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From: DrSpin <drspin@newsguy.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} The Colonel's Red Nails (M/F/f, humour) ~ Another Ace Adventure
Date: Wed, 31 May 2000 09:10:04 -0400
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The Colonel's Red Nails (M/F/f, humour)
(Another Ace Adventure)
by DrSpin
June 2000
===========================================================
This is the fourth story in the Ace Dyson misadventures, in
which the laconic Australian fixit man stumbles through
mishaps and crises with help and hindrance from many a
female. The previous Ace stories are:
Abducted By Aliens (March 2000)
(http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/DrSpin/www/Abducted_By_Aliens.html)
Dyson Does Dunedin (April 2000)
(http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/DrSpin/www/Dyson_Does_Dunedin.html)
Banged In Bahrain (May 2000)
(http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/DrSpin/www/Banged_In_Bahrain.html)
Further Ace Dyson stories will appear regularly.
===========================================================
* The Colonel's Red Nails introduces to the Ace Dyson
series a new character, appearing courtesy of fellow author
Jimmy Hat's inspirational suggestion. Thanks, Jimmy.
===========================================================
* Acronyms appearing in this story are explained fully in a
list at the conclusion. Likewise a memo referred to during
the story.
===========================================================
Standard Disclaimer:
I write and you read, if you care to. That's all there is
to it. If any reader is offended, he/she should not have
been here in the first place and only has himself/herself
to blame. If this story is relocated, please leave my name
intact as the author and please include my email address.
===========================================================
* The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers
and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to:
drspin@newsguy.com
* Ruthie edited expertly. Nat advised and does the website.
===========================================================
A one-night-stand who wanted to hang around had made me
late for work on a day when it was not wise to be late.
Which was why I didn't hold the elevator for the long-
legged blonde intent on getting through the doors before
they slid shut.
"Sorry, sweetheart," I said, giving her a wink and my
cheekiest grin as I held down the close-doors button and
watched her jump back before her tits got caught in the
vice. "Just not your day."
If I didn't get a move on, it might not be my day either.
The new boss was due. Right now. Some retired US Air Force
Colonel foisted on us by a new American senior partner
company based near San Francisco. Fuck me. He'd be a senile
old goat brought back from a pension and so set in his
service ways he'd have a baton up his arse. Disaster. I'd
had the old boss eating out my hand but he'd had one heart
flutter too many and he was gone away to sit in the sun and
swear a lot at nothing much. Poor old profane bastard. I
was going to miss him.
The air of expectancy on the top floor told me I'd squeaked
in on time. People had formed up and were waiting with
strained smiles. I side-stepped neatly though the crowd and
took up a place at the end of the line, not a moment too
soon. Commotion at the double glass doors showed the
exalted one was nigh.
The figurehead chairman himself, splendid in a tailored
suit, entered the conference room with the warm smile and
well-mannered chuckle that had won him the post. Behind him
was the long-legged blonde. His secretary? No, I'd met that
woman once or twice, and that surely wasn't her. Hang on,
people were being way too obsequious. It struck me
simultaneously that the blonde was the new boss and that
she had very recently been treated in disrespectful
cavalier fashion by a good sport and decent bloke in too
much of a tearing hurry.
Shit. Maybe she wouldn't remember my face.
Fuck me. A female boss. She was about ten people away and
I sized her up. Impressive. Experienced. Had been around.
Hard to tell how old she was because she looked menacingly
trim and fit. Late thirties or so, I guessed. Well
preserved. And tall, wearing a red suit with the skirt
above the knees, which was fine because she had excellent
legs. Blonde hair cropped and lopped short and business-
like. Black heels, high. And a strong face, with large,
wide-open eyes, intelligent, attentive, watchful.
Exquisitely made up. Everything perfect. And beautiful long
hands she extended purposefully to meet her new staff.
As she drew closer I noticed her hands more and more. Long
fingers. And fingernails as red as the colour red could
possibly be. Fire-engine red. Ferrari red. Warning signal
red. Fuck. I had a sinking feeling about this sheila.
The line shuffled and I was before her. The chairman
gestured at me and I smiled my easiest smile. "And this
is. . ."
"Don't tell me," she said, with a voice moderated by
attention and training to a smooth and confident
efficiency. "Let me guess. This would be the ubiquitous Mr.
Dyson."
Her eyes locked on mine like laser-guided missiles. I had
expected ice-cold blue, but they were stony brown with
flecks of green. Her hands remained folded, scarlet-
vermilion nails flashing reflected light.
Fuck. She knew me somehow. "G'day," I said. "Call me Ace."
"I will not," she said crisply. "Under my command all
executive officers are called by their surnames. Only
juniors have first names."
"Uh, sure," I said. "Does this also apply to you?"
"Oh no," she said. "You will call me ma'am. At all times,
Dyson." She allowed the tightest smile to stretch her red
lips. "You got that, sweetheart?"
Fuck. She recognised me. "Yes, ma'am," I said.
She smiled again, ever so faintly, and moved on. And
stopped and turned back. "I know you, Dyson," she said
coolly. "I've already read a staff report or two and I'm
right on your case."
The new CEO was a retired Air Force Colonel, but a woman
and a mean scary bitch who wouldn't hesitate to knee a
bloke in the groin. But she had nice tits. And sexy
fingernails. Terrifying as she was, I'd give up a brisk
game of golf on a warm spring day to fuck her. And I do
like my golf.
Colonel Ruth Webster, 40, graduate summa cum laude, USAF
Academy in Colorado, flew macho choppers, behemoth C140s
and Godzilla-like B52s, for fuck's sake. She'd been
honourably discharged at 37, recruited by the rapacious
California-based multi-national company that had gobbled us
up, and sent to an elite business leadership program at
Stanford for one year to get her ready to give us a bit of
a touch-up down under. I discovered this in the CV
distributed after she departed. All in all, a seriously
formidable woman. I also found later from my well-trained
inter-office spy she was twice married, twice divorced. No
kids. Hmm. Interesting. All ballast discarded.
I could see I would have to make a fresh start and win her
over. Fortunately, I was good at that. A little bit of luck
and inside information never hurts either. Helen, her PA
and my spy, was known to me, in all senses of the word,
including biblical.
* * *
"So what do you want?" asked Helen lazily, head back, hair
wet, eyes closed, arms spread wide and hanging over the rim
of the bathtub. She wasn't gorgeous but she wasn't awful
either, and she had a modern woman's healthy attitude to a
hard night of robust sex. We were in my Victorian tub,
soaking, content, and my big toe was nudging insistently
and affectionately at her crotch.
"What do I want? Helen, why would I ever want anything or
anybody but you?"
She laughed comfortably. "That's what I like about you,
Ace. You don't even pretend to be sincere. You cook for me,
take me to bed, massage my back, and soap me up in a nice
hot bath. No doubt about it. You want something."
"Well," I said, "and only since you raised it, there's the
matter of the new boss and why she doesn't seem to like me
very much."
Helen opened one eye. "She's got your file," she said with
malicious pleasure. "Asked for it especially so she could
read it on her familiarisation trips around the country."
I winced. The file. I knew there was a file but I'd hoped
my old boss had taken it with him into retirement. Bastard.
May his heart murmurs get worse. "Possibly she has a good
sense of humour," I ventured.
"I saw her laugh when one of our competitors was suspended
on the stock exchange, but it wasn't a nice laugh."
"Shit," I said, with feeling.
"I think so," Helen agreed. "No more fun and games for our
Ace, I suspect." She wriggled and settled herself
comfortably against my invading toe. "Except with me, of
course."
I gave her my best winning smile. "Love me, Helen?"
"Why would I do something silly like that? But pick up the
phone and call anytime. You know I'll always find a slot
for you."
Helen's slot paid dividends. The next day I received a
sealed brown envelope containing photocopies of two
interesting memos. One was from the Colonel to the head of
personnel seeking details of my salary package and my dues
and entitlements. The other memo <* see end of story> was
from the head honcho in California setting out crisply the
duties and obligations of our new CEO. It read like a
series of instructions to rape and pillage down under with
sanction and impunity.
It was time for me to take action. That, or wait to be
taken out by a cruise missile.
Plan A was charmingly simple. Win her over.
Armed with the Colonel's rigid schedule, courtesy of
Helen's slot, and close-shaved, hair-trimmed, and as
beautiful as I could possibly make myself in old tight ex-
football shorts and a seen-better-days Sydney Swans
training singlet, I positioned myself in the executive
staff gymnasium. Never been there before. Had to ask
directions.
She arrived precisely on time. I hoped my three-minute
exercise routine had developed for me a fine sheen of sexy
masculine sweat. It was time for the big pitch.
"Hello," I said with my typical engaging charm, as though
she were a sight for sore eyes. "Fancy seeing you here."
She stopped short, clearly taken aback. She was all in
black, apart from her flat, hard, and bare midriff. Good
figure. Everything clean, lean, and pared down for action
stations. My eyes travelled easily and appreciatively up
and down the long stretch of her. Black headband pinning
back her golden hair. And what was this? Black gloves. Like
a golfer or a baseball player, but on both hands. Damn,
she really was a sight for sore eyes.
"Dyson," she said, casting a dubious eye over my apparel.
"Are you actually doing anything here or are you just
loitering?"
"Fitness, ma'am. It's a priceless commodity."
She smiled, but it was thin and cold. "You think you are
fit, Dyson?"
"Oh yes, ma'am. As a fiddle."
The main doors to the gym crashed open and the fittest man
in the southern hemisphere strode in. He marched straight
to the Colonel and threw her a salute, which she ignored.
He had an old-fashioned blond flat-top crewcut and
rippling, bulging muscles everywhere, including no doubt
his ear lobes. "Reporting, ma'am," he barked.
The Colonel favoured me once more with her thin smile.
"Meet USMC Sergeant Charles `Chesty' Bond," she said, "on
loan to me twice a week from the American Consulate as a
personal trainer. Now he really is as fit as a fiddle."
Chesty swivelled to face me. "Sah," he roared.
"Face the wall and touch your toes, sergeant," she said. He
complied instantly and she stood beside him and ran a hand
smoothly down his buttocks. "I've only been here a short
time and three women, including the chairman's wife, have
told me you have a nice butt, Dyson. I can only conclude
standards here are not high - because this is what I call a
nice butt."
"Very muscular, ma'am," I agreed.
"Get out of here, Dyson," she said mildly. "I checked the
attendance records and you are the only person on the
executive staff who has never used this place. And if you
had bothered to read your interoffice memos you would know
this is a 40-minute time block reserved exclusively for
me."
Obviously I needed to jump swiftly to Plan B.
I was still trying to formulate a Plan B next morning when
I received a summons to her office. I was learning to
expect the unexpected but my mouth dropped open in
amazement. The Colonel was reclining on a couch, jacket
off, black skirt hiked high up her thighs. Her bare legs
were stretched out on a footstool and a thin bird-like
woman with a beak of a nose was attending to her feet with
fawning concentration.
"Ah, Dyson," the Colonel said. "Excuse the informality but
this is the only time I can fit you in." She gestured with
her long-fingered hand, and the fierce red of her newly-
polished nails flashed light from the wide windows
overlooking Sydney Harbour. "This is Marie. She does my
nails twice a week, and I have to tell you I respect her a
hell of a lot more than I do you."
The supplicant woman on her knees looked up at me smugly.
"Thank you, Ruth," she said.
"Ruth?" It came out of my mouth involuntarily.
"Marie is one of the few who can call me that," said the
Colonel, "because she is a skilled professional who comes
to me with the highest recommendations. If you want such a
privilege, you'll have to earn it."
I looked at her long, smooth, bare legs and thought about
that. "I'll be pleased to keep it in mind, ma'am." I
thought maybe I could take half a step to the left and see
up her skirt. But then I thought again and didn't.
"Dyson," she said, "I have to tell you I don't like you
and I don't have much patience with you. I've looked
closely at your track record and I've asked around. I think
you're overpaid and underworked. Your only function appears
to be as a TSOC. Would you agree?"
"TSOC, ma'am?"
She waved a hand impatiently. "Trouble Shooter On Call.
Don't you know anything?"
"Oh," I said. "Right. Fixit man. That's what your
predecessor called me."
"I have laid off six executive staff this morning, and the
only reason you remain with us today is because your
previous boss begged me to keep you on." She smiled grimly.
"And of course the chairman's wife speaks about you in
gushing terms, but that was never going to be a factor in
my decision."
"And a very nice person she is, too," I said. "Extremely
good natured."
That drew a short laugh from her. "I know you, Dyson, I
told you that. You're another PDA pretty boy. The Air Force
was full of them. Artful dodgers oozing with talent,
ability, charm, cruising through life without ever having
to put in the hard yards to get what they wanted. Meanwhile
the rest of us, and I'm talking especially about women,
Dyson, have to work ten times as hard and make twenty times
the accommodation to gain any degree of acceptance."
This was delivered with hammering AK-47 punctuation.
Somebody had touched a nerve and I knew it wasn't Marie the
Manicurist.
"You know, Dyson," she continued, "I could have been a
fighter pilot, and that's cream of the crop. I passed all
the tests. But charming pretty boys barred the way and I
was forced to take other options. That's all changed now,
because I'm sitting down having my nails done, looking out
at my splendid view, and you're standing up at my pleasure
until I say otherwise."
What the hell was all this? She was tense, frowning, pissed
off. Surely there was more to it than little old me.
"Dyson," she continued, dropping her voice to a soft and
silky menace, "you should consider yourself fortunate your
smooth ass is not out on the street. Do I make myself
clear?"
"You do, ma'am. I regret I appear to remind you of other
people in other times."
"Speaking about regrets," she said, tapping a green file
beside her on the couch, "we will have no more Dyson
dalliances connected in any way with this company. You hear
that? No more. That includes the chairman's wife and also
my PA. Do I make myself clear?"
Everybody knew about the chairman's wife. No secret there.
But Helen? How the fuck did she know about Helen? I tried
my best for her. "Your PA, ma'am?" I asked, puzzlement
hanging in the air.
"You will treat me like an idiot at your extreme peril,"
she snapped. "Luckily she's good at her job and luckily,
she tells me in a woman-to-woman chat, she wants to keep
it." The Colonel smiled nastily. "You think I came down in
the last spring shower, Dyson? I know the tricks of the
pretty boys. I've been fucked over too many times. Hell, I
even married two of them."
She swung her feet off the stool, showing me a momentary
glimpse of pale-blue pants under her skirt, and if she knew
it she didn't give a damn. She padded across to me on bare
feet and stood facing me with hands on hips. "You are on
notice, Dyson. I'll be watching you 24 hours a day with an
STF. One mistake and you're dead."
So much for Plan B, carpet-bombed before it was even
constructed.
On notice and watched, I decided I had better read
interoffice memos. Fuck, there were hundreds of them. I
rang Helen to complain and check the gossip. "Get lost,
Ace," she said pleasantly in her musical PA way. "It's been
nice but you're now hazardous nuclear waste. This means, to
put it crudely, you're dumped."
One of the memos invited me to a staff get-together on a
Sunday cruise on the harbour. The Colonel indicated
executive attendance was mandatory. It was time for Plan C,
because the bad guys were closing in fast.
* * *
The three-deck cruiser held 150 people and they zeroed in
on the free tucker and booze like refugees from Bangladesh.
Most took the "dress casual" invitation at its word and
rocked along for a good time in tee-shirts, shorts, and
halter tops. The boss, however, was in virginal white,
still managing to look every inch a military officer caught
elegantly in a moment of leisure.
She dazzled the eye in a short, fitted, double-breasted
jacket, deep neckline, and a breathtakingly short skirt
that displayed her long legs to advantage. Her blood-red
toenails, so painstakingly prepared by the servile Marie,
glittered in the sunlight in gold strappy sandals that
laced up her ankles. No stockings. Just long, well-tanned,
shapely legs. And, for the first time I had seen, the
cleavage was on show, set off by an Egyptian-style gold
necklace that cascaded down her chest and dipped
tantalisingly into the valley.
Oh God of All Perverts and Sleazebuckets, there's nothing
quite like a blonde in white. I might have hated her guts
at that moment but I certainly admired her style.
She floated from group to group, soft white skirt swishing
against lithe brown leg, and she had them eating out of her
hand. Meanwhile all-time fun guy Ace was finding it hard to
strike up a conversation. It's funny how they know. Noses
sniff the air and smell plague, and the word goes around
without a word ever spoken. Ace is bad news. His neck is on
the block. Don't get stuck with him or your head might be
next.
My usually buoyant level of self-assurance was dropping
fast. That woman was getting to me. My failing nerve even
showed up in what I was wearing - fuck-you I-don't-care
rebellious old blue jeans with a tear at the knee and a
nostalgic North Sydney Bears red and black jersey. A dead
football team, past glory forgotten, gobbled up in a merge
with a powerful neighbour. Seemed suitable for the day.
I parked myself against the back rail of the boat in the
unpopular open and windy spot next to the whipping flag,
sipped at a cold long-necked Crown Lager, leaned over the
rail, and watched two dolphins surfing the streaming,
foaming wake in banana bends. I tried to come up with Plan
C and the dolphins, open-jawed, laughed at me. Ace, my son,
I thought, this time you could be sunk.
"Do you really want to be lonely or do you just want to
look the part?" The voice was feminine, deep, and American.
I swung around, expecting the Colonel, and found a brunette
with hair tied back in a long ponytail. A pretty brunette,
and young, maybe still a teenager.
"Just one of those days when I'm not part of the crowd," I
said.
"Me too," she said. "I'm just a hanger-on who came with
somebody else. Can I look at the dolphins with you?"
She leaned over the rail beside me, eyes narrowed against
the glare, ponytail flipping in the wind. Lovely. Clean,
fresh, natural. Tall, slim, coltish. Fingernails
unpainted.
"Call me Ace," I said, feeling a lot better.
We talked on the neglected back deck until the sun slipped
low and the boat was heading back to the dock. Her name was
Elli (for Elizabeth) and she was from California, visiting
with relatives. She'd only been in Sydney two days. Didn't
say how old she was and I didn't ask because we got along
too well for it to be important, but I guessed she was
about 19 or 20. She had a steady boyfriend back home but
she was thinking maybe it was time to break free,
especially over here, and have a little fun with her life.
But she didn't know anybody here and then she saw me,
lonely, alone, romantic, untaken. She didn't say all that
exactly, of course, but it's what she meant. I could hear
the unspoken words. I've always been good at that.
But a fair-minded bloke does not take unfair advantage, so
I gave her an easy way out. "There are plenty of guys your
age in this city who would love to show you a good time," I
said. "I can even introduce you to some of them."
Elli's hand shaded her eyes against the setting sun and she
wrinkled her nose at me. "Maybe," she said, "but I stood
there looking at your butt in those tight old jeans while
you were leaning over the rail, and I thought maybe you
might do just fine."
It pays to be optimistic. Even when you think you're down,
there's always a chance something will turn up. Elli was
like freshly-picked strawberries bought from a roadside
stall in farm country. A new week was starting and it was
looking crisp, green, and promising.
"Maybe we can meet later," I said. "I'll show you a few
local sights, including the best pub in Sydney."
"I'm going to be all on my own tonight," she said. "I'd
like to do that."
We arranged to meet on a street corner at The Rocks. And
then she went away, lost in the crowd.
Meanwhile, the Meet The New Boss project was obviously
going well for the Colonel. I heard snippets of
conversation - really nice person, interested in our
welfare, a fresh start, easy to talk to, looks smart,
impressive credentials, etc, etc. I wanted to break in,
explain a few subtleties they were missing. Like, don't
forget to watch your back, and Wendell J. Sharkey <*>
didn't get where he was today by being benevolent.
It was the Colonel's day. But I had a hunch mine was about
to get better.
* * *
Elli was waiting at the appointed spot when I arrived in a
taxi. She hadn't changed clothes, saying she'd been delayed
and had only just managed to get free. She looked as fresh
and appealing as she had two hours earlier. No makeup, or
at least none to be seen. Breasts high and pushing out the
front of her shirt. And the ponytail, bouncing and
swinging, never at rest.
We walked along the waterfront and she took my arm
comfortably, as though she'd known me since she was three.
Such a happy girl. I offered to buy her an ice cream from a
street stall and she insisted on a double, with six
flavours mixed laboriously together by a willing and
patient vendor as intoxicated with her as I was. She didn't
lick it at all, instead devouring it hungrily with chopping
teeth strong and white.
"Fantastic," she said, crunching the last bit of the cone
enthusiastically and wiping ice cream spill from her hands
down the front of my shirt without a hint of apology.
"What next?"
I took her to a noisy and crowded pub that specialised in
boutique beer and rock bands on the verge of becoming
commercially successful. She drank little and danced up a
storm, leaving me way behind.
"Fantastic," she said, and there was a fine line of sweat
beads above her top lip like a little moist moustache.
"What next?"
"Elli, it's getting late," I said. "I should take you
home."
"Okay," she said cheerfully.
It was an impressive apartment building close to the city
centre and close to wealth and power. I saw her to the
door, and she turned to me, tilted her head back, and
pushed her lips forward in the time-old way that meant she
wanted to be kissed. No man in the world could resist
kissing such a girl when she wanted to be kissed.
She pulled away after a minute or so, opened the door with
her key, and looked at me. "Come on, Ace," she said simply.
"Let's go to bed."
Her mood was infectious and we tore out of our clothes,
grinning like fools. She threw herself on the bed, bouncing
with eagerness. I paused, taking in the sight of her,
because she was long, lean, firm, flawless, perfect. Oh God
of All Satyrs and Iron Bar Erections, there is nothing
quite like a naked teenager from California.
I could tell straight away she was not greatly experienced.
She had enthusiasm to burn, but no style or technique.
Didn't know what she wanted except that she was keen to be
fucked. Happy to let me lead and for herself to just be
part of it. Not coy, shy, or remotely embarrassed. Just
ready and willing to go along with anything I did to her.
I did her plain and simple. When they're hot to trot, don't
mess around. Just do it. Basic functionary sex from out of
the evolutionary swamp.
Elli loved it. She said she did and she acted like she did.
Afterwards, fighting off the urge to sink my brain into the
pillow after a long day, I told her she was ripe enough to
eat. Prove it, she said, and I did. These outgoing girls
are so healthy about their sexual appetites. With each
generation they get more so. Upstanding heterosexual blokes
with a simple agenda have never had it so good.
She was thinking about staying on in Sydney, she said, and
maybe catch the Olympic Games. Her aunt had something to do
with the organisation, and free passes and good seats would
be available. The boyfriend back home was in decline. She
was thinking things had become too close and confined.
There was a lot of fun to be had for a friendly California
girl in the big, wide world.
Meanwhile, what about me, she wanted to know. Was I free?
Could we see each other? Did we have a thing going, or
maybe starting to go? I was nice, she said. She liked me.
I was just the sort of guy she was looking for right at
this particular time.
But I've been around and I've known a few women in my time.
Elli was way too young. There was no future beyond the
moment. I knew this. I was thinking about nice, unhurtful
ways to tell her, but events caught up suddenly, and I
dropped out of thinking and into dreaming about red things.
* * *
Red traffic lights. Red raincoats in a drizzle on a city
street. Red sunsets in Borneo. Red shirts on forgotten
football teams. Red racing cars. Ferraris, same colour,
like red fingernails. "Huh?" I sat bolt upright and Elli was
pushing me on the shoulder.
"We fell asleep," she whispered dramatically. "It's morning
and my aunt's home. I can hear her out there. You can't be
here. I'll be in big trouble. You have to get out, Ace, and
quietly. Get dressed. I'll sneak out and scope the scene."
I stumbled into my clothes, looking at my watch. It was
just before 6 am. Elli was back quickly, holding the door
open and waving me along urgently like a traffic cop at a
road accident. "The way is clear," she hissed. "Go, go."
I nearly made it. Then a door opened and a woman emerged, a
tall woman wearing a tee-shirt to mid-hips and powder-blue
pants. A blonde with long tanned legs right up to her
crotch. Gee, I thought and not for the first time, she
certainly is trim.
"Dyson," she said, and there was a full book of surprise
and shock in the tone. "What the hell is this?"
I didn't answer. Didn't have to, because she was already
looking at Elli and adding one plus one to reach a plain,
simple, inescapable total.
I was caught in the spotlight like a prison escapee going
over the wall. The gods hated me. Elli's aunt was Colonel
Ruth Webster, USAF (retired). Of course she was. Stupid of
me not to have realised. It had been there in front of me
all the time but I'd been thinking with my dick.
Time slows down in a crisis. You get long, drawn-out micro-
seconds to take in detail. The Colonel's tee-shirt was NASA
issue and all about a space shuttle launch. Her pants were
cut high at the sides and puffed out prominently in the
pubic area. No make-up on her face, and she looked a little
creased and older for lack of it. Arms crossed, her red
fingernails drummed in agitation on a bicep.
"Of course you did this on purpose," she said to me, voice
frosty with accusation.
"No," I said, sighing regretfully. "I didn't know. Look,
she's lovely."
"Very," said the Colonel frigidly. "And in my care, which
she should be, seeing she only turned 17 last month."
Oh shit. That was young. Too young. I looked around at
Elli, herself in tee-shirt and pants.
"You said I should spread my wings," Elli said to her aunt,
brazenly. "We talked about it."
"But with somebody your age, not with him," said the
Colonel.
"I didn't even know you knew him," said Elli. "Besides, Ace
is nice."
"Ace is not," said the Colonel, heavily and definitely.
At that precise moment, with the roulette wheel showing
double zero and all the money gone, another door opened and
into the room came USMC Sergeant Charles "Chesty" Bond,
dripping wet and wholly naked but for a towel draped
casually over his shoulder. His rope-like penis swung
impressively.
"I wondered who was in the shower," Elli mused, looking at
her aunt. "I thought it was you."
"Cover yourself, sergeant," snapped the Colonel irritably.
He whipped the towel from his shoulder and wrapped it
around his waist. "Yes, ma'am," he said.
"Well," I said, drawing the word out cheerfully. "Do we
negotiate terms for a ceasefire?"
The Colonel looked at me stonily. "In my office," she said.
"0900."
I departed, a corpse resurrected. Where there is a spark of
life there is a glimmer of hope.
Helen, treating me like a visitor from a foreign country
racked with malaria, showed me through the Colonel's door
at nine sharp. The boss lady, makeup in place, sat in a
chair behind her big desk.
"Don't say anything," she said. "Just listen."
She'd talked to Elli, who had confessed to picking me up.
She had indeed advised Elli to spread her wings because she
needed to break away from the dull boyfriend. The issue
now, she said, was that Elli was digging in her heels and
wanted to continue seeing me, which could not happen.
"I can fix that in a flash," I offered.
"You can?"
"Ring her," I said confidently, perching myself on the
corner of the Colonel's desk, "and give me the phone before
she answers."
She did. "Hello, Elli," I said into the phone, aware that I
had to speak in language the Colonel would hear and
understand. "It's Ace. Hope you're not in too much trouble
with your aunt. No? Well, you are with me. Because you
didn't tell me your age. Yes, it would have made a
difference. Frankly, girlie, you're just barely legal in
this country and absolutely verboten in many others. No, I
would not have. Goodbye, Elli. You're a sweetheart, but
find somebody your own age."
I handed over the phone. I could hear Elli was still
talking. The Colonel listened for a moment, then gently
disconnected.
"She'll be hurt," I said, "but only for a day or so. It
will turn into an exciting adventure and she'll bounce back
fine, all the better for it."
"Good work," the Colonel said. "Maybe you have some
potential after all."
She leaned back in the chair and looked up at me. "Your
former boss said you were a good man to have around in a
crisis, but I didn't see much evidence of it. He also
talked about your discretion and how you could be trusted.
So tell me, Dyson, and I want you to think carefully about
it - do we have anything else to discuss?"
"Nothing at all, ma'am."
"No salacious gossip you'd be wanting to get off your
chest?"
"Not a thing, ma'am."
"No indiscreet wisecracks anywhere anytime about the role
of USMC personal trainers?"
"Wouldn't cross my mind, ma'am."
"Then get your smooth ass off my desk," she snapped. "Get
out of here and do a day's work."
I strolled out of the office and smacked Helen sharply on
the bottom as she rummaged in her waste-paper basket. Ace
Dyson had survived another day.
ENDS
===========================================================
* The author welcomes (and gets blood transfusions from)
comments and opinions from readers and is invariably
motivated to respond. Write to: drspin@newsguy.com
* The Stories of DrSpin are at http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/DrSpin/www
===========================================================
<**> The Colonel's Acronyms:
AOR = Accumulated Operating Results
CEO = Chief Executive Officer
LPC = Lazy People Company
PA = Personal Assistant
PDA = Pretty Damn Arrogant
QRP = Quality Results Profile
STF = Satellite Tracking Facility
TSOC = Trouble Shooter On Call
USAF = United States Air Force
USMC = United States Marine Corps
===========================================================
<*> The Californian Memo:
From the Desk of Wendell J. Sharkey
TO: RAW
SUBJECT: Australian Operations
You are aware our recent Sydney acquisition is
strategically critical to our Pacific Rim plans. Regional
company profile awareness is our chief priority, and a
stronger and more positive connection with the Olympic
Games will assist in that regard.
My AOR reading is that Sydney requires stringent cleansing.
I expect you to use sound judgment and deal summarily with
slack and slackers. While executive salaries are well
within bounds, the place has the aroma of LPC.
I look forward to an excutive staff QRP within six weeks of
your starting there. You have my full confidence in
handling these matters. Please keep me informed of your
progress.
I attach executive staff appraisals.
WJS
===========================================================
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/DrSpin/www/
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