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Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
FEVERED FALL
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Chapter Nine
My aunt and I occupied the same room. We were in Quatar now. We�d
both passed our physical exams. It was a well-appointed bedroom,
complete with long-stemmed roses glistening in a vase. A bowl of
chocolates waited by the pillow of the bed we were to share. I liked the
chocolates. I ate ten of them before my auntie told me we were invited to
have dinner with the Sultan, and I must not spoil my appetite.
�Oh, auntie,� I said, gazing out our window. It presented us with a
beautiful vista of Quatar, the tree-lined streets, the lazy dunes stretching
away into the distance; lots of sand intermixed with buildings built in the
grand International style. �Why are there bars on our bedroom window?
They are prettily wrought, but to have iron bars!�
My aunt gazed out the window with me. She extended her hand
through the bars. We were high up; too high to shout to the people passing
on the street far below. She let go of her handkerchief. It fluttered away,
caught by the breeze.
�They are bars, but think of a place like this in America,� my aunt
said. �The windows are always sealed. Here, we have open windows, an
overhead fan, and air conditioning to boot! We can open and close the glass
as we please, or leave the window wide open, and draw the drapes. Really,
if you think about it, we have many more choices with regard to our room
here than, say, in America, or even in France!�
�Yes, auntie,� I said. �But with guards at our door--�
�They said we should call them servants,� my aunt said. I looked
into her face. I could see she was slowly sinking into the idea of being a
guest of the Sultan, even though we�d been virtual prisoners ever since we
took our physical!
�Oh, auntie,� I said. �I don�t think you�re the best chaperone in the
world, but you are the very best aunt! Who else would have me put into a
tower in Quatar, with guards at our door, who do, indeed, get us whatever
we please, except our freedom?�
�Perhaps... perhaps the Sultan knows what�s best for us?� my auntie
asked me. Her voice quavered.
I hugged her. �You wish he did, auntie,� I said.
�I hope he does,� my auntie said. �He is so handsome.�
�Yes, he is very handsome,� I agreed.
The beautiful woman who�d examined my aunt suddenly appeared at
the door. We both turned; surprised to see her. She hadn�t been on the
private flight that brought us from Crete to Quatar. Yet here she was,
standing now in the doorway, grinning like a cat at the two of us.
�Well, girls,� she said. She stalked into the room. She wore a long
black gown that left her shoulders and arms completely bare. In her hand,
she held a rose. It had a stiff stem, with sharp leaves and thorns on it.
She handled it carefully, sniffing it as she walked. �Are you ready to meet
the Sultan?� she asked. �Dinner is in one hour. How do you like Quatar?
If you find the heat disagreeable, you are welcome to close your window.�
The woman, whose name I learned was Glenda, sauntered over to our
window. She pressed herself between us and stared out the window with
us. She sniffed her rose, twirling it in her fingers. Then she passed her
hand through the window. She let go of the rose. We watched it drop
away. For a moment it was lost from sight; too close to the building we
were in for us to see it. Then a breeze caught its big, beautiful bloom and
swept it out away from the side of our tower. We watched as it spiralled
down toward the street below. A single car moved on the street; things
were sleepy here in Quatar, under the relentlessly hot afternoon sun. The
rose dwindled in size until I could see it no more. I guessed sometime
after I lost sight of it that it hit the asphalt.
Turning away from the window, I was startled to see that Glenda�s
gown was deceptive. She was a white woman, in her mid-20�s, with long,
lustrous black hair. It was piled high on top of her head at the moment, as
if for a grand ball. She had an exceptionally large cleavage. Her figure
resembled an hourglass. As I turned from the window I saw that her gown
was of two minds: in front, it sheathed all of her body. A black cloth
collar, part of the dress, circled her neck. The dress ran from her chin all
the way down to her toes. As I moved behind her, however, I was startled
to see how much Glenda�s gown revealed in back. In addition to her
shoulders and arms being completely bare, all of her back was bare. On
most dresses which leave the back bare they at least close over the ass.
But not this one! The back of Glenda�s gown remained fully open in back,
right down to her knees. Her ass could be seen, bare as if she were at a
nudist�s colony. Only at her knees did the gown finally close in back,
sheathing her calves. It was as if her thighs, her bottom, and her back
were appropriate subjects of Moslem contemplation, in all their nudity,
but her calves were not. How strange it was to see a woman so demure
and well-clothed in front, outfitted in a black gown, only to turn to her
backside and see she was all bare!
�You will find that the Sultan admires a good bottom, Chloe,� the
woman said. Oh! We had not been introduced, and already she knew my
name! I gasped to myself. �He enjoys admiring a fine derriere and he also
feels leaving it naked, on a girl, provides him with an excellent
opportunity, at all times, to discipline it if he must. So do not expect to
have your bottom covered much here. When I go abroad, on the Sultan�s
business, then I dress like anyone else. But here, it is his dictates which
prevail, and I dress to please his whim. You will do likewise.�
�Oh, I do not want to show off my bottom!� I said. I clapped my
hands to my ass. I was wearing shorts; it was, I suppose, rather a foolish
thing to say, all things considered, but the prospect of walking around
bare-assed in a strange place, where I didn�t know anyone, I did find
rather appalling.
�She is sweet, is she not?� Glenda said to my aunt, one mature
woman conversing with another.
�Y- Yes,� my aunt agreed.
�You will both get out of your things and wear to dinner what the
Sultan provides,� Glenda said. �For one month now you will wear what you
are bidden, nothing else. No more and no less. This will be your room, and
you may keep your things here. No one will disturb them. But you will not
always sleep here, as, no doubt, you have already surmised. You will be
kept here and there in the Sultan�s palace, as he sees fit. But you can rest
assured that your things, here in this room, will be waiting for you,
undisturbed, when your month of service is up. And as to the money--�
�Yes?� my aunt asked.
�Yes?� I said, in a high-pitched voice.
�It will be wired to the bank accounts you have designated. You will
each be permitted one International call, to your bank�s auto-teller
feature, to check that the proper amount has been deposited. This will
happen in a few days, after you have met with the Sultan�s personal
approval, and he is assured that your temperament is of a nature that he
finds satisfactory.�
�Wow-- my �dime account� that I opened last year in school is really
going to fill up!� I said.
�Very well,� my aunt said. �But remind him that it is his looks that
convinced us. I have plenty of money already. I want him to know that,
had it just been a matter of money, I wouldn�t be here today. I cannot
simply be bought, like a piece of property.�
�I CAN!� I said, loudly.
Glenda smiled. �I admire both your responses,� she said. �I myself
succumbed to his looks, a decade ago. And I was not unflattered by the
money he offered me, then or now.� She looked down at me. �You are quite
sweet, Chloe,� she said. �He admires girls who show enthusiasm about
their work.�
�And when the month is up?� my aunt asked.
�Then you will be released,� Glenda said. �You will be put on a non-
stop flight back to France.�
�And in the meantime?� my aunt asked, a note of trepidation in her
voice.
�We shall enjoy ourselves,� Glenda said. �It may be challenging at
times, but you shall both bear up under it quite well, I�m sure. Let us have
both of you undress now. It�s time for you to get ready to meet the
Sultan.�
I was in our room, playing in the bath, when I noticed there was a
small portable television built into the wall, behind some towels. I turned
it on. Glenda was out in the bedroom, helping my aunt into her evening
dress, so we could go meet the Sultan. A hairdresser was doing up my
aunt�s hair even as Glenda got her into her clothes. Someone had been
called to bathe me but the person hadn�t come yet. I scooped up some
bubbles off the surface of the tub water and arranged them over my
breasts, lest the person see my boobs the minute they walked in. The T.V.
brightened and showed a picture of five men kneeling, each one beside the
next, in the middle of a sandy lot.
I sat up straighter. How odd the men looked! Each one knelt with his
head jutting out beyond the end of a stone block. Each man�s hands were
tied behind his back. I peered at each man closely. To my surprise, I saw
that each one had his trousers pulled down, displaying his naked buttocks!
As I watched, feeling rather tense now, I saw a man stride out into
the middle of the T.V. picture�s screen, carrying a sword. He was
barechested. He had on long pantaloons, which were white. He wore a belt
and hanging down from the belt was a clean, new blue cloth. On his feet,
he wore sandals.
The man with the sword gazed over the five hunched men. Then, to
my utter surprise, he positioned himself over the nearest man and, after a
moment�s pause, shouted something, lifted his sword, and brought it down
on the man�s neck!
�EEEEEEK!� I cried. To my horror, I watched as the first of the five
kneeling men had his head cut off!
�Good heavens, what�s the matter, Chloe?� Glenda yelled. She ran
into the bathroom. My aunt, half-dressed, wearing a white gown, came
dashing in after her. The hairdresser followed my aunt into the bathroom.
I pointed at the T.V. As I did, the second man who was kneeling got
his head cut off.
�It�s a horrible movie!� I shouted.
�It looks... real,� my aunt gasped.
�Oh, my! Someone was supposed to block that channel,� Glenda
fretted. She tried reaching out over the tub, to the far wall, to turn the
T.V. off. But it was a big tub, and she couldn�t reach all the way across
the water to get at the T.V.
As we watched, the third man�s head was cut off. It hit the sand and
rolled, as the other two heads had. Blood spilled everywhere, turning the
pebble-brown color of the sandy lot red.
�Glenda! Whatever is happening?� my aunt asked.
Glenda sighed. �This is a real kingdom, with real, if perhaps,
medieval laws. The Sultan you girls are going to meet isn�t some mere
playboy, as perhaps you may be accustomed to dallying with in France. He
is a head of state, in charge of a real government.�
I felt sick to my stomach, seeing the execution.
�Oh, stop it!� I cried. My fingers dug into my cheeks, just under my
eyes. I wanted to cover my eyes and not look but I was so scared for the
men!
The executioner had so much blood on his sword that he paused to
wipe it with the blue cloth that hung down from his belt. As I watched,
the blue cloth turned bright red.
�Tell them to stop!� I demanded. �Stop it at once!�
�Yes, stop!� my aunt shrieked.
�Oh, my, the person who failed to block this channel will surely
pay,� Glenda said. She motioned to the hairdresser. The woman reached
into her kit, where she kept her hair salon equipment, and pulled out a
phone. She handed it to Glenda. Glenda pressed a single button on the
phone.
�Perhaps he will answer. But don�t count on it, girls,� Glenda said.
I watched, in a panic, as the executioner finished wiping his sword.
He lifted it and stood over the fourth man. With a flash, the sword came
down. My aunt and I screamed as the fourth man lost his head.
�Is the Sultan there?� Glenda said, into the phone she was holding.
�Yes? It is the European girls... they are watching the execution and it
distresses them. I know it�s almost finished but--�
To my amazement, my tummy churning, my hands clasping my face, I
watched as the executioner lifted his sword, then paused. He turned, as if
being spoken to by someone offscreen. For a moment everything seemed
frozen; the poor victim, kneeling stoically, awaiting his fate, the
executioner standing rigid, ready to deliver the justice of his sword�s
blade. Then, as if in slow motion, the executioner brought his sword down.
He nodded to whomever was speaking to him offscreen.
�Very well,� Glenda said. �The Sultan has granted your wish, girls.
He has spared the last man. Are you happy? I hope you both are, because
he will expect you both to be fine company, given that he�s granted such an
important thing-- a stay of execution.�
�Oh, thank you!� I gasped. I heard my aunt breathe a sigh of relief, as
I did. We watched as the last man was made to stand up. His hands were
still tied behind his back. His pants remained around his ankles. As he
stood, he displayed a rising erection to the crowd. They must have been as
shocked as I; all I could think was, �My God! He�s giving them the finger...
with his dick!�
�Chloe, please turn off the T.V.,� Glenda told me. �It�s unsuitable for
you to watch such a thing.� I gaped at the blood, the severed heads, the
man showing off his penis to the crowd.
�I want to see him at dinner,� I blurted. �I want to know he�s okay!
Oh, how handsome he looks! And his head is not like the others-- isn�t his
hair blonde?�
�He must be the European convicted of spying,� Glenda said. �He
wasn�t a government spy, in which case he might have been simply sent
home. He was stealing secret oil technology that Quatar hopes to sell to
the rest of the world.�
�I don�t care... I want to see him at dinner!� I said. �I want him
there! Or I�m not going.�
�Oh, you are a rather difficult girl,� Glenda huffed. She pressed the
button on her phone again. �He�s a convict, Chloe, you already spared his
life. I�m sure the Sultan-- yes? Is he there? The little one, she�s having
her bath, I�m sorry she saw such a thing on the T.V. Yes, I know someone
was supposed to block that channel. She insists on seeing the man at
dinner. At dinner. Very well. I�ll tell her.� Glenda pressed the �OFF�
button on her phone.
�Yes? What did they say?� I demanded.
�The Sultan agrees to your request, Chloe,� Glenda said.
�Yipee!� I cried. I threw bubbles up into the air.
�On condition that you turn off that T.V., Chloe,� Glenda added. I
don�t think the Sultan actually stooped to making that sort of a demand,
but I complied. I didn�t want to know what else was on. It was too scary.
I punched the T.V. off and settled back into the bubbles of my bath.
�Thank you, Glenda,� I sighed.
�You�re welcome, Chloe,� she said. She turned. �Ah, here�s the
person come finally to give you your bath, Chloe. Come in, please,� Glenda
said. An old Arab woman came into the bathroom. She had a scrub brush in
her hand. �See that she�s made squeaky clean... she must be at dinner with
the Sultan in less than an hour,� Glenda told the woman. The lady nodded.
I don�t think she spoke English. She looked at me, lying in the tub. She
walked over to me and, through motions of her hands, bade me stand up so
that she could wash me.
Our names were announced. Just our first names. My auntie and I
entered the banquet hall, led by Glenda. My heart leapt the minute I saw
him; fardistant, on the other side of the hall, sitting upon a throne. It was
the Sultan! I could discern his good looks even from the far end of the hall
and, had my eyes failed me there, there was no mistaking the ruby crown
he wore on his head.
I had expected we would dine with him alone. To my surprise, this
was not the case. The banquet hall was filled with all sorts of people;
many Arabs, a few European. They all were dressed in conservative Arab
robes, or in formal suits and ties. There were a few women, dressed in
staid evening gowns. The Arab women all wore their hair carefully tucked
under scarves.
My auntie, myself, and Glenda, however, were not guests of the
Sultan merely for the evening. We were here for a month and, hence, were
required to wear our hair uncovered. In addition, much to my
mortification, we were required to dress in the manner of salacious
slaves. I wore my hair long and free. It glistened under the multiple
chandeliers of the ballroom. Around my throat, there was a leather dog�s
collar. I was barechested; my only other garment, looking black and stark
against my skin, was a simple thong. It circled my waist and offered a
slender pouch in front, that barely covered my pussy. In back, the thong
split my bottomcheeks, framing them, as if for admiration, or punishment.
I had strings of pearls hanging artfully down from my collar; black pearls.
They passed over my breasts, ineffectually, not covering my bosoms but
falling on either side of the cones of my breasts. The strands of pearls
hung down past my waist. Then they swept back, leaving my pussy bare,
except for my thong, but rising over my ass to attach themselves to the
waistband of my thong, in back. As a result, though the cheeks of my ass
showed, they had the upsweeping strands of pearls passing over them. It
was a relief to me. Surely nobody would take it upon himself to swat my
ass with all those valuable pearls hanging over it, would they?
I wore silver shoes on my feet. They had high heels, lofting my
bottom higher and displaying it sexily as I walked. I blushed, feeling the
eyes of the room upon me. I wanted to clap my hands over my breasts to
hide my bare nipples but I guessed it would be seen as childish, so I didn�t.
I walked with my head high, my eyes on the Sultan. Let everyone look, if
they please! I was beautiful. I knew that, even as I fought to control my
bashfulness at being so naked. I was the Sultan�s special, month-long
guest, and I had even managed to force him to free one of his prisoners!
My eyes searched the room. I tried to find the man I�d saved. I did
not see him. I promised myself that if he didn�t show up, I�d tell the
Sultan I wished to have no part of whatever he had planned for us.
My aunt walked beside me. She wore a white gown. It had short,
ruffled sleeves. They left her arms bare. On her hands she wore white
gloves, studded with pearls, of kid leather. The gown she wore was most
curious. In front, it covered her entirely, from the high neckline to her
toes. But in back, things were quite strange. The top of her gown hung
down from her neck to the cheeks of her ass. But that�s where things got
interesting. Though her gown did cover almost the entirety of her cheeks,
it didn�t quite make it. The lowermost portion of her bottomcurves were
left uncovered. The bottom of her ass could be seen wiggling, quite naked,
beneath her gown�s top. Her top (in back) was just a tad too short to cover
her ass entirely. The lowermost curves of her bottom could be seen
jiggling away, underneath the gown�s hem. My aunt was forbidden panties.
As she passed, men stared with interest at her backside. My aunt�s ass
gleamed, pearl-white skin, framed by her gown�s top.
Underneath her bared ass, my aunt�s gown reappeared. It was as if
some mad designer, fearing she might need to poop, had cut away part of
Rebecca�s gown, so her bottom would be conveniently bare. A hole had
been cut into her gown, by the dress�s designer, rather like a hole (without
the flap) on girls� pajamas. The hole was in the shape of a narrow
rectangle, lying on its side. Her gown offered a view of the undercurves of
my aunt�s ass but sheathed her legs and her back. How seductive she
looked, her legs covered by the gown, her back covered, her front covered
from her neck to her toes, yet with her bottom showing! My aunt wore
high heels. They clicked with reserved efficiency on the gleaming floor of
the ballroom. She walked with her chin raised, as if going to church, and
pretended not to notice what a display she was making of her delectable
derriere!
Glenda led the way for us, into the grand ballroom. She was dressed
the same as when we first met her, an hour before. She wore her black
gown that was completely cut away in back. Like myself and my aunt, she
walked proudly, and managed not to blush.
We walked up to the Sultan. He gazed at us from his throne, a fist
under his chin. Glenda bowed. My aunt and I also bowed, taking our cue
from her. We all showed our asses to the assembled audience. The
thought of it made me redden, but my aunt remained calm, as did Glenda.
The Sultan nodded to us. Then he whispered to a man dressed as a
servant, who was standing beside his throne.
�Please, be seated. Everyone be seated!� The servant announced. He
gestured toward a big dining table which stood off to one side. The Sultan
nodded again, then rose from his throne. He stepped down from the dias
his throne was erected upon. He walked toward me, but a swirl of people,
heading for the dining table, got between us. A man, I do not know who,
offered to seat me. He pulled back my chair for me. I thanked him. I sat
down. The velour of the chair�s seat pressed softly to my bare bottom.
The pearls felt uncomfortable, wedged between myself and the seat. I
lifted my ass. I reached underneath my bottom and lifted the strands of
pearls. Then I settled down into my seat again. That was better. How
uncomfortable, to sit on pearls! The man scooted my chair under the big
table for me.
My aunt was seated by another man, Glenda by a third. The Sultan
took his place at the head of the table. My aunt and Glenda and I sat some
distance away from the head of the table, about a quarter of the way down
towards the table�s foot. We looked at the table�s centerpiece. It was a
row of tall candles. Each one was held by a slender candlestick, finely
cast, made of pure gold. At the very midpoint of the table was a huge
bouquet of flowers.
Servants in sedate attire, all male, served us our meal. It had many
courses. I ate self-consciously. Of all the people at the big, long table,
only I sat there with my breasts uncovered. They quivered whenever I took
food from my plate, and lifted it to my mouth, or when I made almost any
movement at all. My nipples stood out stiffly from the tips of my breasts,
bright pink, excited by all the attention they were receiving. People
looked at me, at my bosoms. They smiled. I tried to feel modest, but it
was hard, with my bosoms hanging pertly in front of me, all naked and
free.
After dinner, a band was called forth. It set up and played waltzes
for us. We danced; even myself, my auntie and Glenda danced. We danced
with whomever we pleased, or whomever fancied us. It was wonderful, in
an obscene way, dancing with all those men, and even a few ladies, my
breasts jiggling, my ass bare but for the slender strands of pearls hanging
artfully over them. My long legs flashed. My hair, long and free, swirled
under the sparkling lights of the chandeliers. My auntie danced with her
bottom showing, as did Glenda. Curiously, the Sultan did not dance, but
retook his throne, and watched his guests. There was a vague smile on his
face. I caught sight of him gazing at me intently; I wondered, did he wish
not to sully himself with commoners by dancing? Or was it that he was
studying the fitness of myself, and Rebecca? Our physical fitness; our
ability to exert ourselves. We danced easily, without fatiguing. Perhaps, I
guessed, this was a test on his part, to see that we had the stamina to
keep up with him in more private engagements. I had no doubt he himself
could have danced all night if he wished; he had a muscled figure. Its girth
and strength was detectible even under his royal robes. I clung to my
dance partners and gazed at the Sultan furtively. Yes, his grin was
widening as he watched Rebecca and me, and I wondered, of the two of us,
which did he consider his favorite? Surely my aunt, since she was older?
At last the guests were thanked by the Sultan and dismissed. There
was much merriment as they departed. I made ready to leave myself, with
Rebecca, but Glenda told us that we must stay. When everyone else had
gone, my auntie and me, with Glenda as our chaperone, found ourselves
alone with the Sultan.
The Sultan dismounted from his throne and walked to the head of the
dinner table. He sat down. Glenda drew out my chair and indicated I
should sit; I obeyed. My aunt went to her chair, the one she�d occupied at
dinner, and sat down. There was silence in the ballroom. Then the Sultan,
sitting again at the the head of the table, lifted his hands and clapped
them once. A figure emerged from the hall at the end of the room, where I
and my auntie and Glenda had first entered. It was a male figure. He was
naked. As he approached I saw he had a steel collar around his neck. There
were manacles on his hands, and on his ankles. Yet his arms swung free,
they weren�t locked together. I saw he was white and, as he approached, I
saw that he was casually displaying a huge erection.
�This is the spy you saved from the executioner this afternoon,
Chloe,� the Sultan said. There was disdain in his voice.
I turned from the man who was walking toward us, and asked,
�Sultan, what is his name?�
�You there! What is your name?� the Sultan asked the man. Then
added: �I think it�s Jutland, or something...�
�Rutland,� the man said. His voice was loud. It echoed in the hall.
He drew closer to us, proudly displaying his naked erection, and said, �Jim
Rutland.�
�Ah, yes,� the Sultan nodded. �You may thank this topless girl here
for saving your white ass this afternoon. Perhaps she wished to admire it
more closely?�
I blushed. I was confronted with a nude man, in shackles, and the
Sultan�s voice sounded taunting.
�He is... he is... to valuable to have his head cut off,� I said, my voice
high, uncertain. �Or any other part of him,� I added hastily, gazing at his
penis.
�Very well,� the Sultan said. �Then he shall be made a Pet, as you
are, my dear.�
�And released after one month!� I said. The Sultan raised an
eyebrow. I kept having to turn my head from one man to the other, which
was making me nervous, for the captive prisoner was on one side of me,
standing near the table now, while the Sultan sat at the table�s head.
�Perhaps,� the Sultan said. �If you and your aunt prove worthy
enough to have him. Perhaps now would be a good time to discuss the
rules of our acquaintance.� He lifted his head, and stared at an overhead
chandelier. �I shall not have the opportunity of seeing you in the throes of
childbirth,� the Sultan said, gazing up but clearly addressing himself to
me and my aunt. �It is not, you see, my wish to impregnate you.
However,� he lowered his eyes, and looked directly at my aunt, then at me.
�It is possible to simulate the pinnacle of emotion that is reached when a
woman is bearing a child, through various means.� He grinned. �This is
my purpose, aside from mere copulation. To see you in your most
emotional state, just as when you are giving birth. Or, rather, as you will
be, someday, when you give birth,� he corrected himself. �It will be
excellent practise for yourselves, learning to endure such peaks of
emotion. For me, it will give me a kind of joy of fatherhood, in a way,
bringing to birth in you peaks of emotion you may never have felt. Yet
after a month, you will depart, and I, having enjoyed your company, will
not be troubled with children I do not want. I want merely your passion.�
30
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-When visiting Barnes and Noble, ask for: Jock Sturges� Radiant
Identities and David Hamilton�s The Age of Innocence. Support art!
-Also by David Hamilton: A Place in the Sun, and Twenty Five Years
of an Artist Need a book? http://www.amazon.com
- NAKED girls, under 18! Plus scholarly books. Publishing for over
a decade, it�s Alessandra�s Smile, P.O. Box 2377, New York, NY
10185-2377. Phone: 1-212-505-6985; Web:
http://www.AlessandraSmile.com
- JOIN the world�s greatest organization! Send $35.00 to The North
American Man/Boy Love Association for a one-year membership.
NAMBLA, 537 Jones St. #8418, San Francisco, CA 94102.
Phone: 1-212-807-8578; Web: http://www.nambla.org
-Naughty Naked Dreamgirls (Library of Congress ISSN: 1070-1427) is
copyright 1998 and a trademark of Andrew Roller.
-END OF story EMISSION