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THE COMPLETE NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
I have consolidated all my written work into a gigantic Stuffit file.
This file is now available to you.
The file contains:
1. The complete ÔBootlegged DreamgirlsÕ story file.
2. All 124 issues of Naughty Naked Dreamgirls.
3. All 14 issues of Ôrare dreamgirls.Õ
4. All 224 issues of Fuck Decency.
5. All 10 issues of Comic Update.
6. All 3 Fuck Decency advertisements.
Currently there is no restriction on the retransmission of my
stories. If you operate a web site, bbs, etc., this is an excellent
opportunity to receive my complete works.
Send me your e-mail address, requesting the file, and I will upload
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The file was created as follows:
1. On a Macintosh computer.
2. Using the writing program WriteNow, by Wordstar.
3. Condensed into a Stuffit file.
I will probably get sick of doing Stuffit uploads, so please write
soon if you wish to receive my complete works.
Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 225
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Private Places
Chapter Seven
I rose up from the sand. I wiped my hands on my legs. Without
saying a word, I undid my panties. I passed them to Barbi and she took
them wordlessly. ÒDo one thing for me,Ó I told my ex-boyfriend.
ÒSure,Ó Lord Shaftsbury answered, and made to unzip himself.
ÒNot that, silly,Ó I said. I stopped his hand in mid-zip. Carefully I
zipped him back up. ÒI want you to tattoo me.Ó He started. He looked as if
IÕd caught his penis in his zipper, although I hadnÕt.
ÒI-I have a tattoo, itÕs an ÔL,Õ I said. But I need it changed. To an ÔF,Õ
my initial. ItÕs in cursive. It wonÕt be hard. It will mean I belong to me,
and nobody else. You can do it?Ó
He swallowed. ÒI can do it. Although, IÕll admit, it will be tough,
looking at your wet cunt and knowing I canÕt fuck it.Ó
ÒNo, you canÕt. Just do me with the tattoo needle this time. You owe
me, in my opinion, for deflowering me and... and all that other stuff you did
to me too!Ó
ÒNot that you didnÕt enjoy it,Ó he replied with a glowing grin, his
teeth as white as the moon might have been, if we werenÕt all shrouded in
darkness.
ÒJust do it,Ó I said. ÒDonÕt fight me, donÕt seduce me, just do it.
Then go away so IÕll never be tempted to take to your bed again.Ó
ÒWhat am I, Burger King?Ó he sniffed. But he took my hand and, with
Barbi holding my panties, he led me up the beach to his limo. He had a
driver now. He drove me to a tattoo parlor, someone he knew, someone he
could trust to do a good job. They changed my tattoo there, with me
screaming, with Barbi gently fondling me to get me through it. And then I
went home, and I vowed to myself to be a good girl for the rest of my life.
THE END
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Cunt Castle
Chapter One
I sat obediently with my lover at dinner. I sipped my Chardonnay but
said nothing. WeÕd met just last month. IÕd taken several male lovers
since my Òsinful sojourn,Ó as my mother called it when holding tea in the
parlor for her friends. She had taken to relieving her mortifaction at my
not turning out Òher way,Ó as she liked to call it, by publicly humiliating
me in front of her friends. But IÕd culled a few secrets from her old
photos and letters that told me the 60Õs werenÕt the placid decade of
civility and conformity that she now claimed they were.
ÒWell,Ó she would say, over her teacup. ÒWe did have to protest the
social injustices of the time. Vietnam, civil rights. But otherwise we
went to class and did our homework and trained ourselves to be modern
working women,Ó my mother would patiently explain to me. ÒStyles are
styles, my dear, and the media is always full of hype. Now go do your
homework, and that doesnÕt mean Ôgo chat up men on the Internet.Õ I can
read your e-mail now, so donÕt think I wonÕt catch you.Ó
And sheÕd nod to her friends and theyÕd all chime in on how important
it was to Òprotect the safety of a child,Ó namely, me.
IÕd taken back my old name, ÒFleury,Ó short for ÒFleurette.Ó But IÕd
changed it a little in my 14th year of life. ÒFurry,Ó I was known as now,
and you can probably guess what my boyfriends thought of when they
called me that.
I was no longer trying to grow up. I felt dreadfully mature, in fact.
Trying to keep my various men friends and boyfriends from killing each
other while still actively liking me was no easy job. ThatÕs why I was so
happy when I met Louis. He was French, full of money, and with a sly,
overpowering manner that absolutely guaranteed a girl sheÕd bear at least
one of his children, whether she wished to or not. He made it possible for
me to forget my other boyfriends, gorgeous as they all were. He expected
me to focus fully on him, to think of him all the time, even if he skipped
asking me out and I knew he was making love to another woman just to
force me to pout and see other men. And, of course, the whole time IÕd be
with some other man IÕd be thinking of him, spoiling to get revenge. When
weÕd meet IÕd be eager to wreck his hopes, but find myself embraced in his
arms instead, melting like butter.
And so it was I sat at dinner now, in one of MontevideoÕs best
restaurants, watching the moon rise over the sea and the homely fishing
vessels as they trundled out for a nightÕs hard work amidst the waves. My
panties were tucked into the breast pocket of his $1400 dollar jacket.
HeÕd dared me to take them off and, infuriating me at last with his
teasing, IÕd slingshotted them at him when the waiterÕs back was turned
and the other diners seemed occupied. I think a middle-aged lady saw me,
but no one else. Except, of course, our dinner guests, Polly and Andre.
ÒYou should send her to Traflangier,Ó Andre chuckled, still amused
that IÕd shot my panties at my boyfriend.
ÒEh, you know what they call that place,Ó Louis replied. He dabbled
with the plastic sword sticking up from his Daiquiri. He leaned close to
Andre, speaking low, but not so low that I couldnÕt hear. ÒCunt Castle.Ó
ÒHmmm?Ó Andre asked. He looked pleasantly startled. Polly shot me
a look of disgust and rolled her eyes, as if to say, ÔMen!Õ That one word
said it all. But I didnÕt mind. I was enthralled with Louis. Polly was just
13. She reminded me of myself a year ago, except she was more like my
mother, always trying to be prim and proper. I think she loved Andre
despite herself. She still had her panties, though from the length of her
dress youÕd have wondered whether she intended them as underwear or
outerwear.
ÒIt was intended as a place of sexual liberation in the 60Õs, run by an
old pharmacist who used to hand out his homemade drugs to the kids like
they were candy. Then, in the 70Õs, as his flock grew a little older, it
became a Ôsex for healthÕ place, for people who werenÕt into jogging 20
miles a day but didnÕt mind spending lots of time each day humping in bed.
ÔSexual therapy and then sexual recoveryÕ came into vogue in the 80Õs,
with everyone in the final days disavowing their sexual past as they
feared their newly-born children might one day walk in their ways.Ó Louis
took a deep drag on his cigarette and exhaled. ÒHe died about then, Ô87 or
so. For awhile the place lay dormant. Then his estate was finally settled
and his niece took it over. Nowadays she runs it as a place where girls can
be taken to Ôreceive instruction,Õ as she puts it. Men take their wives
there, or their lovers.Ó Louis shot a glance at me. ÒOr a girl might take
her manly boyfriend there, it makes no difference.Ó
Louis lifted his hand from his drink and fiddled with my panties.
Part of them stuck out the top of his pocket, and I was wishing heÕd stick
them all the way down in so no one would see. ÒAnd so the place is
alternately called ÔCunt Castle,Õ or ÔCock Castle,Õ depending on which
version of the eroticized estate most suits your fancy. As for me, I
propose a suggestion. You and I might send Polly and Furry there for two
weeks, and then later, they might send us.Ó
A shiver ran down my spine. Immediately I knew somehow heÕd pull
it off. And I knew something else too. Despite his words, I knew heÕd
never let me send him there. No, it would just be me. My mind swirled.
What must it be like to be taken someplace by your husband, or your lover,
and made a love slave for a week? How long was it? Did he say a week, or
was it two weeks? IÕd found a book once in my dadÕs dresser, when I was
snooping around. It was under his underpants. Probably a fitting place for
it, too. Story of OÕrevoir, or something. O? Au revoir? I couldnÕt
remember. Maybe it was the book version of 9 1/2 weeks. IÕd seen part of
the movie once, late at night, after Leno. Well, this was 2 weeks. Yes,
that was it. Two weeks. Polly looked not the least amused, but I found
myself a little intrigued. And I could hear a little voice somewhere inside
me warning me away. Ôno, furry, and change your name back too, you canÕt
go there, your mother will report you missing and...Õ
ThatÕs why I liked Louis. My other men friends worried constantly
that they might get in trouble seeing me. Louis absolutely did not care.
He knew my mother had her Ôsurveillance radarÕ on me 24 hours-a-day. He
knew if I disappeared for two weeks thereÕd be no way to hide it from my
mother. And now here he was, smoking his head off, not caring the least
about the Surgeon General, and proposing sending me to some weird castle
or something where IÕd get to play Geisha Girl for two weeks. Polly was
right. Men!
ÒAlright,Ó I heard Andre agree. And I realized I must have missed
some crucial bit of their conspiratorial conversation, the words spoken
just quietly enough to force Polly and I to strain forward to find out what
they had planned for us. ÒThe price is steep, but it would be worth it to
make this bitch more agreeable.Ó He pinched PollyÕs thigh. She flinched,
frowned. She looked like a cat who, seeing a canary, wants it but
remembers the last one had given it indigestion. My cat ate a bird once,
one that had eaten pills intended for pigeons. Only a fast trip to the vet
had saved her. My mother insisted on giving her away a year later when
we moved. I wanted to run away, to go back for her, but I got lost trying,
and the police delivered me home at 9 oÕclock that night to a cold supper
and stern words from my father. I know the real reason mother insisted
on giving away my cat. It was pregnant, and she didnÕt want me to know
about sex. But I knew. I saw her getting fat and a friend had told me the
reason. Mother maintained we were feeding her too much, and actually cut
back on her food. I had to feed her surreptitiously under the table.
ÒOkay,Ó Louis said. He smiled at me. Nothing more was said
between them. He ordered dessert for us. Cherry Rhubarb pie. A little
sweet, a little sour. Was it a way of telling us what they had in mind for
us? I didnÕt know. I ate mine slowly, savoring the tangy mixture, yet
contemplating it to, wondering if I should let Louis lead me into his
fantasy of me being his absolute, total slave. I had no illusions. ThatÕs
what it would come to. Utter subservience to his will. I felt a thrill deep
inside myself as I wondered whether I should accept this, or run to the
maitre de, explain I was only 14, and that Louis was not my father at all
but my illegal lover. The police would come quickly, he would be whisked
away. Or he might harm me. ThereÕs no telling what an enraged man might
do. Then again, if I slipped away, to use the toilet, he would never know.
My daddy would protect me from him. But my daddy screwed my mother
every night. He was mine, but...
Louis was mine altogether. Well, he loved other women, but I hoped
he loved me most of all. If I said ÔnoÕ to him I knew IÕd lose him. Oh, what
to do? What to do? I looked at Polly. She was complaining about her
dessert. Andre was quite indulgent. She explained to him in her high-
pitched voice that while the cherries were fine, the rhubarb was much too
sour. And, come to think of it, the crust was not flaking properly. Her
mother made much better crusts than this. Andre nodded patiently. Louis
rolled his eyes, accepted that the girl must be listened to. I liked the way
Louis rolled his eyes. So worldly. Yet, as I gazed at Polly, I noticed how
freely her breasts shifted within her blouse. It was tight. She had let her
jacket become unbuttoned. Andre liked toying with her clothes while she
was eating. I saw that PollyÕs blouse was tented where her nipples were.
She was excited by all the attention she was receiving, both from Andre
and Louis. Why had she not worn a bra? I had a bra on, a nice black one,
with my vest neatly buttoned over it, to give just a hint of it out the top.
Yet she, with her jacket now opened, showed everyone how thin her blouse
was and how stiff her nipples were. I glanced around. Did anyone else see
besides us? Oh well, we girls have a right to skip our bras if we wish,
but... This was an elegant, high-class restaurant, not a nightclub. The
waiter returned. Andre made to order a cherry pie, without the rhubarb,
but after her long soliloquy Polly seemed not to wish to change her order
after all. I knew then she just wanted to be noticed, paid attention to. I
was jealous. Here she was, cheating, with her nipples all erect and her
blouse treacherously thin, with even Louis watching her now instead of
me. Should I slip away to the ladies room and ditch my bra? That would
top her, me sticking my bra in the waste bin where it might be seen by the
other ladies, and returning, sitting down, with my breasts noticeably bare
beneath my little vest.
The waiter, at a nod from Louis, presented the bill. Louis handed him
a $100.00 bill and rose. We were leaving, just that suddenly. Polly, more
or less finished with her pie by now, took a quick sip of her coffee and the
four of us were outside the restaurant within the minute. I felt the cool
night air brush against me beneath my skirt, my panties still tucked
neatly in LouisÕ pocket. I reached for them, for the bit of them that stuck
up, in his jacket, where he might have worn a carnation instead of using
my underwear. With a suave movement he brushed my hand away. He
wanted to keep them. I gritted my teeth and realized I would have to bear
up without them. I felt so cool, so free. There was absolutely nothing
underneath my dress. The wind caught it. My hands leapt to my thighs,
trying to keep the doorman fetching our car from catching sight of my
nakedness. I regretted wearing such a short dress now. Mother would
never have approved, and now I knew why. It was not handkerchief-short,
like PollyÕs, but it was still way too short to run around in without any
panties on.
Bruised Flower.
The bruised flower sleeps,
IÕm waiting in the
living room battle ground.
Dawn seeps light into the room.
In this alien hill country
a hundred miles from home.
Sleeping in-laws like these
I dare not shut my eyes.
SheÕs just one of those people
with the fate of having the wrong father.
He walked into this thing,
what kind of choice did she have
to take the blame?
Not the worst holiday I ever had,
thereÕs been several that have been worse.
Sometimes I wonder whatÕs the point,
but not for long...
All she wants is some love
she could really use some acceptance.
All she gets is some coldness
it tears my heart up to see it.
The bruised flower sleeps,
IÕm waiting in the
living room battle ground.
Dawn seeps light into the room.
Gaunt, printed in Fuck Decency 224, is from Will DockeryÕs zine, Teri
Baal, a 16 page chapbook. The poem above is also by Dockery and from
Teri Baal. Will Dockery, P.O. Box 3663, Phenix City, AL 36868, U.S.A.
AND IN THE END...
FREE SPEECH UNDER CLINTON
ÒFor $3 you can buy a cone of silence, and we'll put you in this little cone
and you can talk to yourself.Ó
- Seth P. Waxman, esq., Deputy Solicitor General, Department of Justice,
arguing that the Communications Decency Act must be upheld.
source: Reno v. ACLU: Transcript of Supreme Court Oral Argument.
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