In Honor of PresidentsÕ Day itÕs...
Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 197
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Private Places
Chapter Four
I was happily enjoying my meal when Gwen, a blonde from Sweden,
opened the front of my dress between mouthfuls of my inslurping
spaghetti. I watched dumbfounded as she poured her drink right down the
front of my dress, inside it though, coating my bosoms with the liquid as
if they were needing to be bathed.
ÒOh! Here I am washing you down and you havenÕt even gotten
spaghetti inside your dress yet!Ó Gwen apologized. ÒSomehow I guess I
thought Jill must have...Ó
ÒI have now,Ó Jill offered, and before I could stop her she took hold
of the front of my dress, taking possession of it from Gwen, and dumped a
big handful of spaghetti right over my boobies!
ÒVery well,Ó Gwen said. She picked up a glass of sherry that
belonged to the girl beside her, and, with the girl squealing in protest,
used it to rinse off my breasts. ÒItÕs for a good cause,Ó Gwen told her
seatmate. I watched as the sherry was poured over my bosoms, into my
expensive gown. When Gwen let go of my gown she returned to her meal,
as if nothing had happened.
ÒWell, I donÕt like this!Ó I said. I reached over and yanked down the
straps of GwenÕs gown. She screeched as her bosoms were bared to the
entire table. Her gown settled at her waist, showing all she had in the
cleavage department, and I picked up spaghetti from my plate and threw it
onto her bosoms. It hit, slithered down, hung on her nipples, fell to her
lap.
ÒShe will have her nipples tattooed,Ó a man across from us said to
Sam.
ÒWhat? They are perfect!Ó Sam protested.
ÒI want them darker,Ó the man replied. ÒI do not like pink nipples. I
want them to look as if theyÕve been rouged, permanently.Ó
ÒGet your cocks out, you two,Ó our headmistress declared from her
post at the head of our table. ÒIÕll decide who gets tattooed, and where.
Maids! Pour some cold champagne on these menÕs penises to cool them
down. They seem to have lost their manners, discussing such things as
girlÕs nipples when I am still trying to eat! Girls, do behave yourselves,
donÕt just play with your food, try to eat it!Ó
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A R E A D I N G F U N D has been established for Stephen Knox, imprisoned
in a federal penitentiary for ordering a swimsuit video featuring teenage
girls. 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.
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Doing our best to settle down, we returned to our healthy veggie
mongolian meals. They really were quite tasty! I poked through my
spaghetti and found slices of celery, artichokes, water chestnuts, and bits
of spinach, everything a real model would expect to eat if she were to
stay slim.
One of the maids, blushing a little, drawing in her bottom cheeks,
approached our hostess at the head of the table and asked to be excused.
ÒWhy, whatever for?Ó our hostess replied.
The maid, despite her nude tushy, leaned forward and whispered
something confidentially in our hostessÕ ear.
ÒTo pee?Ó our hostess asked. ÒIÕm tired of having you girls run to
the toilet. First one, now another. Take off your panties, miss! YouÕll pee
right here, where you can get back to work the instant youÕre done!Ó The
maid looked at her woefully. Perhaps it was her first meal, I realized.
She did seem shy, after all, though she managed to move with a
gracefulness, while serving us, that had fooled me, at least, into thinking
she was used to all this.
ÒNo, you wonÕt wet your stockings, not if you keep your legs spread,Ó
our hostess told my favorite of the two maids. She was a blonde, like me,
with her hair tied up in a pink ribbon. She tugged at her collar and then,
seeing hostess reach for the switch, she nervously began pulling her
panties down. A moment later and they were off. At hostessÕ insistence
she handed them to the woman. ÒQuit being so shy!Ó hostess scolded the
maid, whom I later learned was named Candi. ÒJust to show you how
necessary it is not to be shy IÕm going to pass your panties around the
table. I hope you didnÕt wet them or anything, out of excitement at seeing
all these men, hmmm?Ó
To the utter mortification of Candi, hostess passed her panties to
the nearest male and urged him to sniff them. ÒTo see if she meets your
approval, sir,Ó mistress encouraged.
ÒMmmm, smell fine to me,Ó the man answered. ÒWhat about you,
Jake? What do you think of our maid? Has she kept her panties in proper
order?Ó
ÒThong panties, my favorite,Ó Jake said, taking them. He sniffed
them and passed them around. Even we girls had to pass CandiÕs panties
under our nose, smelling her feminine odor. What an odd dinner this was!
Hostess made Candi stand before the nearest man and put her foot up
on the arm of his chair. At hostessÕ instruction, she was required to lift
the bib of her apron. Trembling with her need to pee, she waited whilst
her companion maid brought the man Òa pee pot,Ó as hostess called it
(actually an empty sugar bowl). To our amazed surprise, with mistress
threatening her bare bottom with a birch, Candi was made to pee, her leg
uplifted onto the chair arm, into the sugar bowl. She missed a little, but
did her best, hitting the manÕs suit with her squirting pee and making him
laugh at her. Candi herself was not amused, but she could not refuse, lest
her bare bottom be warmed with hostessÕ handy switch.
When Candi was done she quickly retreated from both the man and
hostess, biting her lip, certain that her wiggly bottom would be struck
with a switch. We were each armed with one. I felt a sizzling somewhere
within me. To strut around, so pretty, yet so obviously naked, and to fear...
yes to FEAR that a very tender, vulnerable part of me, (yet not one that
could truly be hurt, absent some real brutality) might be zinged right
across its bouncy hemispheres at any moment. Did I want that? To be
admired, as I strutted about, so bare, trying so hard to be poised and
perfect, yet with my pretty ass on display and switches all about me? I
did not know. I did not... Yet despite our beauty, all of us models (well,
me maybe in the future, I was sure I could do it), the eyes of every man
watched precious Candi as she skipped away from her peeing at the table,
sure sheÕd be hit yet somehow escaping it.
ÒCandi,Ó hostess intoned. I felt a strange desire...to see her
smacked. To see her cry out and blurt protestations. Would hostess do it?
ÒCandi, please bring forth the tomatoes. The girls are ready now,Ó hostess
instructed.
ÒYes,m,Ó Candi said neatly, primly, as if at church, instructed to go
light the candles. She scurried away. I fingered my birch. Could I whack
her? Little me? I suppose anyone could. We had all been given them. But
did I need hostessÕ permission first? Oh, I was a naughty girl. I should
have been home, watching Barney, or learning my algebraic counting, or my
Greek letters, but instead I was here, my undies creamy, spaghetti and
sherry in my ever-so flimsy gown.
Candi, her confidence returned, pranced round the table laying out
little squares of gold foil, which she carried upon a large silver tray.
Within each square of foil was a cherry tomato. Before actually setting
the tomato down before someone, she would briefly remove it from its
foil patch and dip it in vaseline, then offer it upon the foil to its intended
recipient. I gazed down at my oddly glossy tomato. It looked specially
polished, thanks to the vaseline, as if it were about to be featured in some
T.V. commercial. Each of us girls received one. None of the men did.
ÒWhat is this for?Ó I asked.
ÒYou must stick it up your butt,Ó Gwen replied. Her fine Swedish
cheeks smiled at me as she plucked her own tomato from its foil and
elevated her bottom slightly off her chair. She squished up her face a
moment, uncertain, reaching within her panties to locate her hole, and
suddenly there was a pursing of lips, a kind of little Òoh!Ó expression, and
the act was done. The tomato was within her. She sat back down,
gingerly. ÒNow you do it,Ó she told me.
ÒI- What?!Ó I turned wildly to Jill.
ÒItÕs why we all have switches, dear,Ó Jill said warningly, even as I
saw her place her hand under her own butt and gulpingly receive a tomato.
Her own fingers did it, popping the thing within herself. She settled back
into her chair. ÒDonÕt disobey, or weÕll cut you to ribbons, or any of us
who doesnÕt do it.Ó
ÒMy husbandÕs a surgeon,Ó Gwen said, casting a meaningful glance at
the hubby of hers who would have her tattooed. ÒHe has his instruments
with him, in a little bag, beside his chair. HeÕs very good. DonÕt worry, he
can get it back out of you if it gets stuck.Ó She reached over, lifted my
tomato with her perfect, long-nailed fingertips. ÒWould you like me to do
it? I know it can be hard, the first time.Ó
ÒNo!Ó I said. Possessively I reached out and grabbed my tomato back
from her. The last thing I wanted at this moment was to be upended in
front of all these strange women and men, with their strange table
manners, and be made to receive a tomato while they all watched. If the
thing was to be done, IÕd do it myself, however awful it might be. ÒIÕll do
it,Ó I assured her.
ÒRight up,Ó Gwen warned. ÒThe punishment is worse for those who
cheat and just leave it in their panties.
I swallowed hard. Alright. I put my hand, armed with the tomato,
down behind myself. I lifted my dress a little, in back. The whole table
watched as I bit my lip, scared, feeling within my ass cheeks. I tightened
my hole even as I sought to intrude within it.
ÒThatÕs it, right in,Ó Gwen said. She leaned over my backside,
watching. Lightly she placed a hand on my trembling shoulder. Her
mittened hand on my bare shoulder. There was something wrong in that, I
was sure, feeling my bare flesh against her softly caressing hand. Her
hand should be bare, and my shoulder clothed!
I felt the tomato graze my anus. I worked it in a little, fighting my
clenching cheeks. ÒDonÕt be afraid,Ó Gwen said soothingly. ÒWe all must
obey. It is hostessÕ wish. Let your cheeks relax. It will go in easier that
way. Just get it right where it should be and then bear down, it should go
right in!Ó
And it did. Just like that. One moment it was touching my hole, then
next it was halfway in, like a turd unable to come out. And then, greasy
with its sheen of vaseline, my fingers gripping it delicately but with some
difficulty, afraid I might lose it to the floor, I did lose it... but right up my
rectum!
ÒOoooWhoooo!Ó I blurted, my breath whooshing out of me. IÕd just
goosed myself! I could feel that terrible tomato urging itself up me. My
hole closed over it and it was gone, gone, bulging up inside me but gone
from my poking fingers, perhaps never to come out again! For a moment I
almost fainted. Gwen stroked my hair, whispering, ÒItÕs alright, itÕs
alright, dear. DonÕt be afraid.Ó At last I regained control of myself. I
returned my mittened hand to the table. There was no tomato any more. It
was somewhere up my butthole. I sat at table with both my hands placed
neatly at my table setting, contemplating my fate. Everyone watched me.
No eyes were on Candi anymore, despite her proud shimmying bottom, so
rudely displayed. They watched as I gulped and sat introspectively,
feeling my new condition.
ÒThere. In a little while youÕll give birth to a baby tomato,Ó Jill
smiled. She kissed me consolingly, as did Gwen. I was one of them now, a
tomato girl. We would run naked in fields of daisies and poop out our
tomatoes, while male hawks circled overhead, hoping for a meal.
ÒCandi, you seem to have forgotten something,Ó hostess said to our
nubile maid. The other one attended silently to our more mundane needs,
refilling glasses, taking away dishes as they were reduced to platefuls of
crumbs. She was forgotten, for the moment. But not Candi, who, perhaps,
was our Ômain maidÕ tonight, Ôon displayÕ as one might say, or in charge of
our more bodily needs and aspirations. I trembled at what I had gotten
myself into. This was so inexorably decadent. Abandon Gardens had been
secluded, as if a separate place. But now I was in downtown Rio, with the
city humming all around, secretaries going home from work, or staying
late, mothers cooking dinner for their children, or even bringing them to
eat here, in the main dining room, while we partied in this private room.
ÒMaÕam?Ó Candi answered, putting a finger to her lips. Feigned
innocence, or real, I could not tell.
ÒYou brought out no tomato for yourself,Ó hostess said simply, as if
reminding a little girl to do her lessons for school.
ÒFor me?Ó Candi asked, her eyes as wide as she could make them, but
I sensed sheÕd known she must not exclude herself. ÒBut IÕm the maid!Ó
ÒBring the tea, Candi. We must have fresh lemon clove tea for
dessert. And a tomato, young lady. I am not going to have full grown
society ladies endure such a sweet torment and not a little ruffian like
yourself. You must participate too, just as you will have your tattoo at
the end of the evening. Let the needles be seen upon the table, so that
there are no misunderstandings here with regard to what we are about.Ó
THANK YOU, YUPPIES
I have railed against yuppies in times past but I am coming to
appreciate them more and more. If it werenÕt for yuppies we would never
have had Earth Day and we especially wouldnÕt have mass transit!
Mass transit is such a blessing. Without mass transit I wouldnÕt be
able to buy all my porno. But with the handy, government-subsidized bus, I
can go to the porno store and buy porno featuring 18-year-old girls and
fantasize about what the girl must have looked like when she was 12 and
lost her cherry.
Also with mass transit I can go buy liquor and beer, and I can see all
the little girls going to and from school and (in the case of those who
donÕt ride the city bus), standing at the bus stop waiting for the school
bus to pick them up. Yes, behind the government-subsidized tinted glass
of the city bus, I can ride the same route every day. I can leer and ogle at
all my favorite little girls EVERY day of the year. I can even bring my
camera along and, if IÕm sitting in the back of the bus, I can secretly take
pictures of all my favorite little girls as I pass by the (school) bus stops.
Then, down at the bar, I can sell all those glorious photos of little girls to
all my pervert pals. Then, with that money, I can buy more porno. But
NONE of that would be possible if there werenÕt a government-subsidized
bus system.
In addition to little girls who ride the city bus to school, all the
lowlifes ride the bus. Some take it to the welfare office. Some take it to
go get their buddies out of jail. Some take it to go rob houses. I have
noticed that all the drug dealers who are just starting out and canÕt afford
a limo yet ride the bus. They give good, cut-rate prices. In addition to
this, all the bums (who have a dime to their name) can go anywhere in the
city, where they can lurk at playgrounds, or panhandle, thanks to our
wonderful, environment-protecting bus system.
But we need MORE mass transit. We need trains and trams and
subways too. I took a poll on the bus at midnight the other night and all
the lowlifes and perverts and other dudes on the bus agreed that since
none of us can afford a car, all cars should be banned. Just think, if the
automobile were banned, every little girl in the city would have to ride
the bus with me whenever she needed to go any place.
Yesterday I met a really interesting person on the bus. He looks like
a retard. But he is making a cultural statement that I donÕt think anyone
has thought of yet. He invited me over to his apartment and, when we
went inside, I was bowled over! This man preserves his turds. Every day
he saves one turd from his poop and he carefully bags it inside a ziploc
bag. Then he labels the bag with the date and the time and a description of
what he thinks are the major ingredients of that particular turd, based on
what he has eaten that day. There are shelves, about 3 inches apart,
traversing the walls of his apartment. They go from the floor all the way
up to the ceiling. And on each shelf he has lined up all of his turds. He
told me he would have to move soon, as heÕs pretty much filled every last
bit of space on every shelf. HeÕs not sure how heÕll handle the move. How
would you ask a moving companyÕs employees to pack turds? HeÕs very
concerned that his turds not be damaged in any way. He worries over his
turds like ladies worry about their fine china. He keeps his apartment
temperature-controlled. He runs three dehumidifiers since his apartment,
he says, has a slight tendency toward dampness. And he sings to his turds
at night so they sleep peacefully. (I told you he looked kinda retarded.)
HeÕs also hoping that the people who made the movie ÒCrumbÓ will do a
documentary on him. He needs the money to buy more ziploc bags.
Anyway, I would never have found myself talking to such a retarded-
looking person if I wasnÕt forced to sit next to him on the city bus. He
even liked my Ôbus stop photosÕ of little girls and offered to buy several.
But at the last minute he decided not to, because he pretty much spends
every penny he has on his turd collection.
So, thank you yuppies! I salute your efforts to ban the automobile
and replace it with mass transit. Tell your daughter that I look forward to
meeting her on the bus. (IÕll save a seat for her!)
(The above editorial isnÕt by me. ItÕs by someone I met on the bus! -h.j.)
AND IN THE END...
ÔPEDOPHILESÕ AND SOCIETY
ÒWhen we grow kinder as a society we will easily be able to
handle the natural variety of ways of living that exist among us;
without whispers, unwanted interpretations, or name-calling.Ó
- Anne Roiphe (C-SPAN, About Books, December 15, 1996.)
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-END OF 197 EMISSION
- Ziploc is a brand name of Dow, makers of breast implants.