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Message-ID: <37627asstr$1028247002@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: bradley_stoke@hushmail.com (Bradley Stoke)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 1 Aug 2002 20:12:06 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Koochy (Bradley Stoke) (FF)
Date: Thu,  1 Aug 2002 20:10:02 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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Story: Koochy (4,9328words)

A tale of drugs, dancing, sex and drugs at a North London party. And whether
they were going to be slumming or slamming, Janne and Edie are determined 
to have as much as there is on offer as they can. 

For More : http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Bradley_Stoke/www
           


Koochy
======

 From the outside, the squat was really no different from all the other 
houses that Janine and Edie had passed as they made their way from 
the tube station through the North London streets to the address they 
had been given. Perhaps it was slightly more dilapidated, but in the 
early evening dusk every house had a general air of dinginess, not 
improved by the rubbish blown along by the autumn breezes and the 
battered cars parked badly on the kerbside. But the evident proof that 
this was where the party was being held came from the thundering 
sound of drum and bass that echoed down the street and shook the 
glass in the windowpanes.

Janine and Edie were a little worried that they'd be turned away. After 
all, they hadn't been invited and they weren't at all sure they'd meet 
anyone they knew there, but there was no one guarding the partly open 
front door, so the bottle of cheap white wine that they'd bought (much 
against Janine's preference for wine with the proper certification of 
appelation controlée) wasn't actually needed as the all-important entry 
requirement. They pushed the door open to enter a long wide hallway 
where many other young people were lined against the peeling 
wallpaper, drinking from beer cans and passing around joints. Without 
showing any hesitation, they strode down the hallway beyond the 
staircase in the middle. Then, now well past anyone who might have 
seen their arrival, they too leaned against the wall to roll some tobacco 
in their rizlas and to take in the party at more leisure. The hard, 
thumping sounds of Dillinja boomed in their stomachs and ears, a 
tortuous driving beat that made them feel sharp and nasty almost 
immediately.

"Cool!" exclaimed Edie. 

"Ouai. Cool!" echoed Janine. "Ça marche bien. Where's the wine? I 
want a drink. And I want it now."

"Yeah," agreed Edie. "But, you know, just cool it. See what's going 
round." She gestured at a large fat seven skinner that was being passed 
from one toking guest to another. "If that ain't worth waiting for, I 
don't know what is."

Janine smelt the sweet odour as it wafted around her, the very smell 
already making her feel a little more languid and relaxed. It was so 
different in here from the wind-swept, lamplit streets outside, and she 
knew that after one toke that world would seem as distant as her own 
distant ville. And then, it was passed to her by a lanky mec with 
straggling hair over his face and to his collar, wearing a baggy dark 
brown tee shirt and small tinted steel frame glasses. She had been 
around enough to know that she didn't really want to taste the saliva 
that dampened the tip of the roach, so she cupped her fist and breathed 
deep through the cooling space it contained. It was strong stuff. Not 
black. Not resin at all. Probably skank. And it hit her instantly: a rush 
of that familiar taste tingling her cheeks and clicking her brain into 
gear. Merde! This was going to be a vachement cool gig: she could see 
that.

When Edie and Janine finally found their way into the dingy kitchen, 
at the back of the house, where all the alcohol was and where they 
could drop off the bottle they'd brought with them, what waiting for 
them was a real disappointment after the quite decent skank. The 
English really knew rien about alcohol. Their beer was too warm and 
too weak, and they had absolutely no idea about wine at all. Janine 
regarded the bottles lined up with growing disdain. Clearly cheapness, 
not qualité had been uppermost in the mind of whoever had bought all 
this shit. And not a decent French wine amongst them. Some New 
World stuff and some German Riesling. But so much beer, mostly in 
cans, only a few bottles, and most of these were lagers and bitters. 
Reluctantly, Janine poured a glass of piss-poor Chardonnay into a 
plastic cup and joined Edie as she floated out of the kitchen on her 
high-heel pumps with a can of McEwans in one hand and a rollie in 
the other. All the while, the sound of drum and bass shifted gear into 
some hard thumping pumping techno, with a wicked rhythm that 
almost curled up Janine's toes at every fourth emphatic beat.

Edie regarded Janine's expression as she looked disdainfully at the 
glass of wine she'd poured. She leaned over her friend, put an arm 
around her long thin neck, ran her fingers through her short raffish 
dark brown hair, and placed a kiss on her bright red lipsticked lips. 
Janine smiled back at Edie, whose dyed blonde hair was cut into a 
kind of bob and contrasted sharply with her dark eyebrows and deep 
brown eyes. Both girls were very thin and dressed similarly in a 
strange combination of the utilitarian - boots, baggy jackets and tights 
- and the fanciful - skirts, necklaces and tee shirts with the most 
plunging neckline that was legal. The cut of their tops was high 
enough to let the light catch the studs that shone on their hard, smooth 
bellies: a perfect compliment to the studs pierced through their labia 
lips.

"What you need, sweetie," remarked Edie, peppering her face with a 
multitude of soft kisses, "is something a lot better than Supermarket 
plonk. And, if I'm not mistaken, I think there might be someone here 
who can give us both just that."

Janine smiled conspiratorially, as Edie took her metal-bangled wrist in 
her hand and dragged her out of the kitchen, past the temptations of 
another roving joint, into the main room where the music was coming 
from. Merde Alors! These old Victorian houses had such enormous 
rooms. What use had they ever had for all that space? Now, of course, 
it made a very satisfactory dance floor, the ancient floorboards still 
able to support the weight of dozens of thumping feet, belonging to 
silhouetted figures illuminated by the lights the DJ had brought round 
for the gig. Behind the turntables and framed by the speaker stacks, the 
DJ was fumbling around in his boxes for twelve inch discs, while the 
lead from the pair of headphones attached to his ears looped toward 
his decks. When he stood up, spinning the vinyl in his fingers before 
placing it onto the rubber and then dropping the needle into its 
grooves, he briefly gazed around at the crowd, a broad manic smile on 
his face, while the techno beats pounded and thundered around him. 

Super! That smile was a sign. The faces lit up in the crowd of 
stomping dancers were even better evidence. Chemical bliss. Even 
with only a few sips of vin de Kwik-Save, the message of bliss was 
coming through the Progressive House pulse beats and Janine was 
already feeling more than ready. But, as usual, it was Edie who was 
the one to find the source of the wellspring and to partake of its 
flowing treasures. And in this case, the source was a young guy with 
hair so short it was almost blue and a capacious jacket with as many 
pockets as were humanly feasible. Including pockets hidden inside 
pockets. And then there were the set of pockets on his brown baggy, 
cotton trousers. Unlike everyone else in the room, he was sitting on a 
chair by the corner, about as far from the speakers as he could be, only 
occasionally tapping a foot to the frenetic beats, a smile of deep joy 
spread over his face, but with eyes as hard and sharp as a pair of 
knives. As usual, it was Edie, bolder than brass and twice as shiny, 
who zoomed straight onto this mec while Janine put a toe into the 
flowing water of driving beats. It was difficult to keep her steps 
restrained as the music swooped and dived around her, pulsating 
rhythms thundering into her stomach and pumping up her thighs. A 
strobe caught her in mid-glide, blue and orange and green against the 
peeling wallpaper, and then swooped down to catch Edie who was 
returning with a handful of goodies in little sealed-seam plastic bags.

"It's a bit of mix and match!" Edie yelled into Janine's ear, as she 
froze in mid-step to pick up the chemical delights. "Got some good 
stuff. Bit of speed and some Es. A tab if the mood takes you. And 
here," she tapped a pocket, "I've got some pure grade A skank. And 
all for not much outlay." She sighed. "These men they'll fucking give 
everything for a promise of a promise or a glimpse of a glimpse. But 
there ain't no stopping us now. Dive in for the start of the drip feed."

With that, she opened her mouth and dropped a few pills, not even 
bothering to check what they were. Janice kissed Edie on the cheek 
and followed suit, leaving half the stuff for later. This could be a lo-
ong night ahead!

A brief peck was not enough. Janine took Edie's face in her hands and 
pushed it to her lips, her tongue slotted into Edie's mouth, and for a 
few ecstatic, liquid moments, the two of them kissed fully and 
slobberily, as the beat pushed up and up into the pit of their stomachs. 
Finally, building up enough tension to push the two girls apart. And 
then off with their inappropriately heavy jackets, the plastic bags and 
rolling tobacco transferred to the huge side-pockets of their trousers, 
and, then, with a whoop of excitement, the two of them were boogying 
and stomping and jumping and pumping to the pounding rhythms, 
two-stepping and jockeying to the shifting beats, sweat erupting from 
their foreheads and the top of the breasts. And then they 
communicated with facial expressions twisted and torn to the same 
shapes as the beats that carried their feet. C'est bonne! C'est sympa! 
C'est large! 

All around them the other figures were immersed in the same warming 
bath of the four to the floor. Men with their tops thrown off. Girls with 
the flimsiest of tops. And there (Merci à Dieu!) one girl so taken with 
the sound that a loose breast had worked itself free of her skimpy top 
and was bouncing freely with each step and bounce. Janine twisted 
herself to face this glorious treat, a warm feeling building up from 
inside and already burning in her crotch. Jazz samples. Vocal samples. 
Phat beats. Squelching 303s. Twisted, byzantine bass, grinding 
through beats, scattered and angular in the Drum and Bass, plain and 
flat through the Hard House, bouncy and joyful over the Progressive 
House, fucked up and fucking glorious in the most wicked of Break 
Beats. She was truly lost in music. She was got down and dirty. Sweat 
cascading into the silver-studded recesses of her navel, and streaming 
down the outside of her thighs and the inside of her trousers.

Somewhere in the midst of this, the rush hit. And somehow everything 
was fine. And everyone was beautiful. And given the chance she 
would be everyone's and anyone's. Even perhaps with a man. And as 
she swivelled and turned, having long lost sight of Edie as the space 
around her swelled and shrunk with the patterns of her dancing, she 
saw in the corner a naked man's buttocks thrusting in and out while 
two bare thin legs of an equally naked woman were pinioned beneath 
him. Merde! It was going to be one of those kinds of parties. And why 
the fuck not? Her crotch ached with the thought of herself and Edie 
stretched out together, her tight small breasts against Edie's rounder, 
so warm bosom, hard nipple stroking on hard nipple, a cascade of joy 
dripping from between her legs. Oh Edie! Je t'aime! Je t'aime le plus 
grand!

But where was Edie? wondered Janine, spinning around on the axis of 
her left foot, then bringing her other foot down to complete the spin. 
Where was her bonne chatte? Ou est tu? Edie was gone. Nowhere. As 
she swirled, a man's face peered into her, a Christ-like bearded face 
with a smile of Christian love, and her mind was elsewhere as she 
pounded the beat with her dancing partner. Until the fade-in to some 
slower tempo movement slung her suddenly out of the room and into 
the heaving hallway. But where was Edie?

Janine wandered from room to room. Back to the kitchen where a 
whole group of men were gathered in black baggy tee shirts, swigging 
from bottles of beer and discussing politics. And up the stairs, where a 
couple were stretched: the man's hand inside the woman's blouse and 
the woman's hand clutching the hard rod in his trouser crotch. From 
room to room, where others were talking to or cuddling each other. Up 
another flight of stairs, past a queue by the loo, and three floors up, in 
this towering North London squat, where the low thumping sounds 
told her that she'd arrived outside the chill-out room. Tiens! She 
suddenly realised that she needed to chill out more than anything else. 
Sweat was plastering her short hair close to her scalp. She needed 
more skank. Or some charas. Or anything. She pushed open the door, 
letting out a large cloud of sweet-smelling smoke. A stereo was 
blaring out from some chill-out CD, and all around her were slumped 
bodies, and a fortune in dope being passed from hand to hand. 

Janine slumped onto the first cushion she could see and took a long, 
long toke from the joint that was proffered to her. Despite the 
chemical confusion that tingled her senses, she was immediately jolted 
by the sensamerilla, and her head fell entirely into synch with the slow 
deep burning bass of the music. Most of the people around her were 
slumped in soporific languor, which was creeping up on her, as her 
unfocussed thoughts drifted with the breathy female vocals and she 
cast her eyes around her. Not everyone was similarly zonked. There 
were two or three couples in states of relative undress lost in another 
rhythm, clothes discarded or pulled down, as they lost themselves to 
their physical passion. 

One couple was particularly engrossed, lying on a mess of cushions 
and pillows and rugs just by the large uncurtained windows which 
looked out over the streets, and through which Janine could see the 
lights shining from the houses opposite, not all, she guessed, as happy 
as she was that this party was happening. A car drove by lighting up a 
room that was mostly dimly lit, and allowed Janine a closer look at the 
couple. The man's prick was visible from the balls to where it was 
thrusting into a sticky, gooey vagina, which was pumping up and 
down beneath. Long bare legs tapered to a pair of dark brown boots, 
while above a hairy arse trailed down long hairy legs to a pair of 
scuffed trainers. The girl was gasping and swooning as the man 
pushed into her, grunting from his own exertions. And where was 
Edie? wondered Janine. What she wouldn't do for a bit of lovemaking 
herself. Her soul, her heart, her body ached for love. Or at least sex.

Janine looked around at the other people, hoping to see Edie's blonde 
bob in one or other corner of the vast dimly lit room. She wasn't by 
the stereo where a guy was shifting through the collection of CDs. She 
wasn't at the window, where another guy had thrust his head out into 
the street, no doubt to cool off his drug-fevered brow. She wasn't the 
girl slumped against the wall fighting off unconsciousness with a half-
finished bottle of Stella Artois gripped to her lap. In fact, as Edie 
discovered with a shock, she was the one who was being fucked just 
by the window. 

This much was made clear, as the two shifted position, the prick 
briefly disengaged, so that Edie could get on top and squeeze it back 
into her cunt. And there she was, on top of a mec with black shoulder-
length hair and a dark blue tee shirt. She was stripped to only her top, 
one of her gorgeous breasts loose and hanging free of its cradle, sweat 
pouring down the back of her neck, and gasping and panting and 
gasping, and occasionally giving vent to a shriek, as the passion of her 
love-making gripped her. 

Janine was stunned. There was her beloved, with a man she'd never 
met before; doing to her what she thought was reserved for her alone. 
She knew every tangled sweaty hair of that pussy. She knew the length 
and depth of that firm hard clitoris. She knew every serrated nobble of 
those nipples. She could even taste that vagina in her tongue, the 
memory so strong and intimate and familiar that it burnt more 
powerful than the odour of cannabis smoke and nicotine. 

Should she intervene? Was that a cool thing to do? She was sure it 
wasn't. And what was worse, it would not only piss off Edie who had 
always made clear to her that she swang both ways, but it might invite 
the unwelcome attention of her male lover. She looked at the prick as 
it thrust in and out, remembering its long, hard pink length in that brief 
moment when the two had shifted position. She didn't want any of 
that, merci. Her few times with some brutish or incompetent man, 
with all that hairy flesh and sinewy muscle and flabby stomach, had 
convinced her that there was only one kind of sex meant for her and it 
wasn't with a man.

The mere thought of it disgusted her so much, that she cast aside the 
joint she'd received only half a toke ago to the small, dark-eyed man 
to her side, and plunged herself out of the comforting, relaxing 
ambience of the chill-out room, back into the merciless corridors of 
the rest of the house. Only this time, feeling ever so much more lonely 
and vulnerable. Her Edie! Son Amour! How could she?

She was now directionless and lost. Somehow the dance room no 
longer seemed inviting. The horrors of the beer-swilling men in the 
kitchen seemed even less appealing than before. And it wasn't at all 
obvious what she should be looking for. The chill-out room had 
seemed perfect, but now it was the one room she most did not want to 
be in. She dashed up and down the stairs, squeezing past the crowd 
queued up by the toilets, occasionally pushing open doors to see 
whether there was anywhere else she could hang out. But it seemed 
that every bedroom was occupied. And quite clearly there was some 
vachement hot shit going round. In almost every room, there was some 
kind of sexual activity. Men and women cuddling. Men and women 
kissing. Men fucking women. And in one room, the most horrible 
sight of all, men fucking men. She had seen quite enough penises in 
her life, and she didn't really want to have to waste much more time 
on them. Wherever she went, however, the sound of the dance music 
thundering from the dance room was pumped and piped around the 
place, so unless she went back to the top floor she was unable to 
escape the block busting beats that were being laid down by the DJ. 
He was clearly getting harder and more frantic. Mauro Piccotto, Tony 
de Vit, pump that pussy. Hard House Heaven. Yeh Eh! Here it Comes. 
Ohh Yeah! Ça plein pour moi.

But Janine just wasn't in the mood. At last, she gravitated to a point 
on the landing of the stairs, cigarette dangling from the forefingers of 
one hand, while other guests wandered up and down the stairs beside 
her, her other hand pressed against her forehead, lost in thought and 
reflection, unsure whether to come or to go, to dance or to rest, to wait 
or to depart. Without her Edie, she was feeling abandoned and through 
the haze of serotonin, nicotine and dope, unsure just what she should 
be thinking at all. Her eyes were unfocused, her thoughts were 
scattered and her cigarette kept going out.

"You got a light?" suddenly asked a kindly voice. 

Janine looked up with her box of Swan Vestas pulled out of a large 
pocket from her trousers. "Bien sûr! Ouai!" she said passing the box 
toward the proffered Marlboro Lite at whose filtered tip were some 
gorgeously red lipsticked lips, and a thin face with sparkling light 
green eyes. Janine was so taken by her eyes and the classically straight 
nose, that she only belated became aware that here was a girl who had 
dispensed with the need for hair-care products and had opted instead 
for a clean shaven skull, where only at this late hour was the stubble 
starting to show through.

"Hey. You're French or Belgian or something, aren't you?"

"French," corrected Janine, slightly offended that anyone might think 
she was some kind of Walloon speaker. If her ear had been more 
attuned to English, she'd have noticed that this girl had a Geordie 
accent scattered with evidence of her time in London.

"Well! Whatever!" the girl sniffed. "Anyway, I'm Molly and I live 
here."

"So this is your party."

"Well, our party. I just live here. But it's fucking kicking, ain't it? It's 
the biz!" She punctuated her assertion with a two-armed wave in the 
air, her face gurning in a way that made Molly seem if anything that 
much more gorgeous to Janine. "Hey! What I wouldn't do for some 
blow. You ain't got some shit on you?"

"I got some skank."

"Oh Wey-Hey! Not that fucking cool shit I've been sampling all 
evening! Hey girl. Let's go up to my room and roll a fat one. You on?"

"Bien sûr! That would be ferking great!"

"You bet," agreed Molly, taking Janine's hand in hers. "Let's hope 
there ain't a fucking orgy in there."

Molly's room was small and thankfully empty, although the discarded 
condom and the scattered ash was indication that it hadn't been so all 
evening. Janine studied the posters and magazine cuttings that covered 
most of the cream-painted walls. Molly was a girl who liked films. But 
she also had a taste for flyers, which were blu-tacked to the wall. 
Some of these were taken from phone booths and were rather less 
imaginative than those advertising club nights. Molly sat cross-legged 
on the futon that was on the floor by the window, just by her stereo 
and a battered old armchair. 

"Where's the gear? I can roll a real mean one."

"Here!" said Janine, tossing Molly a plastic bag which she'd stored in 
her trouser pocket. She watched Molly roll her joint, while she 
slumped on the other end of the futon, and admired her small lean 
hands at the end of long bare arms, as her fingers teased out the skank 
to tubular dimensions. She wore a sleeveless top with no bra under 
which her breasts could easily be seen and a long thin waist to her 
baggy purple shorts. She had large pendulous hooped earrings in well-
studded ears and Janine caught a glimpse of the stud through her 
tongue.

And then, with a sprinkling of Marlboro Lite and a twist at the end, 
Molly lit the short stubby joint and inhaled long and deep. "Fuck! This 
is fucking A!" She exclaimed, passing it roachwards towards Janine. 
She took a long deep toke herself, and pulled herself up the length of 
the futon to slump, supported by an elbow, right next to Molly. The 
girls passed the joint backwards and forwards to each other, chatting 
about clubs they'd been to, excesses that they'd enjoyed and a time in 
Ibiza when the two of them had been there at the same time but of 
course had never met. They'd even been at the Café Del Mar on the 
same night, and Molly had one day even ventured into Manumission. 
"I'm told it's not as good as it used to be," Molly told her. "No 
fucking dwarves fucking anymore."

"Is that so?" contemplated Janine, stubbing out the roach and admiring 
Molly's long thin arms with their scattering of moles and the fading 
trace of summer tan. Molly regarded her, and then without warning 
she plunged her face into Janine's, put her hand behind her neck where 
her hair was at its shortest, and thrust a tongue into Janine's mouth. 
Although taken aback, Janine was instantly receptive. They plunged 
warm tongue and liquid lips together, Janine glorying in the curious 
and erotic sensation of running her fingers over the stubble of Molly's 
scalp. Her other arm caressed Molly's slim waist: so hard and firm 
with not even a hint of extraneous fat.

"Oh fuck! What the fuck!" gasped Molly, suddenly pushing Janine off 
and pulling off her top while the echoing sounds of techno thundered 
about them. "Yeah Hey! Let the Rhythm take you! Into the Heart of 
the Bass!" Molly cried, her breasts loose and perky, her nipples hard 
and excited. 

Janine knew what to do. She pulled off her jacket and top, and, just in 
case Molly might think a kiss and cuddle would be enough, she pulled 
down her trousers and knickers, revealing the full glory of her tangled 
pubic hair, a mass of dark brown, longer than the hair on her head, 
which still couldn't hide the swollen lips of her vagina. Molly grinned. 
"You know what you like, don't you?" she commented, pulling down 
her shorts and whatever else she had inside to reveal that it wasn't just 
her head that she shaved. Her crotch was, if anything, smoother than 
her head, and Janine noticed, with a great thundering of her heart, that 
she had a stud and ring on her labial lips more pronounced than the 
quite modest ones she and Edie had got in a mad careless moment on 
their Ibiza holiday.

"You too!" smiled Molly, stroking Janine's lips with her hand. 
"What's yours taste like?" With that she dropped down her head 
between Janine's thighs and wiggled her tongue around the lips and 
occasionally nipping at her long hairs. All the while, Janine stroked 
Molly's naked head, while stroking one of her long thin nipples on her 
otherwise rather small left breast. It tickled but it was fun. And then 
Molly's tongue went straight inside her and Janine could feel that 
tongue stud within her, occasionally clashing against her vaginal stud 
as it licked and probed.

And soon, it wasn't long, she and Molly had moved themselves 
around so that the lips of Janine's mouth were pursed to the bare lips 
of Molly's crotch. Her crotch with its bare skin tasting somehow 
sharper, maybe more acid, than Edie's dark brown patch. Janine just 
loved the uninterrupted stretch of flesh from one set of lips to the 
other. How could there be so much luscious flesh? Her fingers joined 
in the probing, easing themselves surreptitiously into the folds of 
Molly's cunt, while below, with a sensation of recognition that made 
her gasp, she felt Molly's fingers poke not only into her own 
moistness, but also to explore her puckered anus, a place where Edie 
was usually so reluctant to touch and which she now knew she wanted 
to know more of in future. In answer, she took a finger to her mouth, 
licked its length so that a dollop of saliva trailed down its length to her 
knuckle and eased this into Molly's own arse, noting with satisfaction 
Molly's own puff of pleasure.

The futon was hard and firm and warm, the sheets pushed about by the 
girls' flailing legs, as they rolled over and over, flesh sliding on flesh, 
the sweet taste of sweat trickling down the skin and into Janine's 
mouth. And then mouth to mouth again, hands pressed against crotch, 
nipple hard on nipple. All around them, the beat continued thumping 
and crashing and swooping, taking on shapes and patterns which in 
Janine's mind was matched with her passion and ecstasy, the rush of 
her pill-taking returning to her and causing a fresh re-tingling of the 
skin. Above them, Janine could see the soft eyes of Daniel Auteil from 
a poster for a movie she only knew in its original French. 
Occasionally, the lights of a passing car would light up a room 
otherwise lit only by a weak 40-watt bulb. 

And again. Mouth back on crotch, the two of them gasping and 
sweating and slobbery. The tastes, the smells, so animal, so vital, so in 
tune. Sometimes, Janine would take Molly's hard nipples in her 
mouth, tasting sweat and navigating the contours of the hard reddish 
skin of the aureole of motherhood. And then again that studded tongue 
in her mouth, where she could explore in detail the hard, sweet metal 
with her own tongue and could just about detect the inside of the hole 
through which the stud protruded.

As the two collapsed, after how many minutes, hours, eternities, 
Janine didn't know, she regarded Molly's room. The battered 
wardrobe rescued from a skip. The line of books and CDs along the 
wall. The stacks of magazines. The movie posters and club flyers. 
Already she felt that this was homely and comforting. This was, she 
knew, thoughts of Edie and her own heterosexual flings forgotten, this 
was a room she'd get to know much much better in the future.



For More : http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Bradley_Stoke/www

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