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Subject: {ASSM} Write Club Gauntlet
Date: Fri, 15 Sep 2000 12:10:05 -0400
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"Doing Rachel" (mf teen caution) - Write Club story -
Baird Allen
<Baird's comments>
Well, here it is, I think I finally got the beginning to meet up with
the ending somewhere in the middle. I;m already way over the alotted
time and therefore must disqualify myself from the competition, but
here is the story. No time now to do any polish, this is pure first
draft, gotta get some sleep now. I hope this worked out better for
the other guys than it has for me.
semicolon, luffa, Camaro, badminton, brick, oatmeal, proverb, Rachel,
rictus
"Doing Rachel" (mf teen caution) Write Club story - 14 Sept 2000
Copyright 2000 by Baird Allen <baird@pair.com>
I lost my virginity last month, at age sixteen. I also lost my life,
and my future. It happened like this:
I was always the new kid at school, because my dad's job required
that we move a lot. It was mid-October when we moved to Smithville,
and the school year had already started. My natural shyness didn't
help me any when it came to making friends. But one girl was nice to
me: Rachel.
Even if she hadn't brightened up my life by actually saying "hello"
to me each day in English class, I still would have been smitten by
her beauty. Fair hair, creamy skin, blue eyes, a body that heated my
dreams - she was a goddess. Of course I could never dare to speak to
her, not a mere mortal like me. Whenever she spoke to me I would look
away to hide the blush that I knew burned furiously across my face.
Nevertheless she remained friendly, and my awareness of her presence
in the desk behind me dominated my consciousness, condemning me to
remain forever unaware of the niceties of proper usage of the comma,
semicolon, and assorted other punctuation symbols that I was supposed
to be learning about in that class.
I could never look upon her divinity when she was close enough that
she might notice me looking, but I watched her avidly from afar. I
thought of her constantly. When I was at home, alone, I tried to draw
pictures of her, then tore them up when they necessarily failed to
live up to my visions. She was an angel, distant and untouchable, a
being of unspeakable purity and goodness. The only times I
deliberately banished her from my thoughts were those times when I
masturbated, as it would have been darkest blasphemy to have sullied
my mental image of her with such filth.
Then I started to hear things about her.
She was no angel, I heard. Not that anyone would discuss such things
with me, but I couldn't help overhearing what the other guys talked
about at the lunch table, where my presence was tolerated at the edge
of the group as long as I kept my mouth shut. She was no angel at
all, according to what I heard, but rather a whore, a slut, an easy
lay. The guys would watch her as she walked across the room or sat
and ate with other girls, and they would talk about her.
One guy told about how she had sucked his cock one day when he was at
her house on some unspecified errand. Another said that that was
nothing, he had danced with her one time at a party and ended up
fucking her in an empty bedroom. Another reminded the group that he
had gone steady with her when they were in ninth grade, and told of
how she used to give him handjobs every time they went to the movies
together, and how he had been the first guy she had ever fucked.
After I heard that, I didn't bother trying to keep her out of my mind
when I jerked off. In fact, as I imagined myself doing all of those
naughty things with her, she became my constant companion in orgasmic
bliss every night before I went to sleep, and every morning as I
showered before school.
I still couldn't talk to her. Merely the sight of her within any
normal speaking distance was enough to turn my brain to oatmeal and
my tongue into a dry luffa sponge. I suppose she thought me odd, but
there was nothing I could do about it. I was just too damn shy.
Then came the party.
Not that I would ever be invited to any social gathering of my peers.
No, my presence at the party was entirely accidental - my mother had
to attend a meeting and couldn't pick me up after school, so I had to
walk home with the son of one of her co-workers who lived near the
school, to be picked up later in the evening after the meeting was
over. The boy was a senior, someone I'd never met. I guess he tried
to be nice to me, asking me what classes I had and so forth, but my
inability to make any sort of coherent response effectively stifled
his attempts at conversation.
The phone rang while we were watching TV, and from what I heard of
his side of the conversation I figured out that he was being invited
to some kind of get-together. After he'd hung up the phone he stood
looking at me for a moment, then shrugged. He told me that he
couldn't leave me there at his house by myself, so I would have to
come with him to the party. I shrugged back and went along with him
out to where his Camaro was parked, got in and away we went.
The party was in a basement at a house where someone's parents were
away. I never knew whose house it was, or why they were having a
party, if indeed there was any particular reason for it. The kids
there were all drinking red punch that had been mixed up in an empty
trashcan. The guy who took me to the party handed me a cup full of
the stuff and warned me that it "had a kick", then he ditched me and
I was there alone in the middle of the crowd, sipping tepid red
liquid out of a plastic cup. I guessed that there was some kind of
alcohol in it, but it tasted to me just like Fruit Juicy Red Hawaiian
Punch, so I figured it must be pretty weak stuff.
I didn't have anything else to do, so I just stood there and drank my
cup of punch, then helped myself to another cupful and went to lean
against the wall out of the way of the crowd. My face started to feel
warm, but I attributed it to the crowded conditions and kept on
sipping my punch. The room seemed to tilt when I stepped away from
the wall to go and get a second refill, and I bumped into a couple of
people as I made my way back to the trashcan and filled my cup.
Someone put a hand on my arm, and I was incredibly surprised to hear
my name. "Davy?" I looked up, and there she was, right there next to
me, actually touching me with her hand. Rachel.
I reflexively started to turn away, but I was having a little trouble
orienting myself, and after I got my balance again I was still facing
toward her.
"Umm, hi, Rachel." I'd done it! I'd actually spoken to her, right
there, face to face! I exulted inwardly, feeling my whole being
flooded with energy and power.
"God, I'm so, so, so glad to see someone I know!" she gushed. She was
happy to see me? Me?
"Umm, hi," I said again, with ineffable wit and style.
I could see that she had already had some of the punch - there were
bright spots of it dotting the front of her white sweater, right
across her - her - her breasts? I was standing there like a fool,
staring down at her luscious, softly rounded tits, at the red dots of
spilled punch, and I suddenly felt like I had a brick where my
stomach was supposed to be. I tried to draw a breath, to apologize,
but I was tongue-tied again.
She didn't even notice.
"Gosh, isn't this punch delicious?" she said. "I think I spilled some
of mine, can you help me get some more?"
I took her cup, accidentally dropping my own into the punch barrel in
he process. I managed to fish it out and refill it at the same time,
then scooped a cupful for Rachel and held out the cup for her. She
reached to take it but caught hold of my wrist instead.
"Oops!" she giggled. "I missed!" We had a good laugh together over
that, and she tried again and got hold of the cup, and I managed to
let go of it without spilling too much.
Together we moved away from the trashcan and toward the wall where I
had been standing earlier, but somehow we got turned and ended up at
a couch instead. We turned and sat in unison, spilling a little bit
more punch and having another good laugh.
I could not believe how relaxed I felt, yet at the same time
electrified and charged with life. I was a fountain of scintillating
conversation, pouring forth witticisms, bon mots, and wise proverbs.
(I wish now that I could remember some of what I said then. I'm sure
it was brilliant.) Rachel was captivated, hanging on my every word.
We talked and talked for what seemed like hours, but for some reason
I can't remember any of what she said to me, either.
"Sick," she said.
"What?" I didn't understand.
"Help me find the bathroom," she said. "I'm feeling kinda sick."
We got up and staggered together into a dark hallway, past groping
couples, and somehow found the bathroom. I helped her toward the
toilet, and she almost made it there before she lost it and a torrent
of red erupted from her mouth. The stream of liquid splashed all over
the toilet, some in the bowl, some on the seat, some spraying around
onto the floor and onto me and onto her. I held her while she shook
and heaved again, and then it seemed to be over.
"Pee," she said.
What?
"Gotta pee. You go." She gestured vaguely toward the open doorway.
Oh. She wanted me to close the door. I lunged over and slammed into
the doorframe, then leaned against the wall while I reached out and
got hold of the doorknob and closed the door. I turned back to look
at Rachel and she was sitting on the toilet, her skirt hoisted up
around her waist, her panties lying in a twist around one ankle,
soaking up the red juice from the floor... and I could see her pussy.
I'd never seen one before, never live and in person, and only a few
times in rare glimpses in pictures in forbidden magazines. Her curly
pussy hair was light-colored, which according to what I'd read would
mean she was a natural blonde. I could just barely make out the lips,
the opening of her cunt. God, I was looking at her cunt!
She finished peeing and tried to stand, looked up at me and got a
strange expression on her face, a tight look as if she were trying to
smile and not quite making it, a rictus of... what? What was she
saying?
"Tony!" She was messing with her skirt, and stumbled toward me, right
into my arms. Oh wow, she wanted to do it, she wanted to do it with
me right here and now! I grabbed her and held her close and kissed
her, not caring or even noticing anything except the feel of her
warm, soft body against me.
"Tony!" She moved in my embrace and we fell together to the floor. I
heard her gasp and was afraid I'd fallen with too much of my weight
on her, but her arms were around me and I was lying on top of her and
HER LEGS WERE SPREAD APART and I was lying right there BETWEEN HER
THIGHS. I kissed her harder, not sure of what I was doing but only
sure that this slut girl was about to be mine. She wriggled
violently, rubbing her groin against mine, and I reached down and got
myself unzipped and then my hard cock was there in my hand, the head
of it was warm and wet and I realized that I had it in just the right
place, positioned right at the opening to her pussy, and she moved
against me and I suddenly knew what to do and I lunged and drove it
into her.
How to describe that feeling as my prick drove deep into her body?
Hot. Wet. Soft. Tight. Those are the words that come to mind, but
they just don't do it justice. It was so incredible, so good, so
amazingly awesomely fucking fantastic to be on her, holding her, my
rock-hard cock driving in and out of her hot slippery cunt. I was
fucking her! I was fucking Rachel! I was doing it! With her! With
Rachel!
I was hardly aware of her except as a warm soft body under me, a warm
soft body with a hot wet pussy into which I was thrusting myself over
and over and over. She had to be liking it, she was crying out in
ecstasy, she was twisting and wiggling and squirming in my arms. My
mind drifted while my body moved of its own accord. I thought of how
much she must love me, how she'd never again fuck anyone but me. I'd
show those guys! This slut, this whore, this nympho girl was MINE!
Mine to fuck, screw, hump, mine to hold forever and ever. I could
hardly wait for my first blowjob, I knew she'd be good, she had to be
good, as much practice as she'd had, oh wow it would be great, to
have my dick in her mouth, her sucking, licking, just the way she did
in my mind when I was jerking off, and coming, coming in her mouth,
OH GOD I WAS COMING, coming in her, coming in her pussy, pumping my
jizz into her wetness, still thrusting, I could never stop thrusting,
oh man it was so much more intense than anything I'd ever felt by
myself, god, this was the WAY to COME, this was IT!
With the last spurt of my come into her belly, my thrusting motion
stopped, without any conscious thought on my part. I rolled off of
her, onto my back, lying there looking up at the ceiling above. I was
drained, drained of energy, drained of come, drained of ambition to
ever move again. But I had done it. I had fucked Rachel!
God, it was such an awesome feeling. I wasn't a virgin anymore; I was
a man! I'd fucked the girl of my dreams, pumped her slut pussy full
of my come... Uh-oh. My come, in her pussy. Uh-oh! What if she got
pregnant? My rollercoaster of joy had gone over the top and now went
crashing down down down the other side. Pregnant! No! Oh, wait, no,
of course not, I told myself, emotions leveling off and climbing back
toward the heights again. Of course a free-fucking slut like Rachel
would be on the Pill - there was no way she could get pregnant!
Problem solved, I grinned hugely and congratulated myself on a job
well done. I struggled to sit up so that I could look at her and see
how well she had liked my performance.
She was crying. She was a mess, hair awry, white sweater splashed
with red, skirt up around her waist, more of that red punch dripping
between her thighs, and her lovely face all pinched and anguished and
wet with bitter tears as she sobbed.
"Why?" she asked, in a husky whisper. "Why?"
I sat, looking at her, puzzled. What was she talking about?
Her voice rose as she went on. "I was a VIRGIN, oh gawd, oh gawd, I
was a VIRGIN and I was SAVING myself and you TOOK IT AWAY FROM ME! oh
GAWD, you TOOK IT, you RAPED ME, oh gawd, Tony, WHY? WHY? You RAPED
ME!" she screamed. "You RAPED ME! OH GAWD, WHY?"
She was crying, sobbing, screaming and I couldn't figure out why.
Hadn't she liked it?
The door crashed open as somebody kicked it in, and then the lights
came on and people were flooding into the bathroom. The girls crowded
around Rachel and the guys grabbed hold of me, and it seemed that
there was some problem with my hearing as I could not make out any
words in the tumult of shouting - or rather, I could make out only
one word: "Rape! rumble-rumble-grumble-mumble Rape! brumba-grumba-
mumba RAPE! razza-frazza-brazza-grazza Rape! RAPE! RAPE! RAPE!" I
realized then that my life as I'd known it was over.
They beat me up, of course. There were a couple of big football jocks
who felt it necessary to vent their anger and show off their
manliness by pounding the living shit out of me. I'd never felt such
pain as when two of my ribs broke; at least, not until they broke my
nose. That was worse. The last thing I remember was a blow to the
side of my head that shot flaming hot stars all across my field of
vision - then nothing.
I woke up in the hospital, where it soon became clear that everyone
knew what had happened to put me there, and equally clear that they
all hated me for it. I'm sure there must have been less painful ways
that my wounds could have been cleaned, gentler ways that my bandages
could have been changed. Nobody seemed interested in letting me find
out, though.
I didn't know what to say to my parents when they came to visit, and
they didn't know what to say to me. We had some really long silences.
No one else even came to visit me. No one at all.
I guess I was lucky that I was only sixteen. There was no formal
prosecution, only a referral to the juvenile office. A caseworker
came to interview me while I was still in the hospital, and I spilled
my guts. It was stupid, I guess, telling him everything like that,
but he was the first person since it happened who actually wanted to
talk to me and it all just came pouring out. If I was looking for
sympathy or understanding, that was the wrong place to look for it.
My confession only sealed my fate.
There was a court hearing the day I got out of the hospital, before I
even had a chance to go home. I don't remember much of it, except
that everyone there hated me. The caseworker gave a report to the
judge, and the judge told me that I was a juvenile sex offender, a
criminal, not fit to associate with decent people. He seemed to think
that he was letting me off easy in sentencing me to a "juvenile
treatment facility" for an indefinite term.
My story actually bought me some status at Oak Crest Home. I was a
rapist, a violent criminal, a tough guy, and I was looked up to by
the other guys who were there for habitual stealing or taking drugs
or just being unable to coexist with their own parents. Some of the
girls even seemed impressed by it, unlikely as that sounds.
One who didn't seem to be impressed was Natasha. She lived in the
cottage next door to mine, and we were on the same meal shift. She
was a beauty, with dark hair and darker eyes. She looked like an
angel to me, but the guys in my cottage told me she was a real slut.
None of them had actually been with her, but they knew two guys from
another cottage who had done her together, one guy fucking her while
she sucked the other guy's dick. I looked at her a little differently
after I heard about that. Maybe she wasn't an angel. But maybe I
should get to know her, anyway...
The End
"R Jacobin" <jacobin2k@hotmail.com>
Subject: Write Club: Taking the Flyer [mf]
Taking the Flyer
I never meant to go bad. I just hung out with the wrong people. I
went to college with my friends, who all became computer science
majors, took the same crappy tech support jobs with them to pay
tuition, booze, and drugs, and followed them in to Microsoft, where
my sociology degree somehow landed me a job as an HR recruiter, while
my friends drank from the firehose of stock options, Bill Gates
feeding a sea of gaping programmer rictus with dangling T-shirts and
merchandise at the annual meetings as I wondered where my parents had
gone wrong.
Which is how I got to be on a flight to San Francisco, first class,
bored and tired, on my third beer, trying to shake up a conversation
with the beautiful woman next to me. Because I didn't care anymore:
normally I'd give her the polite nod, and go about my way. But this
woman was a beautiful fair blonde wisp with long straight hair,
dressed in what appeared to be a silk dress, slick off her shoulders
to her little breasts, and I wasn't going to see her again and didn't
care anyway. Nothing I'd been doing had worked in months, I was bored
with work, and decided, then, that I was going to do things
differently and see what it got me.
I stole her newspaper. It was the San Jose Examiner, the Silicon
Valley paper of record, which she must have had to seek out at
Seatac. She stared at me.
"You stole my paper," she said, turning to me. She had bright green
eyes that flashed, a cute upturned nose. Her eyebrows were low and
angry.
"I didn't steal it," I said. "I'm embracing it and will return it to
you later with new proprietary extensions."
She sighed. "You're a Microsoft boy, aren't you?"
"A man, yes. I'm Denny, likeable black man." I offered her my hand.
"What sends you to San Francisco?"
She stared at my hand. "I have a conference to go to."
I held my hand there, between seats. "Hey yeah? Me too. I'm going to
the big San Jose IT Hiring Conference."
She blinked. "You damn well are not."
I turned my hand up. "I swear," I said. I put it back out to shake.
She shook, her hand cold in mine. "So," I said, "you want to go to
dinner, we get into town? I'm sure there's someplace to eat
somewhere."
"No."
"Why not?"
"I just don't want to."
"You have a guy?"
"No, I just don't want to."
"Look, you don't know me, you're never going to see me again, just
tell me why. Otherwise I'm going to bug you the rest of this flight,
and I'm feeling really immature." I poked her. "Tell me." I poked her
again. "Tell me."
"I don't date black men," she said at last. Across the aisle, someone
looked at us.
"Mind your own damn business," I said. "Why not?"
"Never appealed to me."
"I'm actually sort of mixed, racially, if that makes you feel any
better. You don't find me appealing?"
She smiled, and I reeled in shock. "A little, in a childish sort of
way."
"Hey, you ever had sex in the bathroom?"
"No," she said. "I like to keep my functions separate."
"You don't ever feel the need? Don't ever want to do something crass,
like walk up there with me, get in, struggle around, have some
awkward, unsatisfying sex, and then come out, almost daring someone
to say something?"
She chewed on this. "You've got me. But the answer to your question
is no."
"What about some rubbing under the trays?" I leered, trying to work
the eyebrows.
She laughed. "No."
"How about dinner, then?"
"Fine, just shut up," she said. "Stop talking."
"I'm Denny, likeable black man," I said, extending my hand. "What
kind of food do you like?"
"I'm Rachel, baffled white girl," she replied, shaking again. Her
hand was still cold. "I like sushi."
I bribed my way into a packed sushi bar, our luggage stashed in the
trunk of my rental car (the Lincoln Town Car, choice of quality
mobsters everywhere, acquired by bribing the Hertz rental clerk
repeatedly), and I talked to Rachel about the challenges of picking
out ideal candidates to join a massive, evil, wildly successful IT
company. It turned out she knew me by reputation from two friends
who'd moved south after leaving the Empire. I turned on her, asked
random entertaining questions about her life hopping from belly-up or
belly-uping startups in the Valley, and lo, at the end of the dinner,
we went out for drinks and after drinks we were heckling some
terrible comedian in some hole, and then she was kissing me in the
brick alley two streets off, one hand on my crotch, rubbing, the
other around my shoulders. I looked around, worried we were going to
get the beatings of a lifetime, but she seemed not to care, stripping
my jeans down with the fine boxer-briefs. I felt the cold night air
on my sweaty erection, and looked at her to see where this had come
from. She was looking down, her blonde hair draping down, her fair
hand on my light brown shaft, and under the alcohol haze, I could
feel her soft touch moving back and forth, dragging electricity with
it.
Rachel knew how hard to touch, hard enough that I could feel she was
serious, know where the hand was. It was already the best sex I'd had
in months.
"You don't have to --" I started.
"Oh, shut up," she replied. "That good?"
"That's great."
She kept her head close as she went on. "We've been pretty honest
with each other, Denny, so I'll be blunt -- I thought black people
were supposed to be hung."
I scanned the alley again. "Oh, we are. But you just have to get us
real excited. Takes a while for all the blood to get down there."
Rachel worked on my erection a little harder, a little faster,
keeping it from curving up towards my belly. She looked up at me,
smiling.
"Is that so?"
I nodded. She put her lips to the head of my prick and drew down
softly, and I moaned. She drew off, and then back, and I ran my hands
through her hair, feeling her hand on my shaft, keeping slow time
with her hot, wet mouth. I could feel the quick tingling building in
my back; I would not be long for this world.
There was someone to my left. He was huge, black, and built like an
ice-cream cone, huge shouldered, and wore a uniform.
"The hell are you doing?" he asked, in the cop voice you get issued
at academy along with baton and badge. Rachel froze, as if the cop
only reacted to movement, like a raptor.
"Hang on just a second," I said, pushing my slick head past Rachel's
lips gently. I shuddered and came, then shortly again, and stopped,
breathing hard. I stepped back, gently stuffed my erection into my
shorts and went all the way down to pull my jeans back up. Rachel
stood slowly, turning away from the cop as she swallowed, making sure
her hair fell across her face to keep her profile obscured.
"Nothing," I said. "I've been drinking, you see, and I was going to
urinate here, in public, but I couldn't work my belt, because it's
complicated, when you've been drinking, and my girlfriend Rachel here
was helping me undo my pants and so I admit it, you can go ahead and
cite me for urinating in public, I'm sorry I did it, but I'll pay my
dues."
The cop looked at me, at Rachel. "Do you have ID, ma'am?"
Rachel fished a white card out of a pocket and handed it to him. He
looked at it for only a moment and handed it back. "It's really not
worth my time to write you up for public urination," he said. He
cracked a smile and almost started to laugh. His smile disappeared.
"Now get on out of here."
Rachel started to talk in the elevator to my expensive, bribery-
upgraded hotel suite (seriously, folks, if you can't just bill these
things, find the lowest-paid employee who can upgrade you and slip
them twenty as an opening bid and work from there).
"I always wanted to do something like that, just really sexy and in
control. I almost took you up on the plane."
"On the bathroom?" I said. "You're kidding."
"Nope," she said. "You're a real charmer, in a weird sort of
adolescent sense."
Rachel took off the dress before the door had even closed, pulling it
over her head. What had I started? She walked to the bed, where she
flopped down on her back, eyes closed.
"Your turn," she said. "What do you want to do that's really dirty?"
I paused. "I've always wanted to have anal sex," I said. "Never
have."
"Got a condom?"
I did. Rachel put it on, bantering as she went. "I used to have this
boyfriend, he was into straight sex but for some reason he always
wanted to come in my ass." She shrugged, done. "Ah, I don't know.
People are weird."
She bent over the bed, leaning a little so she was lined up for a
nice, easy entry. It didn't work -- nothing opened, I was loathe to
push on past that unwilling barrier, and after some aligning and
instruction, I gave up and started all over, sitting on the bed, with
her on my lap, kissing her softly, touching her hair, until finally
she rose a little, came in a little, and settled down into my second
quality sexual experience in months. I paid all attention to her
then, grazing my hands along her chest softly, circling the soft rise
of her breasts, keeping one hand at the small of her back so she was
well aligned for both sliding and rubbing, and slowly she responded,
keeping just on the entry and near-exit, rubbing forward against my
stomach as she went. She bit my neck, hard, and cried out softly as
she trembled in my arms, coming again and again, squirming and
grinding, and then sighed, pushed off, and laid back on the bed,
naked and shining in sweat, head on pillow.
"Are you hiring?" Rachel said, her chest rising and falling. A tear
ran off one eye, and she destroyed it with a backhand wipe.
"As long as there is a market undominated, yes," I said. "I don't
know if I'm going to keep doing it, though."
"What? You're funny, even if you're sort of being weird on a lark,
and..." she seemed to be considering saying anything. "Look, here's
the scoop. I'm thin, so I get the first look, but I don't have tits -
- I mean seriously, they don't sell bras my size that aren't padded,
Denny -- so it's like I'm cute and not sexy. My dates have been so
awkward. I've felt good tonight, even when we couldn't get something
working. You're a born recruiter."
I looked at Rachel lying on the soft, fluffy, wet comforter for a
long minute.
"Now sleep in the wet spot, and we'll head out tomorrow."
I showered alone in the morning. You want to know what a posh hotel
this was? No washcloth in the shower: they had a luffa for my bathing
needs, scratchy, organic, and painful. Part of the New Cruelty. I
used a washcloth.
Rachel was making coffee as I came out.
"You want to go get breakfast?" I asked, mopping my close crop of
hair with a towel. She gave me the look again. I approached the bed,
tossed the
"I was just thinking that you never finished last night," she said.
"I was thinking that'd be a good start."
"Beats oatmeal," I said. "But we have to get to the keynote, or we'll
miss check-in and I'll have to come up with excuses about what that
expense money bought."
Rachel sighed. "Well, let's meet up again later. We're not done yet."
She walked to the bathroom to shower, and I dug some clothes out of
my carry on.
The IT Hiring Conference is like an exhibition, except that no one
really cares about the booths, or the companies. And while it's
supposedly there to get us to go to seminars and training, what it's
really about is sending your best HR recruiters to recruit other
companies' HR people, who are there for the same reason. It's
cutthroat networking with unreasonable signing bonuses.
I met a sweet young woman from India named Hema at the booth for some
database company . She was a foot shorter than me and flashed a
killer smile as she shook my hand.
"Denny? I heard about you from Jessie, she used to work with you. I
heard you never made a bad hire." She was still smiling but it was
thin, as if she didn't really believe the rumor but had a plan if it
was true.
"Nope," I said, looking at her. "I don't get fooled."
"That's a valuable talent. We could use a person like you," she said.
"Jessie told me I should see if you're interested in leaving."
I laughed. "I'm not fooled," I said.
Hema looked me up and down, chewing over her plan again. Their
display space was short and shallow, especially compared to the space
they'd rented and tented. If this had been a software expo, I would
have figured that was where the post-NDA demos were.
"It's just not worth it to leave," I said. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean
to be rude."
"Come back," she said. "I'll show you what we're working on." She
ducked behind the curtain, and I followed. It was a bunch of demos,
running some sort of database thing I didn't understand. I stared at
it, and then looked at the woman, who was unbuttoning her shirt.
"Denny," she said. "I will have sex with you right now and all I want
in return..." she dropped her shirt. She had lovely breasts, hand-
sized. "... I want you to consider leaving. Seriously consider it. If
you don't come work with me, okay, but while you're down here, think
about a new job." She stepped out of her khaki slacks.
"Uh, okay," I stammered, stupidly.
"Take off your clothes and lie back on the table," she said. I laid
back among the forms and paper on the table for applicants to fill
out contact forms, negotiate signing bonuses, betray employers
bankrolling their trip here. A sturdy wood foldable table, which is
another thing tech money can buy. I was nervous -- what if someone
interested in defecting to a database wrapper company came by, ducked
behind the curtain-- but I was already hard again, unsatisfied from
last night's aborted tries, and she straddled me on top, hand back,
guiding me into her, and it was glorious. Hema must have been
prepped, because she was slick and wet, but she was tight around me,
and I could feel her clamping down as I came all the way up into her.
She exhaled sharply, and as she moved up, I took a breast to mouth,
catching the nipple as it slid up from my chin and biting it. The
dizzy sensation from my cock spread across my skin as she came down
again, tensing inside, and I gasped in pleasure. She smiled,
stopping.
"No," I said. She went on downwards, the heat and the wetness filling
my senses, and I closed my eyes, my back arching beneath me. I felt
nothing but the hot, wet, dizziness, and it went on and on until she
stopped again, wiggling, my head sliding along her soft labia.
"You still with me?"
"Yes."
"Do you remember what you're going to do?"
"I don't remember who I am," I said.
"That's good enough," Hema said, and moved her hips back down,
forcing a fast entry. She kissed me hard, and we started to move
together, shaking the table, and I shouted out as I came inside her,
the warmth and slickness draining from my limbs to my shoulders and
chest and out, leaving only dizziness and goosbumps in their wake.
She came off me and I looked at her, blank, and she was standing next
to the table, her thighs slick, looking at my stiff erection, still
twitching with my sharp inhalations.
She took my slick erection in a hard grip and pumped once, coming off
to run her palm along my aching head, then back to working it, her
hand almost painful, but it was so sexy, her hand fast on my dick,
lubricated by her juice and my semen, and the dizziness built quickly
and I came again after only a minute, pushing semen everywhere --
some guy's resume I'd swept off, database company slick brochures --
and she slowed at last, waiting until finally there was nothing to be
squeezed out.
"I think job satisfaction is a big part of anyone's life," Hema said.
"I don't think you've been getting enough of that." She produced some
paper towels, tore a couple for me to clean myself, wiped herself
immodestly, and started to put her clothes back on. "I wish I had
more time, Denny, because there's a lot more I could do for you, I
think. My card's in your pants."
I stepped out of the demo. The foot traffic was oblivious, but there
were people on both sides, hawking their companies' health insurance
plans, giving me a serious look-see. I fled, my breath still ragged,
and found a bar.
There was a woman next to me at the bar I tried to ignore. The
bartender tried to ignore me.
"Hi, I'm Suzi," she said, extending a soft hand to me. She was
beautiful, glowing brown eyes. She had a white T-shirt with a giant
semicolon on it.
"What does your company do, develop punctuation?"
She laughed. "I don't know, really, I just work there. You're pretty
cute. And you're pretty built. Do you play sports?"
"Yes, I play basketball and football, and now that Tiger Woods has
blazed a trial, golf."
"Seriously."
"I play badminton. Game of finesse. No, I'm serious."
Suzi didn't seem sure if I was putting her on or not. "So anyway, you
want to go skip back to your room, have some fun?"
I looked her up and down. She seemed... worn, like a year-old car
with two hundred thousand miles on it. The body'll look good, sure...
I knew women like that from the suburb where I grew up, beautiful
girls with that same long hair, who would do anything possible on the
hood of a Camaro, be insatiable sex kittens, give blowjobs daily and
talk about how much they loved to do it, and then, once married, lost
their libido and found fifty pounds.
"No," I said, "not with you, no."
She made a soft spitting sound with her lips and turned away. I went
to find another place to drink.
Some internet company had two great booths -- they'd hired booth
candy to lure men in to one, geared to money and status and guns, the
other to more Oprah tastes (which didn't register on me, as
intended). What did register was the models' enormous, implanted
chests in company-logo cutoff shirts. I began a slow orbit.
The head recruiter picked me out of the crowd, called me by name, and
tried to haggle me into a job, becoming more and more aggressive, his
offers to my mind ludicrous and impossible, until he gave me a pass
card and told me to head upstairs in the hotel to a room number. I
started to walk away and the models were gone.
There was no way. I was a good recruiter, maybe even a great one, but
was this what a three-year luck streak got you? Was luck really a
marketable job skill? How much was it worth?
Apparently. The room was tiny, a double, but the models looked even
better naked, their trained-into-hourglass hips, their heavy,
impossibly round breasts, and they both walked towards the door as I
entered. I considered asking them what this kind of service cost, but
instead got down into some lotion, rubbing those sweet, fake breasts
down, and then on the bed pumping my dick between their soft, warm,
firm breasts as they tweaked their own nipples and moaned a little. I
was spent and had the advantage of endurance, so I started to get
silly -- I had them both lean over the bed next to each other and
spent a couple minutes screwing one from behind and then taking the
other, both of them wet and easy, until I realized it was too much
trouble moving from one to the other and let it go in the one I was
one, then moved back onto the bed, a tangle of limbs as I laid on
one, the other feeding me a nipple, and I came weakly, withdrew
sheepishly. It hurt to come out, I was tender and chafed. The models
both looked at me, unsure their job was done.
"I'm sorry, that's all you get," I said. "It's been a really long day
for me. But thanks, maybe I'll see you again this week."
"Maybe," one said, with well-acted sincerity. Like fake breasts, you
sort of pretend you believe these things.
I retreated to my hotel room and fell asleep. Rachel woke me only an
hour later, having been unable to find me on the floor. She woke me
by kicking me in the temple.
"I've got this amazing idea," she said, punching me in the chest to
get me up.
"Let me take a flying guess," I said. "You want to hire me, and --"
"We should run a recruiting company. Now, think if it -- if you could
hire guaranteed good people, how much would you pay? Now, I'm really
good, trust me, but you're impossibly good -- we can make millions!"
"Can this wait? I'm really tired out."
"No! We need to announce here, it'll be great! The race is won by the
swiftest, you know the proverb."
"I don't think that's--"
"Well, screw me then, Denny, it doesn't matter what the proverb is.
Let's do it."
I rolled over onto my sore, chafed dick, pillow around my head.
"Later," I said. "Let me rest first."
==================================================================
"Rachel's day"
Aquillae <Aquillae@excite.com>
At six forty-five the alarm went off. At six forty-six the snooze
button was pressed. At six fifty-one the alarm went off again. At
six fifty-two the snooze button was slapped. At six fifty-seven the
alarm went off again. At six fifty-seven the clock was hit with a
Styrofoam brick. The alarm clock shrugged off the assault and
continued to perform its duty in life -to aggravate.
At seven o'clock Mrs. Patty Preston entered her daughter's room.
"Come on. Time to get up, Miss sleepy eyes." It was the customary
greeting she had used with her daughter since the third grade when
Rachel first began to show a disinterest in getting up early for
school.
Rachel lifted her head slowly up from the pillow, gazed around at her
mother in her morning dress and curlers, blinked a few times, then
plopped her head back down on the pillow were she was certain it
belonged.
"Come now, Rachel." her mother sat on the bed and shook Rachel's
shoulder, "You don't want to be late for school, do you?"
Rachel mumbled a reply into the pillow.
Mrs. Preston, a veteran mother with four children already graduated
from high school, knew what she had to do to force the issue.
Without saying a word, she quietly stood up, walked to the foot of
the bed, and took hold of the covers. In a quick movement that would
have made a matador envious she pulled the blankets off the bed.
"Mother!" Rachel screamed as she leapt forward for the blankets to
cover her naked body.
Her mission accomplished, Mrs. Preston tossed the blankets back to
her daughter. As she walked to the door she commented, "If you hurry
your oatmeal may still be hot." In the hallway she glanced back to
make sure Rachel hadn't gone back to bed.
Rachel sat on her bed with the blankets pulled up over her shoulders.
Mrs. Preston smiled. "Well, that will teach you to lay in bed too
long."
*---------*
At quarter to eight Rachel pulled into the student parking lot. She
drove over to the last isle in the lot, traditionally reserved for
the seniors. Bypassing several open slots, she came at last to the
parking spot she had used since the beginning of the school year.
Parked in her spot was a cherry red camero.
Furious at the intrusion into her private reserved spot Rachel pulled
her car into the open space next to the infringing vehicle. A
malicious thought passed across her mind as she prepared to open the
door. She knew a little dent as payment for the intrusion would be
mean, but the deciding force that halted her from swinging the door
open hard was the realization that given her recent luck she would
probably be caught by some freshman doing it.
As she reached to open the door, a thick mop of blonde curls fell in
through the open window.
"Hey, girl!" Cindy Adams greeted her classmate with a pop of her gum.
"Hey, yourself." Rachel grabbed her books and purse and exited her
car. "Listen Cindy, I'm sorry about poaching your spot. But some
jockstrap took mine."
"Sure. No sweat." The two walked toward the side doors, "I got a
ride with Kevin."
"You actually got him to drive all the way up the mountain to pick
you up?"
"Who said anything about him coming to my house to pick me up this
morning?" Cindy smiled as she opened the door.
Rachel grabbed her by the shoulder to stop her. "No. No way. You
didn't. Did you? God, you did!"
Cindy's sweet innocent smile was Rachel's only reply.
*---------*
"What's that you're doing?"
"Studying." Rachel replied.
"Looks more like cheating."
"And how would you know, Miss A-plus?" Rachel punctuated the sentence
by sticking her tongue out at Amy Lynn, the senior class nerdette.
Rachel ignored the girl and went back to writing down the vocabulary
words for Mr. Henderson's English class.
"Okay, give me the next one."
"Let's see. Verbose. Adjective. Means wordy." Cindy read off the
word and definition as she also marked her hand with the words.
"Next."
"Okay, ah."
"Come on. We're running out of time. Lunch period's almost over."
Rachel was getting desperate. With only fifteen minutes left the two
would be cheaters had managed to copy down just seven of the twenty-
five vocabulary words that were going to be on the test. "Next
word!"
"Rictus. Noun."
"What's the definition?"
Cindy scrunched her forehead as she re-read the definition. She read
it again. But it still didn't make any sense to her.
"The expanse of the open mouth." Amy Lynn remarked.
The two girls looked up at her.
"You know, Rachel. Like when you're trying to stuff Richard's dick
down your throat." Pleased with her remark, Amy Lynn turned and
skipped away.
"That little bitch." Rachel finally found her thoughts after the
surprise of hearing Amy Lynn say the word dick.
"Forget about her. Write." Cindy urged.
*---------*
At just after six Rachel arrived home tied and exhausted. Two solid
hours of badminton. What was she thinking? Her arms were sore.
Every muscle in her body ached. All she wanted now was a long hot
bath, a cold drink, and her pillow.
Walking through the kitchen, she made a stop at the refrigerator for
the cold drink. She grabbed the bottle of Dr. Pepper and poured
herself a glass. As she was putting the bottle back, she noticed the
Styrofoam container on the second shelf. She pulled it out and
opened it. It was her brother's left over Chinese take-out from last
night. She picked through it, but wasn't really interested in it.
She had lost most of her appetite running around with a chili dog in
her stomach.
She placed the container back in the refrigerator and closed the
door.
As she turned to make her way toward the steps, she saw the one
remaining fortune cookie on the window sill. She grabbed it, and
headed upstairs.
Soaking in the warm bubbly water, Rachel opened the cookie and read
the proverb. She laughed.
Reaching over the side of the tub, she lifted the towel and picked up
her luffa. She settled back down into the warmth of the bathtub.
With her left foot she turned the hot water on just a little more.
She brought the luffa into the tub and slowly began to slide it down
between her thighs.
*---------*
Wrapped in her bathrobe, Rachel sat huddled in her chair in front of
her computer reading the days emails. There were a few jokes from
Billy. A long letter from her email pal in Canada. And one from
Cindy with an urgent marker next to it.
She opened Cindy's letter and read it. It was a detailed account of
what had happened the night before at Kevin's house.
Quickly Rachel opened a message to reply to Cindy's, and quickly
began to type. She paused for a few moments to think of something to
write next.
"A semicolon really doesn't fit there, dear."
"Mother!" Rachel covered the screen with her right arm.
"I'm just trying to help." Mrs. Preston dropped the clothes on the
bed and walked out of the room.
Aquillae
"A satisfied virgin is a virgin no more."
Mr.Lucus 'Are You Being Served'
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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