Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
FREE! Internet Edition May 31, 1995
D R E A M G I R L S S T O R I E S
Chambers of Love
Part Six
by Andrew Roller
Chapter Three
Tiny mesh cups barely contained my boobs as I stood laughing
with a pair of couples in tuxedoes and gowns. I was openly admired by
the four of them as we talked. They offered me a glass of champagne
and I accepted, chattering on about how embarrassed Helga and Julie
and I had felt upon discovering how inappropriately we'd dressed for
their party. (It was fiction, of course, Helga had planned to shock
them.)
"Oh, well, you see that we invited you in anyway," a woman named
Nikki replied.
"Most delightful attire, really," a man named Bob remarked. He
reached down and gently pulled open the front of my skimpy panties.
"Ah, you ARE a true blonde, I see."
"Robert!" his wife scolded.
"Your swimsuit, it does not quite fit your bottom," a man said
from behind me. The top of my ass crack showed and my lower cheeks
hung out.
"Well, with thong bikinis being all the rage I thought it wouldn't
matter if my old-fashioned full-sized panties fell a little short," I
said, blushing, giving with accomplished grace a line Helga had taught
me. "I've grown since I bought them, you know." (In fact, Helga had
loaned me the bikini, intentionally choosing one that was a size too
small.)
"So nice of you to come anyway, even without a properly fitting
bikini," a woman named Alessa said.
"Yes, I hoped you wouldn't mind," I agreed with innocent eyes.
"Not at all," Bob said, clearing his throat. "Not at all!"
With that, Nikki pulled down my panties in back, exposing my
white-cheeked bottom. My drink was slipped out of my hand and my
arms caught up by the men on either side of me. With my butt exposed I
was led tottering on my six-inch heels across the room. Julie suffered
a similar indignity, her panties being pulled down to her knees. For
Helga it was the breasts which were bared first, the tiny bra cups
being pushed aside so that her bosoms hung out in all their glory.
"Pussies on Parade," it was called, as we were led about the room
and made to greet each and every guest, flushing intensely at our nudity
now and wondering what was happening. Even Helga was in uncharted
territory, as firmly a prisoner of the partiers as Julie and I were.
Gradually, by keeping my ears open, I began to piece together the
facts myself. The East Hill Pinocle Club had little to do with cards and
a lot to do with illicit, adulterous love. Helga had hoped to crash a
stodgy card game and spend an hour teasing wealthy old farts in front
of their gasping wives. Instead, the group proved to be in their 40's,
not their 60's, and the tricks and combinations they were intent on
making thrived on the sight of under-dressed girls. In fact, they
routinely hired strippers to get their orgies off to a lusty start.
Despite our protestations, the partiers were certain Helga and Julie and
I were the strippers they'd hired!
When I realized our predicament, a sentence I'd overheard at the
beginning of the evening came back to me with resounding horror: "My,
they're early this evening. Must be eager girls," a woman had said upon
our arrival. I'd dismissed the sentence, not understanding it, for none
of the three of us had ever been to the Club before. Now I found myself
quaking in my heels, hands groping at me as I was made to introduce
myself to the president of the club. Without asking he cupped my cunny
and squeezed it through my little mesh panties. His eyes leered at me,
snake-like.
"I'll have to check the club's finances," he said. "I didn't know it
was possible to hire such pretty girls."
Where, oh where, were the real strippers? I thought to myself. It
was the first time in my life I found myself praying to God for
prostitutes. Surely they must arrive soon and straighten things out. Or
would they see that other girls were graciously performing their
services for them and quietly slip away with their advance money?
"Truly, these are the finest strippers you ever hired, Hodgkins," a
man exclaimed to the club president. "I especially like the one with the
big boobs."
"She will shake them quite vigorously when she dances to the
snakeskin lash, surely," Hodgkins agreed. He turned back to me. "But
you are my favorite. What flavor enema do you prefer, hmm? Cat got
your tongue, eh? Tsk! Tsk!" Roughly he grabbed my little bra cups and
yanked them down. My breasts seemed to explode out of the confining
mesh. Despite my plight they sported fully erect nipples. The
president took that as a welcome sign, an indication that I was a
willing participant in his wicked games.
Helga, Julie, and I were led to a table and made to stand upon it.
Rudely my panties were pulled down, left however just above my knees,
where they hung uselessly. Helga's panties were pulled down too.
Julie's breasts were liberated from her bra.
We were handed guitars and commanded to sing. Awkwardly I
plucked at the unfamiliar instrument. I didn't know the first thing
about how to play it. The partiers told us to sing children's songs, "Old
MacDonald had a Farm" and "Mary had a Little Lamb."
It turned out Helga had taken guitar lessons as a girl. She must
have done badly. With faltering fingers she led Julie and I in trilling
out a melody or two. I plinked along, not knowing one string from the
other.
A lash cracked upon my bottom and I was told to sing better.
Helga and Julie leapt as their fannys felt the same command. Tits
jouncing above my peeled-back bra cups, which pressed against the
underside of my tits, lifting them up and displaying them lewdly, I sang
and danced about as the whip was applied lightly to my rear end.
"She's not very good, but she does wiggle nicely," a woman
remarked. My titties shook their cherry tips provocatively at her. My
love snatch peeped saucily from between my prancing thighs. My
bottom taunted, teased; its effulgent, resplendent cheeks reddening
under the whip. Was I having fun now, I scolded myself. All this
because I'd fallen in love with another woman's lawfully married
husband.
Canisters of whipped cream were produced and we were told to
keep on singing as the sticky cream was sprayed in streams onto our
naked bodies. Helga's tits were a favorite target, as was my pussy.
Julie was squirted repeatedly in the face. We screamed and begged
them to stop, to no avail.
At last we were let down from the table, bottoms smarting,
defiled with cream. Just then the real strippers showed up, and our
humiliation was complete, for we had endured all this for free!
Naughty girls in naughty swimsuits who'd gotten just what their saucy
bottoms deserved. Weeping, we went dashing out of the club. Nobody
tried to stop us, they were too busy laughing. Few worried that we
would go to the police with our mortifying story, and they were right.
Helga, a wealthy young woman in her own right, was not about to be
splashed across the pages of the National Enquirer.
We ran down the club's pebbled driveway, yanking up our panties
as we went, like girls in some 1930's comedy short. Our breasts
flopped freely, frenziedly, as we dashed for Helga's Porsche. Some
Mexican laborers, tooling home in their gardening truck, threw their
truck into a sudden stop upon the road. They stared at us as we leapt
into Helga's Porsche. She spun the car around and shot down the club
driveway, only to find the Mexican truck blocking her exit. For what
seemed like an eternity we sat there, Helga frantically honking her
horn, topless, as the men in the truck stood spellbound. Finally they
found their wits and moved out of the way for us.
***
Dripping with whipped cream, we stumbled at last into the
sanctuary of Helga's mansion. The ride home had not been completed
without turning a few heads, particularly the well-placed ones of
drivers of big rigs. No doubt by now we were on all channels, CB
buddies everywhere on the lookout for a Porsche loaded with "creamy
babes."
We headed straight for the shower. The hot water soothed me
like never before. We washed each other's backs and then took to
soaping each other all over. Despite the degradation, or perhaps
because of it, I felt randy now from what had happened to me at the
club. Julie and Helga experienced a similar, strange kind of high as we
stood there talking about it. Afterward we got in bed together and sat
laughing at what fools we'd made of ourselves.
"We tried to be little instigators, and I fear instead we were
instigated upon," Helga admitted. Even I was aware by now of my
captivating beauty; the immediate, narcotic effect it had on even the
wealthiest of men. It was fun, I admitted, to present myself to a
mature man's eyes and watch him pant, stutter, try to feed me a line
and fail miserably. Especially when his wife was standing right beside
him. Or his lady friend.
But we would have to be more careful where we did our provoking,
Helga said. "Perhaps we should go to Europe," she suggested. "They
have topless beaches and such there where a girl can display herself
safely. And soirees, too, where very little clothing is taken for
granted."
"A friend of mine went to Paris once," Julie piped up. "She told
me:
'I attended a party without my panties. It was so exotic.
Everyone was perfectly polite, and ever so discreet, yet we girls
were utterly naked from the waist down. The girls spoke
beautiful French, so sexily, forming their mouths into pretty O's.
'You cannot imagine how free one feels to be amongst
strangers, yet with your pussy and ass deliciously naked. The
men wished a similar freedom but our hostess would not allow it.'
"That's how she described it, anyway. As for myself, I swear I
will never wind up at a party with a bare ass ever again!"
"Of course, dear," Helga agreed. "But the party does sound sweet.
Did the girls finally get what they'd cum for?"
"I don't know," Julie said. "The party was on a large yacht,
travelling up the Seine, and my friend was only 10-years-old at the
time. They let her join in for a little while but then they ushered her
out." Helga and I looked at each other in open-mouthed surprise. Little
did I know that I was about to get an even bigger shock on the subject
of little girls.
Julie and I had become quite curious about Dan. He'd been missing
for several days. We pestered Helga about his whereabouts, for she
seemed to know where he was. Finally Helga relented and fetched a key
and took us downstairs to her basement. She made us pledge not to
interfere.
Through a little window we saw Dan in a sealed off room of the
cellar. A young 12-year-old maid, her breasts just budding, had Dan
tied spread-eagle to a sumptuous bed. He looked like some captive
Mars, lured to the bed by a wee siren who then sprung her net upon him.
Dan's big cock stuck up like a flagpole. Pre-cum drooled from its tip
and lay in drying rivulets along his shaft. Dan struggled in his bonds,
jabbing at the air repeatedly with his engorged organ. He appeared to
be in agony. Sweat beaded his brow.
"Dan!" Julie gasped plaintively, touching a hand to her lips as if to
ward off the sight. I was equally stunned.
"Despite what you might think, Dan is quite happy in his agony,"
Helga assured us. "Watch on."
Oblivious to us, the maiden began titillating Dan's penis with an
ostrich feather. Then, playfully, she fetched a moist cloth and sat at
his head wiping his brow. After a bit she went back to masturbating
him with the feather.
"Dan always had a bit of the masochist in him, and now one of my
smallest, most delicate maids has got the big man totally within her
sexual power. She's learnt to read his body's signals, as you can see.
Poor Dan hasn't come in days.
"Sometimes a young lady may agree to become the sex slave of a
man, because she loves him or simply for the thrill of it. Here Dan has
enslaved himself to this girl. You must let him indulge himself, Julie.
Do not think of him as your husband for now. He did a good job on you as
your groom and now has moved on to other pleasures. Kimmy, you too
must release him from your mind. If you are both good girls about it I
promise you I'll take you abroad with me when I go travelling to
Europe."
Julie and I brightened at this. I'd never been anywhere, and the
farthest Julie had ever gone was to a potato festival in Idaho. (She'd
been named Miss Potato, by the way, without even entering the
contest.)
The prospect of going ANYWHERE sounded just marvelous to me
and Julie. She didn't have to work, as Dan made an excellent salary as a
petroleum engineer. And I lived with my mother, who had gone to Las
Vegas to stay with her mother for the summer. (Graciously leaving me
behind, for the first time ever.) So we were both free, unattached, and
eager to explore the world. A world seemingly stuffed with wealthy,
powerful men who tripped over themselves to be near us.
Julie and I did our best over the ensuing day to forget Dan. We
loitered about Helga's, using her pool and playing in her big back yard.
Then, at breakfast, Helga announced that since we seemed to have
depleted America's decadence, it was time for us to go drain France.
"You mean you've got tickets?" Julie gushed. We both sat forward
eagerly.
"First class, on the Concorde out of Kennedy."
"Yea!" Julie and I both shouted. But we didn't know then what our
mischievous, inquisitive nature would get us into.
D R E A M G I R L S N E W S
A R T A N D L A W
by holy joe
You have probably heard of the conviction of Mike Diana for
producing Òobscenity.Ó Mike is a teenager in Florida. What, exactly, did
he do, you might ask? He would take a single sheet of paper, draw on
it, copy it on a xerox machine, and then fold and staple the copies. Each
sheet of paper made one booklet, called a Òminicomic.Ó Mike mailed
these to friends of his and otherwise made them available to whoever
wanted them. And these little booklets, with drawings in them, are
what got him convicted of Òobscenity.Ó
Recently on the Comics portion of Usenet I was discussing the
artist Jeff Gaither. Jeff GaitherÕs work is quite similar to that of Mike
Diana. I have no doubt that the jury that convicted Mike Diana has never
heard of Jeff Gaither, or other artists whose work is similar to MikeÕs,
such as XEX. In fact, jury members are often selected by a prosecutor
for their ignorance. Oh, they must not be totally ignorant. They must
know how to salute the flag, swear to tell Òthe truth,Ó and such
nonsense, but anything more is considered a detriment. It is preferred
that they not know what ÒartÓ is (except as the prosecutor explains it
to them). At the risk of ÒpollutingÓ some future jury member, allow me
to delve a bit into the nature of art, beginning with a description of art
as produced by Gaither, XEX, and Mike Diana.
Jeff Gaither and XEX and Mike Diana all stem from a venerable and
refined art in comics publishing, that of the Òdistorted human beingÓ
school. Everything is alive and active and weirdly depicted in such a
drawing. I first became aware of such an art form in the early 1970Õs,
when Mike Diana wasnÕt even born yet. Far from being part of some
ÒobsceneÓ backwater of the small press, Òdistorted human beingÓ art is
often done by those highly practised in drawing and inking. XEX and
GaitherÕs work, for instance, is totally professional in its appearance.
The reason you donÕt see more Òdistorted human beingÓ drawing is
because it is an elevated form of expression, rather like the Cubists or
Picasso.
Most of us just stick to ÒactualÓ representations of the human
figure (however crudely we may bring them off). It is a rare talent that
rises above the mundane paths trod by most of us. Note, however, that
the Òdistorted human beingÓ school is strictly an approach used by
ARTISTS. I have yet to see it attempted by, say, a WRITER (and artist)
of comics. In other words, someone attempting to tell a STORY with
words and pictures does not use the Òdistorted human beingÓ approach.
(At least, I have not seen it.) So the reader is presented with pure art,
pictures that are only (at most) thematically related (distorted outer
space scenes, for instance). So you can see how the uneducated of the
world (often found in abundance in prosecutorÕs offices and jury boxes),
see the minicomic consisting of Òdistorted human beingÓ scenes as
something that is merely Òobscene,Ó without, in their mind, any
inherent logic or purpose.
It is interesting to remark that in order to NOT be found obscene, art
must have some Òsocially redeeming value.Ó It is as if art, in and of
itself, is obscene. But then it is redeemed by having Òsocial value.Ó One
would think art is born with original sin, and only Jesus (or, in this case,
the morays of the social community) can free it from its sin. Without the
benediction of the community, the art is judged ÒobsceneÓ and its creator
is punished. Notice, of course, that it is the contemporary community that
judges the artistÕs work. In olden times art depicting an unmarried
mother might be judged obscene (depicting fornication), and no doubt in
HitlerÕs Germany art praising Jews was judged obscene. So the artist has
the burden of being ÒredeemedÓ not only by human society, but by the
human society OF THAT PARTICULAR MOMENT.
The primary purpose of the artist in any society is to point out the
flaws in the contemporary societyÕs view of itself and the world. By
doing this, however, the artist runs the risk of violating the very norms
which would make his art Òsocially redeeming.Ó So it is a catch 22, your
art is only Òsocially redeemingÓ if it isnÕt art. To be art, it must
challenge the contemporary societyÕs viewpoint, but in doing so it then is
Òobscene.Ó This is why the ÒitÕs legal as long as it isnÕt obsceneÓ
standard must be done away with. It violates the very notion of art.
In Senator ExxonÕs bill we are presented with the concept of
Òdecency.Ó If implemented, the State would be free to monitor your
conversations with your wife or your girlfriend. After all, husbands have
been known to say naughty things to their wives, and if they say it over
the telephone it would violate ExxonÕs Òdecency in telecommunicationsÓ
law.
Let us assume you are married. The state knows that you are
married, and that you sometimes call your wife from work. They suspect
that, husbands and wives being the sexual creatures they are (by
definition), you might say something ÒindecentÓ over the telephone to your
wife. So they tap your phone. SURE ENOUGH, they hear you say, ÒI canÕt
wait to get home, honey, to fuck your sweet little cunt!Ó And off to jail
you go. God forbid that you should be unmarried, and call up a girlfriend,
or a married man calling somebody elseÕs wife. Senator ExxonÕs law would
allow the state to wiretap anyone at anytime. And can you imagine what
might happen if you managed to tick off someone in law enforcement?
HeÕd get himself a warrant to listen in on all your telephone
conversations, thatÕs what he (or she) would do! And off to jail youÕd go.
(Just fighting the case would be time-consuming and financially difficult
in itself.)
In this way we see why Senator ExxonÕs ÒdecencyÓ bill, not to
mention that hoary notion of Òobscenity,Ó must be dumped into the
dustbin. LetÕs try following THE LAW for once, senator Exxon. ItÕs called
The First Amendment.
A R E A D I N G F U N D is being established for Stephen Knox, imprisoned
in a federal penitentiary for ordering a swimsuit video featuring teenage
girls. (Discussed in the 30May Dreamgirls). To help provide books to Knox
(formerly a Phd. candidate at Penn State), send any amount to: Uncommon
Desires Newsletter, P.O. Box 2377, New York, NY 10185. Make checks
payable to: Ophelia Editions.
ROLLER PUBLICATIONS Free for a greeting-card SASE (or $1.00) from:
Jim Corrigan, P.O. Box 3663, Phenix City, AL 36868. COMIC UPDATE
(Library of Congress ISSN: 0894-5195): small press comix. NAUGHTY
NAKED DREAMGIRLS (Library of Congress ISSN: 1070-1427): sex stories.
(Include an age statement-18 or over.) DREAMGIRLS WITH SHAMAN:
poetry. This is online issue number 6 END OF TRANSMISSION