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Message-ID: <30618asstr$991732203@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: drspin@newsguy.com (DrSpin)
Reply-To: drspin@newsguy.com
Subject: {ASSM} <Dulcinea> Hair of the Dog by DrSpin
Date: Tue,  5 Jun 2001 05:10:03 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Hair of the Dog
(A Dulcinea Festival Story)
by DrSpin
May 2001

-------------------------------------------------------
The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers 
and is invariably motivated to respond. Write 
to:drspin@newsguy.com 
-------------------------------------------------------
DrSpin's Standard Disclaimer: 
I write and you read, if you care to. That's all there 
is to it. If you have been offended, you should not 
have been here in the first place. If this story is 
relocated, please leave my name intact as the author 
and please include my email address.
-------------------------------------------------------


"So what's this?" She scooped a finger around the drain 
in the shower recess and held aloft, accusingly, a 
tight bundle of black hair.

She'd been away for three weeks, and now she was back 
like a prison camp kommandant, inspecting diligently. 
She was fanatical about keeping a clean and tidy house. 
Even when showering, her eyes probed for the little 
things that only she could see. 

"That?" He looked closely at the offending package 
pinched between two of her fingers. "That would be 
hair."

He was being provocative. It was an irritant reaction, 
because she was standing naked and wet, and for three 
long weeks he had missed the way she stood naked and 
wet. But there had been merely a perfunctory kiss at 
the door, followed by a room-by-room dust inspection, 
followed by a travel-weary shower. Prospects for 
imminent remedial sex kept slipping away.

"Whose hair?" Her tone was demandingly suspicious.

He looked mutinously at the big drop of water that 
swelled and hung hesitantly from her left nipple before 
dashing itself on the tiles. Whose hair? Well, he 
certainly knew whose hair it was.

"Who knows," he shrugged sullenly. "Who cares?"

"I do." Now she was angry.

So was he. "Could be Linda's," he said.

"Linda was here? She had a shower here? Linda?"

"She was here," he confirmed.

"Why would she take a shower?"

"Maybe she needed to," he said. "I don't know."

She was now radiating hostility. "I don't trust Linda."

"She's your friend. Don't you trust me?"

She stepped back under the shower, but her eyes were 
fixed on him. "I thought I did."

He looked at her mockingly. "But now?"

She glowered but said nothing. Water rained on her 
body. 

Her body. Damn, he thought. This was fucked up. 
Something had to bend.

Impulsively, he stepped into the shower stall. His best 
business suit, his best shoes. Too bad.

He stole the hair from between her fingers while she 
was standing astonished.

"The hair is from Buster," he said. "He kept sneaking 
in here during the hot weather and I didn't have the 
heart to stop him. Black Labradors like it cool and 
wet."

"You let the dog sleep in the shower stall?"

His suit was soaked. "Yes."

The anger slipped crookedly from her face. "You're 
hopeless," she said. "But you're also a big old 
softie."

"On the contrary, dear. I've never been harder."

Her hand accurately found his erection through the 
sodden suit trousers. 

"Missed me?" she asked pointlessly.

Under the waterfall, he drew her into his arms.

"This is like hugging a soggy black bear with pin-
striped fur," she muttered, her head on his shoulder. 
"We should adjourn to a more congenial setting."

"Yes," he said, pushing her against the tiled wall 
gently. "But later."

He unzipped hastily, drew forth his stiff cock, bent 
his knees, and poked her directly on target. He reached 
around and cupped her wet and rubbery buttocks, pushing 
into her. She grabbed with both hands, guiding him in.     
 
"Hot damn," she sighed, wriggling and settling. "That 
is such a perfect fit."

He took her hands and pinned them to the wall on either 
side of her head. She lifted one leg a little from the 
wet floor and he burrowed all the way inside. Knee-
tremblers. He had forgotten how much he loved knee-
tremblers. When push came to shove, there was nothing 
like a knee-trembler.

Push, shove, little murmurs and sighs from her, 
gritting of teeth and tight strain in the back of the 
thighs from him. It built up with immediacy, fast and 
furious, a crack-like rip-snorter, an adrenaline rush 
to blow their heads away.

It was over in seconds. The shower beat water over 
them. He shook his head to clear his eyes. His best 
suit, ruined.

"So," she said, pushing him away. "You did miss me."

"No," he said. "I got you just fine."

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
-------------------------------------------------------

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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