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Message-ID: <40891asstr$1045307404@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: DrSpin <drspin@newsguy.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Dot.Com Bimbo (MF) ~ by DrSpin (NEW to ASSM)
Date: Sat, 15 Feb 2003 06:10:04 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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Dot.Com Bimbo (MF)
by Neil Anthony aka DrSpin

---------------------------------------------------------
* This story is published here by kind permission of Ruthie's 
Club, where it appeared illustrated by James Alexander under 
an exclusivity period for six months. Ruthie's Club 
(http://www.ruthiesclub.com) carries about 50 more of my new 
stories. 

* The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers 
and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to:
drspin@newsguy.com or neilanthony@austarnet.com.au

* DrSpin's Standard Disclaimer: 
I write and you read, if you care to. That's all there is 
to it. Any reader who is offended should not have been here 
in the first place.
---------------------------------------------------------

Never be surprised at the capacity of women to be surprising. 
You think you have them categorized. You think you know who 
and what they are. Women are contrary animals. They defy 
understanding.

I'm around at my best pal's place to complain. He's going on a 
deep-sea fishing trip and I've had to cancel. It's pissing me 
off. Instead I have to look after a trade show exhibition 
because my business partner, who promised to do it, has got 
the mumps. At his age? How careless is that?

Worse, the bimbo model chick any dot.com business needs to 
front a trade show stand has rung in to say she's broken her 
collarbone playing beach volleyball. I can't get another. I've 
rung six agencies and all the bimbos are booked.

Shane, my pal, seems amused by all this. He's off to catch big 
thrashing fish and he's giving every impression he doesn't 
give a flying fuck about my problems. So do without a bimbo, 
he says. I'm telling him how bad that is. When you sell flashy 
interactive software you have to have a flashy bimbo to drag 
the customers in from the aisles. The competition is cut-
throat. The bigger outfits have at least three bimbos.

"I'll do it." It's a voice from behind us.

Never has anyone said anything as ridiculous. Shane's wife, 
Fran, a bimbo? We turn around and see her in the doorway, 
leaning against the frame. We break out laughing.

She regards us coolly. Fran, never not cool, is a psychologist 
who works with down-and-out alcoholics at a state sobering-up 
shelter. It's the sort of thoroughly decent and worthy job 
that makes me feel like a leech on society's arse.

"You'll be away," she says to Shane when he stops laughing. "I 
have a week's holiday, not much to do, and this sounds as far 
away from work as I could possibly get. What do I have to do?"

I grin at her. "Wear a mini-skirt, a tight tee shirt, a 
dazzling smile, hand out brochures, and hustle up customers. 
Just what you trained for at university. Right up your alley."

"You think I couldn't do it?" she asks, with an edge of 
challenge.

I have the highest regard for her. I think she could probably 
be an astronaut if she wants. She's lovely, in her own high-
minded way. But this? Give me a break.

"Stop teasing poor old Gary," Shane says to her. "You would no 
more do it than you would climb the eastern face of Mount 
Everest."

She gives him a hard look. Maybe she's resentful about the 
fishing trip. "That settles it," she says. "Gary, count me 
in." 

I expect her to change her mind, but two days later I pick her 
up in my van and we drive 250 miles to the beach holiday 
resort where the trade show is being held. "Now look," I say. 
"Just have a nice holiday. Go swimming or something. You don't 
have to do this."

She stretches her arms on the seat beside me. "I won't let you 
down. Anything beats alcoholics. It might just be fun."

She's twenty-five and very much a medium sort of woman--medium 
height, size, even mediumly attractive. She's no bimbo, 
though. Not in the same suburb. For a start, she is dark-
haired, and further, that hair is cut stylishly short. Whoever 
heard of a bimbo without long blonde hair? Neither does Fran 
have big tits. That puts her out of it on two counts.

We have adjacent rooms in the hotel. I unpack and pick up the 
bimbo bag. It hasn't been opened since the gear was laundered 
after the last trade show. I knock on her door, she lets me 
in, and I throw the bag on the bed. "The moment of truth," I 
tell her. "You can still back out."

Fran unzips the bag curiously and picks out a small stretch 
singlet, white, with our company logo mid-chest. She holds it 
up to me. "You said tee shirt," she accuses me.

I scratch my ear lobe. "Um, yes, but it's high summer. The tee 
shirt is the winter uniform."

She digs further into the bag and fishes out a tiny white 
mini-skirt. "Is this legal?"
 
I shrug and she gives me a long and careful look, as though 
considering her situation. Then she laughs. "What the hell. 
Let's do it."

She sits on the edge of the bed and quickly slips her jeans 
down her legs. I look in some astonishment as she stands in 
sky-blue pants and shakes the mini-skirt out in front of her. 
Gee. She's looking trim and well designed. Is that a teasing 
of dark pubic hair I can see behind the tight cloth, or just a 
shadow? She winds the skirt around her waist and buttons it.

"It fits pretty well," she says, patting her hips.

Yes. True. It does.

She crosses her arms and whisks the long-sleeved polo shirt 
over her head and drops it on the bed. Her light-blue bra 
matches her pants. Nice. Pretty. She fills the cups with a 
smooth curve. She has a dark beauty spot on the upper slope of 
her left breast.

Fran slips the singlet over head and tugs it into place. She 
turns around and steps towards a mirror. "Well," she says, 
inspecting herself. The bra straps are visible on her 
shoulders. "That's just not good enough."

She takes off the singlet and hands it to me. "Hold this for a 
second," she says.

She reaches around, unhooks the bra, and slides it off her 
shoulders and down her arms. She takes the singlet from me and 
pulls it over her head again. I get a good, long, excellent 
look at her bare breasts. They are quite outstanding. 
Beautiful curve and shape. Nine-and-a-half out of ten, Fran. 
Lovely.

The singlet is tight, and her nipples poke out sharply. "Hmm," 
she says, looking in the mirror and shrugging her breasts into 
position with her hands. "Better, I think." She turns around 
and spreads her arms wide. "What's the verdict, Gary?"

"Impressive," I say carefully. "You've been hiding an 
extremely decent body from me these past couple of years."

She can't disguise that she's pleased. "I don't recall you 
ever asking to see it," she says.

"But, Fran, it belongs to my best friend."

The smile falls from her face instantly. "It most certainly 
does not," she says sharply. "I do what I like."

Right. Noted. She's no bimbo, remember. She's only dressed 
like one.

"I have to do the set-up downstairs," I say.

"I'll help you," she says, picking up the canvas shoes that go 
with the mini-skirt and the singlet.

"The show doesn't start till tomorrow," I tell her. "You don't 
have to wear the outfit yet."

"Right," she says, unclasping the skirt and letting it fall to 
the carpet. She draws the singlet over her head and I get the 
show all over again. Just Fran in those tight little blue 
pants. Wow.

"You're very flattering," she says, slipping the polo shirt 
over her head and picking up the jeans.

"I didn't say a word," I say.

"Your eyes say it better," she says.

We work for nearly three hours putting the stall together and 
carrying in the equipment from the van. She's more useful than 
any bimbo I've ever had working for me, and she can do most 
things without instruction or advice. She uses her brains to 
work out where things go and what they should be saying. It 
ends up being a much better display than I usually do.

"You want to go out to eat?" I ask when we've finished.

"I'm jiggered," she says, stretching her arms. "I vote for a 
long hot bath, then maybe eating in."

I expect not to see any more of her that night, but twenty 
minutes have not passed before she's knocking on my door. Her 
bath taps are making shuddering noises and spitting brown 
water. Can she use my bathroom?

I order room service for both of us and try not to think about 
Fran sloshing around in my bathtub. I have this uncomfortable 
feeling that if I go next door and turn on her taps I'll find 
nothing wrong with them. Something is going on here. I know 
that. But I'm not sure I want to know it. Shane is an old and 
close friend. I was best man at their wedding.

She emerges in due course, wearing a Chinese-style bathrobe, 
and immediately attacks one of the deluxe hamburgers delivered 
by room service. She lifts her legs and sticks them on the 
chair beside me. "Sore feet," she says indistinctly, eating. 
"I usually sit down while working."

I reach out and begin massaging a foot. She stretches out her 
toes, wriggling them, and she sighs deeply. "Well, that 
settles it," she says. "I will definitely sleep with a man who 
massages my feet."

I continue the foot massage without comment. I can't tell 
whether or not she's serious.

"I hadn't picked you as the shy type," she says, seeing inside 
me too easily for comfort. "I'm definitely here this weekend 
to have a good time. If you're not up to it, say so. I'll get 
dressed, go downstairs, and pick up a man at the bar."

"I can't let you do that," I say, meaning it in many ways.

"Good," she says, "because I have a hunch about you, Gary."

"A hunch?"

"Never mind," she says.

I continue working on her feet. "Fran, I have this ethical 
problem."

"Okay," she says. "Let's talk about Shane, then." She shuffles 
her chair closer to me. "My calves, too," she says. "Do my 
calves."

I work the smooth muscles of her calves. "I'm almost faithful 
to Shane," she says.

"Almost?"

"Two in two years," she says. "That's not so bad, is it? One 
per year? Just little flings. Nothing serious and no harm 
done."

"I'm not married," I say. "I'm not qualified to comment."

"I work hard," she says. "I have a shitty job, and even though 
it has its rewards, sometimes the sheer depression of it gets 
me down. I need the occasional distraction, and this weekend 
comes just at the right time."

"Still doesn't solve my ethical problem," I say.

"Oh, poo to that," she says. "Special circumstance, a matter 
of convenience, one off. We'll grow old and grey and it will 
never be mentioned again." She wriggles her legs. "You have 
good hands," she says. "My legs are sore from top to bottom."

"Then you'd better get on the bed," I say.

She gets up from the chair, unties the bathrobe, and slips it 
off. Naked, she walks over to the bed and flops on it face 
down. "Your admirable consideration for Shane is duly noted," 
she says. "But let's get real, Gary. I can have you any time I 
like." She chuckles to herself. "But in deference to your 
sensitivity, we won't kiss on the lips."

I sit on the edge of the bed and slide the heel of my hand 
hard down the back of her thigh. She sighs and her legs part a 
little. Curled fringes of dark pubic hair are visible, poking 
through. Fran is a hot number. She's red-hot sexier than any 
woman I've run across in a long time. I hope Shane is happily 
catching loads of fish, because my struggle with my conscience 
is finished, and I'm planning on tagging his wife.

I lower my head and lightly brush my lips across a firm 
buttock. She smells fresh and clean, like all that stuff on 
the shelf in a woman's bathroom. My hand slides between her 
legs and my knuckles brush her snatch. She jumps from the 
contact, and instantly rolls over and sits up.

"Hell, I'm as randy as a cat," she mutters, reaching for the 
belt of my trousers. "Let's skip the preliminaries and come 
back to them later."

I stand and take off my clothes in a hurry. My cock stands 
out, hard. "Yes," she hisses, grabbing it. "My hunch was 
right."

I tumble down on the bed with her, my hands on her breasts. 
"Hunch?" I ask.

"Never mind," she says, urging me with impatient hands to 
climb across her body and get between her legs.

All doubts are blown away. She's going to get it. She wants 
it, and I'm going to give it to her.

Then the phone rings.

What? Where? It's a cell phone. Whose? Not mine.

"Fuck," says Fran sourly. She eases out from under me, pads 
across to the bathrobe hanging on the back of the chair, and 
fishes the ringing phone out of a deep pocket.

Yeah, terrific. It's Shane, ringing in from a fishing village 
where they've put in to offload an ill crew member. My cock 
starts to wilt guiltily.

Yes, she tells her husband, I'm in bed. Early start in the 
morning. Yes, Gary is fine. He worked hard all afternoon 
setting up the display. Yes, it's all great fun so far. Quite 
an adventure.

Meanwhile she has her eyes on my flagging cock. She sits down 
on the bed, rescues it with a hand, and slips her mouth over 
it. Wow. That works miracles.

She lifts her head but keeps squeezing my cock in her hand. 
What's that? Sorry, you're breaking up. Oh yes. Right. She 
leans down again and licks the head of my cock like it's an 
ice cream. Sensational.

Switching the phone to the other ear, she climbs on the bed 
and kneels astride my body. Wait a second, she says to Shane. 
There's something urgent I have to do.

She puts the phone on the bed, picks up my cock, points it 
straight up, and sinks her cunt smoothly down its length. I'm 
buried to the hilt inside her. She picks up the phone. I'm 
back, she says. No, no, just a maddening itch I had to 
scratch. It's better now.

I'm staggered by her cool audacity. She's sitting on my cock, 
wriggling, squirming, fluttering her eyelids, and at the same 
time chatting nervelessly to her husband on the telephone. I 
make a mental note and underline it. Don't get married. I 
could end up with a woman like Fran, and find I'm hopelessly 
out of my depth.

Yes, will do, she says. Bye darling. Enjoy yourself. Yes, I 
will too. Promise. She sits up straight, turns off the phone, 
and drops it on the bed.

"Now then," she says, bending towards me, taking my embedded 
cock with her. She leans her weight on straight arms, hovering 
over me. "Remind me, petal. What were we doing?"

"Jesus, you are starting to scare me," I say.

She chuckles. "This is already tremendous fun, and I haven't 
even got warmed up yet."

She grinds her pelvis hard into me, squirming and sliding, and 
her eyes slip away from mine, unfocused. "Ooh, petal, petal," 
she whispers. "I am really terribly, terribly excited. This is 
all so deliciously wicked."

Yes. And I've been casting her as aloof and conservative, a 
fine and proper woman who does fine and proper things. I watch 
her with some detachment, because little is required of me. 
She's doing all the work. Lovely breasts, not large, but 
pleasing to the eye. Little nipples hard. Dark eyes with a 
sleepy cast to them. But maybe that's lust. She's certainly in 
lust.

She comes in jerks and shudders, eyes shut tight. Then she 
lowers her body slowly to mine, pressing her breasts against 
my stomach and laying her head on my chest. My cock remains 
locked away inside her, unyielding. She kisses my nipple 
lazily. "Fabulous," she murmurs.  

"You're easily pleased," I say. "I did nothing."

"You did plenty," she says. "You have a lovely thick cock, and 
it fits me very well."

"The hunch?"

"The hunch," she confirms. "The best fuck I ever had was a guy 
with a thick cock. They don't have to be long, but thick is 
good. Well, for me, anyway."

"And Shane?" I ask, because I can't help myself.

"Let's not think about Shane," she says. "Let's think about 
you rolling me over and fucking me like a jack-hammer."

Right. Good plan. I wrap my arms tightly around her and spin 
her over. "Prepare to be pummelled," I growl theatrically.

"Big talk," she jeers happily. "I'll take everything you've 
got and three times more than that."

She almost puts me off my stroke, because I have this feeling 
it's not an idle boast. I slam into her and hit the 
accelerator, released from stasis. Adrenalin surges. The world 
400 metres record. I'm going for it, flat out, under pressure, 
all muscles straining. In the back straight, fire in the thigh 
muscles, pushing, summoning up more speed and energy. Around 
the bend, towards the home straight, tired now but still in 
rhythm, maintaining power. One last supreme effort. The finish 
line, go for it, give it all. Nearly there. Lift, thrust, yes.

I lift my head from her shoulder. It's been there a little 
while. She's looking at me wide-eyed. "What the hell was 
that?" she asks.

"I'm not sure," I confess. "Were you there? Did you see it?"

She reaches up, pulls my head down, and kisses me slushily. On 
the mouth.

"Hey," I say, pulling away. "No kissing on the lips. You 
said."

"But I like you," she says. "Much better than I thought I 
would. I'm starting to learn what Shane sees in you."

"Shucks, Fran. You're just sentimental because you've been 
fucked."

She laughs delightedly. "There's an awful lot you don't know 
about me yet, Gary."

She can say that again.

We sleep together comfortably, but not entwined. It takes a 
long time of sleeping in partnership to get that to work. I 
wake at first light with a hard-on and a hand on it. Not my 
hand. I'm flat on my back, the sheets are thrown off the bed, 
and Fran is just about to jump on me.

"I dreamed about you," she says. "Then I woke up and found you 
here. What luck."

"What did you dream?"

"I dreamt you had a fat cock," she says, lowering herself on 
it.

"Fran, are you this passionate with your husband?"

"Lord, no," she says. "I'm too stressed out by work. There's 
never the time. But this is different. I'm on holiday."

"You're not, you know. You have to be on the floor by 8:30, 
big smile and nipples sticking out."

"People get paid for that?" she asks, grinding into me.

"All those hundreds of geeks staring at your tits and trying 
to see up your skirt," I tell her.

"Ooh," she says, grinding furiously. "The dirty little 
scumbags. Do they all want to fuck me?"

"They want you to take them out the back, they want you to 
suck their cocks, and they want to come all over your face," I 
say. "I know geeks. That's what they want. Trust me."

She comes in an avalanche of trembles and quakes. "Oh boy," 
she says, when she calms down and lifts her head. "Gary, you 
are a very filthy person."

"And you're not?"

She smirks. "Only on holidays." She lifts off me, rolls off 
the bed, and walks towards the bathroom. "I'm taking a 
shower," she says. "If you join me I'll make it worth your 
while."

She does. Kneeling on the floor of the shower stall, she sucks 
me dry.

Whatever girls do, clever girls do it better. Fran is a 
terrific trade show bimbo. Sales that day are up by 35 per 
cent on the previous year. She reels those guys in, has some 
of them sold on the product before they reach me. She also 
works her pretty little butt off. At the end of the day she's 
shagged--too shagged for shagging, in fact.

"I know you know I love you," she says when the big doors 
close, "but you can fuck yourself tonight. I'm having a bath 
and going straight to bed. On my own."

"What about those spitting taps?"

"I'll just bet they were fixed today," she says.

Around 9:30 the phone rings. "I had a little sleep and I'm 
feeling refreshed," Fran says, calling from next door. "Make 
me an offer I can't refuse."

I'm quite tired myself. "We could curl up and go to sleep 
together," I suggest.

"Rejected. Do better."

"I'll bang you like a pile-driver."

"Rejected. Better."

"I'll tie you to the bed and abuse your body."

Pause. "Interesting, but not really my thing. Better."

"You can tie me to the bed and . . ."

She's hung up. I still have the phone in my hand when she 
knocks at my door. "It's a deal," she says, sweeping past me.

We use spare bimbo singlets. She ties me snugly, arms and legs 
spread. I test the bonds and I can probably break free if I 
want to, but I guess that's not the point.       

She slips off the bathrobe and she's naked. She eyes my slack 
cock. "I see," she says. "Already he's jaded. What use is a 
man who can't get it up?" She holds out a hand when I try to 
speak. "No excuses, please," she says. "Besides, I already 
know the answer."

She kneels astride my chest. "Hang your tongue out, Gary," she 
says. "A man with a soft cock condemns himself to serious 
pussy licking."

She's none too gentle about it, plonking her cunt heavily on 
my mouth and squeezing the sides of my head with her thighs. 
I'm surrounded by overpowering woman, and it's quite 
claustrophobic. "Lick," she orders, jiggling. "Don't just lie 
there, you soft cock."

I lash around with my tongue. It's hard work, and my neck 
hurts from the strain. She has her hands in my hair, tugging, 
urging me. "Golly gosh, get some lessons, man," she says 
impatiently. Hmm. I wonder who from. Shane, perhaps?

Apparently tired of my tentative probing, she starts mashing 
herself against my mouth. Her pubic hair tickles my nostrils. 
I begin to worry about being smothered. 

Suddenly, air. She backs off. I blink at the light, breathing 
hard. She's sliding down my body, and once again she impales 
herself on my hard cock.

"Just as well you got this up," she says. "You are the most 
hopeless pussy licker I have ever encountered."

She grinds against me, getting to her orgasm quickly. After 
she rests, she slips off me and sits on the bed. "Poor old 
Gary," she says, looking at my stiff cock. "He hasn't even got 
off yet." She stands and stretches her arms. "Oh well, too 
bad. I'm off to my own bed now. I'll see you in the morning."

Grrr. I pull the bindings apart with a surge of strength and 
kick free. She's giggling, snatching up her coat, running for 
the door. I catch her because she stops to put the coat on.

I tumble her down to the carpet, spin her over, grab her hips, 
and haul her into a kneeling position. I sweep the coat over 
her back and ram my cock into her cunt.

I take her doggy style, hard. It's fantastic. I come in teeth-
gritting spasms. Head on the floor, she comes too, swearing at 
something. I hope it's not me.

We stretch out beside each other on the carpet near the door. 
"I'll tell you something," she says, after a while.

"Yeah?"

"I never had better sex in my life than this weekend. It's 
scary."

Yeah. It is. I know exactly what she means. "Fran, you're 
married," I say gently. "And to one of the great guys, too."

She sits up and looks at me. "I could and would leave him for 
sex like this," she says. "I'm deadly serious."

Yeah. She is that. "Maybe it's just wild weekend stuff for 
both of us," I say.

"Maybe," she says, standing up. "Let's get to bed."

We cuddle together under the sheets, both thinking dangerously 
but not talking about it. Eventually we fall asleep. Or I do, 
at least.

In the morning we eat breakfast sombrely, pack our bags, and 
head for the trade show hall to dismantle the stand. The hard 
work shunts other issues aside.

We drive away in the van, heading for home. Our two homes. 
Fran is not talking, and that's fine with me. I have no idea 
what to say.

"Pull over," she says suddenly, pointing to a sign. It's the 
entrance to a small national park. "Let's stretch our legs."

We wander down a path beneath the forest canopy. We come to a 
stream. She stops, looking at it. Then she turns around to 
face me. "Kiss me," she says.

I do. We kiss, and it takes a long, long time. Too long, 
because the wind changes while we're doing it.

When we break she keeps her arms around my neck. "Damn you, 
Gary," she says softly, and her face looks oddly crumpled. 
"You are the best kisser I ever met."

Her mouth is too close not to kiss it again. Complex and 
swirling emotions overpower me and all of them flow from me to 
her. Oh God, Fran. What now?

We break again, and there are the smudges of tears in her 
eyes. "Damn you," she says again, and her voice is trembling

We kiss a third time and the die is cast.

"I love you," I say to her, surprised to hear my voice saying 
it, but knowing it to be true. I never want to be away from 
her.

"Damn you," she says. "I hate you because I love you too."

"Fran, what are we going to do?"

"I don't know," she says, and I can see she means it.

The wind has changed and we are stuck with each other, one way 
or the other, for better or worse.

ENDS

Edited by Ruthie and Nat.

* DrSpin/Neil Anthony is at http://www.ruthiesclub.com or on 
email at neilanthony@austarnet.com.au

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