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Message-ID: <29137asstr$983315403@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
Reply-To: "Hecate" <hecate1@bigfoot.com>
From: "Hecate" <hecate1@bigfoot.com>
Subject: {ASSM} <2ndS>  The Server by Aquillae (MF, humour)
Date: Tue, 27 Feb 2001 18:10:03 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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A late offering by Aquillae, but well worth reading all the same.


<1st attachment, "The Server by Aquillae.txt" begin>

THE SERVER - FUNDRAISER DRIVE
by Aquillae
Copyright 2/26/2001

Roger lifted himself up on his hands and slowed the driving motion of his
hips so he could gaze down and enjoy the view of his girlfriend's body
gripped with the throws of orgasmic ecstasy as it heaved and bucked up
against him, then crashed back down to the mattress, all the while her voice
crying out in lust as she tossed her head from side to side and forced it
down into the pillow.

Slowly the room began to fade to black, until nothing was visible.

"Okay.  We're coming up in five.  Four.  Three."

Slowly, as the blackness lifted, a tall distinguished man wearing a tuxedo
was revealed standing in among rows of computers.  Each row was placed on a
higher level.  Behind the man and the computers, raised up on the wall, was
a giant board that glittered and sparkled with numbers.  The numbers
continuously flickered as they changed and continued their upward
progression in value.

Unaware that they were broadcasting live at that moment, Aquillae leaned
back against one of the risers and continued reading his well-thumbed copy
of Kathleen E. Woodiwiss' 'Ashes in the Wind'.

"Does anyone wish to inform our celebrity host that we're live?" the
technical director asked over the headset to the cameramen who were down on
the studio floor.

After a couple of failed attempts at getting Aquillae's attention visually,
Bob, the seasoned cameraman that he was with three hours of experience,
loudly whistled across the studio and into his headset.

With a curse the technical director pulled his headset off.

Standing upright with a start, Aquillae quickly snapped the book closed and
looked toward camera three.  Camera one, however, was the current camera
selected by the technical director to be sending its image across the
internet.  The technical director punched up camera three just as Aquillae
realized his mistake and turned to face camera one.  The technical director
cursed.

"Are we live?" Aquillae asked.

"Someone please tell that idiot we're live," the technical director dropped
his head into his hands.  Then bolting upright he quickly added, "Except
Bob!"

Aquillae finally got the hint and the right camera.

"Okay," the technical director listened as Aquillae started his welcoming
introduction, "get ready with the teleprompter.  Roll teleprompter."

The teleprompter rolled the teleprompter.  

Slowly, the technical director allowed himself to relax as the talent easily
progressed through the prewritten script for this year's fund raiser.  At
the proper moment he punched up the long web address for receiving donations
and added it to the image that was being broadcast over the internet. 
Everything, after a shaky start, was running rather smoothly on the shot, he
thought.

As Aquillae walked along the bank of computers and started listing the many
authors available at ASSTR, five men burst onto the sound stage with a loud
clatter of noise and grumbling.  Spotting Aquillae, they pointed, and all
signaling their agreement, quickly marched over to him.

With a large meaty paw, the leader of the group tapped Aquillae's shoulder.

"Oh," Aquillae was surprised to see the men standing beside him.  "Hello. 
Are you here to fill in for the next commercial plug?"

"What?" one of the men grunted as the others scratched their heads in
bewilderment.

"Are you here for the next commercial spot?" Aquillae, believing that his
segment was over, turned and spoke to the men.  Again he was met with
confused expressions.  "The server challenge?  The Fund raiser?"  Aquillae
questioned.  "You are here to help support ASSTR, aren't you?"

A spark of light flashed through the eyes of the men as they heard the one
familiar word in all of Aquillae's questions - ASSTR!

"Yes!" the leader of the group proclaimed out loud with pride, "we're here
for ASSTR!"  The other men smiled and nodded their heads in a series of
quick motions that tossed their hair over their eyes.

"Well that's just great," Aquillae patted the leader on the shoulder.  As he
walked past he commented quietly to them. "Course you might want to think
about getting something out of wardrobe to wear before your spot comes on." 
He smiled as they looked down at their clothing.

"What's wrong with our clothes?" one of them asked as they all looked at
Aquillae neatly attired in his tuxedo. 

"Hey, nothing.  But I don't think you want to give anyone the impression
you're a bunch of girlies, do you?  Not with this crowd."

"Girlies!"  The men closed in around Aquillae.  "Who you calling girlies?"

"Girlies?  Did I say you were girlies?"

"Yeah, you did."

"No.  No, you misunderstood me," Aquillae tried desperately to step back
away form the men, "I just meant that the viewing audience would, I mean,
might think you were a bunch of you know."

The men closed in tighter and growled.

"But, hey, if anyone can wear boxers of lavender and brown without being
called girlie."

"It's called puce!" the leader interrupted.

"Puce."  Aquillae looked back down at the boxers.  "Nice word for it.  Looks
almost like puke."

The leader grabbed Aquillae by the lapels and pulled him up off the ground. 
Bringing his face close to Aquillae's, he asked, "Are you making fun of our
team's colors?"

"Team colors?"

"Our football team."

"Football team?  Oh, you're one of those new XFL fans.  Quite frankly I
think the games suck royally.  But some of the cheerleaders are pretty hot. 
Especially those babes from Las Vegas."

"Not American.  Australian."

"Ah, you mean rugby."

Aquillae was quickly hoisted up higher as the men gathered around him
growled.

"Australian football," the leader corrected.

"Like I said rugby."

The leader shook Aquillae in his hands like a small rag doll.  He lowered
Aquillae back to his eye level.  "Australian football."

Dizzy and slowly turning the color of the men's boxers, Aquillae rolled his
head to look at the leader.  "Australian football."

The leader placed Aquillae back down on the ground.         

Struggling to regain his feet, Aquillae staggered against the leader.  With
an effort at friendship he looked up and asked, "You guys must be thirsty
standing under these lights.  How 'bout a little drink?"  The men nodded
eagerly at the suggestion.  "Right then," Aquillae turned and addressed the
blackness of the studio, "Foster's beer all round!  And the drinks are on
ASSTR!!" 

The men grumbled and pushed Aquillae away.

"What's wrong with Foster's?  I thought it was the National brew of
Australia."

"What's wrong with it?  It tastes like horse piss."

"Well, I've never actually tasted horse piss myself, but."

Another man interrupted Aquillae and corrected his friend by describing the
unique flavor of a Foster's beer.  Soon the group was embroiled in a heated
argument over what a can of Foster's beer actually tasted like.

Aquillae raised his voice over the crowd, "How about a bottle of Rolling
Rock beer, instead?"

"What's Rolling Rock?"

"A pricey local brew that kids from the Mid-Atlantic states think is a real
cool import."

"What's it taste like?"

"Who cares," the leader replied, "anything has got to be better than
Foster's."

Happily the group followed Aquillae as he walked toward the end of the
riser.

Quickly Bob pulled off his head set and ran over to intercept the group.

"Mr. Aquillae, you can't leave just yet," Bob pushed his way into the group
to face Aquillae.  "You've still got to explain to the new visitors about
the blowjob principle."

A smile broadened each man's face as they all repeated the magical word at
the same moment.

"Relax yourselves, guys," Aquillae said, "it ain't what you think it means."
Turning his attention to Bob, Aquillae draped an arm over his shoulder and
lead him toward the studio door.  "I've already done my share for the site. 
I think I'll let someone else handle the explanations next time."

"Yeah, but," Bob tried to answer.

Aquillae glanced down and read the young man's name tag.  "Tell you what,
Bob.  Why don't you have a go at it and tell the visitors what the blowjob
principle is all about."

"Me?"

"Sure.  You can do it, kid."

"You think so?"  Bob felt his heart skip a beat at the thought of actually
getting in front of the camera.

"I know so."  Aquillae slapped him on the back.  "Now go out there and show
them what you've got."

After a few quick steps, Bob stopped dead in his tracks, hesitated for a
moment, and then turned back to Aquillae.  In a whisper he asked, "Just what
exactly is the blowjob principle?"

"You don't know?!" Aquillae asked in mock surprise.

"No, I don't."

"Don't worry, kid."  Aquillae pointed over to the teleprompter he had been
reading from.  "Just read what they send you over the teleprompter."

"That thing?"

"Yeah.  That thing.  Now go get 'em"

With a nod, Bob strode off to where Aquillae had made his speech.

Aquillae and the group of men exited the studio.

Bob looked up at camera three and announced, "Okay, I'm ready to do the
blowjob bit.  Roll the tele-thing."

The technical director dropped his head to the control panel.  "Someone
please get that imbecile off the set before I kill him."  Without looking he
then punched the broadcast feed back to the story that had been interrupted
to bring the short commercial announcement for ASSTR.  

Resigning himself to the failure of the last commercial break, the technical
director turned to the talent coordinator and asked who was going to be
coming to the studio next.

She flipped through the pile of papers clipped to her clip board.  "Two
young ladies."

The technical director didn't bother to ask for the names.  He had already
learned the hard way that the names were just online handles and rarely had
anything to do with the person's true identity or appearance.

"They've asked that a few items be available for them on stage while their
on the air," the talent coordinator added.

Oh, God, he thought, not another bunch of bogus celebrities making
outrageous demands for mineral water drinks splashed with the effervescence
of lemon petals.  "What do they want?"

The talent coordinator hesitated, blushed, and then handed the list to him.

The technical director looked at the long list of sexual devices.  Several
of them he had no clue what they were or what they did.  He handed the list
back to the talent coordinator and hung his head.  Not for the last time
that long day did he regret the decision he had made to leave the Aunt
Anne's Play Time Hour Show.  
<1st attachment end>


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