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Message-ID: <34816asstr$1011377414@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: nickurfe@yahoo.com (Nicholas Urfe)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 18 Jan 2002 06:55:41 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} cuyahoga.004 [urfe] [new]
Date: Fri, 18 Jan 2002 13:10:14 -0500
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.
                                                  ::

                                            as falls cuyahoga,
                                      so falls cuyahoga falls

                                                  ::

Richie Meeuwissen groans, his hand tangled in the silky fall of
silvery blond hair puddled in his lap. You see, he says, the thing of
it is, he says, unh, is that I never would have pegged Pooh, you know,
as a hockey player. Oh. Shit, Sam. Oh. No fucking teeth, dammit.

Winnie the goddamn Pooh? says Sam, licking the beet-red head of
Richie's cock.

Winnie the goddamn Pooh, he says, unh, as she swallows the length of
him again. He hits the steering wheel once, hard, with the heel of his
hand. But there he is, on the T-shirt, right next to Tigger, on ice
skates, with hockey sticks. This, this is some kind of betrayal, of,
of the basic concept - whoops! Whoops!

Sam sits up abuptly, her platinum wig slithering off her head. Richie
grunts. A jet of sperm the size of a thumb flies up between them, as
high as his flared nose before succumbing to gravity, puddling in the
folds of his black pants as another dollop pumps up to fall the length
of his cock and lose itself in his dark pubic hair. I'll shoot the
moon right out of the sky, croons the radio, for you baby, I'll shoot
the moon for you.

Showtime? says Sam, settling the wig back over her own hair, short and
black and glossy in the darkness like some exotic fur.

In a, puffs Richie, minute. Let me - I need to be able to put this
back in my pants -

Is that enough? she says. We need some more?

Richie cocks an eyebrow at her, and she snickers.

I want to build a nest in your hair, croons the radio, I want to kiss
you and never be there.

Sam opens the door and steps out, knee-high silvery boots with soles
as thick as a hand on edge. Silvery hotpants with a V-shaped notch cut
in them right up front and deep enough to let you know for sure she's
shaved her pussy. A silvery lam  handkerchief top sways with her tits.
One hand holding up a little mirror as she touches up glittery silver
lipstick to match the smears of silvery glitter above each eye, and
then the mirror and lipstick are tucked into the little aluminum case
dangling from one bare shoulder.

Richie long and lean runs one hand through his shaggy black hair,
settles his geek chic glasses back on his nose. Tightens his narrow
black tie. Sam steps up close to him. What, he says. She cups his
groin. Leave it - he says. She lifts a finger and smears it around his
lips, leaving a faintly glistening trail in his three-day stubble.
Kisses him. The crowning touch, she says.

Yeah, he says. But it's mine.

Spunk's spunk, she says. He's going to kiss you, right?

This, says Richie, is the last goddamn favor we ever do for your
brother-in-law.

This is the first time we've ever done him a favor, says Sam,
frowning. And I'm doing all the fucking work.

You got what you need?

She taps the aluminum case.

The joint is jumping, music loud enough to bleed your ears. Too many
people to take in all at once, smoke and flesh and dim red lights, a
suggestion of a bar over there, bottles glinting and a certain studied
stillness in the crowd. Sam like a fish slipping through them lifts
one hand in the air, silvery nails glittering. Points. Richie follows
and sees the tall thin man by the wall and nods.

As Sam's hand comes down someone else's freighted with rings, glass
jewels winking, snakes around her belly. A rustle of some stiff
plasticky material, a minidress barely as long as Sam's hotpants,
unzipped to a navel pressed into the small of her back. Hips swaying
and tocking to the engulfing beat dragging hers with them. A mouth, in
her ear. You're special.

I'm listening.

Across the room the tall thin man smiles to see Richie, who ducks his
head. The tall thin man beckons him closer. Another hand, bare, slips
under Sam's top. Fingers ripple the lam . Sam licks her lips. You're
fuckable. The ring-heavy hand cups Sam's crotch. You're forward, says
Sam.

The tall thin man pulls Richie to him, presses his forehead to
Richie's forehead. Holds Richie's hands. Saying something. He leans in
to kiss Richie, a kiss that starts to linger and then stops, dead. A
bored Russian voice chants something about signals from space over the
beat. The ring-heavy hand grinds against Sam's pussy. You inspire me.
Oh, says Sam. The tall thin man snapping something at Richie wipes his
lips on the back of his hand. Richie starts back, surprised.

Sam catches the ring-heavy hand in her own, lifts it to her mouth,
kissing it. You're sweet, she says, turning enough to kiss the mouth,
licking those smiling lips. But I'm working. Slipping through the
bouncing crowd, kissing off a catcall from a boy in baggy jeans and a
baseball cap.

Richie, alone, jerks a thumb at the bathrooms. Grinning. Shakes his
head, rolls his eyes. Sam with aluminum case ducks down the hallway,
glittering even in the darkness. The music dulled now, not so
insistent. A beer bottle clinks at the kick of her boot. There might
be someone in the far corner who doesn't seem to care that Sam is
pushing open the door to the men's room.

White tile grimy with neglect, beats muffled, roar of the bar
seashelled into dim white noise. A lusty gush of piss. Three men stand
before the bank of floor-set urinals beneath a massive mirror etched
and pocked with gold-tinged rust. A big guy, jeans jacket and a green
beer bottle in one hand, zipping up with the other, turning away,
staring at her, at what she holds in her hand. The tall thin man wears
a dove-grey Nehru jacket and doesn't look at his corroded reflection.
Balding on top, he has a thin mustache.

I know what he did to you, Sam says, loudly enough.

His eyes flick up to peer at her, silvery pale in the golden murk of
the mirror.

I know, Sam says, what he did. Coming to you with stained pants.
Someone else's jism in his mouth. Her free hand unsnaps the single
snap of her hotpants, there in the crook of the V-shaped notch.

The guy with the spiky hair teased out in tiny braided tails flushes
his pisser with a mighty crash and carefully does not look at them on
his way out.

I have what you need, says Sam.

Do you, says the tall thin man. His piss falters, redoubles, slows.

Sam has tucked the base of an icy clear dildo into the fly of her
hotpants, tugging them closed and snapping them to hold it in place,
jutting out a good eight inches from her groin. She lays a hand on
either of his hips and pulls herself closer, her platformed shoes
lifting her so she can smile into his ear. Do you want it? What I've
got? She tugs a little on his pants, and they slip a little, and she
tugs a little more. Don't turn around, she says. The transparent dick
is sliding between his thighs, and she rocks her hips a little, back
and forth. The beat, thump thump. Just tell me, yes or no. Do you want
it? Do you want to do to him what he did to you? Yes, or no?

The tall thin man licks dry lips. He nods. His eyes are brown and sad.

Sam nudges his feet apart, tugs his pants down till they hang about
his knees. One hand under his jacket, on his ass. His piss-wet cock
still sprouting pale from a fist. How much is it worth to you? she
says, into his ear.

He blinks.

Sam smiles. We'll find out. Put your hands on the wall. On the wall.
This leaves him awkwardly bridging the urinal, bent a little at the
waist, his toes kicking the raised porcelain lip. Leaning back, the
transparent dick appearing again, she rubs his buttocks, hiking the
jacket over his hips. Using her thumbs to spread him, his ass a dark
dry hole in a scattered hatching of black hair. Biting her lip she
carefully nudges the dildo tip against the pinkish hint of pucker
around it. Pushes.

The tall thin man groans and each word crisp says Oh. My. Dear. Sweet.
Lord. The dildo hitches and she pushes, harder, silvery hotpants
snugged up against his flesh. His belt jangles on the tile as his
pants drop to his ankles.

Is this? says Sam, Is this what you? Is it? What you want?

His hands make fists, knuckles pressed to gold-tinged mirrored
knuckles.

Rocking back, the dildo catching the light again. Sam, hands on his
hips, looking down at it. Forward, hitching, past the hitch. Another
groan. And back again, Sam not taking her eyes off it.

It, says the tall thin man, it hurts -

Uh, says Sam, looking up suddenly and then all in a rush, oh, right,
does it hurt? And then she shakes her head, a little, eyes rolling.
Does it hurt? she says, into his ear. Does it? Does it hurt like what
he did to you? Does it feel a little like that?

Yes, says the tall thin man. Yes. Oh. Ow.

One of Sam's feet wobbles a little, on those highstepping platform
soles. It squeaks on the damp tile. The door swings open, and a man in
a tweed jacket steps in, stops, blinks. Um. Um. I'm, ah - excuse me.
And he's gone.

The tall thin man's cock appears, slowly, peering up from the bottom
of his jacket, nosing it aside as it slowly inflates. Bobbing as he
rocks with each thrust.

Hanh, says the tall thin man.

Sam grunts.

Oh, says the tall thin man. Ow. Oh, ow! Fuck - dammit!

Sam slaps her groin against his ass, jerking his hips. And again.

Dammit! I, ow! Really! Oh, oh fuck, rhu - rhubarb! Goddamn rhubarb,
already!

And Sam freezes.

The tall thin man pants, harshly. Ow.

Sam steps back, and there's the didlo, its glossy clarity smeared a
little now, marred. Frowning. I'm, uh - Hey. Mister Marlowe? Are you -
?

The tall thin man, leaning heavily over the urinal, gasping. Rhubarb.

I am sorry, Mister Marlowe, says Sam. Reaching out to touch him but
not quite. Do you? Want to maybe take a minute? Or -

Shaking his head, the tall thin man turns around. Not looking at her.
Catching his breath, still. His half-erect cock still bobbing there,
pushing aside the skirts of his jacket. Takes a step but tangles his
foot in the pants still around his ankles and staggers down to one
knee, holding up a hand as he goes down to forestall her attempt to
help him. I'm okay, he says, knuckling the white tile. Looks up, at
her for the first time. His eyes are big, his eyebrows arched a
little. His mouth unreadable beneath the mustache.

Come here, he says, beckoning her with one crooked finger.

Frowning, Sam takes a step, and then another. Closer, he says. Mister
Marlowe, says Sam, and he says, Closer, dammit!

Sam takes another step, and he grabs her hips and stuffs the dildo
into his mouth.

Um, she starts to say. The vigor of his sucking mouth wobbling her a
little. The dildo somewhat resilient bending with the strain of it.
His cheeks hollowing, his throat hucking and grunting. His eyes
closed. His fist squeezing his cock.

Sam bites her lip and puts her hand on the back of his head and bucks
her hips a little, with him. Mmm, she says. Oh, yes. He jerks her hips
once, harshly, sucking, his other hand still squeezing, rolling, his
thumb rubbing, almost strumming the bare red head of his cock. Sam
doesn't say anything else.

The door opens again. The man in the tweed jacket sticks his head
through, says, No, wait, and someone else pushes past him, Fuck that.
Ignores Sam, ignores the tall thin man, steps up to the urinal. Ah,
fuck.

Sam bites her lip and is obviously trying not to grin. The tall thin
man's come shoots between Sam's legs. It is cleaner somehow than the
tile it lands on. Glimmering, seeping oily into the yellowed cracks
between.

Ahh, says the guy at the urinal, zipping up his pants. You done? The
blond in his hair came proudly from a bottle, and his eyebrows are
dark and prominent. How much? To take you in the ass. He turns around,
adjusting his belt under an impassive gut. Or since you've got it, in
the box, he says, cocking an eyebrow at Sam's unsnapped shorts. Nice
dong. Sam's dropping the dildo into the aluminum case.

Fifteen, says Sam. Hang on, says the tall thin man. But that's just a
straight shot, says Sam. Anything more is negotiable.

Fifteen, says the bottle blonde. Hold on a minute, says the tall thin
man, climbing to his feet. Shit, says the bottle blonde. I'm not
saying I ain't tempted, but shit.

Sam shrugs.

You're forgetting something, says the tall thin man, pulling up his
pants. Dammit. You're forgetting something.

Oh, says Sam. Don't. It's covered. A friend.

The tall thin man freezes, his hands on his belt. Shivers.

Some fucking friend, says the bottle blonde, washing his hands at the
sink. The man in the tweed jacket opens the door one more time and
says, Thank God, stepping through.

No, says the tall thin man. No. It's important. It's important.

It's covered, says Sam.

I don't care! snaps the tall thin man.

Sam opens her mouth and shrugs again and holds out her hand and says,
Hand it over. All of it.

Like you mean it, says the tall thin man.

Sam shrugs.

Whoa! says the bottle blonde as Sam grabs the tall thin man's
shoulders and runs him back into the urinals, his butt slapping the
porcelain, his head smacking the mirror, one heel stumble-slipping on
the urinal lip. The man in the tweed jacket prairie-dogs over the top
of his stall. Give it, says Sam. Shaking the tall thin man's
shoulders. Now.

Shaking, the tall thin man reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out
a black leather wallet. Sam snatches it out of his hand. Done? she
says.

The tall thin man scrambles past her, out of the bathroom.

The wallet has nothing in it but five new fifty dollar bills.

Well? says Richie. He's sitting at a table in the corner. There are
two tall glasses with shallow puddles of something clear and
alcohol-oily at the bottom. Sam snatches one up and drains it in a
single swallow. Bends over his lap. Undoes his belt.

Sam? he says.

Do you know, she says, tugging down his fly, how fucking horny I am?

He unsnaps her hotpants as she fishes out his cock, there at the
corner table. He tugs the shorts open and down a little, so he can
work a finger inside, his other hand sliding up her belly under the
lam . She chuckles. My, says Richie. I'm getting the idea. Sam sits in
his lap as he gets his hand out of the way and she kisses him, and
kisses him, and kisses him.

So do something about it, says Sam.

                                                  ::
                                                  
                                            as falls cuyahoga,
                                      so falls cuyahoga falls
                                             an object lesson.004
                                                 
                                                          --n.
                                                  ::
                                                  
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/nickurfe/www/
http://www.ruthiesclub.com/
nickurfe@yahoo.com

This story may be freely circulated by anyone, anytime, anywhere.
"I'll Shoot the Moon" by Tom Waits.

.

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