index


Message-ID: <38638asstr$1033708202@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: HammonWry@spamtrap.yahoo.com (Hammon Wry)
MIME-Version: 1.0
NNTP-Posting-Date: Thu, 03 Oct 2002 17:58:36 EDT
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit
Subject: {ASSM} Ho'omaluhia (nosex,BDSM,FF rom)
Date: Fri,  4 Oct 2002 01:10:02 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

Notice: The following is a work of erotica, and is meant for those of 
legal age and inclination in their jurisdicions.  If you are not of 
age, or if this is illegal where you are, please do not read any
further.

(C) E. Howe  2002
All rights reserved

Author's notes for ASSM:  The following was the result of a
competition on a web-bulletin board.  Required use of the words
"telephone, rags, chopsticks, garage and screwdriver"  I did not win
any prizes, but I am still proud of this piece. 

Enjoy! 

Author's note regarding the title of this entry:  Ho'omaluhia is a
composite verb.  In order to translate it,  I will break it down into
its two component parts:  Ho'o- is a causative, and will change a noun
into a verb.  Consider it the same as "to make" or "to create".
Maluhia is a noun, "shade".  Combined, it  means "to make (or create)
shade."  In the Hawaiian mind, this is synonymous with "take a break".
In the heat of the Hawaiian Islands, one sits in a shady spot to take
a break!

Ho'omaluhia

Na'ome wiped the sweat from her forehead with a kitchen towel, and
squinted out the window over the sink into the glare of the late
afternoon sun.  The cooing of the mourning doves on the road was a
sibilant roar, even at this late hour.  It had been hot all day.  Her
collar would be leaving a dark mark on her already irritated skin.
She tucked the towel between the leather and her skin.  

She reached over to the wood bowl and took the last orange.  She made
sure of her fingers before pressing the edge of the knife to the
brilliant orange skin, slicing the succulent fruit into perfect
hemispheres.  The juice pooled on the wooden cutting board, and the
aroma of tangy citron filled her head.  She wanted to lick her
fingers, but she did not dare.  Na'ome knew that her drink would be
served in a bowl on the floor, and only if poured from Madam's glass.
She could wait.   

She lifted the halves of the oranges, and began to grind them one at a
time on the green-glass juicer.  She twisted and pressed downward, and
the precious liquid ran in runnels down into the collecting bowl.
This last one would fill it. She tossed the empty husk into the trash
with the others.  

There, all done.  She took the precious liquid and passed it through
cheese cloth in a fine mesh strainer into a bowl.  Then she took the
cloth out, and wrung it.  Again, her fingers dripped with the sweet
and sticky juice.  She covered the bowl with a clean towel, and set it
in the refrigerator.  

She turned to the sink, her bare feet soundless on the linoleum tiles.
She turned the cold water on, and washed her hands carefully.  Liquid
soap with the fragrance of lavender foamed between her palms, and up
to her wrists.  Its tart fragrance blended will with the scent of
oranges, and was offset by the scent of plumeria blossoms on the tree
outside the kitchen window.  Water rinsed the suds away.   A quick
wipe with a cloth cleaned the cutting board, and the knife sparkled
under the running water.  It was dried and put in its holder.  

Na'ome glanced around the kitchen to be sure it was in order.  Madam
would give stripes if it was not.  She turned, and her breasts bounced
with the movement.  Her ass still showed the marks she had received
earlier today from not making the bed to Madam's military
specifications.  She had no desire to endure that again.  She wanted
nothing more than to please Madam, to feel Madam's palm stroking her
face, thumb caressing her lips stretched tight around the ball gag.
Or to feel the thrust of the strap-on spearing her, or...

She opened her eyes, and shook off the arousal.  She would receive
stripes for that too, if Madam knew.  Na'ome opened a cabinet, and
withdrew a graceful pitcher.  She rinsed it in cold water as well, and
dried it, in an effort to cool it off some.  

Her hips swayed invitingly to an empty room as she went to the liquor
cabinet.  She pulled out the cobalt blue bottle of top-shelf American
vodka.  Madam had little liking for the Russian imports.  She checked
its level.  More than enough.  Good.  

The heat was getting to her.  She took advantage of the fact that she
was allowed to take water from the tap.  No glass for her.  The water
cooled her some, slaked her parched throat, and eased her thirst.  She
wiped her mouth with the first towel.  A single bead of sweat trickled
between her breasts.  She wiped it as well. 

She opened the freezer, and as the cold air cascaded over her nude
form, she was tempted to just stand there.  Her nipples puckered,
while her ass burned.   Her back was sweating, as well.  

With a sigh of resignation, she withdrew a bag of ice.  She closed the
freezer door, and walked with the bag to the pitcher.  She filled it
halfway with ice, and then trotted back to the freezer before the bag
dripped on the floor.  She berated her inefficiency.  She did not
linger as she opened the freezer and put the bag away. 

The bottle of vodka made a gurgling sound as she measured and poured
it over the ice in the pitcher.  Bottle capped, she returned it to the
cabinet.  On her return, she was interrupted by the jangle of the
telephone, a discordant note in the bucolic afternoon.  She let it
ring, and the answering machine activated.  The mechanical voice was
just out of range of hearing, and then the squeal of the tone.  A
tinny voice spoke, irritation evident.  Na'ome smiled.  Madam's
ex-slave again.  It had been 8 years since the two had parted, and
still she called.  Madam never returned the calls.  Na'ome resolved
never to become like the rejected slave.  

For five years Na'ome had shared Madam's home in servitude.  She never
wore clothes, just the leather collar about her neck, removed when she
bathed or showered, or to clean and condition it.  She had tan lines
around it from the brilliant Hawaiian sun.  Madam had chosen her at a
club in Honolulu one night, simply walked up to her kneeling form, and
raised her face to look deep into her eyes.  "You into this for real,
or do you just play at it?"  Na'ome remembered that night with a
crystal clarity.  "If it pleases you, Madam, I would be a full-time
willing slave."  Madam had nodded slowly. "You use personal pronouns.
I think I like that.  Come home with me, and we will talk about an
arrangement." 

Five years had passed since that night.  Na'ome's life was simple now.
Please her Madam.  The stripes inflicted by the crop or the cane
faded, and once punished, Madam would not torment her for the same
infraction again.  

Na'ome knew that occasionally Madam would make a reason to beat her.
She accepted this, because that was one of Madam's needs.  She liked
to inflict pain.  Na'ome had come to...not enjoy it, but benefit from
it.  Endorphins coursing through her blood made the sex hotter,
afterwards.  

They spoke little.  There really was no need.  Na'ome served, and
Madam took.  It was right.  

On her way to the refrigerator, Na'ome picked up the pitcher, and
brought it with her.  She set it on the counter and opened the
refrigerator door, again relishing in the cool air sliding to her
feet.  She removed the bowl of orange juice.  The door swung shut.
She uncovered it, and poured it into the pitcher.  The ice made a
sound against the glass as she poured, a clinking muffled by the
liquids swirling within.   She swirled the pitcher some to mix it
further.  

She retrieved a tray and a tall narrow glass.  She reached to a
container at the back of the counter.  She withdrew one of the
chopsticks held there, a mother-of-pearl inlaid and lacquered jewel.
Placing the single chopstick in the tall glass, she poured the
concoction into it, making sure some ice was included.  Madam did not
like straws, but would stir the drink idly with a single chopstick as
she thought. 

Na'ome placed the pitcher and glass on the tray, and exited the house
through the lanai.  While there, she plucked a single plumeria
blossom, orange, pink and yellow blending into a semblance of a
sunrise over Diamond Head.  She dropped it into the pitcher, and
smiled as it caught and rested on the ice. 

She stepped down the stairs, mindful of her feet for rocks, and began
the short walk through the overgrowth to the shack that served as the
garage.  The foliage of ti plants, croatia, and vines clinging to
trees glistened with the wetness of an early mauka shower.  She passed
the ancient mango tree, the fruit hanging pendulously on long strands,
like breasts bound and dangling for the plucking.  It was too early
for them, the fruit would be hard, and sour.  She passed the guava,
the yellow skins splitting to reveal the hot pink pith within.  

Finally, she stopped at the ohi'a'ai tree.    The small,  pear-shaped
mountain apples were so delicate that they had to be picked at the
stem, the brilliant red skin so thin it would rub off and stain
fingers.  A single stone nestled in an opening at the bottom of the
fruit;  The hole would widen as the fruit ripened, until the stone
fell from its nest.  Na'ome placed the tray on a stump, and then
searched the branches for one perfect fruit.  Deftly she snapped the
stem, and cradled the precious fruit in her palm.  She rolled it
carefully to the tray, and continued on to her Madam. 

When she entered the shack, the smooth dirt floor was cool against her
feet.  Madam was leaning over the side of the engine compartment,
elbow cantilevering a wrench.  As Na'ome approached, Madam stood, and
wiped her hands on one of the many rags she had made of Na'ome's
clothes.  Na'ome recognized the pattern on the material, a shirt she
used to wear to clean house.  That part of her history was as relevant
to her life now as the rag was to he shirt she used to wear.  

With her back still to Na'ome, Madam extended a single greasy hand to
her and said "Pass me a screwdriver, would you?"  Na'ome lifted the
sweating glass, and smiled.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html>  Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}|
|Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org>   Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org>      |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+