HELP, GIRLS! IÕM TURNING INTO A FAG!
Steve showed the man his naked ass.
ÒAh, yes, the backside,Ó the man said. ÒTell me, Steve, have you ever
participated in anal sex?Ó He pulled from a bag next to his chair an
enormous phallus.
ÒGo ahead,Ó Steve said. ÒEveline warned me this would be
necessary.Ó
P A R T Y P U S S I E S
(Or is it ÒPartying Penises?Ó)
Now available from FTP site: members.aol.com/nnd66
FTP access by browser: ftp://members.aol.com/nnd66/PartyPussies1
holy joeÕs COMPLETE GUIDE TO WEB BROWSER VIEWING AND DOWNLOADING
OF FTP FILES
Many people have asked me, ÒHow do I download ftp files using my
web browser?Ó I assumed it wasnÕt possible. But today, thanks to all the
guys at ICLnet who are praying for my soul, Jesus came into my life and
showed me how to do it!
(ICL, by the way, stands for ÒInto Cunt Love,Ó for guys who prefer
cunts to breasts and asses. It may also stand for ÒInfant Cunt Love,Ó
meaning pedophiles, but IÕm not sure about that so I wonÕt say it.) (DonÕt
get mad, ICL guys, Jesus himself told me about you. He showed me Judges
21:16-23)
But I digress. HereÕs how you download my stories from my ftp
sites. LetÕs take the above ftp site as an example:
members.aol.com/nnd66
First, boot up your web browser. (I tested this method using a
Macintosh version of America OnlineÕs Microsoft Internet Explorer
browser.)
Your browser may default to a particular address when it first boots
up. Delete that address. Now type in this one:
ftp://members.aol.com/nnd66/PartyPussies1
Hit ÒreturnÓ on your keyboard. (Sometimes called ÒenterÓ.) The
story will be transmitted to your computer. (This takes about a minute.)
Now, you must open it in order to read it.
Look at the little box that has appeared on your screen. It should
have the word ÒPartyPussies1Ó across the top of it. Below that word, you
will see three buttons. At the left, you will see a button marked ÒOpen.Ó
In the middle is a button marked ÒSave.Ó To the right is a button marked
ÒCancel.Ó
To open ÒPartyPussies1,Ó simply press the ÒOpenÓ button. The
ÒPartyPussies1Ó story will open into a new window on your screen. You
can now sit and read it.
Perhaps you would like to download ÒPartyPussies1Ó. To do this,
press the middle button. ItÕs marked ÒSaveÓ. This will download
ÒPartyPussies1Ó to your computer.
Would you like to see what my ftp site looks like, to examine a
complete list of all the stories that are stored there? Then delete
whatever is currently in your web browser and type in this address:
ftp://members.aol.com/nnd66
Now hit ÒreturnÓ on your keyboard. After a minute, you will find
yourself looking at my complete ftp site. You can now look at all the
various stories that are stored there. Note that you are looking at a LIST
of stories.
LetÕs say you want to open the story at my ftp site titled:
KiddieClitties1
You should already have the ftp site address typed into your web
browser: ftp://members.aol.com/nnd66
Simply type a slash /
Then type in KiddieClitties1
Now hit your ÒreturnÓ key.
(DonÕt leave any spaces while youÕre typing all those words in.)
Your web browser will now transmit ÒKiddieClitties1Ó to you. When
itÕs finished, you will see a little box on your screen. Press the ÒOpenÓ
button in the little box to read that story.
Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 230
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Cunt Castle
Chapter One
ÒNo,Ó Louis and Andre grunted, no doubt wondering how a castle that
promised them utter freedom wound up having them bare their holes.
ÒI expect you both to be as demanding with your girlfriends as I am
with you,Ó Rose said, sending a chill down my spine. I pushed my tummy
out, struggled with my handcuffs. No use. My breasts jiggled on my chest.
My ribs showed.
Graceful as she was deadly, Rose turned away from the men and
lifted her cane above her head. But for the fact she was topless, I might
have thought I was watching high culture, a ballet in New York or Berlin.
Rose touched a finger to the tip of the cane, bending it toward herself,
watching with upraised eyes a moment as it flexed in her hands. Then she
released the tip, lowered her head, and whirled about and struck Louis
right on his ass.
ÒYeeeeow!Ó Louis shouted with all the force a man might muster.
His head shot up. His balls bounced beneath him, though they were,
fortunately, not a recipient of the blow. His ass clenched and then
released, clenched again. Spittle flew from his mouth and hit the floor.
His cock waggled like an old ladyÕs finger.
I drew in my bottomcheeks tightly as I watched LouisÕ buns contort
from the blow. His asscrack shrank to a narrow threadlike line, then, his
cheeks releasing themselves at last, his hair within showed again. He did
not get up. He remained bent double, though he might have stood, grabbing
his ankles tight. I admired his fortitude even as I pitied his pain. A slim
line, no more than a pencil, announced itself across his backside. It was
deep red.
Louis received his in turn. His antics, complete with his penis flying
and his balls bounding like twin balls in Jacks, burned deep into my mind.
I found myself liking the show, even as I knew I stood a good chance of
getting equal treatment myself before the night expired. I prayed IÕd be
somehow forgotten. Let Rose whip the men, and fuck them afterward.
Polly and I would be good girls and just watch.
Her footing sure, her aim precise, Rose gave each man a half-dozen
strokes of the cane over his tense, sweating rump. She never hit anyplace
twice. That would have been truly cruel. It would have burst those tight
little buns, right across their surface, and made them bleed, possibly
marking them for life. I thanked God Rose had a practised hand. I could
tell these werenÕt her first victims. Her expertise was daunting. She told
myself and Polly where she would hit from the second strikes onward,
describing the menÕs asses in loving detail. And then sheÕd hit right where
sheÕd promised. Louis and Andre gritted their teeth. They said nothing,
except to howl and moan. I felt their cocks got ever more huge, though,
despite the obvious pain they were suffering.
At last Rose permitted the men to stand. Their hands flew to their
hineys and they ground their teeth as they worked their palms over the
injured surfaces. Their knees moved back and forth a little, as they stood
in place still, examining the damage and trying to assuage it.
ÒOh, come on!Ó Rose teased. She made Andre howl by sticking the
end of the cane straight into his asscheeks. ÒThatÕs nothing, boys. A
little starter. Turn around and letÕs see how your things are doing.Ó The
men turned about, their eyes wincing, their penises bigger than IÕd ever
seen them. Rose poked at the tip of AndreÕs cock with her bow-pointed
cane. Andre lurched backward to avoid a second touch.
ÒLetÕs adjourn briefly to the sitting room, where we can
contemplate whatÕs to be done,Ó Rose said, turning with a meaningful look
at myself and Polly. Louis, apparently guessing at its purpose, went to the
side of the bedroom and drew open a door. Beyond lay not a bathroom, as I
had expected, as youÕd find in any ordinary bedroom, but an upstairs parlor
instead. Walking toward it, I realized that the bedroom we were in was
not for sleeping at all, but for training a girl, pure and simple. The sitting
room served as a place where a man might talk with Rose and plan the
girlÕs denouement. It was fed by a back stairway that meant a visiting
girl, perhaps in olden days brought up from the village, could immediately
be debauched. The front entrance, the grand staircase, the long hallway
leading past the other rooms, all could be avoided. A girl of 12 might be
slipped within the house with nobody seeing. She could be used, her hymen
torn, and then taken away again, all through the rear of the house, perhaps
while a formal dinner transpired below, or an elegant ball.
I heard heavy footfalls on the steps. A maid entered into the
concealed little parlor just as we ourselves walked in. There were no
windows in the room. It had the feel of a hidden chamber, like the
bedroom itself, which also allowed in no light from outside. It was
sumptuously decorated, however, with overstuffed chairs, paintings, a
few books. The wallpaper was damask, not paper at all, but silk, finely
patterned with natural dyes. Rose told us this as we stood and looked at
our place of confinement. She warned the men not to shoot themselves
onto the walls.
ÒBring a comforter for each of the young men,Ó Rose told her maid.
The men stood with squirming legs and buttocks, obvious in their
condition of agony. Their pricks stood out like thick, throbbing spires
above their strainingly-tight balls. The maid, whom IÕd glimpsed as we
sat so calmly in the parlor downstairs, was an old woman, perhaps 60.
SheÕd spied on us a little downstairs. IÕd dismissed her from my mind at
the time, hardly paying her any attention. I thought she was the cleaning
woman. She looked too old to serve us. I wished we still had the young
girl. She was polite, attentive, helpful. The old woman, whom IÕm sure
the men never saw at all as they relaxed downstairs, was dour and mean. I
doubted not that she felt the men had just gotten what they deserved.
They were rich boys from the city. Her husband, IÕm sure, was no more
than a peasant farmer, laboring in the fields by day until his skin cracked
in the sun and his hands turned to gnarled claws. His sex would have
shrivelled by now, leaving his wife bereft. She was worn and lined from
age and years of hard work. She had no pity for us. I shrank back as I
looked at her. It was so humiliating, where was the girl? She IÕd felt a
little embarrassed about being nude in front of, but this woman! Her eyes
grazed me like a toad eyeing a tasty bug. It was so shameful to be
stripped naked in front of such an old hussy, her hands gnarled, her breasts
hanging low and flat like pancakes, her hips huge and matronly. Worst of
all, she wore her clothes as neatly as if she were going to church. Layer
after layer of clothing hid her figure from our view. A heavy dress of
white showed its hem beneath a second dress of black, each flowing down
from her middle. I knew she must wear bloomers beneath, encasing each
of her legs. I could hear them rasping together as she walked. Above her
rustling, heavy dresses was her blouse, with a firmly buttoned vest over
it, and a full-length apron tied down her front. She wore a maidÕs hat. It
looked like it was so well-secured to her head that she expected to meet a
typhoon. Only her arms and hands were bare, her sleeves rolled up, as if
sheÕd just been doing the laundry. Her arms were thick and manly. They
were spotted with age, as was her face. She glowered at us, but with a
trace of amusement in her eyes, cynical amusement, jealous and wishing
the worst for us. Her hair, neatly drawn up into a bun, gave her a
business-like look. It was a sharp contrast to my own hair, flowing and
free and playful, and PollyÕs. Even RoseÕs pretty coiffure, slightly mussed
now, looked utterly uninhibited compared to our maid.
I thought the maid would turn and have to go back downstairs, but
she opened yet another door, into a closet, and drew out two comforters
and set them on chairs for the men. With gritting teeth our loves sat
down, each in his own princely stuffed chair, but with his bare buns
smarting fiercely as he sat on the downy white-ruffled cushion brought by
the maid.
Standing in my birthday suit, with my titties twitching, my muff
moist, I tried to avoid the maidÕs eyes. Polly too seemed to find her
modesty. She had the added discomfort of a shiny heinie-hole, obvious
from the traces of fingermarks Rose had left behind. They trailed out
from the center of her backside, leaving no doubt what had been done. All
vaseline trails lead to the greased butthole, as a Roman might say. She
wore her hair with a My Little Pony ribbon tying off a few of her long
locks, a kind of ponytail that bound a few ropelike strands of her hair
together but left the remainder underneath free. The effect was to make
her look even more schoolgirlish than she already did, and all 60-year-old
maids know where a little schoolgirl should be on a Saturday night. Home
preparing her lessons, so she could go to church on Sunday, both morning
and evening, and say her rosary. Instead Polly stood with her hiney packed
with vaseline, her hole prepared for the menÕs cocks which stood up so
heedlessly.
ÒGet the potties out for the girls,Ó Rose said with a refined air, as if
we were to be entertained at an embassy instead of made ready for sex.
The maid glanced at myself and Polly and, as we stood hoping to claim
seats for ourselves, waiting only for RoseÕs permission, she brought out
two childrenÕs potties and sat them down on the top of a dresser along the
back wall. I blanched. I think I felt my blood rush to my face and my toes
simultaneously, with all parts between equally pink. Were we to sit up on
the dresser? The menÕs chairs, I saw, were angled to give them a perfect
view of the potties. The maid brought a stepstool out of the closet and
sat it down in front of the dresser.
Rose, swishing her cane, turned to myself and Polly. ÒGirls, do you
have to go to the bathroom?Ó she asked. Polly and I quickly shook our
heads no. ÒWell, then youÕll just have to sit on the potty until you do,Ó she
smiled. We looked at her with woebegone eyes and nervously constricted
throats. ÒMarried women have sat on them,Ó Rose said. ÒYou two are
practically Ôof ageÕ by comparison. DonÕt worry, IÕll hold your hand as you
mount the stool. I donÕt want you to fall. Once youÕre settled on the potty
you wonÕt have any worries. The dresser is nice and big. Come, girls, I
want to make sure youÕre both toilet trained before I put you to bed for the
night!Ó
I ADMIT.
I admit...
I donÕt really understand
a family like this.
They dump this guilt all on one girl
who couldnÕt deal with it,
or understand it, but would have taken it,
for just some love.
Maybe she thought this was love
maybe she told herself this was
how it was supposed to be.
ItÕs crazy, cruel, is this real life,
so far removed from my dreaming?
IÕve seen this cold cutting style.
Her sister jabbing the emotional wounds
that she could find there.
With denial, rationalization and lies...
no, lies is not too strong of a word...
and like I promised you,
the whole story,
no names,
this part I may edit.
IÕm amazed at how much emotions can hurt
every time the pain is surprising.
(I can only imagine their pain)
And for me, pain brings the anger-
how could I have ever waited 14 years for this?
ItÕs sloppy,
and only neutral ground keeps me here.
How much trouble could a simple
phone call be?
ItÕs impossible for me to describe
the amount of pain this must have caused her.
Brings all the years back to her, clearly, maybe,
of the chilling meetings, the put downs,
and the simple omissions of regard to her,
from her sister.
- from Will DockeryÕs zine, Teri Baal, a 16 page chapbook. Will
Dockery, P.O. Box 3663, Phenix City, AL 36868, U.S.A. Order April
Bullets! $1.00 for 32 pages of chapbook poems.
AND IN THE END...
AMERICA IN THE 90Õs
ÒThe toilet could prove to be a gold mine of evidence,Ó says coroner Dr.
Cyril Wecht. - Globe, April 1, 1997, pg. 25.
(Who needs the summer of love when you can be looking down a toilet?
-h.j.)
-------------------------- Fuck Decency! ------------------------
-Free Fuck Decency e-mail subscriptions: send (18 or up) age
statement to: roller666@aol.com
-To unsubscribe: Send $100.00 to The North American Man/Boy Love
Association, P.O. Box 174, Midtown Station, New York, NY 10018.
-My ftp site is: members.aol.com/roller666 Diapergirls! (CuntCastle2d)
-My ftp site is: members.aol.com/roller6666 CuntCastle3b here!
-My ftp site is: members.aol.com/nnd666 NudieNursery5 here!
-My ftp site is: members.aol.com/nnd66 NEW! PartyPussies1
-My ftp site is: members.aol.com/nnd6
-Recent back issues at Usenet newsgroup: alt.poop?
-For all back issues, send e-mail to: file.request@backdrop.com
-Fuck Decency: http://members.aol.com/nnd6/fuckdecency.html
-Free minicomics: send a stamped, self-addressed envelope & age
statement to: Jim Corrigan, P.O. Box 3663, Phenix City, AL 36868
-Naughty Naked Dreamgirls (Library of Congress ISSN: 1070-1427) is
copyright 1997 and a trademark of Andrew Roller. Work by others
copyright 1997 by the respective copyright holder.
-END OF 230 EMISSION
- ÒWe have a little sister, and she hath no breasts: what shall we do
for our sister...?Ó (Song of Solomon, 8:8)