Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 248
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Cunt Castle
Chapter Two
Louis beamed down at me. ÒYou are doing well,Ó he said to me.
ÒTonight you will have your first good whipping. Branson will deliver it.Ó
He saw my eyes widen as he spoke. I could not bear to hear such
words. I really didnÕt want to be part of this!
Louis touched a finger to my navel. He pressed harder and harder
until my eyes finally relaxed. Then he withdrew his finger and reached
between my legs and sought my clit.
ÒYes,Ó he said, rubbing, seeking. I gasped as he found me. ÒA good,
long, thorough whipping, one that really works your bottom. DidnÕt you
tell me when we first met that youÕd try anything once?Ó
ÒYes,Ó I confessed, my breath rapid now that heÕd found my essence.
He put a finger candidly into my cunt, kept at my spot with his thumb.
ÒA judicial whipping is what I wish for you,Ó he said. ÒBranson used
to work as a jailer down in the government prison before he retired. He
knows how to bring a girl fully within the world of the whip, until she is
utterly shattered. You will have no ego left when he is through with you.Ó
My heart was beating fast in my chest. I could feel it. I thought it
might burst out at any moment. Was Louis the Mayan priest come to stab
my bosom and lift out my still-throbbing heart?
ÒAll your life youÕve been a bratty, snotty little girl,Ó Louis told me.
ÒAdmit it. You have. YouÕre a teen runaway, and youÕve never obeyed, not
really. Tonight you will. For the first time in your life. I require it if
youÕre to be my wife.Ó
My eyes bugged. My head popped up, then lay back again on the soft
table. ÒYour wife? YouÕll really marry me if I let you have me whipped?Ó
Louis smiled. And somewhere, deep within that smile, I knew heÕd
never marry me. Yet we girls are foolish, arenÕt we? In a millisecond I
convinced myself that yes, he really would marry me. My puppy love
dreams of being with him forever, just he and I, no others, would be
fulfilled. He would cut wood for us and weÕd live in a little log cabin and
our son would be Abraham Lincoln and save the world.
ÒYes,Ó I said, and thought it was him saying ÔyesÕ to me, or told
myself it was. Louis pushed his finger deeper into my cunt. His thumb
stopped over my aching clitty, waiting. ÒYes!Ó I gasped. ÒDo whatever you
must to me to make me yours!Ó And he began his cunning work on my clit
again, and I swooned with pleasure at his touch.
I rolled over on my belly. I spit sperm into a paper cup held under my
chin by Rose. Louis patted my bare bottom. It was white as snow, and he
savored picking up baby powder and sprinkling it on my heinie. Polly found
Andre equally engaged by her bottom, though I know not what they spoke
about while Louis propositioned me about Branson. I think Rose had placed
her hands over PollyÕs ears and let Joanne finish her off between her legs.
There had been a lot of happy screaming from the other table as Louis told
me of his plans for me.
Our bottoms were made all silky with the powder. Louis and Andre
themselves applied it. Their calloused hands on our rears were a bold
contrast with the powder. Sylvia and Joanne wiped my face and PollyÕs
with hot cloths as the men powdered us. They stuck their cloth-draped
fingers in our mouths to let us lick off some of the sperm that was
sticking to our tongues.
When Louis and Andre were finished with us, they left. I lay on my
table, my hands down by my thighs, my bottomcheeks huddled together like
worried sheep.
ÒDonÕt fret so. ItÕs still several hours Ôtil evening,Ó Rose said. She
spoke leaning close to my face, so Polly wouldnÕt hear.
We adjourned to Ôthe sitting room,Õ as Rose referred to it. ÔMy
outdoor one,Õ she added confidentially, as if she might have many of them,
like the parlor near the front door, or the one that lay almost as a secret
chamber next to the little girlÕs bedroom that Polly and I had first been
fucked in. My hands were brought behind my neck as I lay on the diapering
table and reattached to the back of my dog collar. I did not fight it. I was
too scared, too confused, and yet too excited, somehow, at my submission,
to protest. Sylvia did me, Joanne did Polly. She blurted something, was
ignored. Rose put her pacifier back in her mouth and Polly sucked on it
wide-eyed, like a trembling child wishing to pronounce upon something but
enjoying her pacifier just a little too much to take it out of her mouth.
We strolled through the castle. There was little hurry in RoseÕs
walk, and none in mine. Yet, watching her smoothly rolling hips, I let my
own sway more, feeling the nakedness of my bottom and wondering if
someone might see me. How strange I would look to them! My hair done up
perfectly, then mussed a little by my exertions on the diapering table. My
bottom glossed with silky baby powder, white as snow, yet my hands
bound severely to the back of my neck, showing my submission. Before me
my breasts wobbled with naked elegance, so high, so round, the tips hard
with anticipation and fright, freely offering themselves like stemmed
fruit to whomever might wish to pluck at them. Polly allowed herself the
same sexy gait. Indeed, we almost could not help it. The binding of our
hands, with our elbows upraised over our heads, made our naked bulbing
bottoms somehow freer. We were all bottom, it seemed, with our smooth
bellies offering themselves up as vacant wombs, ready to be filled and
bloated; our breasts were but udders on which future infants might suck,
our pussies so mysteriously dipping into our legs, where their unseen
cleft provided entrance to the burrowing male. Our legs were but columns
upon which we bounced the hemispheres of our bottoms, transporting
them, as it were, to the scene of future delights and depravities.
I heard a gasp. ÒOh!Ó a female voice said behind me. I wanted to turn
but found it difficult with my hands bound up behind me. There was a
shuffling of feet. A laugh, as if a girlÕs, then the deeper, more mature,
knowing laugh of a woman. I blushed. I could not see those who had found
me. Lovers, playing in the castle. One of them knew at least what my fate
was. I heard a man laugh last, he seemed to straighten his sleeves and his
cufflinks as he did it. Pipe smoke reached my nose from somewhere off
behind myself. I had been seen. My plight was known. They would whisper
of it in the castle and know my screams when they heard them that night.
I must vow not to cry out. I did not want to embarrass myself. If I must
serve LouisÕ wicked delights, let it be, but God I did not want to entertain
others with it. Polly, I think, was too far ahead of me to hear. I brought
up the rear. Sylvia and Joanne walked ahead with Rose, through the
castleÕs labyrinthine hallways, as if walking point in the jungle, spreading
out at the spearhead of our column to check for enemy entrapments. With
my hands imprisoned it was impossible to think of escape. I knew those
laughing at my predicament would never permit it. No one would, here at
the castle. Girls were expected to resist and were ÔhelpedÕ merely to
obey, nothing more. I watched PollyÕs backside. It jigged with youthful
eagerness, quite taut and pretty, as if she might be going to a backyard
pool to swim with friends. We passed by a collection of whips on the
wall, amidst the decorative paintings and tapestries; I saw her bottom
cheeks tighten apprehensively, her pace quicken, then she slowed again as
the hideous display of whips receded behind us. Our bare feet slapped
noisily upon the floor. We were gollums going fishing in our cave.
We passed at last through a door that led us into the open air of the
backyard. A white-columned sunroom beckoned. I stepped onto its brick
floor. The bricks were warm from the sun. Gauzy white muslin swags
hung like tremulous female panties beneath the sunroofÕs glass ceiling,
providing us with a kind of nebulous shade underneath. We collected
around a patio table and sat down on white wicker chairs with generous
cushions. A vase of fresh-cut flowers was placed on our table by the old
woman maid. She surveyed Polly and I with eyes that knew too much. Had
she witnessed our struggles on the diapering tables? Did she know what
the evening promised for us? Her bottom was large, long past its prime,
rolling with her accumulated flesh of many years. Ours, perched a bit
anxiously on our cushions, were small and tight and white and squeamish.
I could not tell whether she envied us, pitied us, or only mocked us in her
mind. Sylvia received a key from RoseÕs hand and unlocked my hands, then
PollyÕs. Gratefully I brought them down from behind my head and felt
their freedom. They hurt from being bound up, but I knew the discomfort
would pass quickly. I turned my wrists and inspected them. I still wore
the steel manacles, but they were so light I hardly felt their presence
anymore. Our dog collars, like our manacles, were left on. We would need
them again, I knew, but I tried not to think of their purpose. My collar
hugged my neck. It provided certainty. Though my bottom trembled
beneath me, my collar reminded me of my place and showed me that there
was no changing it. I must learn to simply understand and accept. I must
say ÔyesÕ to it, I knew, and nothing more, like a woman finally must when
she wants a child. She must accept the man, and the changes that come.
She must accept the enlargement of her body, the pain at birth, and rising
at midnight to feed and diaper. And then, when the baby is my age, she
must accept letting it go. There is no good in keeping it penned up, like an
animal, for its ÔprotectionÕ until 18. This I knew. My mother had known it
once too, but sheÕd forgotten. She did not want to grow old. She did not
want to be replaced in menÕs minds by me. She wanted me small always,
too young to kiss, to young to draw menÕs eyes away from her. She had
accepted having me, but she could not accept letting go of me. I was young
now, not her. She must let go of the idea that she was forever young, and I
was forever too young. She was old now. I was the one who was young.
Springtime was for me now. Springtime and summer. She must resign
herself to fall and winter; to menopause, then gray hair, finally wrinkles
and old age. It would come whether or not I grew up, or stayed ÔprotectedÕ
in her house. It would come as surely as the passing of summer into fall.
Yet she fought it, making trouble for both herself and me. It did not help.
It only made things worse. It had made me run away and now, perhaps, it
brought me to the castle whose name I dared not say to myself. Or maybe,
this time, I was on my own journey. Discovering, exploring. Could I blame
my mother for this? I looked at Rose. She let her eyes pass over me
without seeing me, or so it seemed, yet I knew she drank me in with a
passion, consuming me with her gaze. Polly and I were like her little pets,
puppies at Christmas. She had tied collars round our necks to keep us. I
had traded my mom for Rose. Yet mom offered nothing. Only homework,
studies, and Ôgoals.Õ Sexless goals, of course. Here, sex lay parturient
within the very walls, the table we sat at, the cushions we sat on. The
flowers bloomed with it. It was everywhere, all encompassing, yet
always just about to come forth, never bursting in as one might think,
except at special moments. Here I could feel myself right out to the ruby
tips of my breasts, my naked breasts, and my boldly naked bottom sitting
on the white cushion beneath me. I opened my legs beneath the table. I
felt the wantonness of my bare clitty and loved the way my pussy seemed
to part just a little with my legs, offering itself. There was nothing to
protect me. Nothing. I was nude, Venus-like, and I would rise from the
seabubbles of innocence into the open air of knowing, seeing all. From the
depths of Ocean, mother-like, shrouding me, I would spring upon the beach
of life and confront the lifeguard men who ruled there, the women who
strolled there, the other girls. ÔLook!Õ I would say. ÔIÕm here. Me! Fleury.
I have a body with tits and a bottom that sits and a cunny that wants it.
Give me what is mine. DonÕt hold me back or keep me from it. I have the
password now, called Ôbreasts.Õ See? Here they are. Now show me what
this world is all about, and let me take it within myself.
Joanne and Sylvia did not sit with us at table. They sat on hassocks
in front of vacant chairs by the wall, perhaps to more readily serve us, yet
they had enceinte demeanors, pregnant, as if awaiting something that
must happen yet unable to control it. Royal peonies spilled abundantly
from hanging baskets. Rose sat down with us at table, casually, and told
the maid to bring us summer drinks. They arrived with their straws
thrust through fruit. Mine had a lemon speared by a straw, PollyÕs drink
had a cherry. Crushed ice coated the surface of our drinks. I sipped mine.
Vodka, I think, watered down, made pleasant with a sampling of fresh
lemonade. Polly removed her straw and ate the cherry. Then she gulped
her drink.
ÒMmmm, good!Ó Polly pronounced, setting her glass down at last,
quite empty. Rose lifted a linen napkin from the table and wiped a cherry-
frosted mustache off PollyÕs upper lip. Joanne, finding garlands on the
chair behind her hassock, rose and placed them on our heads. They were
made of daisies and dandelions. Had they been left by other partiers?
They were freshly woven. Perhaps their party had been interrupted by
lifeÕs other necessities. Polly received hers without noticing, as if she
were the Mayfair queen, entitled to such a crown. I touched mine, felt the
pliancy of the stems and their budding flowers.
The maid with her heavy burden of flesh shrouded in an apron and
dresses brought Rose a Bloody Mary.
ÒOooh! WhatÕs that?Ó Polly inquired as soon as it had been presented
at RoseÕs place. The woman let Polly take it and sip it. Polly held the
glass with both hands.
ÒYuck!Ó Polly declared, giving Rose her glass back. Polly, perhaps
remembering her lesson in manners from the linen napkin, wiped her
mouth but, seeking to retain her youthful indulgences, perhaps, used the
back of her hand. Rose took back her Bloody Mary and drank it with
confidence, in long draughts. The maid asked Joanne and Sylvia what they
wished to have.
A WOMANÕS REVENGE
by holy joe
I imagine that there are at least a few feminists who read this zine.
And you ladies probably gnash your teeth over every issue. You think I
have no regard for womenÕs issues, concerns, or problems. (Such as they
are.)
Wrong, ladies! Holy joe is here to help you. No, IÕm not going to
start a talk show where you can whine and complain every day. And IÕm
not going to turn this e-zine into some perverted forum for feminist
claptrap. However, I am willing to help you. And when youÕre done reading
this column, today, I think youÕll agree that this one column gave you more
pleasure and enjoyment, and more practical advice, than any number of
shows by Oprah Winfrey.
Please note, ladies, that in my quest to help you I underwent a great
deal of suffering! I was in great pain, just to help your cute little asses.
(And your daughtersÕ even cuter asses.)
Now the question comes down to this: ThereÕs a guy youÕve slept
with. Perhaps heÕs your husband. Perhaps heÕs your (latest) boyfriend.
HeÕs finished fucking you, and now heÕs asleep. YouÕre feeling used. You
feel like that Bobbitt lady.
You feel like cutting off your husbandÕs (or boyfriendÕs) penis.
However, you donÕt want to be on national T.V., or have to spend 30
days in a mental hospital explaining yourself to sympathetic
psychiatrists.
But you still want to cut off your husbandÕs penis. What to do?
Prepare in advance. Buy, and carry in your purse, a bottle of taco
sauce. For my research, I used La Victoria Red Taco Sauce (Mild).
Take out your Taco Sauce. Spill it onto your husbandÕs penis. DonÕt
worry, he wonÕt feel a thing. (Yet.) The Taco Sauce will merely feel wet.
HeÕll probably think youÕre servicing him with your mouth, if he feels the
wetness on his penis.
Smear the taco sauce all over your husbandÕs penis. Try to get some
into his pee hole. Also, you might try smearing the sauce all over his balls
too, although the balls are more sensitive than the penis and might
respond quicker. (The whole key to this is that your husband will feel
nothing but wetness for the first few minutes.)
Now, itÕs time to run. Grab your purse and get lost! You donÕt want
to be around when the taco sauce starts taking effect.
After several minutes, the taco sauce will begin to burn. It will
burn more and more, until your husband wakes up and finds that his penis
is on fire!!! He will no doubt run to the bathroom and try washing his penis
with soap and water. It wonÕt work. Your husbandÕs penis will still burn.
I donÕt know if ice provides any relief because, as a simple hobo, I
didnÕt have any access to ice when I tried this experiment on myself. (For
you, ladies, so youÕd like me, instead of hating me.)
Anyway, your husbandÕs penis will burn for HOURS after youÕve
applied the taco sauce to it. As far as I know, there is no relief for ÒThe
Taco Sauce Torture.Ó Only the passage of time will bring relief. It will
take many hours for the burning sensation on his penis to subside.
Eventually, his penis will take on a warm glow, as opposed to the
horrid burning. However, it will still be a prevalent aspect of your
husbandÕs metal state. He will be constantly reminded of his penis
because of the glowing and burning sensation.
Fortunately, the taco sauce does not damage your husbandÕs penis in
any way. No burn marks are left behind, and there is no peeling away of
the affected skin. (As with Binaca breath spray, if itÕs repeatedly applied
to the penis.)
See, ladies? What did I tell you? IsnÕt that a handy trick to pull on
your husband? Now you can always keep him mindful of your needs, by
telling him, ÒHoney, if you donÕt help me do the dishes, IÕll put taco sauce
on your dick tonight when youÕre asleep.Ó
AND IN THE END...
Nature Speaks
READY TO MATE AT 8
ÒAt age 8, fully 48 percent of black girls and 15 percent of white girls
begin to show the first signs of puberty.Ó
- Time, April 21, 1997, pg. 36.
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-END OF 248 EMISSION