Let's see...there is nothing in this story that belongs to anyone else. OK, not quite true, the idea of the Girl Scout Nookie belongs to Kenny N Gamera, and the Girl Guide Association has full ownership of itself as well. How I put these things to use within the framework of this story, however, is entirely original, and the said arrangement of words on the screen, along with all hardcopy of such printed out to use for whatever reason (wrapping fish'n'chips, making spitballs, lining pet's cages; or, going out on a limb here, actually READING...) belong to moi.
All spelling mistakes contained herein also beelong soully to me. So there.
Why am I writing this? Well, I read the GSN collection and thought that, rather than providing a platitudinous "thank you" or some such similar response, I'd thank them by making my own short story in the same universe. Actually, maybe less of a "thank you", more of "now look what you made me do!", but so...lol.
I make no apologies for occasionally using English terminology rather than American terms (for instance, we have Girl Guides rather than Girl Scouts—as our Scout groups are actually unisex). If you don't know what a certain word means, try a dictionary. Or a thesaurus...I know you have one right next to you as you read this...
Copyright March 2006
Mr. Crap for Brains—or as he was otherwise known, simply CFB, was spending his afternoon in the usual way before going out to work—surfing the web looking for hot, perverted pics of anyone in a skirt; preferably the shorter, the better.
Suddenly, the doorbell rang. CFB raised an eyebrow, as the doorbell to his flat hadn't been working since long before he moved in.
Suddenly, there was also a knock at the door.
"Why are door knocks always sudden?" he wondered, as he got up, grabbed a nearby thesaurus off the top of his telly, and moved quickly to answer the door. Then he had a second thought, and grabbed a seaside deckchair—with the "£1/hour" sign still stuck to the back of it—and held it like a weapon as he cautiously approached the door.
Standing behind the still locked door, he said loud enough to be heard, "Who is it?"
From the other side of the door, a young feminine voice floated to his ears, saying "I'm Rebecca..." Figuring she wasn't connected with his landlord, or any of the dodgier punters who frequented his and his mate's betting shop, CFB unlocked the door and opened it.
And looked out.
And looked down.
And looked down further.
Finally, he saw a girl of only about ten years of age standing there on his doormat. She looked like a little angel, with straight brown hair hanging loose down to the middle of her back, and deep brown eyes, and very ruby red little lips.
"Hi, I'm Becky!" she chirped, in a voice much higher than he had heard just a few seconds before. Hadn't she sounded much more like a hot young woman just then...?
"It's this", she said, holding up a mic with a small power pack on it. "I can use it to change my voice," she said, switching it on and making herself sound like a 20-something with a huskier voice, "to lure sad old loner men out of their homes."
CFB just gaped at her, doing his very best goldfish impression. Finally, drawing up to his full five feet ten inches, he shot out, "actually, I'm only 23".
Becky's eyes bugged out in shock. "Whoa....you have my sympathies Mr. Brains", she said.
"Anyway, we..."
"We? Who we?"
"The 69th London Girl Guide group", she explained. "We're having a sale, and you were recommended to us as someone who may be interested in buying some of our merchandise."
"Recommended?" CFB queried, apprehensively. "By whom?"
"The council estate caretaker", said Becky, brushing past CFB on her way into his flat. She pushed deliberately yet briefly against his crotch on her way in, fast enough for him to notice, yet still think he'd imagined it. She was still talking.
"He monitors all the internet traffic in and out of this tower block. Your IP fitted all of our criteria. So, want to see the catalogue?" she said, helping herself to a bottle of Coke from his fridge; CFB was too stunned to say anything, so he just followed her to his sofa, and sat down beside her as she pulled a small booklet out of her backpack, which was sky blue to match her Girl Guide dress.
"So, these are the girls," she said, showing him the first few pages, filled with pictures of various girls of different ages, all in full Girl Guide uniforms and all smiling for the camera.
"They sell the cookies?" CFB asked, and Becky shook her head and sighed.
"Cookies? What do you think—that anyone could actually make money selling badly made cookies to a bunch of strangers who don't give a beep about us?" CFB was shocked by the aggressiveness of her tone. "We tailor our marker better these days—look for people who are more...amenable", she said, placing a hand on his knee and squeezing it slightly.
CFB gulped; heavily. His leg shook a little. In the background, his stereo started playing Toxic by Britney Spears for seemingly no reason.
"No; these girls don't sell cookies", Becky continued ", they sell themselves. We sell each other. Look..."
She flipped to the next page. This one showed a twelve-year-old girl with short blonde hair, in an evening dress with a giant slit up the side all the way to her waist. Her still yet to develop chest was visible over the sagging front of the dress, as there was nothing there to hold it up in place. Becky's hand moved higher up CFB's thigh.
A succession of such photo-pages were shown to the man, who gradually found his pulse quickening, his breathing shortening, and other vital signs doing other things ending in "ing". Becky kept talking all the time, to keep him occupied while she worked on his trouser zip.
"You see, we sell Girl Guide NOOKIES, not cookies. Nobody wanted our cookies 'cos they were lame, but then we realised there was a market for Girl Guides 'cos my older sister read this online story that proved there are loads of dirty old men out there willing to pay good money to have nookie with us. A prize goes to the girl who sells the most nookies, and another to the one who has the most of her own nookies sold. I'm going for both prizes."
"A...a...a-a-and just what are the prizes, e-e-exactly?" CFB stuttered out, as Becky's hand sought out his cock.
"Breast enhancement surgery, and £1000", said Becky, matter-of-factly. She gently pulled his dick out of his trousers, and began stroking it quite publicly (or should that be pubicly? Lol)
"Er....I....ohhh...."
"So how many nookies can I put ya down for, CFB?" Becky asked, as she stroked him off like the pro she was. At the same time, she flipped the magazine to the back page, which showed her barely modelling a "Catholic-schoolgirl" type uniform. CFB felt a blood vessel in his temple pop at the sight.
CFB did the gentlemanly thing; he blushed and struggled to keep his breathing even as her hand worked wonders on him, and valiantly did NOT look at that picture with every ounce of his energy. Instead, he stared fixedly down toward the carpet, where he saw Becky was running a sandalled foot up against his calf, rucking up the material of his trouser leg in the process. Most of the blood went to his head, and the remainder went to his other head, where the sound of it in his ears drowned out nearly every other sound.
Becky noticed CFB's fixed gaze, and followed it downward. "Oh don't worry CFB, I like to study my customers before I make the deal." She reached down, unlaced and removed her sandal, and ran her wriggling little foot, still in its innocent little white ankle sock, up under his trouser leg to the knee.
"Errrr.....ahh....ummmm..........ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh hhhh...."
Finally, pulling out the big guns, Becky lowered her mouth over his throbbing member and sucked as though her life depended on it, leaving a big thick ring of ruby red lipstick around the base of his cock as she took almost all of it right down her throat, before pulling back and pushing forward again. Then, pulling off his leaking shaft for a moment, she handed him a clipboard with an order form and a pen out of her backpack.
"So how many nookies will you be wanting, Mr. Brains?" she said. "This is just a free sample—if you choose to purchase, the girl you purchase will go as far as you wish to—all the way, if that's what tickles your fancy."
At that last statement, his cock rose up again and smacked her in the chin lightly, before she took it in again and continued to suck him off.
Before CFB could do anything else, his eyes rolled back in his head as the ultimate pleasure hit him full force, and he collapsed unconscious. His face was as red as a beetroot from all the exertion, but Becky didn't notice for a few seconds until she had finished swallowing every drop of his cum. Then he spurted a last little drop that caught her right on the tip of her nose. She licked it off.
Then she noticed that CFB was out for the count.
"Huh, happened again. Oh well..." she mused, and filled out the form on his behalf, marking herself for 10 nookies, and signing it "Mr. Brains". Then, having second thoughts, she added another zero, making it a round hundred nookies instead. At a quid each, that wouldn't exactly break the bank, but she'd be reaping the rewards soon enough, that was for damn sure.
Taking her time, Becky washed herself up, had some more to drink—"Wuss, not a drop of alcohol in the whole place"—and watched a spot of telly before shoving her sandal back on, not bothering to lace it up, and strolling casually out of the front door to the flat, leaving it wide open behind her.
A few minutes later, CFB's mate showed up, wondering why CFB was late to open up their shop.
"CFB, where are ya?" he called, making his way in, noting the open door. Then, noting the slumped form of CFB on the sofa, dick out and covered in lipstick and cum, eyes staring.
And a small box marked "Girl Guide Sale", sitting next to him on the sofa.
© Crap for Brains 2006
