Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 246
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Cunt Castle
Chapter Two
Sylvia pointed to a metal bracelet round her upper arm. My eyes
widened. I saw that both she and Joanne were �equipped,� as one might
say, with bracelets halfway between their shoulders and elbows. And the
bracelets had the same lockets on them as mine did. Their arms, if
clipped together, would be pulled back so far it promised instant pain.
Their bodies would be grotesquely distorted, their bosoms thrust out like
obscene melons. Their arms, drawn tightly behind, would make them
appear like prisoners at some medieval trial. Then I saw little chains
dangling down from the outside of each metal armband, and I realized that
the chains would provide a little relief, giving each girl a few inches of
play between her otherwise immobile arms.
Joanne stretched out her arm and displayed the manacle on it. �Yes,�
she said, sensing my thoughts. �It would be cruel for my lover to bind my
arms using the lockets on the inside of my bracelets, locking each
bracelet to the other. Fortunately, he chooses only to attach the two
chains, locking their ends together.� She pulled her arms behind herself to
imitate how she would look in such an uncompromising position. Her
breasts lifted, her nipples, excited, stuck out with female hardness.
Sylvia burst out laughing, looking at her friend, and Joanne could not hold
the position and instead fell into giggles.
�That�s terrible,� I gasped.
�It�s advanced training,� Sylvia said. �You needn�t worry about it
now. You�ll get only what your lover orders for you. And Rose insists that
a girl be broken in through stages. She doesn�t believe in giving a girl
more than she can handle.�
�Though what Joanne believes a girl can handle may still be more
than the girl herself thinks she can handle. Much more,� Joanne added,
obviously a bit less sanguine about a female�s prospects at the castle.
�Don�t scare her,� Sylvia told Joanne. �Women are quite strong and
hardy. It�s nonsense, all this delicacy stuff.� She lifted her own arm and
examined the bracelet round it. She toyed with the little chain a moment.
I wondered if she relished being bound, and hoped to be used that way
again soon. Sylvia was tawny, like a lioness. I got the feeling she�d
broken so many hearts in her life that she longed to be paid back.
Obviously she�d chosen a lover who was not unwilling to give her her wish.
Joanne got a leather collar from the dresser drawer. I�d been
stripped completely of everything before getting in the bath. Joanne took
the new collar, obviously meant for a dog, and buckled it tightly around my
throat. She placed a finger within its grip and tested its hold.
�Swallow,� Joanne told me. I did. The collar, though tight, did not
keep me from taking in air or gulping.
�Good,� Joanne said. �I�m glad it fits.�
�Why are there rings hanging down from it?� I asked. There were
two, one in front and one in back.
�That�s what we�re going to show you right now,� Joanne smiled. As
if simply performing an experiment, they lifted my arms up and crossed
my wrists behind my neck. I felt my bosoms gain height, like twin
marshmallows being hung up on the sticks of my ribs. My nipples
lengthened and felt ever more sensitive as I realized how utterly helpless
I was with my wrists caught behind my neck. And then, before I could
object, Sylvia and Joanne swiftly buckled my self-latching wristlets into
the ring at the back of my collar.
�What??!� I blurted. Joanne and Sylvia each gave a soft laugh, as if
remembering past days of their lives. Joanne took her hands from my neck
and lightly flicked one of my nipples. Sylvia, always more intrusive,
cupped my breasts and weighed them in her palms. Was I being given a
forced mammography?
�You look so sweet,� Sylvia said at last. That was hardly a medical
response. �Lift up your heels. Put them right up on the bed.� Sylvia took
one of my small feet and drew it up and placed it, wiggling toes and all,
beside my bottom. I resisted, but her grip was firm and uncompromising.
Joanne raised up my other leg. Sitting with my arms bound behind me, and
my cunt displayed, the twin girls put manacles similar to those on my
wrists on my ankles.
�There. Now lie back,� Sylvia told me. I was pushed onto my back as
Joanne opened the curtain behind me, letting in the first budding rays of
dawn.
�Happy dreams,� Joanne said to me, and she and Sylvia left me there,
bare, my breasts wobbling like jello on my chest, my hands raised and
bolted behind my neck. For a moment I lay there stunned, my tummy rising
and falling in soft indrawn swells, in time with my breaths, my knees bent
and my feet firmly planted on the sheets; barefoot, naked, perfectly made
up, with my only �clothing� wristlets, anklets, and a dog�s collar. Finally,
to regain just a little of my modesty, if I could, I lay my legs flat against
the bed. The girls were gone, the door shut firmly behind them. I�d heard
them lock it as they departed.
I was alone. My lover knew I was here, Rose knew I was here, but
where were they? Were they making love someplace, the two of them,
perhaps in some perverse desire to teach me to share? I felt my blood
rise. Where was Polly? I guessed, knew I was right. She was in a bed
just like this one, in some other room, bound just as I was. I saw in my
mind�s eyes her small tennis-ball breasts jiggling nervously on her chest.
She might be crying, perhaps, missing her morning cartoons. XuXa would
perform her songs this morning without her. Mr. Rogers would show off
the fish in his fishtank without Polly�s eyes avidly tracking their tails.
She said she just watched him for his fish, though I knew otherwise. I
kidded her once that she�d learnt from Mr. Rogers that she couldn�t flush
herself down the potty. She�d flung her bra at me for that. Right in public.
She was wearing a little vest, in a club, and she�d slipped her bra off, me
thinking the joke was past, its damage done, when suddenly she�d used her
bra like boys use their towels in a locker room. I�d had to dodge her as,
again and again, she tried to whip me by using her training bra as a whip.
Her breasts were bigger now. They�d grown fast since she met
Andre. Perhaps he�d inspired them.
I let my eyelids grow heavy with sleep. I had long lashes. They
obscured the rising sun. Kneeling before the sun, facing it as it rose, my
bed soft beneath my knees, I let its light bathe me. New light, virgin
light, the first direct rays of the dawn. They shafted through the window
and illuminated my body as if I were an angel in the presence of the lord.
If only my arms weren�t pinioned behind my neck, I�d have thought I was in
heaven. Without realizing it, I fell into an exhausted sleep, and tumbled
down onto the bed�s down-filled pillows.
Soft hands awoke me. I looked up, startled. Where was I? Sylvia
beamed down at me. Her bosoms hung heavy, compressed a little, like
tulip bulbs, by her dress that was not a dress. It was a different color
now. The other had been green. This one was red.
Joanne was dressed identically to Sylvia. Carefully, attentive to the
stiffness of my arms, they lifted me up and turned me round so that I
faced the window. It was afternoon. I saw the tops of green trees. Birds,
keen in their mating and nesting, were flitting about the branches, looking
for bug-morsels to feed to their young.
As Sylvia stroked my bottom with her hand, Joanne positioned me on
my knees under a chain that hung down, isolated, from the ceiling. It
plunged through the roof of the bed�s canopy, and was bound round a
wooden post that held it in place. I�d wondered at it, been too sleepy to
ask of it�s purpose. Now I found out. My wristlets were drawn back,
taking my head with them, so that I was hooked to the base of this post. I
felt like a cow being hung up in a slaughterhouse. My bosoms wobbled
uncertainly on my chest. What was to happen to me?
�I have to go to the bathroom,� I squeaked. Certainly they�d let me
down for that. Joanne giggled. Sylvia unfolded a pair of cloth baby
diapers. As I watched, immobile and horrified, the twin girls fitted the
diapers to my loins. They even used real safety pins. I drew in my breath,
fearing they might stick me with them. They did not. Perhaps that would
have been better.
�There. When you need to pee, you won�t have to run to the potty
now,� Sylvia said with a devilish little laugh. She patted my diapered
behind.
�But I have to go NOW!� I blurted. And I did, too. A full night�s worth
of pee had accumulated in my bladder.
�Good! Then we must hurry and get you downstairs for it,� Sylvia
answered. She and Joanne unhooked me from the post but did not bother to
undo my wrists from the back of my head. They gave me no shoes. On our
way past the dresser, Joanne fetched a pacifier from its drawer and stuck
it between my lips.
�Wasth thisth for?� I burbled over the intruding nipples.
�Babykins must be good. Suck on your pacifier,� Joanne told me. She
had a mother�s concern in her voice, as if company were coming for which
I must be very good.
I tripped down the grand central staircase at the front of the house,
with Joanne and Sylvia steadying me as we went. I was so scared! What
was to happen to me? They led me barefoot and diapered into the same
sitting room Polly and I had met Rose in the night before. She was sitting
there now, decked out in a formal dress, and Polly was there too!
�Poolly!� I lisped over the indwelling nipple of my pacifier. She
spoke my name in response, no more concisely, for she was dressed just
like me. I saw she was sitting between two men, both of them dressed in
tuxes, with a small square of plastic under her bottom to, I feared,
protect the couch from her pee.
She appeared dry as yet. But, like me, she was wiggling, obviously
having to go. She held a teacup in one hand. Steam wafted from it. In her
other hand Polly held a croissant. I saw she�d taken a bite from it.
Perhaps her new lovers had held her pacifier for her to allow her to do it.
They were able-bodied men, business men who obviously did a regular
workout to stay fit. They held coffeecups. They seemed much more
relaxed than Polly. I doubted they had to go like she did, or me.
�Good morning, Fleury. Did you have a nice sleep?� Rose asked me
brightly. Her face was powdered. She wore a little too much makeup, I
thought. Was that a bruise on her right cheek? I couldn�t tell. If it was,
she�d covered it well. Who had done it to her? Louis? I had no idea.
I found myself facing two men on a loveseat. A small square of
plastic sat between them, as if awaiting my bottom. Joanne and Sylvia
greeted the men, turned me around, and sat me down between them.
Immediately one of the men caressed my back, and petted my slightly
mussed hair, as if to restore it. The other man frankly fondled my breasts.
I was utterly unable to stop them. I had a pacifier jammed in my mouth
and my arms were still uplifted and locked by my hands to the back of my
neck.
The first man, taking his hand from my head, put it between my
thighs and spread them apart.
�Fleury,� Rose said to me. �Louis wanted you to meet two of his
friends. They�re business associates.�
LAW AND ORDER
from holy joe
I have decided to reform myself. I intend to become a model citizen.
And, to demonstrate my fidelity to normative values, I intend to report
any and all violations of the Hatch Act. There is, as Ozzie reminds us, no
rest for the wicked. Hence, I must get to work at once:
Newsweek, Spring/Summer 1997, $3.50.
Review: This one�s a no-brainer. It says, �YOUR CHILD� right on the
cover. It has a picture of a poor, innocent baby staring out at the �source
viewer� (me). And it says, on this cover, �What You Need to Know.� Well,
we all know what we need to know: perverts, pedophiles, and child
molesters, that�s what! Hence, this issue of Newsweek violates the Hatch
Act because it caused me to think about sex with children.
Newsweek, April 21, 1997, $2.95.
Review: �Does it Matter What You Weigh?� asks this cover. It shows
a well-built man�s chest and abdomen. I guess Newsweek must be staffed
by child molesters, because everyone knows a buff guy like this can
seduce underage minor children at the drop of a hat. (Girls or gay boys.)
Again we have a clear violation of the Hatch Act because, once again, I
was inspired to think about sex with children.
(Too bad I don�t look like that guy.) (Ooops! I thought about sex with
children AGAIN!)
The Economist, April 12 - April 18, 1997, $3.50.
Review: Look at this disgusting cover! It shows a person�s hands
manacled in chains, and suspended from a ceiling. You know what that
caused me to think about. Yep. European pedophiles. Little girls trapped
in dungeons where lusty men have their wicked way with them. Yet again I
am thinking about sex with children!!! Senator Hatch, get off your ass!
Time, April 21, 1997, $2.95.
Review: The perverts at TIME thought they could escape the Hatch
Act by not featuring a little girl on their cover. But then, instead, they
write on their cover: �The Most Influential People in America 1997.�
Well, where�s JonBenet Ramsey? Everyone knows that with her face
on the cover of the tabloids every week, children everywhere are getting a
weekly lesson about how they have to beware of their parents. You never
know, if a billionaire and a beauty queen can (allegedly) rape and kill their
daughter, there�s only one conclusion: NO CHILD IS SAFE! (Even in their
own bedroom!) (Or while sitting on the potty too...)
Alas, TIME got me thinking more about sex with children than any
other cover!!! It�s time the staffers at TIME did some time.
Mademoiselle, May 1997, $2.50.
Review: Well, one look by me at this cover and you know the editors
of Mademoiselle are going to be doing some hard time. Not only do they
feature a young, sexy brunette on their cover, with her boobs showing (and
even her bra!) but they even do this: embedded in this girl�s hair, at the
top of her head, is the word �SEX.� Yep. Look for yourself. Then, in bigger
letters, across from the girl�s face, is this word: �SEXY.� And right
across from this girl�s breasts is the word, �love.�
I got to wondering, is there anybody on the Net reading this who
looks like this girl? If you do, please stop by my dumpster. I need a blow
job. Plus a handjob too. Plus maybe one other little thing... what was it?
...oh, yeah! Sex. (With children, I�m afraid, looking at this lovely girl, who
looks like she just stepped out of my new story, �Party Pussies.�)
(Available at my ftp site: ftp://members.aol.com/nnd6
Now, as a newly reformed model citizen (as soon as I get that damn
ftp site taken down), allow me to make a recommendation to all the
publishers of fashion magazines and to fashion advertisers. It�s this: I
suggest that, from now on, in order to protect yourself from American
law, you should use only senior citizens in your ads and on your covers.
Much as I try to get an erection over a senior citizen, I just can�t manage
it. And I certainly don�t think any naughty thoughts about having sex with
children. So, please, �Seniors Only!� Let�s make that our new policy, to
protect our precious children.
Frankly, I think we should go farther. Outside every modeling
agency, there should be a sign. It should read, �If you appear to be under
65 years of age, you will be required to present identification.� This will
ensure that only seniors work as models, and, with every model a bona-
fide senior, nobody like me will walk through a grocery line and think
about sex with children. (However, if I see a little girl in the line, I might
still think about sex with children, so perhaps Senator Hatch can get going
banning children from grocery store lines.)
Well, that fulfills my duties for today. I�ll be setting up a Hatch Act
Clearinghouse soon. For the nominal fee of $1,000, any publisher will be
able to send me their magazine, BEFORE it�s printed, so that I can review
it for compliance under the Hatch Act. (Unlimited fines are the penalty
under the Hatch Act, plus prison time, so consider that before you turn
down my offer.)
Putting the �Holy� back into �holy joe,� I remain,
Yours in Hatch,
holy joe
AND IN THE END...
GOODBYE TO THOSE AWFUL 1960�s
�The average American now works the equivalent of four more
weeks a year than he or she did in the 1960s.�
- The Economist, April 5, 1997, pg. 64.
(what are you doing reading this? get back to work! - dogbert)
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-END OF 246 EMISSION
- Every time I see Senator Hatch�s picture I think of sex with children...