Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 195
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Private Places
Chapter Four
�You wouldn�t!� Jill replied. �She�s only a 13-year-old girl, dear.�
�Almost 14,� I advised them. My titties had grown even bigger, too,
as if to prove it, and I thrust them proudly at them, and gave them a quick
wiggle just to be naughty. I liked my new breasts. Everywhere I went men
seemed drawn to them, and Sam was no exception. He gazed down at my
tits, my bra doing less than a perfect job of holding them, having been
bought when I was a size smaller.
Sam noticed that my long hair might just block any perverts
watching from the building�s windows and, taking a chance with me, he
placed a finger where the cups of my bra met and pulled it open.
�Sam!� I cried, quite surprised, slapping a hand to my cheek as he
examined my quivering teats.
�You have nice breasts,� he said finally, and let go of my bra. It
stung a little as it reconnected with my flesh. Then, taking me by the
hair, without even asking my permission, he pulled me up from my lounge
chair. He stood me in front of him, so that nobody but us could see.
�Flurrie,� Jill said to me, a knowing look in her eyes. I think she
knew what her husband intended, and welcomed it. �I�ve got too much
jello in my panties. Would you please take half of it in yours, so I don�t
look totally foolish if we are seen going upstairs?�
I felt Sam�s hands firmly grasping my small, tanned shoulders. I
was warm, I wanted to swim but I didn�t want to get my bikini wet.
�Okay,� I mouthed, not knowing why, feeling silly. With delicate
fingers Jill opened me in front and gently scooped a portion of the jello
out of her bikini panties and into my own. I felt the cold, jiggly slide of
the stuff as it plopped within my opened panties and adhered to the curls
of my pussy, making me bulge just like Jill did. She let go of my
waistline.
�Come, let�s go up,� she said, finding a napkin where the jello had
sat, on a table beside her, and wiping her fingers. She rose, Sam let go of
me.
On the elevator up a middle-aged couple rode with us, glancing
curiously at our bikinis. Jill and I, having left our skirts upstairs that we
might have used to cover ourselves, rode with blushing faces, unable to
cover ourselves in front because Sam stood behind us. He held our wrists
pinned to our backs, and used our bodies to hide his own enormous
erection, which actually protruded out the top of his trunks.
I accompanied them to their apartment, though mine was a floor
below theirs. Jill took me inside, thanked me for carrying half of her load.
She took me to their kitchen sink and carefully scooped out, with her
fingers, what she�d put in my panties. It was dumped in the sink, and
rinsed away, while Sam watched. His suit bound his balls tightly, which
seemed to have expanded. They bloated within his trunks, which struggled
to keep his hard-on concealed but, failing, permitted the head to stick up,
snake-like, the rest coiled within his trunks, practically ripping them
apart with the force of its arousal.
I in my turn emptied Jill�s new bikini of what Sam had put into it.
�That was a very naughty thing you did, Sam, putting jello in my
swimsuit!� Jill scolded him when we were as clean as we could be, the
residue of the jello still clinging to the curls of our deltas. She wagged
her finger at him. �Would you like to go out to dinner with us tonight,
dear?� Jill asked me.
�Okay,� I answered. It was becoming my favorite word. It got me
into trouble, though, sometimes, I guessed.
�Alright, let�s take off your bikini then, and we�ll both clean up and
get dressed for it,� Jill told me. �Sam, naughty guy that he is, actually
bought some things for you this morning to wear, hoping you�d go.
Actually, I helped him, �cause I wanted somebody to go with me. I won�t
know anyone else there, but Sam will, because some of the girls he�s
photographed before,� she cast a glance at him. Jill was a model, and Sam
was a photographer. From the look that passed between their eyes I saw
her question him, wondered if he�d laid any of the girls he�d taken pictures
of. Sam merely grinned, boyishly, a �boys will be boys� look in his eyes.
Jill helped me out of my suit. She filled the kitchen sink with
water, a few bubbles, and put our suits in to soak so they�d be ready to go
for our next swim. A trip through the washing machine would have ripped
them to shreds, they were too delicate for that. It was one of the reasons
we just sunbathed in them. Swimming in the pool too vigorously might
have stressed them, and chlorine was supposed to be bad for them. They
were more fashion than practical, made of opaque silk, with elastic run
through at the edges to help them stay on, but tied with drawstrings, as if
we were gift-wrapped in them.
Naked, with Sam drooling over us, we casually tossed our long manes
of hair and trooped off to the shower. Sam watched our rolling bottoms.
Jill�s was full-grown, she was 19, a bride for three months now. Mine, of
course, was underaged in size, still childish in its shape, but with nice
violin curves to my hips, not yet as wide as they might be, but pretty,
with girlish cheeks behind that I swayed purposefully to catch Sam�s eye.
It was thrilling to be seen by him! I�d not been naked since Abandon
Gardens, and I felt a kind of sweet relish possess me as I traipsed through
the cool air of their apartment to the shower.
Jill insisted on locking the bathroom door, so Sam would stay out. It
was just she and I, and we took turns showering. It was all quite
discreet, two girls washing up after P.E., it seemed to me. I was glad for
it. The night beckoned with enough mysteries, I don�t think I could have
handled an afternoon threesome. It would have been too much, too soon. I
needed to get to know my new friends just a little better first, I thought,
and they respected my wishes, sensing them even before I did. Still, as I
sat in the bathroom, making up my face after my shower, while Jill took
her turn, I couldn�t help but squeeze my thighs together and wish, you
know, that somehow Sam might insist on breaking down our bathroom
door. But he was the perfect gentleman. When we exited at last, he took
his turn, though he did not lock the door behind him.
Jill and I dressed together. The first thing I put on, her helping me,
were black lace gloves that tied at my wrists. She undid the rawhide
collar around my neck, cutting it off, saying that was my past life and it
was over now. She did not put any new collar on me, though. I was to be
free, my own girl. Together she and I put on long sheer black stockings.
We fastened them with the straps, which dangled down from our bellies,
which we ringed with slim black garter belts. The belts were fringed
with lace. The straps had little pink bows on them where they attached to
our stockings.
I slipped on a g-string. Jill said I�d be grateful for it later, and put
one on herself. Lastly we both shimmied into the most liquid of dresses,
with spaghetti straps, open backs, and decollete fronts that barely rose
above the level of our breasts. Obviously we were a little too �showy� to
be seen like this on the street, so Jill fetched a cape and tossed it over my
bare shoulders. It was just long enough to cover the tips of my breasts,
which wiggled freely in my gown. She tied the cape neatly in front. It
was black like my dress, and my stockings. The cape had a hood on it and
she pulled it up over my long golden hair, tucking it inside.
�There! A picture of innocence!� Jill said admiringly. I gazed at
myself in a mirror. Indeed, I looked like a little schoolgirl off to some
formal party which, of course, is exactly what I was headed off too,
though not one where the grownups would ignore me. Jill put on a red
satin jacket, with long sleeves, over her sleeveless gown. Her gown was
dark blue, while mine was midnight black. My arms were bare under the
cape, and stuck out all white and frail where the cape stopped, looking
like porcelain limbs.
Sam, who must have dressed himself in the bathroom, or just
outside of it, stepped into their bedroom and greeted Jill and I. He was
ready to go! He wore an elegant suit, looking absolutely smashing, and I
saw he still had the bulge in his trousers.
Sam gazed at me in a friendly way, but then turned his attention to
his wife. �Now you know what you�ll come home with,� he said to her
seriously.
�Oh dear,� she replied, looking taken aback. �Can�t you, you know,
reason with them?�
�A tattoo,� he said firmly. �All the girls will be getting one.�
I shot a gaze toward Jill. I wasn�t about to get myself tattooed!
�Don�t worry,� Sam said to me, dismissively. �You�re only 13. I
won�t have trouble talking them out of tattooing you. But Jill here is a
married woman.�
�Where will it be done?� Jill asked. Her eyes were apprehensive.
�On the inside of your vulva, on the inner lip, a little heart,� Sam
replied. �Nobody will be able to see it but me. And any other man you go
to bed with... It will show him that you�re mine, that you belong to me.
And maybe then he won�t fuck you.�
�Like you don�t fuck those girls you photograph?� she asked coldly.
Sam said nothing. Slowly he moved closer to us. Jill a tear forming
in her eye, daubed it at last with her finger.
�Okay,� she said simply. I stood shivering, frightened yet excited at
the prospect of going out, to Rio�s best restaurant! But under such queer
circumstances, no? Sam was such a stud. He kissed Jill, then me. He
offered to fix her a drink to calm her. She agreed. We both found chairs
for ourselves, primly crossed our legs, and waited while our Man of the
Hour made drinks for both of us. She gulped hers down, when it was
brought. I just sipped mine. I didn�t like liquor too much, yet. It made me
dizzy.
Jill seemed ready when at last she stood. She took my hand and I
stood up beside her. Sam gazed out past the closed curtain of their
bedroom and told Jill to bring her umbrella, there was a light rain outside,
mingling with the rays of the setting sun.
Jill put her arm protectively around me when we exited the building,
and lofted her umbrella over me, to keep me from getting wet. It mostly
shielded her too, but me more, as if I was worth more, special, a loved and
protected pet. Sam strode behind, oblivious to the rain, though I had no
doubt he�d have held their umbrella and shielded Jill with it if they�d been
alone together. But she wanted company, on a momentous night like this,
even if it was just a junior girl like myself. They were �on assignment,�
both from New York, in unfamiliar waters, though Sam had made the
acquaintance of a few of the local gals he was going to take Jill to eat
with tonight. Not all of them were from Brazil, some were in from Russia,
or France, a collection of females and their boyfriends, or managers, I was
told, all intermingling as they worked to get the photos necessary for the
upcoming fashion season.
�Two girls are here for Sports Illustrated,� Jill told me brightly on
the way over, as we rode in the limo, the rain spattering the smoked glass
of our windows. �You might try that someday. Already you have the figure
for it!� I smiled sheepishly. She liked complimenting my figure. I sat
between her and Sam. Jill seemed happy to have me separating her from
him, considering what he�d have done to her tonight, after dinner.
MY 2ND BEST FRIEND
Yesterday I discussed my best friend and today I�m going to discuss
my second best friend. My second best friend is my butthole. There are
many, many laws in America but they have yet to pass a law banning the
butthole. So it is time for us men to put our buttholes to good use. It�s
practically the only weapon (and the only pleasure) we have left to us.
First off, to make good use of your butthole, you�ve got to eat a lot
of beans. I personally have found that P.D. Wilson�s Gourmet Southern
Beans (Fancy Variety) are the stinkiest beans of all. But don�t worry--
they�re stinky when they come out, not when they go in.
You might think I invented using the butthole as a weapon. But, alas,
I can�t think of everything. It was told to me by a guy on the bus. His
name was Percival Underwear. I�ll call him P.U. for short.
hj: So you use your BUTTHOLE as a weapon?
p.u.: Indeed! I�m insane so they won�t let me carry a gun, but they can�t
stop me from carrying my butthole around!
hj: How do you attack people with your butthole? I mean, it�s a hole.
p.u.: Well, see, it�s like this. Girls have never liked me too much. Now,
it�s no fun being disliked for no reason. I mean, sure, my penis never grew
beyond two inches, but they don�t know that just by looking at me. I�d
have to drop my pants for them to know that. Yet girls will barely look at
me!
hj: How about women?
p.u. I�ve never gotten up to the women level. I�m still trying to meet a
girl.
h.j. Oh, okay.
p.u. So, anyway, I was figuring, �Gee, I didn�t get a Ph.d in Olfaction in
1983 for nothing, did I? Surely there must be SOME way I could put it to
use. (Heck, It doesn�t even entitle me to unemployment benefits.) But I
finally hit on the butthole idea. Here�s how it works.
Let�s say you see some girl. You know when you ask her if she wants
to go on a date with you she�ll just say �no,� right?
h.j. Right.
p.u. So have your butthole all prepared. The minute she says �no,� cut a big
fart. Sure, it will give her a reason for not going out with you, but at
least now (thanks to the beans) there�s a REASON she won�t go out with
you. It�s not just pure, outright, perfidious rejection. She has a logical
reason not to go with you. You�d stink up the bus, you�d stink up the movie
theatre, and you�d stink up the bus on the way home to her house, and you�d
stink up her bedroom.
Now let�s look at the grocery line. Let�s say there�s some yuppie
mother and her daughter standing in line at the grocery. What you do is
you get in line behind them. Now, if you just stood there staring at this
woman�s beautiful daughter, you�d get in trouble. Who needs that? So, cut
a big, loud fart. You�ll have the whole line to yourself, you�ll get out ahead
of the store ahead of them, and you�ll even be able to say, maybe even to
the daughter, �I�m sorry, miss. I didn�t mean to fart in your face.� Even if
her dad is standing there he won�t necessarily mind if you speak to his
daughter, if you�ve just cut a fart in her face and are apologizing to her.
Otherwise he�d probably call you a pervert and break your ass if you tried
to talk to her.
Now let�s take Children�s Story Hour at the library. This is always a
big-time feminist sort of thing. They read stories about guys like me and
call us �strangers� and stuff. And of course if you sat there during story
hour looking at all the cute little girls, you�d get in trouble. So let them
win. Face AWAY from all those darling little girls. But guess what is
facing TOWARD them?
h.j. I have no idea.
p.u. My butthole!
h.j. Uh-oh.
p.u. That�s right. And of course I can hear the story as the librarian is
reading it. Just as they get to the feminist climax, where the man is
confronted and taken off to the prison and buttfucked, guess what
happens?
h.j. I�m afraid to...
p.u. Yes, I let a big, gigantic, ear-splitting, humongous, P.D. Wilson�s Fancy
Beans fart.
h.j. Fascinating...
So anyway that was my interview with him. After that he sort of
went into spasms telling me about how he then has to be polite and turn
around and apologize to all the little girls at the children�s story hour.
And of course he�s always reading an Oprah Winfrey book when this
happens so he looks very holy and moral and the whole thing looks like a
complete accident. I wouldn�t endorse or recommend the more outrageous
parts of p.u.�s strategy, but consider this: You�re in your car. Your kids are
causing a commotion, fighting over their boogers and stuff. Why get
angry? Simply say, �Kids, if you don�t settle down, I�m going to let a
gigantic fart.� They�ll probably put you to the test once, and make you do
it. And you might not be able to get away with it if your wife�s along. But
once you�ve PROVEN to your kids that you can let big farts (with the help
of P.D.�s beans) they�ll behave. Sure, they might tell everyone in the
neighborhood that you�re a big fart(er), but what�s that compared to a car
ride blessed with peace and quiet? Your children will be the goodest
children in the neighborhood, because they�ll know a big adult like dad can
outfart them any day of the week.
So now you see why my trusty butthole is my 2nd best friend. It
keeps my enemies at bay, leaving me plenty of free time to enjoy my 1st
best friend!
AND IN THE END...
ANOTHER GREAT AMERICAN
�Henry Darger... has a fair claim to be one of the most curiously
original artists in American history. ...Now Darger is until April 27th
the subject of �The Unreality of Being�, an exhibition at New York�s
Museum of American Folk Art.
�...[Darger created] a mass of single-space typewriting and more
than 300 paintings of �The Story of the Vivian Girls, in What is Known
as the Realms of the Unreal�.
�The saga... tells the story of the heroic Vivians, seven plucky
pre-pubescent sisters.
�...To illustrate his story, Darger copied pictures of little girls
from catalogues, advertisements and coloring books, endlessly varied
versions of which he then inserted into lyrically coloured landscapes.
�Often naked... the girls of Darger�s disturbed and disturbing
world are subjected to violence...�
- The Economist, February 8, 1997, pgs. 92-93.
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-END OF 195 EMISSION