem)
Candyland Cunny
Love Lessons
Pussy Pals
Pussy Valley
Lust’s Lair
Baby Pussy
Football Frolics
Dancing Diva
Captive Cock
The First Temptation of Christ
Party Pussies
Honey Haven
Amazonia
Summer of Sin
Punished for Pleasure
Gold Diggers
Enslaved to Eros
Bikini Brigade
Labors of Love
Sins of the Flesh
kiddie clitties
All of the stories listed above are now available for free on
the Internet. See below for where to find them.
AND IN THE END...
WHY FUCK DECENCY?
“Since governments everywhere are forever trying to expand
their reach and authority.”
- The Economist, December 6, 1997, pg. 96.
-------------------------- Fuck Decency! ------------------------
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-Other providers:
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or by e-mail: file.request@backdrop.com
or via the Web: http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/
-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 320 EMISSION
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