Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 3      

Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in 
Love Child

Chapter Five

         Underneath my frustratingly short frock I wore only my 
underpants and a bustiette.  It had a lace-up front.  I guess our mistress 
had miscalculated the size of my boobies.  The bustiette had proved 
hopeless at containing my nipples, or any of my cleavage above them.  
My titties wiggled freely against the inside of my frock, the regulation 
bustiette doing nothing more than lifting my breasts and making them 
more prominent than they already were.  My coat had no buttons above 
the middle, leaving my bulging bosoms precariously contained.  Already 
once or twice a sudden movement on my part had allowed one of my 
breasts to pop into view, my nipple as nicely displayed as if I were at a 
nudist camp.  Sam had been impressed, sucking in his breath but saying 
nothing.  I'd tucked my breast back inside my frock.  And I'd tried, once 
more, to stick my nipple down inside the bra cup of my bustiette, to no 
avail.  Kyle was just as unlucky.  The upper curves of her breasts bulged 
from her frock.  All morning, sitting across from her on the plane, I'd 
had a magnificent view of her cleavage.  The creamy mounds promised 
to nourish well any who suckled them.         
         The door to the house finally opened.  An elderly servant let us in.  
He made to take our coats, but we refused.  We were led to the back of 
the house, into a modest ballroom, where a group of a dozen or so men 
and women, finely clothed, were sharing cocktails and conversation.  A 
charming woman came forward to meet us.  She was perhaps 30 or 40, 
with impeccable hair and makeup, wearing a tight cire gown.  Her 
curves were beyond reproach.  Underneath her gown I sensed the 
movement of a spirited animal.  
         Rebecca had taken a photo of my bottom and color-faxed it to our 
new mistress.  The woman, eyeing my figure, said she thought I must be 
Barbi.  As I stared past her prominent bosom into her face, I realized 
she was recognizing me as the narrower-hipped of the two.  No photo of 
my face had been sent.  Nor had a photo been sent of my bust, or any 
other part of me.  Just my bottom, as if that were all that really 
mattered.  An certificate of acceptance had been faxed back within 
minutes.  
         "And you must be Kyle," the woman purred, greeting my new 
schoolmate.
         "Yes, ma'am," Kyle replied.  
         "I'm Elena, but in class you'll want to call me mistress," the 
woman replied softly.  "We'll get started with our first lesson after 
lunch.  Come and meet some of my friends first."  Gaily she led us over 
to a man and his wife, who smiled reassuringly.  Our little uniforms 
hugged us alluringly.  We introduced ourselves.  The man and his wife 
seemed quite pleased to meet us.  We chatted.  
         Slowly we mingled within the group, Kyle and I staying together 
always.  Our extremely decollete uniforms kept us feeling shy and self-
conscious.  Men as well as women showed no hesitation in casting 
admiring glances down between our titties.  Not a few eyes pasted 
themselves on our bottoms as well.  Now and then an unintended flip of 
the skirt would give them a peek at our pumpkins.  They seemed to like 
what they saw.
         Kyle and I were allowed to freshen up, and then lunch followed.  
The table conversation was quite salacious.  It obviously had an effect 
on Kyle, for I saw her slip a hand inside her coat and diddle with the 
bow that held her bustiette closed.  When her hand withdrew, I guessed 
she had untied it.  
         "Are you not heated also?" a man sitting beside me asked, quietly.  
He'd seen me watching Kyle, knew what I knew.  Compliantly I put my 
hand inside my own coat and separated the drawstrings of my bustiette.  
My coat bulged forth more boldly when the constricting bustiette was 
loosed.  The man smiled, told me I was a good girl, but asked no more of 
me.  I marvelled at his restraint, for a glance at his lap showed that he 
was terribly aroused.  I wondered how big his cock must be to make 
such a large bulge in his pants.  Lunch ended finally.  The females had 
filled their tummies but the younger men had filled both their tummies 
and their trousers.
         Returning to the ballroom, Kyle and I were separated from the 
group by Elena, who said she must begin our schooling.  She took the 
two of us into another room.  Unbeknownst to me at the time mirrors on 
the far wall served to allow the guests one-way viewing of our lessons.  
Elena made us stand straight, side by side.  Suddenly, her demeanor was 
imperious.
         "Good afternoon, girls, I'm delighted you've decided to enroll in my 
academy for wayward girls.  Kyle, sent by your fiancee, and Barbi, by 
your lover.  How thoughtful of them."  She moved like a cat, sleek, 
svelte, as if about to pounce on one of us.  "You'll find this school much 
tougher than any you've attended before.  "You're both well-bred girls, 
used to being spoiled and pampered.  Here you will not be.  My rules are 
many and they are rigorously enforced.  Any disobedience, however 
slight, will be met with maximum punishment.  When you graduate you 
will be fine young ladies, sure of your place in the world, confident 
about your sexuality and properly submissive to men.  Unless, of course, 
they require that you not be submissive, in which case you will be a 
sexual tiger.  Do I make myself clear?"  We both nodded mutely.  She 
had, sometime during lunch, put her hair up in a loose bun.  She wore 
glasses.  She carried a clipboard and, placed across it, a riding crop.  
"Come, be seated, we must have Latin first," she ordered.  
         Twin PCs waited to give us computerized instruction.  I pulled out 
my chair to sit down.  It needed to be turned around, as it was facing 
the wrong way.  But mistress made me sit right down on it, with the 
back of the chair underneath my breasts.  This left my hiney sticking 
out rather awkwardly.  My dress had slipped up in back.  Buns exposed, I 
trembled.  My legs were widely spaced by the reversed chair back.  My 
thighs, totally uncovered, nicely tanned, merged into the lily white 
spheres of my bottom.  Mistress patted my bottom and hiked my dress 
up further.
         "You have a pretty bottom.  Do not be afraid to show it."  She did 
the same to Kyle.  I noticed then that the seat was made of straw.  It 
pricked my bottom.  
         "Do you have a cushion, ma'am?" Kyle asked, her own posterior 
making its uncomfortable acquaintance with the straw.  Mistress 
swished her crop through the air and said we must learn not to ask 
unnecessary questions.  Kyle gulped and wordlessly accommodated 
herself as best she could to her seat.
         About 15 minutes later we were done with Latin.  We rose from 
our seats at mistress' beckoning, the imprint of the woven straw still 
on our bottoms.  We were forbidden to pull down our dresses, which 
rode our hips, leaving us bare beneath, save for our inadequate panties.  
Mistress ushered us back into the ballroom.  There, blushing fiercely, 
we were made to report to each couple in turn what we'd learned.  The 
purpose of our short skirts became readily apparent.  
         "No, that is not correct," Mistress said, as I attempted to tell the 
first couple what I'd learned.  A swift cut of the crop sent me leaping 
into the air.  I rubbed my bottom cheeks and tried to remember my 
lesson correctly.  Kyle meantime, was stumbling with her first couple.  
"Yeahoo!" she yelled lustily, as mistress' crop corrected her big bottom.
         Hineys smarting, we each went to our next couple, reporting 
separately to each one.  Soon I had the spiel down right.  I managed to 
get through the rest of the couples without any more damage.
         It was with trembling fannys that we returned to the schoolroom.  
Fearfully we sat down at the computers for our next lesson.  This time, 
the subject was greek.  Mistress checked the state of our bottoms as 
we answered the computer's questions.  She wrote on her clipboard.  
Another 15 minutes passed, too quickly.
         We returned to the partiers.  To my shock I saw that several of 
the women had been made topless.  A few couples were kissing, and did 
not even look up to notice our return.  The first husband and wife (I call 
them that for lack of a better term, I knew not if they were married), 
seemed quite aroused.  As I told them what I'd learnt about Greek I 
noticed that the man had a large protuberance in the front of his pants.  
At the same time I noticed that all the toasts we'd been asked to drink 
at lunch (with Cranberry juice) were making their presence felt in my 
bladder.  Kyle had attempted to whisper to me as we'd left Greek class.
         "Ma'am?" I heard Kyle ask.  "May I be excused?"
         "Why, whatever for?" Mistress replied.  Awkwardly Kyle tried to 
say what she needed to, without being explicit.  Mistress seemed not to 
understand.  At last Kyle blurted, 
         "Please ma'am, may I go to the bathroom?"
         "Do you have to pee?" Mistress asked.  Kyle repeated her question.
"I must know what you intend," Mistress replied.  "Tell me, do you have 
to pee?"
         "I-I," Kyle paused.  Finally she said it:  "Ma'am, may I please go 
pee?"
         "Tsk!  Big girls do not have to go to the potty so soon after lunch," 
Mistress replied.  "Certainly not just to pee.  You must learn to hold it.  
Men cannot stand travelling with a girl who is constantly asking them 
to pull off to pee."
         We were wiggling exceedingly by the time we got through our 
lessons.  Each of us had gotten three additional cuts, sending us 
howling.  With puffed faces and clenching fannies we returned to the 
schoolroom, sitting our huddling bottom cheeks ever so gently back 
down on the straw chairs.
         Geography was next.  It was tough to concentrate with my bladder 
feeling like it could burst any minute.  My bottom smarted.  I wanted to 
squirm in my seat but the nasty straw kept my wiggling to a minimum.
         "Ma'am, if I can't go soon I will pee in my panties!" Kyle abruptly 
said halfway into our lesson.  Mistress replied with a swift crack of 
the crop on her bottom.  "Ooooo!" Kyle cried, eminently frustrated, with 
a new welt on her bottom to add to her woes.  She tried tapping in an 
answer on her keyboard to a question the computer was repeating.  
Suddenly, she stopped.  She reached up and yanked open the front of her 
coat.  Her lovely bosoms spilled out, nipples sprouting erectly.  I 
glanced over at her juddering boobs and watched, astonished, as she 
peed forthrightly into her panties.  She merely sat there, legs boldly 
spread, hands still at her coat, and released her pee into her undies.  It 
escaped down her thighs and puddled on the floor.
         "Why you dirty girl!" Mistress exclaimed, as shocked as I was.  
Just about every rule in the playbook had been summarily violated by 
our companion.  Ruefully Kyle looked up from her mess.
         "I-I'm sorry ma'am.  I'll clean it up," Kyle apologized.
         "You'll finish your lesson, that's what you'll do," Mistress said, 
and seemed to forget to give her even one crack for her bad behavior.  
She turned to me.  "Pull open your jacket and pee, young lady."  I couldn't 
believe my ears.  Mistress raised her crop but before she could strike I 
hastily yanked open my top, releasing my breasts.  Free at last, they 
sprang out almost lustily, my nipples hard beyond belief.
         "I- I can't go," I said after a moment, gazing up at mistress.
         "You'll go when I tell you to!" Mistress shouted, suddenly giving 
me the cut that should have gone to Kyle.  I leapt in my chair but still 
couldn't pee.  So I sat there, waiting, with mistress hovering over me.  
         "Wet your panties," Mistress intoned after a minute.
         "I-I-m trying, truly trying, ma'am," I pleaded.  Another cut.  I 
jumped again.  Tears welled in my eyes.  Kyle plunked away at her 
computer, seemingly oblivious to the predicament she'd put me in.  
Thanks, Kyle.  A friend in need is no friend in deed when she wets her 
panties.

The EditorÕs Soapbox

         I installed a Take-A-Number machine on the outside of my outhouse 
today.  I figured, with me getting famous on the Internet, the groupies 
should be showing up soon.  Now and then I look out my peephole, but so far 
there have not been any customers.  A little girl from the preschool did 
wander by and try to take a number, but she was too short to reach it.  I 
guess I could consider lowering the machine...
         Let me address myself to those of you who would like to be my 
groupies.  First off, there is a tree in front of the bus stop sign out by the 
street.  If you are riding by on the bus looking for where to get off, you 
have to look closely.  Pull the bell to make the driver stop when you see 
the big oak tree next to the sewer grate.  ThatÕs my stop.  In fact, if you 
look down in the sewer grate, I dropped a really good issue of Penthouse 
down there last year, when I bought some back issues and couldnÕt manage 
to carry them all.  You would get special privileges as my groupie if you 
could nab that issue back for me, so give it a shot, would you?  (My arms 
are too short.)
         Now I have been reading lately about girls who like Bush, and other 
bands like him.  (I figured I better do some research on this.)  I see he gets 
girls by touring around the country.  I suppose I could hook my outhouse up 
to my bicycle and go touring around the country.  I could hold Ôflushing 
concerts.Õ  There could be amps attached to my toilet and I could flush it 
really loud.  IÕd sound as good as Ministry, and IÕm sure they have groupies.
         Why do you girls persist in pursuing out-of-date dudes who play 
music?  The Internet is whatÕs hot!  Does Bush publish an e-zine?  IÕll bet 
he doesnÕt!  He probably has some dippy 17-year-old girl do it for him.  
Well, I publish MY OWN e-zine.  You get to read my own words, straight 
from my outhouse.  Do you get to hear Bush talking while heÕs sitting on 
the toilet?  IÕll bet not!  But in my case, I can shoot my thoughts straight 
into your computer, on a daily basis.  (And, if you would take a damn 
number, I could even shoot other stuff...)
         Now it should be understood that the first girl to take a number does 
NOT have to wait in line.  In fact, I am going to let you girls in five at a 
time.  I figure, with you kneeling and sitting on my lap and all that, I can 
easily fit five of you in here at once.  So let it be known that I intend to be 
very considerate of my groupies.  I will rush you girls in and out as fast as 
possible, to minimize the time you have to wait in line outside my 
outhouse.  To that end, I am requesting that you not wear any panties.  We 
must be considerate of the girls who are still outside.  It might rain, and 
they might get wet.  I donÕt want any of them getting wet.  (Well, actually, 
come to think of it...)
         Also, it is necessary that no fat girls show up.  The younger and 
lighter-weight you are, the better.  The floor of my outhouse is slowly 
rotting, and I have not yet got around to fixing it.  (I keep getting new 
Playboys in the mail, and it takes all my time just to keep my walls up-
dated with the proper monthÕs posters, layouts, etc.  Playboy, Penthouse, 
Hustler, Cunts Monthly, Live Girls, Girls of the Andes, all of these need to 
be pinned up on a monthly basis, and the old photos taken down.)  The point 
is, the floor could collapse.  So we must be careful of how much weight 
we put on it.
         I know many of you girls might be considering being members of The 
Mile High Club, saying ÔI made love in an airplane!Õ and stuff like that.  
Well, by visiting me, you could boast, ÒI made love in RollerÕs Outhouse!Ó  
That would be pretty cool, huh?  But if you are fat, and the floor broke, 
then youÕd be left saying, ÒI made love in RollerÕs shit.Ó  Plus, IÕd be down 
there with you, in the cesspool.  I guess it could be kinky, but I donÕt know 
how far down the cesspool goes.  It could be pretty deep.  We could drown 
in my shit.  So, in the interest of safety, if you are a fat pig please donÕt 
come by.  Stay home and enjoy your chocolates and your tapes of Elvis.  He 
was a pretty good singer.  I hear he even made his own e-zine, although 
there was no Internet then, so he couldnÕt send them out to anybody.  
         Well, I will be going now.  (To the bathroom, actually, although it 
could mean that IÕm ending this important editorial.)  Be on the lookout for 
my outhouse, okay?  IÕm considering painting the outside of it hot pink, so 
you can see it better from the street, but somebody told me a lot of gay 
dudes would show up then.  Maybe I could paint it bright red.  You know, 
like a cherry.  ÒCome hither, cherries, to RollerÕs outhouse.Ó  Yeah, that 
would be a good subliminal message.  Also, it might remind you of Santa 
Butthead, and he is pretty cool, right?  Plus he wore red.  So some girls 
might come by looking for Santa Butthead, and find me instead!  Okay, I 
will paint my outhouse cherry red, then.  It will mean I actually have to 
leave my outhouse, which I havenÕt done for 12 years, but I guess itÕs 
worth it if it means that you girls will find it easier to come.  

Video Reviews

         Playboy Video Centerfold Kerri Kendall, $19.95.  This is the all-time 
great video centerfold!  Kendall has a heavenly body.  She has only an 
alright face, but whenever she is about to do something naughty it takes 
on a very cute, mischievous expression.  (Oddly, her face seems perfect in 
the photos of her as a little girl.)
         From the very first seconds of this tape you know you are getting a 
great deal.  It begins with Kendall getting made up by an (unseen) Playboy 
employee, then trying on various items of clothing.  You should see this 
girl try to wriggle her big breasts into farmer's overalls!  Soon we are 
somewhere in the desert with Kendall, where she feels the need to douse 
her tits with canteen water.  Then it's off to an empty dance hall where, 
on stage, she strips out of a dress and underclothes to strut naked.  
Following this is a bondage fantasy, with Kendall attiring herself in chain 
links and black straps.  What is really great about this piece is Kendall 
adds clothing to her bondage gear, to give the impression that she is going 
out for a night of club hopping.  Soon the clothing is coming off once more, 
eventually leaving Kendall totally naked, whereupon she plays with pearls 
and rubs herself down with baby oil.  (To add to the sting of an upcoming 
whipping?)
         We aren't treated to an actual flagellation of Kendall, of course, but 
soon we're deep in another piece with her where she rips off her clothes 
to endure a "champagne shower."  This "shower" (according to the box) is 
actually an overhead ceiling sprinkler system.  Kerri kneels upon a bed to 
receive its tribute.  Then she writhes as the stinging champagne rains 
down upon her, gradually wetting her down.  For good measure, in another 
scene, Kendall actually pops a bottle of champagne and sprays its spurting 
contents over her naked breasts and body.
         The only "loser" vignette is one featuring Kendall at a swimming 
pool.  This scene, with a different girl but the same pool, is staged in Wet 
and Wild II as well, where it is equally boring.  Kendall introduces the pool 
footage by proclaiming "Water is sex!" but the only wetness I felt was in 
my tear ducts, as I contemplated what could have been running instead.
         As usual, Playboy insists on speeding through its scenes at a 
breakneck pace.  Of course, if a particular vignette is not to one's liking, 
the footage can't move fast enough.  All their scenes, however, would be 
improved by a slower pace.  Despite the less than impressive pool scene, 
the bondage, popping champagne bottles, and showers in bed make Kerri 
Kendall a video not to be missed! 

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Phenix City, AL 36868 U.S.A.  Naughty Naked Dreamgirls (Library of 
Congress ISSN: 1070-1427) is copyright 1996 and a trademark of 
Andrew Roller.  Chat:  alt.sex.stories.d    END OF 3 EMISSION