Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 17
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Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in 
Love Child

Chapter Nine

         When I'd fed from both breasts Rebecca allowed me to lift my 
face.  She licked the sperm from around my mouth.  Only a little 
remained.  Most had gotten on her breasts and been licked off by me.
         I wondered what someone would have thought if they'd walked in 
just then.  Rebecca, the successful business woman, with her jacket 
open, her titties exposed, a young girl standing obediently and quite 
nakedly beside her.  My face sticky with sperm, her breasts wet with 
my saliva.  Would John rise, introduce himself to our visitor?  Would he 
zip up his fly before he did, or would he leave his sausage hanging out, 
still large in its limpness.  Would he speak quietly with the guest, 
stiffening slowly?  Male or female, it might not matter, especially if 
they were young.  He might pork either sex, I thought, just like 
Gretchen's husband.  Would the young woman, a secretary perhaps, try 
to retain her composure?  Would a male, an assistant maybe, mention 
the member?
         "Sir, you seem to be sexually excited.  May I help you with that?" 
my imaginary visitor asks.  Or perhaps the visitor is older, and quite 
shocked.  Would Rebecca suffer repercussions in the business world?  
Then again, was she a businesswoman at all?  Perhaps she was just a 
wife, playing a role.  
         "But you will not escape your punishment," Rebecca was saying to 
me as my mind returned to the present.  "There are many wicked 
delights waiting for you, my dear, and you are going to boldly enjoy 
them.  I will not let you hesitate or hang back.  No, we are going to see 
just what this lithe little body of yours can take!"  
         She stood up then, cast off her jacket, reached behind herself and 
summarily unzipped her skirt.  It fell to the floor, revealing a proudly 
displayed public mound, framed by the garters of her corset.  They kept 
her nylons tight, thigh-high nylons that I knew she didn't want to get 
any runs in.  I suspected she would be most delicate with herself, while 
forcing me to undergo the most nasty torments.
         Bravely I let them lead me into their bedroom.  With a dismayed 
gasp I saw it was "ready for business."  The bed had straps hanging 
above it, for reluctant arms and legs.  Upon it lay a riding crop, and 
beside the bed, quite matter-of-factly, were salves and unguents and 
pots of cream to soothe abraded skin.  A gag was looped casually around 
one of the bedposts, untied, waiting.  A blindfold lay nearby, upon the 
pillow.  A mirror, turned inward, reflected all the activities that might 
take place upon the bed back toward its occupants, such as they may be.  
         In a corner there was a rocking horse, perhaps a treat for little 
girls.  On the wall, beside it, a pony lash hung from a nail.  A hole in the 
handle let it hang whip downward.  Did I see the tip twitch expectantly 
when I entered the room?
         An ostrich feather stood among the perfumed vials on the 
nightstand.  I wondered if other girls had been tickled by its tip, their 
cunnies moistening pleasantly as Rebecca or John invaded their most 
intimate parts.  Unlike the business meeting, with its insistence on 
modesty and decorum, this was a place where modesty was banished.  
Penises were required to be erect, nipples to be rigid.  Private parts 
were not hidden but totally, mercilessly exposed.
         The bed was rather high.  There was a helpful staircase of little 
wooden steps beside it.  They had placed the little stairs before the 
inward turning mirror, so that anyone walking up them would have her 
bottom reflected even as she displayed her nudity in front.
         I walked to the steps, graceful in my stride.  I did not have to be 
told.  I knew what was expected of me.  Giving my long hair a casual 
toss, I regarded the steps.  Then I mounted them.  I stepped mincingly 
up them, suddenly hesitant.  Upon closer inspection the bed seemed to 
loom before me as a kind of platform for sex, a sacrificial altar, even.  
Rebecca had said she would show no mercy with regard to my 
denouement.
         Childlike I stood upon the bed, my feet sinking into the mattress.  
My bottom seemed to loom larger as a result, my heels negatively 
inclined, pressing down into the mattress more than my toes.  My legs 
were awkward, attractive in their awkwardness.  
         Innocent in my appearance I watched, wide-eyed, as Rebecca 
advanced upon me.  She had donned soft leather gloves.  In her hands she 
held a long white rope.  Turning slightly, I gave Rebecca my wrists.  
There was no hope of refusal.  Frankly Rebecca bound my wrists, then 
flung the rope over a beam high above the bed.  She pulled the rope down 
on the other side of the beam, yanking my arms skyward.  I gasped.  My 
big breasts bounced on my chest.  She pulled hard, again, nearly 
wrenching my arms out of their sockets.  Then she tied the rope off to 
the black rail that formed the bed's headboard.  Uncomfortably I 
realized I had a sudden need to pee.  The wine had found my bladder.  
Dared I ask?  I looked back over my shoulder, to where Rebecca had 
retreated to.  She was helping John out of his clothing.  He was husky, 
hard-bodied, unique for a man over 40.  I saw that his cock had 
stiffened.  Not completely, for that might have saved me from 
punishment.  But pleasantly, as if to say, "I'll get fully erect when the 
mood moves me."  He was in no hurry.  We were utterly at his disposal.  
He had no reason for urgency.    
         I was the living centerpiece in a room specially furnished for sex, 
I realized, and nothing else.  This bed hadn't been purchased for sleeping 
in.  Ever.  Beneath my feet, below the sheet, I felt the crinkle of plastic.  
A covering to protect the mattress from all the bodily fluids that 
would no doubt be spilled.  This was a room for activity!  A playpen, 
playground, for adults.  I wondered how often cocks were freed in here, 
only to be titillated and thrust within clenching orifices.  Squeezed dry 
by female slaves.  Or perhaps, sometimes, the males were the slaves, 
their balls and dicks required to serve female predilections.  I 
remembered the book they'd shown me at the other dinner party.  
Shocking things indeed could be done in the name of sex, to both sexes.  
I'd been spared many of them so far, but Rebecca, sensing this (perhaps 
even being told it by Gretchen) seemed determined to make me breach 
new boundaries.  She strode up to me again, placed a gloved hand on my 
bare hip.  Softly she caressed my heinie.  The leather felt smart, 
civilized, against my saucily nude rump.  In her other hand she held a 
riding crop, picked up from the bed.  She seemed to hesitate though, 
lingering over me, as if not wanting to damage such a fine specimen.
         Realizing perhaps at last that she only had me for the night (I 
learned of this proviso later), Rebecca stepped back.  She drew the 
length of the leather crop across her palm.  She sized up my bottom.  
         "Please, mistress, not too hard," I begged.  My voice was soft, 
lilting.  A wicked grin spread across her face.  Her bosoms brooded 
above her corset, plump and white and lovely.
         "It shall be exceedingly hard, dear," Rebecca replied.  "Most 
painful.  You will relish each crisp stroke as I know you can, if only you 
try.  Each will be delivered with consummate skill, if I can manage it, 
to bring out a sweet, exquisite cry from your little throat.  And when I 
am done you will have the most beautifully striped bottom of any girl 
in London.  You will be able to show it off at parties, and people will 
say, "My, she's had a lot!  She was a good girl, to let herself in for such 
a punishment."  Because you have, haven't you, dear?  I mean of course 
if I untied you now you'd leave, your bottom cheeks huddling thankfully 
as you scurried out the door, but you aren't exactly staying in a convent 
with Gretchen, are you?
         Oh, you're going to be so aware of your bottom in the days to 
come, thinking of it every minute!  How naughty to want to think of your 
bottom all the time.  But it will be so sore, deliciously sensitive.  You'll 
have to sit down very gingerly at dinner, Robert will get hard just 
watching you.  And that's what you want, isn't it, you little tart?  You 
want to be the very picture of feminine delicacy, with even a delicate 
ass!"
         She struck me then, a bright, blazing brand of the crop right 
across the summit of my bottomcheeks, and I cried aloud.
         "Yes, dear, shout and scream all you like.  No one can hear.  Your 
naughtiness in wanting your bottom sensitized is private now, though 
later you will hardly be able to keep it so.  If you go out to a restaurant, 
people will whisper as they watch you flinch sitting down.  You'll have 
to request a cushion, too.  Imagine that!  "Please, Mr. Maitre d', may I 
have a soft pillow to sit on?  I have a very sore bottom right now."  
         "If you go to the pool, in a fashionable thong swimsuit, there will 
be no hiding it.  People will remark to each other as they watch you 
wriggle by.  You might meet someone in a poolside bar, chat awhile, 
then turn around.  Oh, my!  Imagine their shock when they see your 
stripes.  And imagine the temptation too.  They'll want to add some of 
their own.  "This girl is incredibly sexy," a man will think as you 
deliberately show him your bottom, in the seemingly innocent act of 
turning around.  "Wow!  I must have her!"
         She hit me again, and I hollered.  My lungs expelled air, refilled.  I 
danced upon the sheet, lifting one leg, the other, trying to cast off the 
pain.  "How skittish you are!" Rebecca said, watching me in my nudity as 
I leapt about.  I was heedless of how the lifting of my legs exposed the 
pouch of my cunt.  "You want the marks but not the pain, don't you, 
dear?  Like wanting a baby without childbirth.  I'm afraid it's not 
possible."  She struck me again.  The crop seemed to sweep up, lifting 
my bottom.  I saw John in a mirror, stroking himself.  I was on display, 
a sexual mannikin.  The model every man dreamed of:  gorgeous, 
stripped naked, existing only for his sexual pleasure.  And when he was 
through he would dispose of me, sending me back to Gretchen, thinking 
of me no more.
         WHACK!  "Yeeeoch!" I wept at the laying on of this latest strike, 
the tears flying from my face.  Not crying, really, not yet.  That would 
come later; instead the tears seemed simply to be popped right out of 
my eyes, like the erect nipples popping up from my breasts.
         WHACK!  WHACK!  Two more burning strokes, placed neatly 
between those that had been laid on before.  She was skilled in the art 
of it, that was for sure.
         She let me feel the heat of it then, the heat suffusing my bottom.  
Rebecca strolled over to John.  She put down her crop and felt his 
genitalia with her gloved hands.  Clinically, like a nurse.  He seemed but 
a boy in her hands.  Not by his size, certainly, which was overwhelming 
in the fullness of its erection, but by his demeanor.  He stood looking 
down at himself, hands dropped to his sides, as she squeezed and palped 
and felt him.  I stood watching through the mirror, my bottom a ripened 
tomato, radiating heat.  A heat-seeking missile would have found me 
and shot right up my ass.  When at last my squirmings subsided (I 
forced myself to stop dancing at last, wanting to appear ladylike), I 
stood with my bare feet solidly planted upon the bed.  Tears ran 
silently down my cheeks.  I was crying now, partly from pain, partly 
from humiliation.  Yet I seemed to hunger for humiliation, I told myself, 
from that finger-wagging part of the brain that holds the conscience.
         There was no hurry in the matter of John's upcoming ejaculation.  
And there was no hurry in my punishment, either.  Rebecca seemed to 
want me to enjoy every minute of it.  A little later, with John 
trembling on the brink but not quite lost, his penis quavering, she 
returned to me.  She used a paddle next, swatting me hard, crushing my 
bottomcheeks with the inswiping leather.  It was a ping-pong paddle, 
small, easily handled, covered in smooth rawhide.  
         SPLAT!  She did not wish to mark me any more with specific 
stripes, but rather to impart a generalized stinging to my bottom.  
Every inch of my naughty ass must be made to burn.  I high-stepped in 
place upon the bed, lifting my knees now, seeming to march.  I was not 
quite the skittering nude of before.  My suffering had become somewhat 
routinized.  I was tiring.  She would strike me and I would lift a knee.  I 
must have marched half a mile before she finally tossed away the 
paddle.  She was careless, carefree, the exact opposite of me.  I was a 
tormented soul, all too mindful of my sin.  She was a free spirit.  Ariel 
and Caliban.
         John received Rebecca's mouth around his penis this time.  She 
sucked him dreamily, worshipfully, a divine aristocratic goddess 
submitting herself willingly to the male organ.  I yearned to be in her 
place.  Let her take mine!  She could have his penis always.  I could only 
have him tonight.
         "Please, mistress, I have to pee," I called out.  I was a child in the 
third grade.  Her lovely mane of hair just kept bobbing, sucking.  "Oooh, I 
have to pee so badly!" I said.  She ignored me.  John looked up once, 
smiled, said nothing.  
         I think my asking to relieve myself only worsened my position.  
As I bulged within, feeling my need ever more keenly, Rebecca remained 
unflappable.  She sucked steadily.  John groaned, thrust his hips 
forward, but held himself.  A man does not reach 40, in the great shape 
he was in, without learning to discipline himself.
         Much later, hours perhaps (or so it seemed, I'd gone dizzy with my 
overwhelming urge to pee), Rebecca stood.  She let go of John's organ, 
revealing a saliva-coated piston of muscle.  It throbbed mightily.  He 
jerked his hips, poking at the air, moaning.  Yet he controlled himself.  
There was no emission, had been none.  
         I was not so well trained.  As Rebecca advanced upon me I 
suddenly, sickeningly, felt urine run down my thighs.  I was peeing on 
the bed!  Mortified, I gazed at Rebecca, all a-tremble with the 
shuddering release of my urine.  I tried to stop it, couldn't.  Rebecca 
came up next to me and placed a gloved hand in the small of my back, 
stroked me there.  I shivered and peed even more enthusiastically.
         "Yes, dear, there's no point in stopping it now.  You've messed your 
bed already," Rebecca said.  The relief I felt was overwhelming as my 
bladder emptied.  For a moment I forgot even the burning of my bottom!  
"Of course, you will have to be punished most severely for this," 
Rebecca added.  "And before you go home I'll make you wash the sheets 
by hand.  Somehow this last sentence relieved me.  At least I knew 
there'd be something left of me after this night was over!
         Rebecca pulled off her gloves.  Taking a perfumed phial from the 
nightstand, Rebecca poured a stinging alcoholic solution over my 
bottom.  "Yeech!" I squawked.  Her long, red-painted fingernails glinted 
sharply in the light.  With her palm she cupped my cheeks, each in turn.  
She rubbed the scented oil into my scorched assflesh.  I wriggled, 
settled finally in her palm.  She swept a finger up my bottomcrack, 
sought my rose.  I jerked suddenly as she sought within.  Her nail 
pricked me there.  She laughed, sultry, husky, her big boobs juddering 
atop her corset.
         "I wish to do more to you than this room can afford," Rebecca told 
me.  "We shall go downtown and rent a dungeon for several hours."  I 
looked at her, shocked.  "Don't worry, the ones on 9th street are 
designed to offer complete privacy.  Unless, that is, you'd rather be 
watched?"
         "I just want to go home," I said unconvincingly, though my voice 
did have a very pleading tone to it.  In the mirror John's cock stood out 
from his hips, beckoning.  I was hot, aroused.  I knew I could not go back 
from this state, only forward.  Like when I was a girl in bed, 
masturbating "just a little," until the rising ardor overwhelmed me and 
I rubbed myself to frenzied orgasm.
         Rebecca untied me.  I rubbed my arms.  The joints ached.  They had 
gone to sleep, strung up like they'd been.  Carefully I made my way down 
the steps from the bed.  My head was addled, my bottom so very sore.  I 
could only think of John's cock, my desire for it.
         Underpants.  Rebecca handed John a white cotton pair of Jockey's.  
Anything in the skimpy nylon variety would have been impossible to 
wear.  Eyeing his cock, Rebecca ordered John to stuff himself into the 
Jockey's, somehow.  "We are going downtown," she said.  "You must 
dress."  Woefully John looked at her.  Was he enjoying this?  Had it all 
been agreed to beforehand?  Or did he just let her lead sometimes, 
wherever she might?  Couples, their relationships, were still an 
unknown thing to me.  
         As John struggled into his shorts, Rebecca handed me panties.  
They were teensy.  They would fit very snugly upon my burning ass, I 
knew, accentuating my hurt.  "Put these on," Rebecca said.  "You and I 
will wear fur coats.  Yours, perhaps for the best, only goes as far as the 
waist."  I spied a short mink coat hanging in an open clothes closet, 
next to a full-length one.  "But I cannot have you waggling your bare ass 
around on the streets of London, much as you might like to.  You must 
wear panties at least."
         "But," I protested, eyeing the panties ruefully.  I didn't want 
anything touching my flaming ass.  
         "This is a CIVILIZED country, not Africa, or Argentina, or 
wherever YOU'RE from," Rebecca said.  She gave me a scornful look.  
Gingerly I put on the panties, drawing them up my legs, crying out as 
they touched my scorched bottom.  "Pull them up properly!" Rebecca 
said.  I'd tried to only cover myself a little with them.  She yanked them 
up so that they molded themselves completely to my fanny.  I whistled 
through parted lips at the pain, gave a little sob.  "There.  You'll keep 
those on until I tell you to take them off!" Rebecca said.  She went to a 
closet, returned with a fur wrap.  Gratefully I put it on.  My nipples felt 
warm and comforted inside it as I closed it around me.  But it only just 
grazed my bottom.  My outswelling asscheeks, properly pantied now, 
remained fully exposed.  Below that stretched my bare legs.  Rebecca 
gave me boots and as she held them for me I stepped into them.  They 
came up to my knees.  They were of fine black leather.  Then she gave 
me fur mittens, and I put these on and drew the hood of my cloak up 
over my head.  I felt strange, clothed and unclothed.  I looked at myself 
in the mirror.  I postured, just a little, posing myself in my new attire.

DREAMGIRLS LANDS ON THE MOON!
by Missy

         It was a barren and lifeless newsgroup, with no messages on it at 
all!  I went tip-toeing upon it, my wee cunt dripping, hoping to find 
somebody.  No one was there, not even a fag.  Not even some idiot saying 
which operating system is better!  So, after taking a piss(y), I decided to 
post the first ten issues of Naughty Naked Dreamgirls there, so other gals 
can have drippy cunts just like me.  (Not to mention all you horny boys who 
dream of Missy when youÕre not roaming the Internet!)

         Hugs and Kisses........ m i s s y *

The newsgroup, by the way, is  alt.poop?

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