---------------------------------------------------------------
PROBLEMS? Please try viewing this with Netscape Navigator.
---------------------------------------------------------------
Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 310
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Nudie Nursery
Chapter Two
The milking machine was lowered to my breasts as Ray found new
ways to torture my clit and my cunt. He gave me a pap smear and used the
speculum to peer up inside me, all the while brushing my clit with his
thumb. He sprinkled hot chili powder on my clit, making me howl. He
tested my size with dildoes of increasing size, forcing them farther and
farther up within me. Kate, meanwhile, put suction cups to my nipples,
fitted the steel casings of the milk machine around my breasts, and then
turned it on.
I was wrenched upward as the machine pulled on my breasts as if
they were gourds. I felt crushed and held and suctioned within the
machineÕs grip. Simultaneously the little pads fixed to my nipples began
to suck upon them like babiesÕ mouths, while delivering little electric
shocks to them. But that was only the half of it. Down below, as the
machine started milking my breasts, Ray rudely stuck the biggest dildo he
could find up my cunt and turned it on.
It was the first time IÕd ever felt an electric dildo in my cunny. It
jolted me to a height of fear and then began jabbing on its own deep inside
me, as if its upper half could work alone, inserting itself and then drawing
a little back, then jamming up higher. Ray, meanwhile, pressed it within
me as much as my cunt would allow.
Kate slapped my tummy. She smiled down at me. The pressure on my
breasts was rhythmic now, fondling, holding, clasping and suckling them,
making them feel as if they were caught in a wonderful vise that would
never let go. I felt like a cow, being milked and inseminated all at once.
Kate walked to the end of the table and checked my wrist restraints.
They were secure. I had not found any way to wriggle free of them. Then
she bent, kissed my nose, and went to the opposite end of the table. She
raised each of my stirrups so that they stuck up at an angle. I felt my
cheeks on the underside of my bottom exposed. Sure enough, Ray used the
opportunity to begin intruding things into my ass. I felt like some
experimental animal as he and Kate played with dildos in my two holes,
my mouth gagged, my breasts constantly, endlessly suctioned as if they
were udders.
When Kate grew bored with helping Ray she went to the wall and
took down a whip. Methodically, touching herself as she did it, she began
beating my poor tummy. I jerked, I cried out. Ray ordered me to lie still
and warned I might be injured if I didnÕt, with him poking things in my
womb. I tried to comply but there was little hope of that! Devilishly he
kept rubbing new salves on my clitty meant to agonize and arouse it.
Within my bonds I began to build toward an orgasm. Ray heeded my
distress and played upon it. He found ever new ways to tease my clit,
while sticking bigger and bigger things up inside my vagina and my
bottomhole.
Suddenly I climaxed. Kate flicked a switch on the milking machine
and it delivered stronger shocks to my nipples. I rode out my orgasm with
the milking machine working my teats and Ray teasing me through every
rippling wrench of my hips. Kate kept beating my tummy, lightly marking
me with every stroke of the switch.
I was released. I lay upon the table in a daze. My orgasm drizzled
away. I felt wet between my legs. I felt violated. Kate and Ray smiled
down at me, all the evil things taken away, just me, staring up at them,
still wearing my gag but nothing else. Except my heels, of course, to make
me look pretty.
They reached down and I thought they would help me up but instead
they rolled me over. I was still trapped within the twin rails of the table.
They were not electrified, but a mere flick of a switch could make them
so.
ÒKneel up, darling,Ó Kate urged. I could not believe my ears. But she
slapped my fanny and, fearing worse, I stuck up my bottom. My knees slid
up under my belly and I lifted it so that my heinie was rudely pushed into
the air.
Ray let me keep my knees together but he put a spreader bar between
my ankles. Kate, meanwhile, pulled my thumb from my mouth, where IÕd
hoped to suck it, and tied my hands together under my face.
I buried my nose in my pillow. I did not want to see what they were
preparing to do to me. I knew it would be horrid. I felt Kate blow on my
bottom and then lick, once, between my cheeks. Then there was a moment
of waiting, as I heard an enema bag swung over me, its contents sloshing,
and its hose unhooked.
With the bag hanging over my bottom, as I suspected, not looking,
quiet in my pillow, I felt long nails part my ass cheeks. KateÕs tongue
intruded again, and this time it was on a mission. She found my hole and
licked it. Then, when I was wet with her saliva, she put vaseline on her
finger and soothed it into my hole.
A jab made me arch my head up from my pillow. My gag silenced a
howl as a nozzle rudely pushed its way into my anus.
ÒHold still, dear, donÕt waggle your bottom about like a hussy,Ó Kate
told me. She shoved the nozzle deeper into my hiney-hole and I heard Ray
announce that heÕd unclipped the enema bag.
A liquid rushed into my bottoms. I gasped. It filled me up fast. It
was more than sperm ever could do. It filled me to the brim and I begged,
through my gag, for them to stop the flow. After another minute they did
so. I could barely move, I was so full. They laughed. Kate offered Ray a
cookie. They stood watching me a few minutes. She stroked his penis. It
was hard and ready.
The enema tube was detached from the full bag, which was now
empty, and attached to a bag which had been hooked down beneath the
table. It was the waste bag, and I prayed theyÕd let me release my bowels
into it, and fast.
I heard Ray say he was removing a clip and suddenly all the fullness
inside me began to rush out.
ÒShe should have no problem taking me up her ass, now that sheÕs
had all that liquid to expand her,Ó Ray laughed. Kate laughed with him and
began greasing his dick with the vaseline. No sooner was I rid of the
dastardly enema than Ray presented me with himself. I felt his hardness
sink into my fanny and I gasped and cried and begged to be let up. He
would have nothing of it. He jerked within me, going deeper, then deeper
still. I found later that heÕd mounted a footstool just to be the right
height to fuck my ass as I knelt on the table. He urged my hips toward
him. I was not tied to the wall now and he was able to drag me, with my
hands tied beneath my face, as far down the table as he wished.
I began to cry. Ray paid no attention. He reamed me with his
hardness and I felt like a flower being opened by some rude, ruthless child.
Kate stood beside him, slapping his ass with her hand, encouraging him,
and, to a shout of disapproval from Ray, even inquiring herself in his hole
with her finger.
We made love there, in that strange room that took ÒPlaying DoctorÓ
to its ultimate perversion. Ray fucked me on the table and Kate finger-
fucked him in his ass. When heÕd cum I was permitted to rest and he laid
her down on the floor and reamed her cunt with his mouth.
Dazed, aching everywhere, I was led out at last from the horrible
Ob-Gyn room. IÕd survived, but I wondered about the nursery school girls.
Had they been given ÔfreeÕ physicals in there? The very thought of some
man, no doctor but only a pervert, exploring their deepest secrets in there
made me shiver. Holding my hands Ray and Kate took me upstairs. They
wiped my bottom and we tumbled into bed and slept like exhausted
rabbits. As I drifted off to sleep I saw myself, in a pinafore dress,
holding a lollipop, being led into the exam room by a pervert. I pledged to
myself that IÕd report this evil dungeon to the police as soon as weÕd
finished. But, in my dreams, I felt a penis intruding between the cheeks of
my fanny, and I knew we werenÕt finished just yet.
Chapter Three
It was all my momÕs fault. When I was 16, she insisted I get a job.
She said she was tired of me just playing on the beach. My grades had
dropped from a little too much partying. I think she thought I was up to
more than I actually was. But what was I going to say: ÔDonÕt worry, mom,
I just blow the guys I like, I donÕt bed themÕ?
IÕd had fun at KateÕs, I must admit. I think I walked around in a daze
for about a month after that weekend at her place. She decided to sell it,
and moved back to New York. There were too many stories hidden down
there for her to play in that preschool dungeon guilt-free.
I went back to teasing guys. I loved to make them lust after me and
then leave them with nothing; yearning for me, desperate, jerking
themselves off someplace as they wished they could have me. It was
especially fun sometimes to make a hunky guy drop dead over me. After
all, what good is it knowing a nerd is creaming his pants for you? But a
hunk is another matter. To think that a cute guy who deserves you is left
with blue balls and sperm that just HAS to cum out, but canÕt, but MUST;
that is wickedly fun. Unfair, perhaps, but fun all the same.
Sex just didnÕt seem to sizzle after playing in Jeff and SherryÕs
canyon retreat, and at KateÕs. Everything was so heightened there, so
intense, so immediate. I think I missed the challenge of a dungeon. To be
commanded, to know you have to obey. In real life I was swamped with
choices. I could diss cute guys, or not. I got invited to teen parties where
we danced, or just got drunk. There was freedom but there was boredom
too. Pearl Jam on 10 is only so interesting. Beavis and Butthead might be
content to re-run their lives every day, watching the same old videos, but
I got annoyed with it all.
So when mom said I just HAD to get a job, well, I wasnÕt really
bothered by it. I imagined IÕd wind up in a boutique near the beach selling
cosmetics or trinkets or something but, well, what could you expect as a
teenager? I opened the paper to look for some job like that, but for some
reason my eyes were drawn to the Secretary page. I donÕt know why. I
canÕt type. IÕm a terrible speller. Even my name, Kelly, I sometimes spell
Kellie, or Kellee, just to have fun. But I saw an ad that said, ÒSecretary
Desired: No Skills Required.Ó Somehow the way it was phrased, you
know? It seemed tantalizing. Who could possibly want a secretary who
didnÕt know how to do anything?
I made an appointment over the phone. Then I had to buy clothes: you
canÕt get a secretaryÕs job wearing ass-high cutoffs! (At least I donÕt
think you can.) I bought a prim waist-length jacket and a white blouse
with a neckerchief. I also picked up some nice black stockings and silvery
heels. The skirt, I must admit, was too short. But I felt daring. I bought a
string of pearls to try to compensate. All businesswomen, I think, wear
pearls. It makes them look proper but elegant. Then I put my Hello Kitty
pencil in my jacket pocket and went off to see my new boss. (Well, I
promised myself IÕd be successful; I practise the Power of Positive
Thinking!)
As I walked into the lobby of the building in downtown L.A. I was on
pins and needles. The floor tiles echoed my footsteps and I felt like
everyone looked up to watch me pass. I tugged nervously on the hem of my
jacket. It hung down a little lower than my miniskirt and I was grateful
that it could cover me where my skirt couldnÕt! I took an elevator upstairs
to the 11th floor. The bellboy in the elevator made eyes at me. I
pretended not to notice. He was pretty cute but I was on a mission: to
become a working woman. Hopefully theyÕd teach me how to type at this
place.
I was let into Suite 1117 by a woman. She looked lovely, and seemed
to be in her mid-twenties. She had me sit down in a little anteroom
outside the bossÕs office and she asked if IÕd like some coffee. I
swallowed nervously, said Ôyes.Õ
ÒIs this your first job?Ó she asked politely. I nodded that it was. In
fact, I admitted, it was my first job interview. She smiled. ÒI think
youÕll like Brent,Ó she said. She handed me my coffee. It was hot. I had to
wait to let it cool before I could drink it.
I was just starting to sip my coffee when the woman tending to me
told me it was time to go in and see Brent. Another woman had just left;
twenty-something, beautiful, with long legs and a composed demeanor. I
felt a sudden rush of anxiety again. But somehow I gathered myself
together and walked into BrentÕs office: my first job interview!
Life, the Universe, and Boxed Sets
by me, holy joe
In some parts of the country, it is growing cold. This perhaps is a
time for introspection. If youÕre young, and reading this, perhaps you are
wondering, ÒWhat is the meaning of life?Ó
I will tell you. ItÕs to get laid. But, aside from that, there is at best
only one other meaning. Allow me to explain, by way of example.
I have in my hand a catalog. ItÕs a video catalog, from a popular mail
order company. I am looking at page 13. Across the top of this page is
written, ÒChristmas Boxes.Ó The page is divided into three columns. In
the first column, about halfway down, is a boxed set of videos. ItÕs titled,
ÒThe Monkees Deluxe Limited Edition Box Set.Ó
In the second column, about halfway down the page, right next to
ÒThe Monkees,Ó is another boxed set of videos. ItÕs titled, ÒThe Rise and
Fall of Adolf Hitler.Ó
That, my friend, in a nutshell, is the meaning of life. Either you got
a boxed set of videos, starring you, or you didnÕt. Everyone else, the
people who didnÕt get their own boxed set featuring themselves, marched
straight into oblivion.
In effect, they never lived.
Recently I met a doctor. She had quite a high opinion of herself.
And, not coincidentally, she had quite a low opinion of me. This is a
personality flaw common to doctors. They figure anyone who isnÕt a
doctor is shit.
But I have news for this woman. SheÕs marching straight into
oblivion. Reason? SheÕll never get her own boxed set of videos. At the
end of the next century, there will be a catalog. It might be a web catalog,
instead of a paper one. And it wonÕt be selling boxed sets of videos. It
will be selling boxed video CDÕs, or videos that you download directly from
the Internet, for the next centuryÕs equivalent of $89.00.
The Monkees might be listed in such a catalog. Adolf Hitler certainly
will be. And some new version of the Monkees will be listed, whether the
Monkees themselves are listed or not. But she wonÕt be there. Oh, she
might make medical history. She might even operate on the President of
the United States in her lifetime. But, odds are, sheÕll never have a boxed
set, starring her.
So, if youÕre wondering what to do with yourself, besides getting
laid, my advice is to get yourself into a boxed set of videos. Or, if you
canÕt manage that, at least write something down that people might enjoy
reading 100 years from now.
There are graveyards in America that arenÕt maintained. I spoke to a
man recently who told me about a graveyard he visits, once a week. He
visits it to mow the grass around the graves. Nobody pays him. Nobody
even notices that heÕs mowed the grass. But he told me he got tired of
seeing the graveyard in an unkempt condition. Finally he took it upon
himself to mow its lawn. If he didnÕt mow the grass around the graves,
nobody else would. Because, despite the triumphs, the unjust tragedies,
despite the lives, fulfilled or unfulfilled, respected or not, that all those
people in all those graves lived, nobody even knows or cares that they
lived. And most certainly nobody cares that theyÕre now lying in a
graveyard, dead. Even the man doesnÕt know, or care, whoÕs buried there.
He just cares that the grass around the graves stays properly mowed, out
of respect for (whoever it is) that lies buried there.
And so it is with the doctor. And your stock broker. And your
congressman and your lawyer and your accountant. All respected people,
no doubt, but will anyone care in 100 years that they lived? Will anyone
even know their names?
I doubt it. In the end there will be a catalog, and a few half-
forgotten faces peering out from that catalog. The Monkees. Adolf Hitler.
Jesus. Tom Cruise. A few others, most of them here today, gone
tomorrow. Quick: whoÕs Lester Lanin? I have no idea, but heÕs billed in a
catalog as being the head of Òthe worldÕs best dance orchestraÓ. IÕve
heard of dancing. IÕve never heard of Lester Lanin.
And, by the way, I think Lester is dead. The catalog heÕs featured on
the first page of is titled, ÒMusic and MemoriesÓ. It has lots of ÒfamousÓ
musicians in it from the 40Õs and 50Õs.
IÕve yet to get a catalog titled, ÒGreatest Medical DoctorsÓ. Or
ÒGreatest AccountantsÓ. Or even ÒGreatest Congressmen of the United
States of AmericaÓ. And would you buy anything from such a catalog, if
you got one? Are you going to pony up, even, for Lester Lanin anytime
soon?
So, thatÕs my advice. It may be advice from a bum, but I still think
itÕs good advice. Get laid. Write something down. Something interesting.
And, if possible, get your own boxed set of videos, starring you.
Otherwise, in 100 years, you wonÕt just be dead. YouÕll never have
lived.
AND IN THE END...
Last Words of the Accountant:
ÒI considered my handiwork, all my labour and toil: it was futility,
all of it, and a chasing of the wind, of no profit under the sun.Ó
- Ecclesiastes 2:11.
-------------------------- Fuck Decency! ------------------------
-Back issues: type
http://www.dejanews.com/
into your browserÕs ÒLocationÓ window. Press your ÒreturnÓ key.
Under ÒQuick SearchÓ, type in: roller39@idt.net
Press your ÒreturnÓ key.
-Other providers:
Usenet Newsgroup: alt.sex.stories.moderated
or by e-mail: file.request@backdrop.com
or via the Web: http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/
-Free minicomics: send a stamped, self-addressed envelope to: Jim
Corrigan, P.O. Box 3663, Phenix City, AL 36868
- JOIN the worldÕs greatest organization! Send $35.00 to The North
American Man/Boy Love Association for a one-year membership.
NAMBLA, P.O. Box 174, Midtown Station, New York, NY 10018.
-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 310 EMISSION