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Message-ID: <31078asstr$993492601@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: prufrock54@my-deja.com (prufrock54)
Subject: {ASSM} NEW - Emptying the Hopper  (kitchen sink, stupid, inane)
Date: Mon, 25 Jun 2001 14:10:02 -0400
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This is a generic warning label.
Respect authors' rights.
This story is intended for adult readers.	
This story may contain the explicit depiction of sex in some form.
If that offends you, stop reading and get a life.
Come back you know what to do with it.

I'm not making money from this and neither should you.
If that offends you, you're probably my wife.

No posting anywhere except ASSM without author's permission.

This is fiction, except for the true parts.

Buckle up; it's the law.

Copyright: (C) Prufrock Productions - 2001

Comments should be directed to: prufrock54@my-deja.com


Emptying The Hopper
by Prufrock54


His face glowed a ghostly bluish white as it reflected the luminosity
of his monitor.  A quick glance at the digital clock told him it was
2:46 a.m.  A quick glimpse of the screen told him that he'd not made
any progress in his attempt to write an erotic story.


Oh, there were words on the screen.  Many of them.  Some were arranged
with such syntactical finesse that they actually made a coherent
sentence.  And, he had to admit, some of those sentences were the
backbone of a few very effective paragraphs.  But that was all he had:
a few paragraphs.

And, they were not necessarily connected to each other.  What lay
before him was a number of endeavors at starting a sex story; some
good, some bad.  But, much as he experienced in his own bed of late,
things started off fine, but lost stamina and spark.  Or ended
prematurely.  Or he just withdrew.

He glanced again at the clock, then back at the screen.  Five hours of
sitting, thinking and creating, only to constantly slam into a mental
brick wall after each new start.  He stared at the multimedia speakers
on each side of the monitor, wondering if they would echo the refrain
he'd heard from his wife the last time they attempted sex: "Are you
sure you're ready?  Can you keep it up this time?"

Closing his tired eyes, he tried to also close down his tired mind.
He took a deep breath -- a cleansing breath -- and started coughing up
the thick brown phlegm that had lodged in his throat from the two
packs of cigarettes he'd inhaled during that evening's writing
venture.  Doubled over in his chair, he opened his eyes, stared at the
dark brown carpet and watched the dots float before him after his near
asphyxiation.  Like his paragraphs, the bright circles wandered about,
appearing to attempt to form a whole, only to break apart again.

Still doubled over, he closed his eyes once more, opened them, and
glanced upward at the screen.  This shouldn't be this hard, he
thought.  It's just a sex story.  It's just about people fucking.
Fucking with unbelievable stamina.  And maybe a kink thrown in for
good measure.

Sitting up, he pulled his chair closer to the screen and started
rereading his attempts at starting an erotic short story with the hope
that, if he concentrated and focused on each one, he might feel
inspired to take them further.  So, he looked at each one....


*********************

Story 1
Little Becky

Harry left the hardware store holding the bag containing the duct tape
and turned left down the strip mall, thinking about the size of the
gerbil he was going to purchase.  He had to make sure that it could
crawl through the one and one half inch internal diameter of the
flexible PVC tubing he had sitting in his basement.

The gerbil was for his next-door neighbor, Becky Rearlik.  Little
Becky was just 12 years old, but very mature for her age.  She had a
well developed sense of humor, huge eyes, and a large vocabulary.  Of
late, she'd been wearing tight leotards around the neighborhood, which
showed off her budding talents as a dancer.  And Harry wanted her,
more than he ever wanted any little girl.

His mind drifted back to the night that previous weekend, when he
watched her through her bedroom window.  He was outside in his
backyard, stroking his large erection -- a 20-foot all-wood guard
tower -- trying to remove a stain before he applied the waterproofing
compound.  He looked over to her house, his sight level with her
bedroom window.  The window was covered, but her silhouette was cast
against the shade.

He watched her shadow dance rhythmically to the seductive music
playing loudly in the background. To his surprise, he saw a
phallus-shaped object in one of her hands.  Every time she brought it
to her mouth, he could hear her moaning.  Suddenly, her shadow dropped
down and he watched as it writhed on its knees, moving up and down in
time with the pulsing beat of the music.  The phallus was nowhere to
be seen, so he could only imagine where it was as she ground and
swivelled her hips.  Her moans got louder as her movements became more
frenetic.

Becky's frenzied gyrations caused her arm to hit the shade.  It
snapped open.  Her head turned around.  Their eyes met.  Harry could
see her embarrassment as clearly as the sweat that glistened on her
brow.  And he could see what she was doing:  using a goose-neck lamp
as stage lighting and lip-synching Donna Summers' "Love to Love You,
Baby" into her Mr. Microphone.  He smiled at her.  She stuck her
tongue out at him.

Carrying his packages to the car, he laughed to himself as he
remembered how cute she looked, her moist tongue glistening in the
last of the evening light.  He had to have her, and soon.

Driving home, images from a dream he'd had the night before flashed
into his mind.  He'd dreamt of seeing her without her leotard.  She
laid in her bed, the sheets covering her young body.  He snuck into
her room, listening for any changes in her breathing.  He moved closer
to the bed, gazing at her sweet face, daring himself to slowly remove
the sheets to reveal her form underneath.  And, with a shaking hand,
he slowly drew them downward so he could get a good look at her chest.

In his dream, he shook with excitement as his eyes caressed the little
mountains on her chest -- the logo for the local baseball team he
helped coach:  the Greendale Rockies.  Pulling the covers all the way
off, he could see her in her uniform.  She had a fastball that smoked,
and if it weren't for her new-found love of dance, she'd be playing
for his team, giving them a real chance at making it to the playoffs.
He wanted her more than any little girl he knew.  His hope was that he
could turn her toward America's favorite pastime when he finished
making her gift:  a double-decker Habitrail for the gerbil using the
PVC tubing as a connecting passageway.


********************************

Story 2
Teacher's Humiliation

She had humiliated him, the stupid bitch.  That's what she had done.
Made him a laughing stock in front of the entire class.  And she was
going to pay.  Oh yes, she would pay and pay and pay.  Some kids don't
like their teachers, but Bobby Spinozzi loathed Miss Martin, his
senior-year English teacher.  This was not the first time she had put
him down, but it was certainly going to be the last time.

It had all started the first week of the new semester.  Everyone had
to do the mandatory "What I Did Over My Summer Vacation" essay, and
Bobby wrote about how he had become a "made" man in his father's
organization.  Miss Celeste Martin, who was appalled at the quality of
the essays she received from seniors who were supposed to be going off
to college the next year, decided to read a few to the class in order
to show them what NOT to do in an essay.  As she stood up in front of
the class, her eyes met Bobby's, and he knew his was going to be the
first to be read.

Of course, Bobby didn't care if he could write.  After all, he wasn't
going to college.  His place in life was set.  He was the heir
apparent of the Spinozzi family.

So Bobby didn't care if she didn't like his writing.  But he did mind
if she humiliated him in front of the class.  Hey, he was a Spinozzi,
and nobody made fun of a Spinozzi.  Especially some stuck-up
college-educated broad who thought she knew everything.  What the fuck
did an English teacher know about anything, anyway?  Besides, women
don't talk back to men in his family.  As his father Don Vincent
Spinozzi once told them while the family was gathered around the St.
Joseph's Day table, "A woman's mouth is only good for one thing, and
it ain't talkin."

 "A blow-job?" Bobby inquired, because that was all he could think
about at the tender age of seventeen.

 "No, you moron.  Tasting sauce.  Marinara.  Geez, what an asshole son
I've got.  Look at your mother.  LOOK AT HER!!!!  And then tell me you
can imagine that sweet mouth doing that sorta dirty thing."  Bobby had
turned his head to look at his mother, and, in fact, could imagine it.
That's when his father hit him on the back of the head with a water
pitcher.

"OUCH!!!  Why'd you go and do that?"

"Just in case you was thinkin what I thought you was thinkin."

Bobby rubbed the still prominent bump on the back of his head while he
listened to Miss Martin read his essay.  "And then it says, `So's I
grabbed the louse and pulled his ass into the alley over by there, and
I gacked him with one shot to the forehead.  I was lucky to have got
none of his brain on my new shoes.'  Can you see, class, how frightful
this grammar is?  First of all, `gacked' is not a word.  It sounds
like Bobby coughed up a fur ball on the victim."

"Yeah, like a cat.  Like a fuckin pussy." quipped Tony Bartucci, the
son of a hit man from another mob family.

"Quiet, Anthony," warned Miss Martin.  Realizing she may have fueled
an already touchy rivalry, she put down Bobby's paper, and chose
another example.  But it was too late.  The damage had been done.  For
the next week, Bobby was called a pussy, and that's something you
didn't do to a Spinozzi.

Today had been the last straw.  When Miss Martin came into the room,
she went to the blackboard and wrote in big letters "Y2K" and asked if
anyone knew what that was.  A few hands shot up, but not Bobby's.
Ever since he was diagnosed as being dyslexic, he was afraid to
volunteer to read anything aloud.  And Miss Martin knew this.  But
this morning, for some unknown reason, she called on Bobby.

Bobby stood up and looked at the board.  The letters and numbers kept
switching places every time he looked at them.  Finally, the letters
had some meaning for him, so he took a chance, knowing he had 1 in 6
odds of being right (he may be a terrible writer, but he was a savant
when it came to calculating odds).  "A second-generation personal
lubricant?" he uttered.

The roar of laughter from his classmate burned into his brain as he
felt the heat of embarrassment surge through his body.

"No, Bobby, that would be KY2," she said, her tone heavy with sarcasm.
"This is Y2K.  It's the acronym for the potential computer problems
that will occur at the start of the year 2000."

Of course, Bobby didn't hear what she was saying.  He only heard the
echoing sound of the blood rushing through him as his anger seethed
and his pressure rose.  Then he heard the snickers and giggles of his
classmates.  All as a result of that bitch telling him he was wrong.
Her mouth was the source of his problems.  It was not sticking to what
it did best.

And that was why he was now sitting in his car, parked across the
street from the school.  He was waiting to take his revenge.  Her
mouth was going to be put to some good use.  He was going to be the
cause of her humiliation.

Earlier at lunch, he'd plotted his revenge.  He thought about how he
could have her gang-banged by a band of crazed black criminals, and he
would sit back and watch as she was humiliated.  And he could join in
and put her mouth to good use:  she could taste his homemade hot white
sauce.

But, since he was from an affluent white area, he didn't know any
Negroes.  So, instead, he got the next best thing.  As he sat across
the street, he saw a very small colorful car pull up and watched with
amazement as 10 very small clowns, each wearing a different colored
fez, extricated themselves at the curb.  One of the midgets, who had
the swagger of a leader, noticed Bobby, waved, honked his nose and
then waddled across the street.  As the dwarf approached, he said,
"I'm Stumpy.  Where's that gash you want us to humiliate?"

************************************************

Story 3
Anchors Awry

He finished reading the book for the second time that month.  Upon his
first reading, he thought he had understood the instructions for total
mind-control, but something had gone terribly wrong.  So he decided to
reread the book.

Things seemed to have gone well the first time he tried it on his
boss.  He got the pay raise he wanted, the five-day weekends, the 4
hour work days, and the reduction in workload so that he could spend
more time downloading pornographic pictures and stories from the
newsgroups while at work.  Then he tried it on his boss' secretary,
and that's when it all went awry.

The pictures always got him excited, and, inevitably, he'd close the
door to his office, undo his fly, and masturbate while picture after
picture flashed upon his screen in a slide show presentation.  But
that day, Jill Smith, the executive secretary, came into his office to
have him sign some papers, and watched, aghast, as spurt after spurt
of thick, viscous goo propelled from the tip of his penis.

While he was sure that his commands to his boss were secure, he didn't
want Jill telling anyone else in the office what he was up to.  So, he
walked to her quickly, shoved her aside and closed his door, telling
her to sit down and see if they could come up with a reasonable
solution to this predicament.  After putting himself away and zipping
up, he made sure he did not sit in any seepage while he parked his ass
on the edge of his desk.

"You know, Jill, I'm guessing you're a little curious about what I was
doing."

"Curious?  CURIOUS?  Not at all.  I've seen men jack-off before.
That's no big deal.  In fact, from what I saw, you're no big deal.
But you shouldn't be doing that here, and I'm going to see to it that
you are relieved, if you'll excuse the pun, of your duties."

He stared into her eyes, and got her to focus, using his voice to
soothe her.  "Now Jill, I don't think that's a very good idea.
Really, I don't.  First, you can't prove it, since I'm not going
through the company's network and using my own dial-up.  Second, I
don't keep the pictures.  I erase them immediately.  Third," he
continued as he watched her eye lids start to droop, "I can delete any
history files and you won't be able to prove a thing.  You know how
your boss just loves me and the work I don't do around here.  He loves
it so much that he gives me less and less each week, and still pays me
more and more."

By now, her eyes were closed and she was his to command.  He could
have told her to just forget the incident and leave it at that, but he
wanted to leave something for her to carry with her for the rest of
her life.  An insatiable thirst and desire for cum.  Jism.  Spunk.

Of course, this is where it all went wrong, for he wasn't sure if she
knew what those words meant, so he used the old standby:  semen.  "You
will love semen.  You will have a need for semen.  You want to taste
semen.  For the rest of your days, you will lust after semen."

When she awoke, she didn't mention the incident she had witnessed.
And he thought all was well.

Until the next day.

Jill Smith was no longer with the company.  It seems she left early
the previous afternoon, muttering something about going down to the
ship yards.  And the next morning, she called in to give notice,
stating she'd joined the Navy.

As he listened to his co-workers talk about this around the water
cooler, he was both confused and scared.  He was pretty sure that his
commands had something to do with her departure.  And he didn't
realize it until later, when he heard someone passing his office
talking to a cubicle mate, saying, "So, you heard about Jill?  She
joined the Navy.  No, really, she did.  Seems she has this thing about
seamen."

******************************************

Story 4
For Lance

"So I quipped, `No, it's January!', but he just stared at me and
drooled," he told her as his thumb vigorously rubbed her clit while
two of his fingers stroked the silky lining of her moist cunt.

"He didn't get it?  Do you think he's obtuse?" she asked as she
stroked his erect cock, milking drops of pre-cum from the tip.

"Geometry has nothing to do with it," he uttered, as he reached deep
in her twat to massage her G-spot.  "I think it has to do with his
only being four months old."

"So, basically, you're saying you wasted a perfectly good, erudite and
witty foreign-language pun on a baby.  You might as well have put it
into an erotic story and baffled the nabobs on ASSM.  Most of them
drool, too.  At least, when they're reading those stories," she joked,
just before sucking gently on the tip of his penis.

"Oh, how delightfully clever you are being tonight.  I can't wait to
write this down and post it," he stated, as his throbbing organ pulsed
jets of thick semen into her mouth.

Licking her lips clean of the remnants of his orgasm, she gazed
lovingly into his eyes and said, "I adore the fact that we are
intellectuals.  It gives a whole new dimension to our sex life."

"It does, doesn't it," he said.  Then, as he lowered his head so that
his lips and tongue could replace his fingers, he announced,  "In
fact, we don't `come' like most illiterate folk.  We `arrive'."

"I'm arriving.  Oh God, I'm arriving."

And, she did, as they both started to guffaw and chortle so much that
neither noticed the Bothrops jararacussu entering their bedroom.

Two weeks later, the coroner's report listed the cause of death as
"venomous snake bite."  Further down the report, there was a hastily
scribbled notation, which told whomever bothered to read it that
Bothrops jaracussu was commonly known as fer-de-lance.

************************

Story 5
Fantasy Train Story

He entered the room unannounced.

She turned at the sound of her door opening.

He stopped for a moment, staring at her, the aura of longing and lust
oozing from his every pore.

She held his gaze for as long as she could, a cacophony of emotions
flickering in her eyes.  And then she started to swoon.

He strode toward her boldly, taking her into his arms, and that's when
their lips met for the first time.  A heated and passionate kiss; the
kind that makes you hear violin crescendos.  

As they fell upon the bed, the wind wafting through the open french
doors caused the sheer curtains to billow.  And in the distance, a
whistle sounded as the train entered the tunnel.

Fade to black
	
****************************

Story 6

Stroke Story

The garish light through the filthy window from the hotel's flashing
neon light changed her visage from moderately hideous to horribly
ghoulish.  Each burst of gaudy red crashed into her prominent brow and
cast shadows over her only pleasing feature; her eyes.  Well, they
were not her only pleasing feature.  There was her cunt, which was
currently being pummeled in doggy-style fashion as she steadied
herself on her hands and knees, looking at the window that faced Bleak
St.

"If you wanna do my ass it'll cost you an extra twenty-five," she
muttered in a throaty tone that was more the result of sixteen years
of smoking Chesterfields than from sexual arousal.

Her lack of passion started to gnaw at him.  Donald didn't expect much
for his $50.  Actually, Donald didn't know what to expect.  It was his
first time with a hooker.  But he had hoped for some sense of passion
from her, some sense of desire.

All he was getting was grief.  "Hey, John, I don't have all night.
Get a move on," she muttered.

"The name's Don, not John."

"Yeah, whatever.  Let's go.  Time is money, baby."

How was he supposed to feel anything with her harping at him?  How was
he to feel anything when she gave nothing back as he thrust into her
slimy gaping hole?  No friction.  No passion.  No feeling.

"Another five minutes, that's it," she croaked.  "I can see the clock
on the bank sign across the street, so I'm timing it.  I don't care if
you come.  I'm outta here in five minutes."

He could feel his penis start to lose its hardness.  She wasn't even
paying attention.  He should have known better than to pick up some
hooker.  What was he doing?  He needed release, but not like this.

"Four"

Her voice cut through his thoughts.  God damn it, he was losing his
erection.  He could hardly feel any warmth around his cock.  How can a
pussy be so cold, he wondered.  How can anyone be so cold.

"Are you still in there?  Come on, come already.  Three."

He tried to concentrate on the matter at hand.  It was supposed to be
simple.  Thrust, thrust, spurt, spurt.  But he was losing the fight.

"I'll come, don't you worry.  I'll come.  But you've got to help," he
said, as he felt his hardness diminish even more.  "You got to do
something.  Anything.  Tell me you love me, or want me, or something."

"Look, I'm not your fucking wife, OK?  You want love?  Go home."

He pulled out of her and grabbed his failing meat.  Maybe if he gave
himself some friction he could get it hard again.  "I want to come on
your ass.  Just let me come on you ass.  Please wait."

"Two."

He started working up a sweat as his hand stroked his penis.  The
friction was better.  He was getting hard again.  He looked at her
when she turned her head, just as the buzzing red light of the hotel
flashed on.  And he almost screamed.  Her gaunt face, hidden in
shadow, looked skeletal.

"Come on, sugar.  Come on me.  That's a boy."

His hand picked up speed.  He could feel something starting to stir
within him.  He kept flogging his flagging penis, hoping to beat the
clock.  He closed his eyes, arched his back and strained his pelvis
forward, hoping to push the semen out of himself.

"Yeah, that's the way.  You're getting there.  I'll give you another
minute."

He leaned his head back, his closed eyes staring at the dirty ceiling
and slapped away.  He was getting a headache.

"Wow, you're really going at it there, slugger.  Look, your face is
all red.  Maybe you should take a breath."

So she did care, somewhat.  He didn't realize he was holding his
breath.  He was concentrating all his feelings on his dick and the
sensations he was getting from his hand. And it was working, because
he felt a numbness come over his body as he lost sensation with his
face and arms....

It hit him suddenly.  The release.  It started with the stars that
formed before his closed eyes, then the incredible headache and
dizziness.  He tried to tell her that he was coming, but he just
gurgled and collapsed in a heap on the bed.

Later, after the paramedics had removed his body, the hooker grabbed
her purse in which she'd stashed the $100-bill she took from his
wallet after he died, and closed the door, thinking that John/Don was
a putz.  As if she could change a C-note.  Geez.

***************

He stared at the screen.  And still had no idea what to do with the
snippets of stories he'd written.  He closed the file, and was about
to close the word processing program when a little voice in his head
said, "You know, maybe if you read them again, something will come to
you."

He went to double click the file, but stopped after one click and
shook his head in disgust, thinking himself a fool for believing he
could write.  Instead, he hit delete.

(C) Prufrock Productions - 2001

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