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Not to worry! Seinfeld may be gone, but you still have...
Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Sponsored by: Crab the dog
Issue No. 328
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Dungeon of Desire
Chapter One
Except for my heels and my earrings, I was completely naked. I bit
my lower lip and hung my head a little, letting him gaze at me. I stuck my
chest out a little bit more, rudely, obscenely, given that my arms were
already padlocked behind my back. I was proud of myself. I felt the
newness of my body, newly grown, my plump young breasts. They hung
free, firm and full, like fresh fruit discovered in a hothouse on a clear
Spring morning. I wanted them always to be free now. I never wanted to
have them confined in a bra again. I would live here always, I pledged to
myself, where my bosoms could swing with my steps and my bottom,
round and full as my tits, could sway and sashay and tease.
I was eager to let him see me. I could feel the heat of his breath
even now, or imagined I could. He was just a few steps away. Older than
me by at least two lifetimes, mine plus his, and hard from working in the
sun, building additions to his house and improving his dungeon. He was
wealthy. An inheritance. It freed him to play games and do as he pleased.
And what he pleased to do, I knew, though nothing had been said, not
directly, anyway, was fuck.
But he was particular. Only certain girls appealed to him. He
savored power. You would think, at over six feet, he could accommodate
equality. But his housekeeper was slim and small and dainty, an Oriental.
Her every motion spoke of deference and humility. Yet, as she grasped my
arm, urging me into his presence, her slim nailed fingers, exquisitely
polished, gripped me fiercely. Underneath that humble exterior I felt a
dragon lurking. She would be as cruel as he. She would show me the rites
of Oriental Tea even as she subjected me to the most degrading pleasures.
I wanted to be tested. There was no use kidding myself. It was too
late for that now, anyway. (Though it settles the nerves, lying a little to
yourself.) In my new body, just turned sixteen, I wanted to meet a man
who could really appreciate me and show me everything I needed to know
to be a woman. I wanted him to concentrate just on me, nobody else. I
wanted his full attention. I wanted him to tell me what I was, what I
must be, how I must act and behave. I�d had enough of feminists with
their musty tomes, counseling abstinence, and my mom, dear fool, telling
me I must finish college first, and after that graduate school and then, as
a professional woman, I might meet some man who deferred to me as his
equal.
Here I was not equal, or superior, or inferior either, though I was
inexperienced. I was just me. Me with my breasts and their nippled
thorns, poking inquisitively into the stare of my master. His chest heaved,
he sighed. He was barechested and as I watched he began to unzip his
pants.
�Kneel,� the Oriental, Katy, told me. I saw her as an extension of
him. His female side. She was not competition. They would train me
together. She was there to make sure I complied.
I knelt. There was a soft towel that had been laid on the floor,
perhaps by accident, perhaps for me. It was pink. It accepted my knees
and I dared to look up at my master. I watched as he tugged down his
zipper. I waited. A growth of hair appeared and I saw with a gasp that he
was wearing no underpants. I snake curled forth, its head still trapped in
his pants.
�Put out your tongue. Let him know you want him,� Katy told me.
She knelt beside me and reached round me and pinched one of my nipples to
make sure I complied.
I offered. I parted my lips and let him see the pinkness of my
tongue. It was wet. A dollop of my saliva pooled upon its curling surface.
I flattened my tongue and the saliva dropped off, fell to strike one of my
breasts.
With a huge explosive wangling extrusion, his cock burst from his
opened zipper. It greeted my eyes and seemed Alien-like; self-possessed,
harmful. It trembled with his need. Huge veins ran along its giant, tree-
trunk length and the head stood out purplish and raw. I found myself
gazing at his pee hole. As I watched, a spermy glob of pre-cum emerged
from his pee slit and hung waiting.
�Lick it,� Katy told me.
�No!� I protested. I was in Kindergarten again, learning of Strangers.
Katy grabbed my blonde hair and shoved my face forward. I tried to close
my lips but she forced me forward so fast I found him wide within my
mouth, choking me, ramming into me and filling me and making me gag.
With a slow, sadistic wry laugh, Katy eased my head back until
Master�s penis popped from my lips. She waited. I gazed with my head
gripped by her, my chin flung back, up into my Master�s eyes. Gradually,
knowing I must, knowing I could not refuse, I extended my tongue again. It
touched his pee hole. I flicked it. I soothed the flat of my tongue against
it. And Katy, moving my head forward as I accepted the contact, made me
take him full in my mouth again.
�Yes. Suck,� Katy ordered. I suckled his cock like a baby mouthing a
cucumber. He was so big! I could hardly do him justice with my little
mouth. But I tried. I tried my best, and that was what they were after. I
must perform to the best of my ability, I must not hold back, not anything,
and I must be willing to learn all I could.
Master watched me suck him. He was big beyond belief and he knew
that�s what I�d come for. I could not tolerate boys. I needed men. And I
needed, in my needing, Men with big Ones, as little girls delicately put it.
�She should have the taste of you, Master,� Katy told her employer.
He laughed. They both laughed, as he let himself cum, spurting and
spurting and spurting into my mouth, and I gobbled at his cock and tried to
swallow him all.
I failed miserably. His sperm gushed over my chin and splattered my
breasts and ran down my tummy into my sweet nest of curls. A puddle
formed on the towel. His essence. His sperm, saved for me, but now lost
due to my inexperience.
�You have much to learn,� Master told me. I looked up at him wide-
eyed, my mouth limned with his sperm and feeling abashed.
Katy lifted me up by my hair. She turned me to face her. She was
naked as I, her breasts hanging free, full and plump and with nipples risen.
She had a dough-eyed face, round and Japanese, with a perky nose and a
long swan-like throat. She mashed my mouth to hers. I felt her breasts,
quite large for an Oriental, crush themselves against mine. �Let me clean
you,� she said, and her tongue stabbed into my mouth, not asking
permission, just sticking itself in as if I were owned by her. My mouth
was hers and my body was hers and as I felt her palms against my bottom,
hefting it, grabbing me and pulling me to her, I knew I was not myself
anymore but theirs.
Our games had begun upstairs. They�d made me undress the minute I
stepped into their house. Out back, on their porch, they�d shown me their
patio. A blanket covered its cement surface to protect my bare feet. And
my knees. They made me kneel and drink from a dog food bowl.
�The water is fresh. I just poured it before you arrived,� Katy told
me. �It�s Perrier. Drink it all.� She led me forward to the bowl. I glanced
back at her, at Him, the man who would be my Master here. My blonde hair,
long and soft and beautiful, catching glints of the setting sun, swirled
around my frightened face. And then I knelt. It was awkward, kneeling
before a dog dish. I had to get right down and not use my hands. They
were still free then. I put my palms on the carpet and felt my breasts
swing freely under me as I put my mouth down to the dog dish. In back, my
bottom, sheathed in my jeans out on the street, now bulged freely behind
me. I felt the crack of my small tight seat open as I bent down to tongue
the dish.
I kissed the water. It was cool. The dish had my name on it.
�Kelly,� it read. They�d personalized it just for me. Dutifully I lapped at
the water. My bosoms, like gourds, hung and swung under me. My nipples
were stiff and they grazed the blanket.
�Drink it all. You must pee for us, like a doggie,� Katy said. She
stood over me, watching, holding the whip I�d brought with me for them to
beat me with. It had been required. I had no choice in that, none at all,
unless I chose not to come.
I lifted my head. I felt rebellious. They had a marvelous backyard
pool and I�d never skinny dipped in my life. I watched the water ripple
across it in the wind and expected we�d swim in it.
�Will we swim?� I asked simply.
�No,� Katy replied. She opened a parasol over my heinie. I felt the
rays of the setting sun, warm a moment ago, blocked and kept out by the
parasol. Under its shadow my bottom was cool. A mountain breeze kissed
my ass cheeks, as if urging them wider apart.
�Why?� I asked.
�Not �til after dark, love. You must stay out of the sun. You must
protect your skin.�
I glanced up at her. A lock of my hair fell into the bowl and became
wet in it. She was Oriental, and her skin was white, delicate. Her hair
was rich and black and it tumbled down in strands over her shoulders
where her simple coiffure was coming undone.
�But,� I breathed. She held the parasol in one hand the whip I�d
brought in the other.
�You have lovely skin,� Katy said, looking down at me. �I�ll enjoy
marking it.�
COMIC REVIEW
by holy joe
Zipwad, No. 1, 25 cents. Minicomic. Tan paper, eight pages. Brian Kirk,
Moot Comics, 93 Sunapee Street, Springfield, MA 01108. e-mail:
mootcomics@aol.com web: http://www.the-spa.com/bear/moothome
Review: On January 5, 1998, on a reprise interview on Charlie Rose,
Jerry Seinfeld told Charlie, referring to Seinfeld, �It�s a hand-made
show.�
Well, for all those viewers who enjoyed the loving care lavished on a
self-described hand-made T.V. show, what better way to get over the loss
of Seinfeld than by ordering a bona fide, hand-made comic?
Brian�s comics are drawn by hand, then xeroxed and collated by hand,
and, finally, stapled by hand. I still remember the days when he couldn�t
find a decent xerox machine, and was forced to xerox his comics on sub-
standard equipment. Those days are, fortunately, gone, but the loving care
of a hand-made product persists.
Due to market demand or, more likely, to the whim of the artist,
Brian has given a character from Pissed Off comics his own title. This is
it! Zipwad, number one. In this issue Zipwad invents a chair that can
travel through time. There�s just one drawback. To make the chair work,
you have to sit on a tack that�s been embedded in the chair�s seat.
(Perhaps Brian has read too many bottom-stinging issues of Fuck Decency!)
Zipwad takes a painful journey back in time to Christ�s last supper. He
clues Jesus in on who is betraying him. Then it�s off to the Middle Ages,
Rome, and, finally, with the perfection of the chair (the �tack problem� is
finally resolved) to a place Zipwad finds even more painful than his time-
travelling chair.
Each panel in this comic is drawn with loving care. Electricity
sizzles across the comic�s title: �Zipwad�. A screw falls out of a cabinet
as Zipwad opens it to look for a way to make his chair more comfortable.
Shadows line a hallway that Zipwad escapes down, and play across his
bottom as he prepares to sit in his time-travelling chair.
�Zipwad� is a cute little comic featuring a man who goes boldly
where no man has gone before... with his bottom!
MAGAZINE REVIEWS
by holy joe
Playboy�s Voluptuous Vixens, $6.95. Web: http://www.playboy.com
Review: This is a collection of previously published photos, plus
some new ones. Did you miss the very first photos of Tiffany Taylor,
published in Playboy�s College Girls? The best photo from that set is
reprinted here. It�s a photo of Tiffany staring with awe-struck eyes, her
shirt uplifted to expose her bountiful bosoms, while her fingers curl
hesitantly near her mouth. Right next to that classic photo, on the
opposite page, is one of Tiffany�s tummy. Her childish hands pull down her
panties to expose her bush; her shirt is pulled up to offer a tantalizing,
close-up view of her breasts.
Perhaps you missed Playboy�s Nude Playmates, published last spring.
Not to worry! The best photo from that issue, of Angel Boris clinging to
Priscilla Taylor, is reprinted. Both girls are nude. Angel�s breasts press
against Priscilla�s, and the close contact between the two girls causes
Angel�s nipples to sprout.
One important note: the copy I bought of Playboy�s Voluptuous
Vixens had manufacturer�s damage on all the photos listed above. It
wasn�t too bad, but check your copy before you buy it if you can.
What else is in this issue? Well, if you want to see what Alley
Baggett looked like before she stupidly frizzed her hair, check out page 52.
As she stares into the camera, her bare bosoms looming below her pixie
face, she juts a finger into her tempting mouth. The opposite page shows
her ready to party in a bosom-baring corset.
(Incidentally, I called Alley�s parents and asked about her name.
�Her older brothers are named �Street,� and �Avenue,�� her father told me.
�She was just a girl, and small, so we named her �Alley.� Her baby brother
is named �Lane.�� Clever family, eh?)
Recently a Playboy Playmate visited me. She wanted to be sure I
mentioned her when she appeared in Playboy. I told her I would, but she�d
have to have sex with me. She agreed. You can see what she looked like
when I was through fucking her, on pages 56 and 57. (Friends tell me
Vikki Neil was sore for days following our meeting!)
Playmate Vanessa Taylor (what is it with the Taylors... how many
beautiful daughters do they have?!) went to the doctor. She had to get a
physical exam before she could start college. You can see her undressed,
waiting to meet the doctor, on pages 62-63. If you�re wondering why
she�s holding a pencil in one of the photos, it�s so she can fill out those
pesky insurance forms everyone has to fill out before they see the doctor.
(As you can see, the doctor wasn�t stupid. He had her undress first. Then
he gave her the forms to fill out!) Young Vanessa, being a little scared
about seeing the doctor, brought along her favorite teddy bears to keep her
company. They couldn�t help her with the forms though...
If you�ve never been breast-fed, take a look at pages 86-87.
Playmate Jennifer Perry demonstrates the proper technique. In my
opinion, except for Tiffany Taylor, these were the best photos of the
issue. Her breasts are wonderfully large, beautifully tanned, and she
handles them with loving, expert fingers. God, what a set of photos!
There is a new style of layout in this issue. It�s very clever. On one
page is a glorious photo of the girl, printed nice and large, that includes
her face. Then, on the opposite page, are one or more photos that zoom in
on her most important parts, excluding her face. By looking at both pages
at the same time, you get quite a pleasurable viewing experience. True, it
isn�t as wonderful as reading an article by Andrea Dorkin, but we can�t
just sit around enjoying ourselves all the time, can we?
Us us us
by Paul Magnuson
Pushing for an out
like steam in the tea kettle
before it sings
energy energy energy
trying to get loose
like four jet engines
screwed to wings
tension tension tension
till the release and the peace
that finally comes
in a rush and a gush.
I ... am ... yours.
AND IN THE END...
�God knows what he does with himself and the magazines all
night.�
- Frank McCourt, Angela�s Ashes, pg. 346.
-------------------------- Fuck Decency! ------------------------
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-Other providers:
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-Free minicomics: send a stamped, self-addressed envelope to: Jim
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- JOIN the world�s greatest organization! Send $35.00 to The North
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NAMBLA, P.O. Box 174, Midtown Station, New York, NY 10018.
-Naughty Naked Dreamgirls (Library of Congress ISSN: 1070-1427) is
copyright 1998 and a trademark of Andrew Roller. Work by others
copyright 1998 by the respective copyright holder.
-END OF 328 EMISSION
- To hell with Seinfeld. It�s his 17-year-old girlfriend Shoshanna that
I want to see on T.V.! (Source: Star, June 15, 1993, pg. 37)