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From: Andrew Roller <roller39@IDT.NET>
Subject: FUCK DECENCY 328 Dungeon of Desire NND
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Not to worry! Seinfeld may be gone, but you still have...
Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Sponsored by: Crab the dog
Issue No. 328
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Dungeon of Desire
Chapter One
Except for my heels and my earrings, I was completely naked. I
bit my lower lip and hung my head a little, letting him gaze at me. I
stuck my chest out a little bit more, rudely, obscenely, given that my
arms were already padlocked behind my back. I was proud of myself. I
felt the newness of my body, newly grown, my plump young breasts. They
hung free, firm and full, like fresh fruit discovered in a hothouse on a
clear Spring morning. I wanted them always to be free now. I never
wanted to have them confined in a bra again. I would live here always,
I pledged to myself, where my bosoms could swing with my steps and my
bottom, round and full as my tits, could sway and sashay and tease.
I was eager to let him see me. I could feel the heat of his
breath even now, or imagined I could. He was just a few steps away.
Older than me by at least two lifetimes, mine plus his, and hard from
working in the sun, building additions to his house and improving his
dungeon. He was wealthy. An inheritance. It freed him to play games
and do as he pleased. And what he pleased to do, I knew, though nothing
had been said, not directly, anyway, was fuck.
But he was particular. Only certain girls appealed to him. He
savored power. You would think, at over six feet, he could accommodate
equality. But his housekeeper was slim and small and dainty, an
Oriental. Her every motion spoke of deference and humility. Yet, as
she grasped my arm, urging me into his presence, her slim nailed
fingers, exquisitely polished, gripped me fiercely. Underneath that
humble exterior I felt a dragon lurking. She would be as cruel as he.
She would show me the rites of Oriental Tea even as she subjected me to
the most degrading pleasures.
I wanted to be tested. There was no use kidding myself. It
was too late for that now, anyway. (Though it settles the nerves, lying
a little to yourself.) In my new body, just turned sixteen, I wanted to
meet a man who could really appreciate me and show me everything I
needed to know to be a woman. I wanted him to concentrate just on me,
nobody else. I wanted his full attention. I wanted him to tell me what
I was, what I must be, how I must act and behave. I’d had enough of
feminists with their musty tomes, counseling abstinence, and my mom,
dear fool, telling me I must finish college first, and after that
graduate school and then, as a professional woman, I might meet some man
who deferred to me as his equal.
Here I was not equal, or superior, or inferior either, though I
was inexperienced. I was just me. Me with my breasts and their nippled
thorns, poking inquisitively into the stare of my master. His chest
heaved, he sighed. He was barechested and as I watched he began to
unzip his pants.
“Kneel,” the Oriental, Katy, told me. I saw her as an
extension of him. His female side. She was not competition. They
would train me together. She was there to make sure I complied.
I knelt. There was a soft towel that had been laid on the
floor, perhaps by accident, perhaps for me. It was pink. It accepted
my knees and I dared to look up at my master. I watched as he tugged
down his zipper. I waited. A growth of hair appeared and I saw with a
gasp that he was wearing no underpants. I snake curled forth, its head
still trapped in his pants.
“Put out your tongue. Let him know you want him,” Katy told
me. She knelt beside me and reached round me and pinched one of my
nipples to make sure I complied.
I offered. I parted my lips and let him see the pinkness of my
tongue. It was wet. A dollop of my saliva pooled upon its curling
surface. I flattened my tongue and the saliva dropped off, fell to
strike one of my breasts.
With a huge explosive wangling extrusion, his cock burst from
his opened zipper. It greeted my eyes and seemed Alien-like;
self-possessed, harmful. It trembled with his need. Huge veins ran
along its giant, tree-trunk length and the head stood out purplish and
raw. I found myself gazing at his pee hole. As I watched, a spermy
glob of pre-cum emerged from his pee slit and hung waiting.
“Lick it,” Katy told me.
“No!” I protested. I was in Kindergarten again, learning of
Strangers. Katy grabbed my blonde hair and shoved my face forward. I
tried to close my lips but she forced me forward so fast I found him
wide within my mouth, choking me, ramming into me and filling me and
making me gag.
With a slow, sadistic wry laugh, Katy eased my head back until
Master’s penis popped from my lips. She waited. I gazed with my head
gripped by her, my chin flung back, up into my Master’s eyes.
Gradually, knowing I must, knowing I could not refuse, I extended my
tongue again. It touched his pee hole. I flicked it. I soothed the
flat of my tongue against it. And Katy, moving my head forward as I
accepted the contact, made me take him full in my mouth again.
“Yes. Suck,” Katy ordered. I suckled his cock like a baby
mouthing a cucumber. He was so big! I could hardly do him justice with
my little mouth. But I tried. I tried my best, and that was what they
were after. I must perform to the best of my ability, I must not hold
back, not anything, and I must be willing to learn all I could.
Master watched me suck him. He was big beyond belief and he
knew that’s what I’d come for. I could not tolerate boys. I needed
men. And I needed, in my needing, Men with big Ones, as little girls
delicately put it.
“She should have the taste of you, Master,” Katy told her
employer.
He laughed. They both laughed, as he let himself cum, spurting
and spurting and spurting into my mouth, and I gobbled at his cock and
tried to swallow him all.
I failed miserably. His sperm gushed over my chin and
splattered my breasts and ran down my tummy into my sweet nest of
curls. A puddle formed on the towel. His essence. His sperm, saved
for me, but now lost due to my inexperience.
“You have much to learn,” Master told me. I looked up at him
wide-eyed, my mouth limned with his sperm and feeling abashed.
Katy lifted me up by my hair. She turned me to face her. She
was naked as I, her breasts hanging free, full and plump and with
nipples risen. She had a dough-eyed face, round and Japanese, with a
perky nose and a long swan-like throat. She mashed my mouth to hers. I
felt her breasts, quite large for an Oriental, crush themselves against
mine. “Let me clean you,” she said, and her tongue stabbed into my
mouth, not asking permission, just sticking itself in as if I were owned
by her. My mouth was hers and my body was hers and as I felt her palms
against my bottom, hefting it, grabbing me and pulling me to her, I knew
I was not myself anymore but theirs.
Our games had begun upstairs. They’d made me undress the
minute I stepped into their house. Out back, on their porch, they’d
shown me their patio. A blanket covered its cement surface to protect
my bare feet. And my knees. They made me kneel and drink from a dog
food bowl.
“The water is fresh. I just poured it before you arrived,”
Katy told me. “It’s Perrier. Drink it all.” She led me forward to the
bowl. I glanced back at her, at Him, the man who would be my Master
here. My blonde hair, long and soft and beautiful, catching glints of
the setting sun, swirled around my frightened face. And then I knelt.
It was awkward, kneeling before a dog dish. I had to get right down and
not use my hands. They were still free then. I put my palms on the
carpet and felt my breasts swing freely under me as I put my mouth down
to the dog dish. In back, my bottom, sheathed in my jeans out on the
street, now bulged freely behind me. I felt the crack of my small tight
seat open as I bent down to tongue the dish.
I kissed the water. It was cool. The dish had my name on it.
“Kelly,” it read. They’d personalized it just for me. Dutifully I
lapped at the water. My bosoms, like gourds, hung and swung under me.
My nipples were stiff and they grazed the blanket.
“Drink it all. You must pee for us, like a doggie,” Katy
said. She stood over me, watching, holding the whip I’d brought with me
for them to beat me with. It had been required. I had no choice in
that, none at all, unless I chose not to come.
I lifted my head. I felt rebellious. They had a marvelous
backyard pool and I’d never skinny dipped in my life. I watched the
water ripple across it in the wind and expected we’d swim in it.
“Will we swim?” I asked simply.
“No,” Katy replied. She opened a parasol over my heinie. I
felt the rays of the setting sun, warm a moment ago, blocked and kept
out by the parasol. Under its shadow my bottom was cool. A mountain
breeze kissed my ass cheeks, as if urging them wider apart.
“Why?” I asked.
“Not ‘til after dark, love. You must stay out of the sun. You
must protect your skin.”
I glanced up at her. A lock of my hair fell into the bowl and
became wet in it. She was Oriental, and her skin was white, delicate.
Her hair was rich and black and it tumbled down in strands over her
shoulders where her simple coiffure was coming undone.
“But,” I breathed. She held the parasol in one hand the whip
I’d brought in the other.
“You have lovely skin,” Katy said, looking down at me. “I’ll
enjoy marking it.”
COMIC REVIEW
by holy joe
Zipwad, No. 1, 25 cents. Minicomic. Tan paper, eight pages. Brian
Kirk, Moot Comics, 93 Sunapee Street, Springfield, MA 01108. e-mail:
mootcomics@aol.com web: http://www.the-spa.com/bear/moothome
Review: On January 5, 1998, on a reprise interview on Charlie
Rose, Jerry Seinfeld told Charlie, referring to Seinfeld, “It’s a
hand-made show.”
Well, for all those viewers who enjoyed the loving care
lavished on a self-described hand-made T.V. show, what better way to get
over the loss of Seinfeld than by ordering a bona fide, hand-made comic?
Brian’s comics are drawn by hand, then xeroxed and collated by
hand, and, finally, stapled by hand. I still remember the days when he
couldn’t find a decent xerox machine, and was forced to xerox his comics
on sub-standard equipment. Those days are, fortunately, gone, but the
loving care of a hand-made product persists.
Due to market demand or, more likely, to the whim of the
artist, Brian has given a character from Pissed Off comics his own
title. This is it! Zipwad, number one. In this issue Zipwad invents a
chair that can travel through time. There’s just one drawback. To make
the chair work, you have to sit on a tack that’s been embedded in the
chair’s seat. (Perhaps Brian has read too many bottom-stinging issues
of Fuck Decency!) Zipwad takes a painful journey back in time to
Christ’s last supper. He clues Jesus in on who is betraying him. Then
it’s off to the Middle Ages, Rome, and, finally, with the perfection of
the chair (the ‘tack problem’ is finally resolved) to a place Zipwad
finds even more painful than his time-travelling chair.
Each panel in this comic is drawn with loving care.
Electricity sizzles across the comic’s title: “Zipwad”. A screw falls
out of a cabinet as Zipwad opens it to look for a way to make his chair
more comfortable. Shadows line a hallway that Zipwad escapes down, and
play across his bottom as he prepares to sit in his time-travelling
chair.
“Zipwad” is a cute little comic featuring a man who goes boldly
where no man has gone before... with his bottom!
MAGAZINE REVIEWS
by holy joe
Playboy’s Voluptuous Vixens, $6.95. Web: http://www.playboy.com
Review: This is a collection of previously published photos,
plus some new ones. Did you miss the very first photos of Tiffany
Taylor, published in Playboy’s College Girls? The best photo from that
set is reprinted here. It’s a photo of Tiffany staring with awe-struck
eyes, her shirt uplifted to expose her bountiful bosoms, while her
fingers curl hesitantly near her mouth. Right next to that classic
photo, on the opposite page, is one of Tiffany’s tummy. Her childish
hands pull down her panties to expose her bush; her shirt is pulled up
to offer a tantalizing, close-up view of her breasts.
Perhaps you missed Playboy’s Nude Playmates, published last
spring. Not to worry! The best photo from that issue, of Angel Boris
clinging to Priscilla Taylor, is reprinted. Both girls are nude.
Angel’s breasts press against Priscilla’s, and the close contact between
the two girls causes Angel’s nipples to sprout.
One important note: the copy I bought of Playboy’s Voluptuous
Vixens had manufacturer’s damage on all the photos listed above. It
wasn’t too bad, but check your copy before you buy it if you can.
What else is in this issue? Well, if you want to see what
Alley Baggett looked like before she stupidly frizzed her hair, check
out page 52. As she stares into the camera, her bare bosoms looming
below her pixie face, she juts a finger into her tempting mouth. The
opposite page shows her ready to party in a bosom-baring corset.
(Incidentally, I called Alley’s parents and asked about her
name. “Her older brothers are named ‘Street,’ and ‘Avenue,’” her father
told me. “She was just a girl, and small, so we named her ‘Alley.’ Her
baby brother is named ‘Lane.’” Clever family, eh?)
Recently a Playboy Playmate visited me. She wanted to be sure
I mentioned her when she appeared in Playboy. I told her I would, but
she’d have to have sex with me. She agreed. You can see what she
looked like when I was through fucking her, on pages 56 and 57.
(Friends tell me Vikki Neil was sore for days following our meeting!)
Playmate Vanessa Taylor (what is it with the Taylors... how
many beautiful daughters do they have?!) went to the doctor. She had to
get a physical exam before she could start college. You can see her
undressed, waiting to meet the doctor, on pages 62-63. If you’re
wondering why she’s holding a pencil in one of the photos, it’s so she
can fill out those pesky insurance forms everyone has to fill out before
they see the doctor. (As you can see, the doctor wasn’t stupid. He had
her undress first. Then he gave her the forms to fill out!) Young
Vanessa, being a little scared about seeing the doctor, brought along
her favorite teddy bears to keep her company. They couldn’t help her
with the forms though...
If you’ve never been breast-fed, take a look at pages 86-87.
Playmate Jennifer Perry demonstrates the proper technique. In my
opinion, except for Tiffany Taylor, these were the best photos of the
issue. Her breasts are wonderfully large, beautifully tanned, and she
handles them with loving, expert fingers. God, what a set of photos!
There is a new style of layout in this issue. It’s very
clever. On one page is a glorious photo of the girl, printed nice and
large, that includes her face. Then, on the opposite page, are one or
more photos that zoom in on her most important parts, excluding her
face. By looking at both pages at the same time, you get quite a
pleasurable viewing experience. True, it isn’t as wonderful as reading
an article by Andrea Dorkin, but we can’t just sit around enjoying
ourselves all the time, can we?
Us us us
by Paul Magnuson
Pushing for an out
like steam in the tea kettle
before it sings
energy energy energy
trying to get loose
like four jet engines
screwed to wings
tension tension tension
till the release and the peace
that finally comes
in a rush and a gush.
I ... am ... yours.
AND IN THE END...
“God knows what he does with himself and the magazines all
night.”
- Frank McCourt, Angela’s Ashes, pg. 346.
-------------------------- Fuck Decency! ------------------------
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-Naughty Naked Dreamgirls (Library of Congress ISSN: 1070-1427) is
copyright 1998 and a trademark of Andrew Roller. Work by others
copyright 1998 by the respective copyright holder.
-END OF 328 EMISSION
- To hell with Seinfeld. It’s his 17-year-old girlfriend Shoshanna that
I want to see on T.V.! (Source: Star, June 15, 1993, pg. 37)
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