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From: ROLLER666@aol.com
Subject: FUCK DECENCY 258 Cunt Castle (nnd)
Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 258
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Cunt Castle
Chapter Three
Taking a perfume spray bottle, Bambi misted a scent of sweet perfume
onto my bare fanny. Then she put down the bottle and I thought I saw her rub
herself a little where her red satin triangle was pulled up over her cunny.
Was she aroused by the thought of whipping me? I tried to speak, to ask to
be let go, but my words came out totally garbled. Bambi ignored me. She had
a heavy pot of brine next to my bed and she leaned back and dipped her birch
branches into it. Then she drew them out, dripping, and I watched as she
brought them hovering over the bed. Droplets fell on my clean sheets,
staining them with salt.
"Now, let's begin," Bambi said. She drew her hand back and swept
the birch rod up under my outthrust bottom.
"Yeeoch!" I responded at once, arching up on my toes. My bottom
stuck out all the more as I leapt from the blow.
"One down, 200 to go," Bambi giggled to herself. I thought she
passed a fleet hand over her cunny again. With practised grace she re-dipped
the birch rod. She trailed it back across the bed, leaving droplets again.
I'd look like I'd wet the bed if she kept this up. But then, that would be
the least of my troubles, wouldn't it? "You'll have such lovely marks to
show off to everyone tomorrow," Bambi told me. Then, with me feeling
ever-more like a bottom, nothing else, she whacked me right on my heinie
again.
"Ooochch!" I yelped, my gag silencing me. Only the most primitive
sound escaped my lips, not the distinct sound I'd intended. I was cultured
no more. I was just meat now, an outjutting ass waiting to be punished.
"Ah, delicious!" Bambi told me. "I love how your bottom retracts
when you're waiting for it. It won't save you, of course. But it's pretty."
She dipped the birch again and gave me another blow, harder now, making me
really strain up on my toes and almost ram the gag down my throat.
"AHCHCHCH!" I said, nearly choking, or so I imagined, on the big red
ball that kept my lips pried apart. I squeezed my hind cheeks to try to
throw off some of the stinging. Bambi reached up and palmed my cheeks with
her gloved hands. Her touch was bitter, reminding me of the birch's imprint.
Such soft gloves, yet such a stinging touch. She fondled me for a moment
between my legs. I did not want to be pleasured there, but I dared not close
my legs. I held them wide in a bold vee as she'd instructed me. She told me
I was free to lift my legs as I needed to, but that if I kicked back at her
I'd never forget it.
Shadows appeared outside our shrouded workplace. I felt as if I
were giving birth, with my parents outside, waiting, wondering, asking
passing nurses for news. I hand drew back the pink canopy of my bed. It was
Rose. She was dressed in a formal gown, sipping wine. She smiled at me over
the lip of her glass. Somehow within myself I knew it must be French
Chablis. That wine was very good with oyster stuffing, I learnt once, as a
little girl, studying a menu in a restaurant when I'd tired of coloring in
the restaurant's logo in the children's activity book.
Rose's gown was held up by two spaghetti-thin straps over her frail,
fragile shoulders. Her skin was white. The dress molded her closely but the
portion covering her breasts consisted of but two uplifted circles of fabric.
A man tugging at her dress might to get her attention might pull to hard and
render her topless.
A hand settled on her shoulder. Louis! He came around from
somewhere beyond and behind her, took up position beside her. He gazed at me
with stern eyes. I wanted to beg forgiveness from him for whatever I'd done
to deserve this but, I knew, I'd done nothing but be myself, his love,
beautiful and loving him. This is what he did to girls he loved.
SKRAAAACK! The birch swept up again, catching the lowest portion of
my jutting, tender bottom cheeks.
"Aaaaaaaah," I cried into my red ball gag, feeling the heat of the
twitchy rods as they marked me with their nubbed stiffness. I let my bottom
gyrate freely. I felt no shame despite showing off my ass, its crack.
"We had to tie Polly's legs," Rose told me. "But you are older. I
want you to remain self-possessed, in control." She reached out and touched
Bambi. "Let her settle down a little before giving each new stroke," Rose
told her. "There is no hurry. I want her to savor each one, to dread it, to
wait for it and then to scream aloud when she finally feels it. Make her
whipping sensuous. Yes, it must be difficult for her, but she is not really
in prison, and we are not really her jailers."
"Oh, alright," Bambi said. I think she was growing hot where it
mattered most for, in my frenzied kicking and stamping on the bed, not
kicking back but outward, like a disabled person trying to walk, I saw Bambi
untie the triangle of satin over her cunt. She didn't untie the top
triangle, as I thought she would, though. She reached within the vee of her
legs and undid two impossibly tiny ties that held the base of her triangle of
satin against the lips of her cunt. Falling outward, being caught finally by
the topmost triangle, tied off above her mons, she looked like an Indian.
She had on her flapping Indian triangle, one might say, hovering over her
bush, flipping outward whenever she moved. I watched as Louis' eyes left me
to find themselves transfixed by her coyly half revealed pussy. Bambi,
sensing she was on display as much as me, randily parted my bottomcheeks and
flicked her tongue within.
She skipped my hole, but licked all up and down the inside of my
crack. Her hands held my injured fanny, spreading it, venting it, her
fingers pressing against my newly awarded marks from the birch. I did not
like being held thus, my hams lifted and held open by another girl. Worst of
all, her fingers made my ass hurt more. Any touch upon my wounded cheeks
seemed like an agony. And the night had just begun!
I closed my eyes. I tried to think of Polly. Anything to keep me
from thinking of my own bottom. Was she being whipped now? It would be like
whipping a little angel, I thought. A wingless angel, to be sure, but surely
her cherubic bottomcheeks would be so babylike that Branson would go easy on
her. Had she tried to escape him? Had she stuck out her tongue and leapt
from her bed and made a game of it? Had Branson, wheezing and old, been
forced to chase her about the locked bedroom until he finally caught her and
tied her wiggling body to the head of her bed?
"NYAH! NYAH! NYAH! NYAH!" I could hear her teasing in my mind, as
she realized she might just have the better of Branson and never be caught.
Had Rose entered then, and helped? Had Andre been called to attend to her?
"OoooooOOOH!" I heard suddenly in the night air. At first I thought
it was an owl. Then I realized it was Polly. "Oh, please!" I heard, then,
"YahoooOOOOH!" and I thought I heard the crack of a leather whip, coming hard
against her skin. She cried out again, and then again. Her screams merged
with the crashing of the surf on the rocky beach far below. I felt a sea
breeze enter through the window and cool my face. My hair fluttered briefly.
The canopy of my bed ruffled itself, inspired by the wind.
A cane was produced. Louis had been holding it, just behind
himself, not letting me see it until now. Gleefully Bambi accepted it. The
length of it must have been six feet. It was wickedly slender. Rose,
fearful of being hit by it, drew Louis back, holding his hand, squeezing it
tight.
"Not- not too hard," Rose told Bambi, who I swear looked like a
child with a new Christmas toy.
"Don't spare her," Louis said. I trembled at the sound of his
words. His voice was rich, deep. He puffed on his pipe. Rose gasped a
little as he exhaled and a cloud of tobacco smoke enveloped the both of them.
Bambi got off to one side to better position herself for applying
the whip to my heinie. In my bare feet I stood waiting, my bottom red and
sore but still deliciously white amidst the score of lines emblazoned across
it. I begged them to stop but no one could understand me.
"Mmmm, such a tempting target," Bambi said, lustfully gazing at my
shaking, frightened fanny. Oh, how could she? I was a girl, just like her.
Had she no pity for me?
THWACK! In came the cane, blazing across my backside. I jumped up,
all but the tips of my toes leaving the bed. My teeth ground against the
ball that gorged within my mouth. I felt my neck yank on the end of the pole
that held me submissive. Christ had not suffered this much upon the cross.
I felt my bottomcheeks yammer together, shuddering within themselves as the
whip struck, then bound outward, showing my crack. One moment my furrow was
just a tight line compressed between my cheeks. The next it was wide apart,
on display, letting them see my hole.
Louis placed his fingers upon the straps of Rose's dress. She
watched from the corners of her eyes as he lifted her straps until, quite
suddenly but not unexpectedly, they broke. Her dress fell to her waist. Her
bosoms, bounteous in their maturity, came tumbling out to show their
fleshiness and their quivering tips. Rose looked down at herself a moment,
feeling Louis' eyes as he looked over her shoulder and admired her cleavage.
Then she slipped onto my bed in her broken gown and got right behind me.
"Hang in there, you're doing great!" Rose told me. She reached
beneath me and diddled my cunny. I gasped into my mouth-filling gag, wanting
more, yet feeling so utterly humiliated. New pairs of eyes appeared. Men
and women I did not know. How many people were in my bedroom? How many
watched? They gazed at me dispassionately, as one might watch a showgirl,
not knowing her name, not really caring. They drank wine and chatted amongst
themselves. My only consolation was that, watching me, these nameless men
would no doubt be inspired to do the same to their loves, who watched beside
them. The women drank their wine in little gulps as they felt their loves'
hands pass down possessively over their bottoms. They cared not for me, but
they did care for themselves and their own tushies.
Rose picked up a riding crop. It was well worn. It must have been
in the estate for years. I suspected it had begun its career on the flanks
of horses, but somebody had brought it inside one day, and it had not been
returned to the stable. Rose touched my heinie lightly with her fingertips
as if to mark where she would hit me. Then, drawing in her breath, her tits
rising as her lungs filled, she drew back her hand.
WHAP! The leather crop came against my skin with a forcefulness I
had not expected. I felt my own lungs exhale, shaking my bare tits like
fruit on a tree in a storm, as the crop damaged my heinie and left a weal.
My ass shook. Pain gripped it. A line radiated inward until my cheeks
seemed to bulge with pain. My first weal. I would bathe it later, passing
my hand back over it, touching it, wondering at its fiery heat. But now my
ass was outthrust, a charming treat for all to see, whitefleshed but with
bitter marks upon it.
"Oh, does it hurt?" a young girl watching me asked aloud. She knew
nothing, I guessed, seeing such torture for the first time tonight. Her
bottom was most in danger then, most like to suffer as mine. Other women
exchanged glances, said nothing, drank their wine freely.
"Yes, darling, it's so very harsh, isn't it?" Rose asked me. She
selected a paddle next. Lifting it, she whacked it upon my behind, a dull
thudding splat that came down over my ass so that the weal I'd just received
was at the center of its impact.
"OOOOOH!" I hollared. I was crying now. There was no escaping it.
They were being so horrid to me, so very horrid. My tears flowed wetly down
my cheeks. The sea breeze from the window cooled my face but did nothing for
my bottom. Why, why, why must they treat me this way? Why did Louis like
this? And then, as I felt a pony lash striking me, as if training me like
some lioness at the circus, I felt my bosoms shake again, slinging my coral
tips about, and I felt my ass bound outward, and I knew. I was a flesh
goddess, enticing them, charming them with my wrigglings. I had been reduced
to tears and screams. I was no longer the sullen girl, the smarty
goodlooking female cherry bomb, or the impish teasing trickster, like Polly,
sassing the men and making them want me. I was theirs. They had me
completely within their power. Louis owned me now. He might sperm me here
and leave me here, stuck to this post, until I gave birth to his child nine
months later. I had lost all control. But Rose was determined to take me
yet one step further.
I felt a teacup passed beneath my cunt. Rose stroked my thighs. I
felt her breath hot upon my raw bottom.
"Pee," Rose told me. "Pee like the young mare you are, right here,
right in front of all these people. Don't hold back, darling. Tonight is
all about letting go."
I resisted. As I heard Polly's screams from somewhere in the
castle, I held myself in. My pee at least I would keep to myself, even if my
bottom were presented for all to see, with my tears rolling down my cheeks.
ARE YOU BEING SERVED?
How to unsubscribe from a 'list serve'
You've been spammed. Some wise guy has just signed you up to 2,364
separate 'list serves.' One of them deals with "Dandelions in Films Made
Prior to 1938." Another one deals with "The Cross-Stitch Sewing Pattern as
Adapted to Chinese Manufacturing." A third important list deals with Bill
Clinton's hairline.
Speaking of which, poor Bill had to call in the Secret Service when
he got 'list served.' You and I, as mere mortals, don't have access to such
high-powered help. In our case, we're supposed to laboriously read each
list's unique requirements for unsubscribing. (Always printed at the bottom
of a long message or, perhaps by design, buried in the middle of the message
that congratulates you for joining their list.) Meanwhile, posts begin
flowing into your e-mail box about dandelions, China, Bill's hair, and 2,361
other topics. What to do?
Get yourself kicked out. Here is a handy message I wrote to get
myself kicked off of people's lists. Within minutes of posting it to a
group, I received very precise instructions for how to unsubscribe from their
list. I've since received very precise instructions from other readers of
that list. Meanwhile, the religious asshole who signed me up to hundreds of
lists promptly UNsubscribed me, all by himself, when he found out what I was
up to. Imagine that! ONE message, sent by little ol' me, and I'm promptly
unsubscribed from HUNDREDS of lists.
Here's the message:
DO YOU WANT TO READ THIS?
Funny, I don't want to read anything from you, either. Why don't you manage
your list serve in such a way that people like myself are not subscribed to
it in the first place?
PLEASE GET ME OFF THIS LIST! I NEVER ASKED TO BE ON IT!
In the meantime, here's some information for you:
-------------------------- Fuck Decency! ------------------------
-Free Fuck Decency e-mail subscriptions: send (18 or up) age
statement to: roller666@aol.com
-To unsubscribe: Send $100.00 to The North American Man/Boy Love
Association, P.O. Box 174, Midtown Station, New York, NY 10018.
- ftp://members.aol.com/roller666 Diapergirls! (cunt2)
- ftp://members.aol.com/roller6666 NudieNursery! (nude1)
- ftp://members.aol.com/nnd666 Passion'sPlaypen! (passion1)
- ftp://members.aol.com/nnd66 KiddieClitties! (kiddie1)
- ftp://members.aol.com/nnd6 Jesus! (temptation1c)
-Recent back issues at Usenet newsgroup: alt.poop?
-For all back issues, send e-mail to: file.request@backdrop.com
-Fuck Decency: http://members.aol.com/nnd6/fuckdecency.html
-Free minicomics: send a stamped, self-addressed envelope & age
statement to: Jim Corrigan, P.O. Box 3663, Phenix City, AL 36868
-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 257 EMISSION
Feel free to modify my message.
How should a list serve operate? Here's a good way of doing it, in
my opinion, written by the folks at durleste@plains.nodak.edu:
"Our lists have been plagued recently by bogus subscription requests. In
order to help prevent that, we are asking that those that request
subscriptions confirm their intent, as well as sending us (if you haven't
already) your full name. A brief note about your interest/role in relation
to the subject of this list would also be helpful. (This information will
only be used to prevent bogus subscriptions, and is not intended for
discriminating against any person, regardless of race, sex, color, creed or
religion who legitimately wishes to participate in this list.
Sorry for any inconvenience.
Please set your mail software to include this original text in your reply."
Incidentally, to unsubscribe from FUCK DECENCY, you need only ever
send the word "unsubscribe," or any other message that conveys your desire to
get off the FUCK DECENCY mailing list.
AND IN THE END...
FEMINISM: IDEOLOGY OF HATE
"The masculine, as far as Gloria Steinem, and NOW, Patricia Ireland
and so on are concerned, the masculine is a disease, it is a neurosis, is the
source of all of the evils of human history, is automatically oppressive and
destructive."
- Author Camille Paglia
-------------------------- Fuck Decency! ------------------------
-Free Fuck Decency e-mail subscriptions: send (18 or up) age
statement to: roller666@aol.com
-To unsubscribe: Send $100.00 to The North American Man/Boy Love
Association, P.O. Box 174, Midtown Station, New York, NY 10018.
- ftp://members.aol.com/roller666 Diapergirls! (cunt2)
- ftp://members.aol.com/roller6666 NudieNursery! (nude1)
- ftp://members.aol.com/nnd666 Passion'sPlaypen! (passion1)
- ftp://members.aol.com/nnd66 KiddieClitties! (kiddie1)
- ftp://members.aol.com/nnd6 Jesus! (temptation1c)
-Recent back issues at Usenet newsgroup: alt.poop?
-For all back issues, send e-mail to: file.request@backdrop.com
-Fuck Decency: http://members.aol.com/nnd6/fuckdecency.html
-Free minicomics: send a stamped, self-addressed envelope & age
statement to: Jim Corrigan, P.O. Box 3663, Phenix City, AL 36868
-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 258 EMISSION
- Paglia: West Point U.S. Military Academy, C-SPAN, April 1997.
--
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