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Message-ID: <43467asstr$1058785802@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: DrSpin <drspin@newsguy.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Black Spider in B Cup, White (MF+) (An Ace Dyson story) ~ by DrSpin (NEW to ASSM)
Date: Mon, 21 Jul 2003 07:10:02 -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

Black Spider in B Cup, White (MF+)
(An Ace Dyson Adventure)
by Neil Anthony/DrSpin

---------------------------------------------------------
* This story is published here by kind permission of Ruthie's 
Club, where it appeared illustrated by Lloyd W. Meek 
under an exclusivity period for six months. Ruthie's Club 
(http://www.ruthiesclub.com) carries about 70 more of my new 
stories. 

* The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers 
and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to:
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.
---------------------------------------------------------

Breaking open the tranquillity of a bush clearing on a 
beautiful spring evening, Colonel Ruth Webster burst through 
the undergrowth in a straight line like a human tank. She'd 
been down at the creek taking a wash in the last of the light. 
Her legs pumped like a footballer on a suicide dash for the 
white line, and her arms were windmilling and scrabbling 
behind her back as she rushed headlong towards me. She was 
wearing only a white bra.

The Colonel certainly kept herself fit. Those long hours in 
the gym had paid off nicely. Nice long, lean body. Very, very 
nice.

She stopped dead, directly in front of me, desperate horror 
etched on her face. Then she reached behind with both arms, 
snatched off her bra, and dashed it to the ground. She jumped 
a pace back and stood mute and totally naked, her eyes wide in 
shock. Her breasts swayed for a moment. The nipples were 
diamond-hard.

Well, okay. Just when I was thinking our uneasy relationship 
could not have been put under more strain, things were 
suddenly looking up. It had been a difficult weekend, with 
misunderstandings piling up. For the last hour she hadn't said 
a word to me because she thought I'd made an improper 
suggestion about the night's sleeping arrangements beside a 
cosy and lonely campfire. Gee, it had only been a constructive 
suggestion about conserving body warmth.
 
"Looking good, ma'am," I said to her cheerfully. "Can I take 
it we're back on friendly terms?"

Her mouth opened but she couldn't seem to speak. Then she 
whispered something I could not hear.

"Pardon, ma'am? May I be of service?"

"Spider," she gurgled, getting her voice to work.

"Spider?"

She pointed down at her bra, hand trembling. "Spider," she 
said again, in a voice of deepest dread she'd borrowed from a 
demon of the second tier of Hell.

Spider? What spider? Where?

"SPIDER!" she screamed at me in a voice so shatteringly loud a 
flock of pink-and-grey galahs took off in alarm from their 
roost in a nearby tree, squawking disapproval.

"Easy, easy," I muttered. I picked up the bra by the strap and 
dangled it in front of me. A very big and very hairy spider 
with very long legs scuttled from inside a bra cup, climbed 
the strap, jumped on my hand, scrabbled up my arm to my 
shoulder, took a pause with two front legs in the air while it 
had a look around to see what was happening, then jumped 
lightly to the ground and sped away into the bushes.

"Just a tarantula," I said, holding out the bra to her. 
"They're harmless."

She looked at me blankly. Then her eyes crossed, rolled back 
in her head, and she fainted.

Damn. Why was this woman always such a trial to me? I looked 
at her as she lay crumpled on the grass, one arm flung wide 
and the other fallen between her thighs. She really did have 
an excellent figure. Nice curly pubic hair. Fluffy. And her 
breasts were quite lovely.

What do you do with a naked boss lying unconscious at your 
feet? Good question. I studied her and tried to come up with 
an answer that wouldn't get me into big mobs of trouble.

* * *   
  
Right back at the start, I had immediate feelings of 
foreboding. I looked at the memo from the Colonel and scowled. 
It was headed "Operation Executive Edge," and it announced a 
"challenge for leaders" at a "rustic retreat" to hone 
"decision-making focus" among executive-level employees at 
Pacific Rimfire Australia.

The only time I really liked the word "executive" was when I 
looked at my salary notification slip. In all other 
circumstances, that word made me itchy and uncomfortable. One, 
it sounded like hard work over long hours and, two, it 
conjured up images of people who didn't look like me. It was 
like belonging to a gentlemen's club when you knew, deep down, 
you were no gentleman, and everyone else knew it, too.

There was no getting out of it. I scanned the memo quickly for 
the dreaded word "compulsory" or its unpleasant cousin 
"mandatory," and was feeling better until I got to the second 
page. In the Colonel's breezy confident handwriting, there was 
a note for me. It said: "Dyson -- don't even think about it."

The bloody woman could read my mind through several office 
walls.

The bus left from outside the front entrance of Pacific 
Rimfire at six am on Friday morning. I made it with at least 
20 seconds to spare. The seats were all full but for one near 
the front, and I slung my travel bag into the rack and fell 
heavily into the seat as the bus took off. My travelling 
companion was an interesting little thing I'd never seen 
before. She had close-cut black hair, dark eyes, black 
clothes, deep-purple lipstick and eye shadow, a little itty-
bitty figure, a chrome stud in the side of her nose, another 
below her bottom lip, at least five small rings in her 
eyebrows, and many more hanging off her ears.

"Kirsty Thunt," she said. "I'm from the Hobart office."

"Thirsty what?" I asked before I could stop myself, noting 
also a stud in her tongue.

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I know. You and a thousand others. 
I'm getting married tomorrow week and then I'll be Kirsty 
Kelly. I can't wait."

"Congratulations," I said with some sympathy.

"I guess," she said enigmatically. Then: "Hey listen, I was 
hoping Ace Dyson would be on this trip. Maybe you could point 
him out. Do you know him?"

"Dyson? Why?"

She rolled her eyes again. It looked like she did that a lot. 
"I'm only the number three in the Hobart office. The boss and 
the number two are both ill, so I had to come to Sydney." 

She swept her eyes over me quickly and dismissively. "No 
offence, dude, but I'm not into this leadership course stuff 
and I'm hoping to have a little fun while I'm here. That guy 
Dyson has a reputation you wouldn't believe."

"I probably wouldn't," I agreed. "But, hey, Thirsty, aren't 
you getting married."

Eyes rolled. "All the more reason," she said. "I'll probably 
never get the chance again."

A right little bundle of trouble. Which was just the way I 
liked them. Plus she had rings and piercings adorning every 
appendage I could see, and it was fair bet she wouldn't pass 
naked through a metal detector without setting off a frenzy of 
sirens and alarm bells.   

A figure loomed up beside me in the aisle of the bus, and I 
looked up to see Colonel Ruth Webster frowning down at me. 
"Nice of you to join us, Dyson," she said with some irony.  
"Take my seat further back in the bus. There's somebody who 
wants to talk to you."

I got up and eased around the Colonel. Kirsty Thunt rolled her 
eyes at me. You're Ace Dyson, her expression was saying? Gee, 
what a disappointment.

I walked to the back of the bus and saw an empty seat beside a 
woman wearing a black felt hat and sunglasses. I knew it was a 
woman because I saw a dress and legs. She had a newspaper up 
close to her face, but I didn't know her from around the 
office. 

"Morning," I said. "Dyson's the name. Call me Ace."

She lowered the newspaper and took off the glasses. Golden, 
caramel eyes. Lipstick sinfully red. "Darr-ling!" she said in 
mock admonishment. "You don't recognise a lady who sucked your 
cock?" She whipped off the hat and flashed her white-blonde 
crew cut. "And I swallowed, too, because I thought you were so 
sweet."   

Fuck me. I was sitting in a bus heading to a place called 
Upper Yuralla with the internationally feared boss of Pacific 
Rimfire's Washington bureau, Holly Hooper. Fuck me bent over a 
sheep's back. She was a woman to be reckoned with. I'd 
reckoned with her in Buenos Aires and reckoned myself lucky to 
come out alive.

Holly Hooper. She would be with us at Upper Yuralla. Fuck me 
with a stump-jump plough.

She grinned at me. "Ace, cutie pie, you look like you've just 
eaten something you shouldn't."

"Jesus, Holly," I said, unrecovered. "What the hell are you 
doing here?"

She smiled maliciously. "I'm the assessor for this little 
gangbang," she said. "Judge, jury, executioner. So watch out 
for your pretty butt, boy, because this time it's mine."

Holly had a penchant for pliable men who didn't object to 
being anally ploughed with a lime-green dildo. I had narrowly 
escaped in Buenos Aires with my dignity intact.

"Colonel Webster asked you to be a judge?" Given their past 
history of intense rivalry, it was indeed a surprise.

"I was passing through Singapore when I heard about it, so I 
made a few phone calls and re-organised it for her," Holly 
said. "Ruthie says she's happy about that, but I think she's 
telling fibs." Her gold-flecked eyes glinted. "After all, it 
means I get to judge her, too."

Cyclone warning. Happy-go-lucky blokes like Mrs. Dyson's 
first-born son should not get caught in the middle when 
formidable females face off and make friction. I resolved 
there and then to adopt a submarine-like profile during the 
course of Operation Executive Edge. Ruth Webster and Holly 
Hooper had been best friends in their college days, but in the 
way that only women operated, being best friends meant they 
hated each other at least half the time. Holly had come 
provocatively to Australia to make trouble, and there was no 
doubt at all she would succeed.

The Colonel came back to retrieve her seat. "Who is that 
person?" she asked me.

"You mean Thirsty, the Goth girl? I think she's the 
receptionist in the Hobart office."

* * *  

Upper Yuralla had a sawmill until sawmills became political 
sawdust. The surrounding forests, no longer logged, loomed 
huge and dense. With no purpose other than as a place to slow 
down on the road, the hamlet had gone to sleep. It was the 
sort of place where, at any time of the day or night, a 
resident would come out of a door, look at you blankly, and 
say: "Huh?"

The town's one remaining industry was based around the old 
sawmill, about 10 kilometres distant and deep in the bush. The 
accommodation quarters had been expanded and modernised, there 
was a restaurant, three conference rooms, a gymnasium, and 
sundry other alleged attractions to snare the executive 
jamboree trade. It was not luxurious but it was comfortable 
enough.

Kirsty Thunt looked at the swimming pool with undisguised 
horror as we climbed off the bus. "Don't let them drown me, 
Ace," she said. "I don't do water."

Probably a good thing. She'd likely turn the pool black with 
her make-up and hair dye.

There was a rebellious and mischievous irreverence about 
Thirsty that appealed. She was a skinny little thing, but I 
had a strong hunch that under her CD-cover-illustration 
disguise she was a durable filly. I had heard a rumour that at 
some stage during the weekend we'd be paired off for some sort 
of physical challenge. Maybe, I thought, I could link up with 
Thirsty and we'd slip off into the bushes and fuck the whole 
thing away. No offence, dude, she'd said back on the bus, but 
I thought you'd be more like, you know, a dangerous dude. But 
hey, she said, there's no other dude around who even half 
looks like a dude, dude. I think she meant I was better than a 
poke in the eye with a blunt stick.

The first session of the course got under way immediately 
after lunch. Some guy had a PowerPoint display. He was excited 
about a whole load of things that made no sense to me and he 
spoke a buzzword language I didn't understand and didn't want 
to. I drifted off into daydreams about little Chinese sheilas 
with matt-black pubic hair. 

We were interviewed. I sat down in a small office to be asked 
questions by a super-efficient woman who had more coloured 
pens than a kindergarten class. She was an outsider, called in 
by PRI to give objective assessments, and she asked me about a 
range of issues that called for my opinion. No problem. I've 
always had opinions. I looked out the window. It was a nice 
spring day, and I had an urge to go out there and inhale the 
tangy air of the Australian bush. 

She took off her glasses and placed them carefully on the 
desk. Uh-oh. A bad sign.

"Mr. Dyson," she said sharply. "I get the impression you are 
not taking this seriously."

Fuck it. What had I said? Something about women in the 
workplace. I backtracked. Yes, she'd asked whether male 
patronising of females in the workplace should be regarded as 
a serious matter. "I shouldn't worry your pretty little head 
about that, dear," I'd answered.

Underneath a primly-professional exterior, she certainly had a 
pretty head on a body that demanded to be described as lush. 
Not so young, maybe, but stocked and stacked with rich 
experience. Hmm, I pondered. Thirsty might not turn out to be 
my cup of tea, and Holly Hooper was not a legitimate target 
for a clean-living heterosexual predator. This sheila had an 
itchy look about her. Hmm. A bloke could do worse.

But while I was undressing her with mental hands, she was 
glaring at me, waiting for a response. She had a nameplate on 
the desk and I looked at it for the first time. Dr. Delia 
Dohickey, it said, and there was an unreadable string of 
letters below it containing semi-words like (Hon.) and (Dipl.) 
and (Ph.D.).

"Er, look, doc," I said. "It was a joke. One of those 
automatic responses. You do it without thinking." I gave her 
the Dyson Special winning smile. "No need to get your knickers 
in a knot, luvvy."

Her disapproval could not have been more pronounced. "I see I 
have discovered the group smart-arse," she said acidly. 
"There's always one."

"I shouldn't be surprised," I said cheerfully. "Since we're 
getting to know each other, you can call me Ace."

She bent me a fractional and frosty smile, then reached for a 
bound folder and opened it. "Dyson, Dyson," she muttered. "Ah, 
yes." She stabbed a finger at the page. "Executive Assistant, 
Special Projects, answerable directly to the Chief Executive 
Officer." She closed the folder. "So tell me, Ace," she said, 
accenting my name with sneering irony, "what is it that you 
do?"

"Excellent question," I said. "As far I can see, I get treated 
like dirt and patronised by boss ladies. Let me know if you 
discover anything different. I'd be curious."

Suddenly she was keenly interested. "Yes?" she asked silkily. 
"Let's talk about this, Ace."

I might not have any letters after my name, but I hadn't 
reached the ripe old age of 32 by not knowing about landmines, 
booby traps, and ambitious women. Dr. Dohickey was looking to 
fry a bigger fish, and she saw me as a juicy piece of bait.

"Gee, I couldn't talk formally, doc," I said. I have always 
been attracted to ambitious women. "After hours, maybe?"

She sat back in her chair. Nice tits. Heavyish, out there, 
plenty to go around. "Maybe," she said, thinking about it.

Piece of cake.

* * * 

Holly Hooper had been too quiet, and sooner or later she was 
going to throw a hand grenade. The last instruction segment of 
the Friday afternoon belonged to her, and she did. Game time, 
she announced. My heart sank. Corporate games, teamwork, 
bonding, leadership, and all that sort of shit. She rattled 
off names from a sheet. Two teams, gold and green. Gold 
Leader, Webster. Green Leader, Dyson. 

I cursed Holly Hooper's bony arse and wished her a plague of 
piles. 

Each team had a bare fifteen minutes to organise a little 
concert. It wasn't a test of talent, Holly explained, but of 
decision-making, leadership, teamwork, and making the best of 
what was available. She handed me a list of compulsory acts to 
be performed.

I scanned the list quickly. "You bitch," I hissed at her. She 
smiled her dangerous red smile.

"I must tell you," she said to the audience at large, "that 
the last act on the list is a striptease. I stress that it is 
a compulsory test of job-sharing and teamwork. One person on 
each team must do it, and do it all the way. The Full Monty, 
boys and girls. Failure to perform will mean disqualification 
for the entire team."

I gathered Green Team together. A tap dance. Yeah, I could do 
that. I did not make it known, but my mother made me do tap 
dancing. A man who can dance will never want for company, 
she'd said. I zipped through the rest of the list. 
Shakespeare, no problem. Doug Spellman put up his hand for 
that. And we had two part-time singers and a piano player. No 
problem. But the striptease. . . What the fuck about the 
striptease? Who the fuck? I looked hopefully at Kirsty Thunt.

"No way, dude," she said flatly. "You can get rooted, this 
team can get rooted, and Pacific Rimfire can get rooted."

I looked around the circle of faces of Team Green and it was 
like looking at stone statues on Easter Island. They weren't 
going to be budged.

"We're out of time," I said, looking at my watch. "I have to 
do a tap dance. We'll make the rest of it up as we go."

I coulda been a contender. Really. I really can tap dance. 
Five years of tap dancing classes at an impressionable age 
never wears off. I did a remembered routine and it came out 
fine, including the tricky Fred Astaire collapse of the 
bentwood chair on which I'd spent countless hours as a callow 
youth. Sustained applause.

We were kicking Gold Team arse until Dougie swept dramatically 
to the floor to do the Shakespearean rendition. Henry V. On 
and on he went. On and on. Fuck. How long was it until we got 
to St. Crispin's Day? Meanwhile, the striptease was coming 
up and I still had no takers. And my Greens would be on first.

"I'll give you five hundred bucks," I whispered to Thirsty as 
Dougie droned on.

"Go fuck your fist, dude," she said without hesitation.

I wandered to the makeshift stage prepared to concede defeat. 
Hang on, I thought. A striptease does not have to be performed 
by a sheila. I started to tap dance once again.

"Hey, Ace," shouted a man from the audience. "We've seen it 
already."

"Not this you haven't," I shouted back, ripping my shirt over 
my head.

"I can name a few women who have," shouted another man.

Amid laughter and applause, I began shedding clothes while tap 
dancing. Apart from a bit of undignified hopping about on one 
leg and then the other, it went smoothly. I danced a bit, I 
shed a bit, and I got naked. Except for the shoes and socks. 
You can't tap dance in bare feet, you know. That would be like 
watching The Rocky Horror Picture Show with the sound turned 
off.

There's another problem with a tap dance striptease. Things 
jiggle, and they do so fairly violently. I stopped before I 
gave myself a hernia, bowed to the audience, to the devious 
administrator bitch, and to my opponent who ventured to the 
stage applauding politely.

"Gold Team concedes," the Colonel announced crisply. She 
turned, shook my hand and, to my immense surprise, smacked me 
smartly and almost approvingly on the bare buttock.

But the most impressed was Thirsty. "Dude!" she said, rolling 
her eyes.

"I'm in cabin 14," I said to her as I dressed. "Six pm sharp. 
Be there."

"Cool," she said.

* * *  

I viewed the naked Kirsty Thunt with trepidation. From head to 
foot, she glinted with rings, hooks, and studs. She was a 
living Turkish bazaar, and I thought maybe if went body to 
body with her I'd get snagged like a bluefin tuna on a multi-
hooked Japanese long line.

"Wassamatta?" she asked, noting my hesitation and lifting her 
head from my pillow. "Don't fancy me?" She looked down the 
not-long length of her body. "Yeah, I got no tits to speak of. 
So what?"

I did indeed fancy her, and as I stood by the bed, my extended 
dick could attest to it. The issue was all about coming to 
grips with what to do about it. "Well," I said, rubbing my 
chin thoughtfully, "at least you don't have tattoos."

She grinned at me and flipped over on all fours, poking her 
backside in the air. "You'll have to get up real close to see 
it," she said.

I got up real close. Ah yes, in the restricted, soft, and shy 
space between anus and vagina, a tiny red-and-blue devil.

"Melbourne Demons," she said. "My football team."

A true fan.

"While I'm in this position," she said, "I should tell you I 
don't at all mind a bit of the anal."

Hmm. Not my favourite way to travel.

"And I can also stand a bit of a thrashing," she added. "Are 
you into pain, Ace?"

I shuddered. I wasn't, especially my own.

"One other thing," she said, rolling over and sitting up on 
the edge of the bed. "For some reason it's best not to think 
about, I really like a guy cumming all over my face."

Ah. A way forward at last. "Thirsty," I said, advancing. "You 
are a beautiful human being."

I can recommend being fellated by a studded tongue. There's a 
little hard bump that finds its way into all the good places. 
I blessed Thirsty's face with an expressive spray of regard 
for her talents.    

* * *

Plump yabbies on the hot plate, freshly-caught stream trout 
baked whole, and lean beef on the grill. This was food to get 
the juices flowing, and I needed replenishment after having 
been juiced out by Thirsty, who I'd left sleeping in my bed. 
On a mild evening under the stars, I clutched an ice-cold 
Crownie and wandered almost euphorically through knots of 
people, smiling, nodding, inclining my head, at peace with the 
world.

"Mr. Dyson. Over here." I looked around for the source of the 
voice. "Here, over here, straight ahead." Definitely female, 
but who was she? Where was she? Hiding in the bushes? I walked 
forward uncertainly down a brick-paved path into the dim, 
shrub-filtered outer edges of the barbecue lights.

"Over here, you silly man." Ah. The pool. I saw an arm waving. 
A head showed over the edge of the pool, and as I drew closer 
I recognised the psychologist with the bosom and 
qualifications of equally impressive proportions.

"Taking a furtive dip in the dark, Dr. Dohickey?" I asked.

She giggled. It seemed to me inappropriate for a professional 
woman in her late thirties to giggle, but I guess you can't 
escape your hormones.      
  
"You could join me," she suggested, in that slightly 
breathless way people do when they're mostly immersed in 
water.

"Doctor, I am without costume," I said.

She giggled again, nervously. "For a man everybody here has 
already seen naked today, I should think modesty is the least 
of your concerns," she said.

True enough. I quickly dropped my clothes and slid quietly 
into the pool. Ouch. The water took a chilly bite at me, and I 
pushed off from the wall in a fast crawl to burn the edge off 
the cold. I swam a length quickly and drifted back to her, 
feeling more comfortable.

"Has anybody ever told you that you have a well-formed rear 
bumper, Mr. Dyson?" Dr. Dohickey asked.

"It's been mentioned," I said. "And you, doctor. Has anybody 
ever told you that you have a well-formed set of headlights?"

"It's been mentioned," she said.

I moved closer to her. We were tucked into the corner of the 
pool and it was quite dark. She was wearing a one-piece 
swimsuit, and water lapped gently into her considerable 
cleavage.

She looked down my body and peered into the pool. Suddenly, 
with a violent splash of water, her arms shot straight into 
the air above her head. She held them straight, upright, 
fingertips reaching for the moon. Huh? What was she doing?

"This is not a stick-up, doctor," I said, puzzled. "I don't 
have a gun."

"Oh yes," she said. "You do, and it's pointing straight at 
me." She wiggled her hands. "See, I'm not touching it."

"Tsk, tsk," I said, amused, moving closer, and becoming even 
more demonstrably interested. "Isn't this childish behaviour 
from a behavioural psychologist? You can't even deal with the 
most base of temptations?"

"Say what you like," she said, "but these hands are not coming 
down."

"No matter what?"

"No matter what."

"No matter this?" I asked, curving a hand over a substantial 
breast.

"That's not fair," she said.

The swimsuit had straps, and with her arms above her head, 
there was no way I could free her breasts. I switched the 
point of attack.

"No matter this?" I asked, stretching out the crotch of her 
suit with my fingers and sliding a hand under the fabric into 
crinkly pubic hair.

"That's really unfair," she said, hands above her head.   

"No matter this?" I asked, bunching the fabric, pulling it 
aside, and nudging her with pinpoint accuracy with my Tomahawk 
missile dick.

"Oh," she said, hands above her head. "That's grossly unfair."

I grabbed hold of the edge of the pool with one hand, pushed 
off my toes from the bottom of the pool, and wriggled into Dr. 
Dohickey's underwater cave. She sighed and dropped her weight, 
wedging me snugly. Her arms came down and draped loosely 
around my neck.

"Good heavens," she said in mild astonishment, cheek on my 
shoulder. "How did this happen? I only meant to flirt."

Yeah, ain't it often the way.

I was right at the point of giving the good doctor a good 
seeing-to when a long body passed directly overhead, gliding 
like a jetliner coming in to land. I had a quick impression of 
a black one-piece swimsuit, a black bathing cap, and hands 
extended, feet together, toes pointing. The body hit the pool 
close to where I was purposefully joined to Dr. Dohickey, and 
the backwash nearly drowned us.

I twisted my head. What the fuck? The body surfaced and took 
off in a fast and powerful stroke, legs scissoring like an 
Olympic freestyler. It reached the end of the pool in half the 
time I could have done it, executed a perfect tumble turn, and 
cruised back, pushing an impressive bow wave. Suddenly it 
stopped opposite us.

"Oh, sorry," said the Colonel, wiping water from her eyes and 
breathing far more easily than she had a right to. "I thought 
I was on my own. My apologies."

Dr. Dohickey pushed me urgently in the chest. Get out of me, 
she was saying with her hands. I complied.

The Colonel was coming closer. "Dyson? Is that you? And Dr. 
Dohickey? Good, I was wanting to mention something about 
tomorrow's course. Wait a minute. I can't hear you with this 
thing on." 

She plucked the rubber bathing cap from her head and it 
snapped from her hand, hit me in the face and fell down my 
body. She dived for it and closed a hand right around my 
unfulfilled erection.

The Colonel resurfaced. "Dyson," she spluttered at me 
venomously. "Must you fornicate with every female you meet?"

She turned baleful eyes on my cohabiter. "And you, doctor. I 
thought you a woman of better sense."

The Colonel heaved herself out of the pool and stalked away.

"Okay, she's gone," I said, turning to the doctor. "Now, where 
were we?"

Dr. Dohickey delivered me a swift and resounding slap on the 
face. She, too, pulled herself out of the pool and disappeared 
into the darkness.

Bloody moody women.  

I wondered if Kirsty Thunt was still asleep in my bed. Maybe 
it was time to go toe to toe with her and chance myself the 
hardware store.

* * *

Thirsty was still there and definitely awake. She was hunched 
over, bum thrust out, her fires being stoked by a lime-green 
dildo strapped to a naked Holly Hooper.  

"Welcome home, honey," said Holly to me when I opened the 
door. "I stopped by to have a chat and found this trashy slut 
asleep in your bed with jism all over her face."
 
She rapped Thirsty smartly across the back with her whippy 
riding crop while continuing to thrust in and out with the 
dildo. "Nasty little thing who deserves everything that's 
coming."

"Hi, dude," said Thirsty, turning her head on the bed. She had 
tears in her eyes but she was smiling blissfully.

"Gee, Holly," I said, taken aback. "I didn't know you did 
women."

"Rarely," she said. "But this one's barely female anyway." She 
chuckled. "Just a filthy little twelve-year-old boy."

"I'm twenty-two," Thirsty complained.

Holly reached under Thirsty's body and tweaked savagely on one 
of her nipple rings. Thirsty shrieked, and I winced in 
sympathy.

"And I say you're twelve," Holly said, smacking her again with 
the riding crop. "How old are you, boy?"

"Twelve," agreed Thirsty, panting.

It's nice when two of your friends hit it off. You feel like 
you've done something positive by bringing them together.

"Holly, I'll sleep in your room," I said.

"Feel free," she said, thrusting. "There's a lot of work to do 
here, and it's going to take all night."

I fled. It's a wicked world. My mother didn't bring me up to 
hit women. I carried their shopping bags, gave them my seat on 
the train, opened doors for them, and even put the toilet seat 
down. Women like Holly and Thirsty made me feel as virtuous as 
a choirboy. 

* * * 

At the course next morning certain people went out of their 
way not to be with me. I waved at Dr. Dohickey but she looked 
at a spot well above my head, her cheeks flushed. I nodded at 
Thirsty but she grimaced and walked away -- somewhat 
awkwardly, I observed. I tried to talk to the Colonel but she 
cut me dead with an icy and forbidding glare. Holly Hooper, 
though, was in excellent spirits.

"What a treasure," she said to me, eyes gleaming. "I've 
offered her a job in Washington at twice her current salary, 
and she's coming."

"Who? Thirsty? She's getting married next Saturday."

"Not now she's not," Holly said. "She'll get used and abused 
by the legions on Capitol Hill. She'll be a little gold mine 
for me, once she's properly trained." She leaned closer, 
conspiratorially. "But that's our little secret. Don't tell 
Ruth."

"Fat chance of that," I said ruefully. "She hates me."

Holly laughed out loud. "Stupid man," she said. "Our Ruth has 
got a very bad case of the hots for you, Ace, and it stands 
out like a donkey's dick."

She was trying to cheer me up, obviously. "Yeah, right," I 
said sarcastically.

Holly narrowed her eyes and looked at me with shrewd 
amusement. "Want a demonstration? And can you handle our 
bottled-up Ruthie when she blows the cork? Well, let's find 
out. Stand by, honeybun. Grab hold of your testicles and hang 
on tight."

After lunch I discovered her intentions. As foreshadowed, we 
were briefed on the main game of the weekend. In pairs, we 
would be driven 25 kilometres, dumped at various points in the 
bush, and required to return to the sawmill centre at 
precisely 10.30am on the next day. Earlier or later would mean 
docked points. Rations would be minimum, creature comforts 
nil. No compasses, no mobile phones, no radios, no nothing.

Holly drew the names of the teams from a box, allegedly at 
random. "Team 8," she announced. "Webster, and..." She drew out 
another slip of paper. "Dyson."

Gee, thanks. What was this supposed to prove, Holly? The 
Colonel would have the rest of the day, all night, and half 
the next morning to rip into me and beat me to a pulp. She was 
a scary woman when she was angry, and I didn't need reminding 
about her unarmed combat skills.

We didn't say word on the way out in the back of the Land 
Rover. We were dropped off, and I hoisted our one combined 
pack on my back. The Colonel was already setting off 
purposefully.

"Just follow me, Dyson," she said over her shoulder, testily. 
"I've done this sort of thing many times and I know what I'm 
doing."

I hastened to catch up. "Listen, about last night. . . "

"Forget it," she snapped, striding on and setting a cracking 
pace.

Gee, thanks, Holly. Good one. Stands out like a donkey's dick, 
right? A Chihuahua-sized donkey, perhaps.

Some time later I tried again. "I'm keeping an eye out for a 
good camping spot," I said helpfully, breathing a little hard 
from the effort of keeping up with her.

"Don't bother," she said. "I'll make that decision when the 
time comes."

"There's only one ground sheet," I said. "We'll have to share 
it."

She stopped dead and turned to me. "And what is that supposed 
to mean, Dyson?"

"Nothing," I shrugged. "It could get chilly. Body warmth might 
become a factor."

"Opportunity knocks, eh? Is that what you think, Dyson?"

Well, yes. One can always hope. But there was a dangerous edge 
to the way she said it. "As always, ma'am," I said, "I follow 
your lead."

She resumed course, threading her way through the loose scrub. 
"Follow, then," she barked. "And shut the fuck up," she added, 
uncharacteristically profane. "I am wearing a very thin skin 
today."

* * *  

Now, having made camp, I had my thin-skinned boss lying with 
her blonde head in my lap. I'd covered her naked body with the 
blanket from the pack, and I stroked her face gently by the 
light of the fire while I waited for her to revive.

Colonel Ruth Webster, pilot of bombers and choppers, unarmed 
combat instructor, ruthless executive toe-cutter, had a 
child's fear of spiders. Who would have thought it?

As I watched her, she groaned and rolled on her side. Her hand 
clutched at my thigh. And then she sat bolt upright, staring 
at me with wide eyes. The blanket fell away from her shoulders 
and she snatched it back, covering her breasts.

"Jesus," she said. "What happened?"

"Spider. You fainted, ma'am."

She shuddered and drew the blanket closer. "I can't abide 
spiders," she whispered, looking and checking the ground 
around her.

"I noticed, ma'am."

"It was huge. It was trapped in..."

"Yes."

She shuddered again. "Sorry," she said bleakly. "I can't abide 
spiders."

I reached out, retrieved her bra, and held it out to her. She 
looked at it with disgust. "Throw it on the fire," she said. 
"I'll never wear it again."

"So," I said, watching the fire flare. "Bras do actually burn. 
I thought it was a Sixties myth." I coughed politely. "Ma'am, 
I retrieved your clothes from the bank of the creek -- your 
drill trousers, your shirt, your walking boots, even the 
socks. But I couldn't find any other underwear."

She laughed her trademark short bark, which showed she getting 
back to herself. "What a disgrace," she muttered. She looked 
around the campsite. "You've done well in my absence," she 
said. "That's a good fire."

"I may be slightly more useful than you judge me to be," I 
said diplomatically.

"Yes," she said. "Sorry." She looked at me for a moment, and 
then back at the fire. "You have a special talent for getting 
under my skin."

I said nothing. She looked at the fire and I looked at her 
profile. Suddenly she stood up, and the blanket fell away from 
her. "I should get dressed," she said. But she remained 
standing, long, lean, naked. The light of the fire bronzed her 
skin. Her pubic hair, puffed out, shone with flickering gold. 
She crossed her arms over her breasts. Her hip bone was a bare 
inch or two away from my face. If I leaned forward just a 
little, I could plant a kiss on it. And before I could prevent 
it, that's just what I did.

"Stop that," she said, but in the mildest way.

"It was an involuntary reaction, ma'am," I said carefully, 
cursing myself for an idiot, because I knew the peace between 
us was fragile. 

She turned away from the fire, rummaged through the pack, 
withdrew a NASA-issue tee-shirt, and pulled it over her head. 
It was large and tumbled down to mid-thigh. She came back to 
sit beside me, and she hugged her knees to her chest.

"Just for tonight," she said, "don't call me ma'am." She 
sighed a long, drawn-out sigh. "Ace, I'm forty years old, and 
in four months I'll be forty-one. I've just had a terrible 
fright and I'm feeling particularly weak and vulnerable. So, 
please, just for tonight. I don't want to be the boss."

"By God, ma'am, er, Ruth, allow me to make a simple and honest 
observation. No way do you look forty. Standing by the fire 
just then, no way in the world."

She hugged her knees tighter. "I let you look, you know," she 
said softly. "I knew what I was doing. I stood there and let 
you look."

Tread very, very carefully, Ace, I told myself. Watch your 
mouth, son. Now is not the time for witty repartee. Lean back, 
watch, listen.

"You think I'm not aware of you?" she asked of the fire. "You 
think I don't know how easy it would be? Tonight, here, the 
two of us, with nobody to know?"

She stood up and began pacing about. "You think I'm not 
lonely? You think I'm not under stress?" Her voice was rising 
in pitch and getting louder. "You think I don't find you 
attractive? You think I'm made of ice?"

She stopped and pointed a finger at me, her arm out straight. 
"God damn you, Ace Dyson." She was shouting now, and her hand 
shook. "I need love and attention, and I don't get it. Haven't 
had it for years and years, and all around me it keeps 
happening but it NEVER HAPPENS TO ME."

She snatched her hand back, turned abruptly, and marched off 
into the darkness. Out there, on her own, I heard her cursing 
and swearing. Then, at a shrill pitch that made my eyebrows 
jump, she let loose a full-bodied scream of rage and 
frustration. It echoed eerily across the low hills and creek 
beds.

In a short while she came back and sat down beside me. "I feel 
better now," she said calmly. "Haven't had a decent scream for 
ages."

I got up and put more wood on the fire. It was a way to avoid 
saying anything.

"Ace," the Colonel said pleasantly, "can we go to bed? Can we 
go to bed and can we have a cuddle and maybe even a kiss? Can 
we go to bed and not do more than that, even though doing more 
than that sounds wonderfully good and pretty much exactly what 
I feel like doing?"

I cleared my throat. "Yes."

"Can we go to bed right now?"

"Yes."

We shook out the ground sheet and fetched the blanket. She 
huddled under it and watched as I stripped to my boxer shorts.

"Ace, can I trust you tonight?"

"Yes, Ruth."

"I'll count on that," she said. "Just in case I can't trust 
myself."

I slid under the blanket and she wriggled up beside me, 
snuggling into my arms. Holding her close, I was surprised at 
how slender she was.

"Ace," she murmured.

"Yes, Ruth."

"Tell me, when do you NOT have a hard-on?"

There was no possible answer to that. I let it ride.

"Ace," she said.

"Yes, Ruth."

"Do you remember me telling you that you were not my type?"

"I remember it well."

"Well, I lied, because you are exactly my type, and I knew it 
the moment I laid eyes on you. But I don't have a good track 
record with men of my type, so maybe I came across a bit 
hostile."

Yes, well, comments were best left unsaid on that topic, too.

"I can't sleep with you, Ace, because you are my type. If I 
let you in the door, you'll become my lover, and I can't do 
that and have you working for me. I know myself too well. It 
would be a disaster for you and a disaster for me."

"Yes, Ruth, I understand."

"But this is nice," she said, and lifted her face to mine. We 
kissed. She wrapped her arms around my neck and we had a 
friendly and cosy kiss. It started out that way. 

She stayed kissing and then I was kissing her back. The kiss 
started clicking through the gears, and I could sense in it 
her desperation, loneliness and frustration.

She pulled herself away, out of it. "God damn you, Ace Dyson," 
she said softly. "You are one hell of a fine kisser." 

Her wide mouth was right in my face and I kissed it again. She 
broke once more and pushed me gently in the chest. "Stop, 
enough," she said shakily. "Don't make me do that again."

She snuggled her head against my chest, trailed a hand down my 
stomach, slid it under my boxer shorts and curled it around my 
erection.

"Hey," I said into her hair. "That's not in the rules."

"Nonsense," she said, sounding more like a Colonel and less 
like a Ruth. "In my book, it's all part and parcel of a 
cuddle."

"In that case, so is this," I said, dipping a hand under her 
tee-shirt and curling it around a warm breast.

"Yeah," she said, sighing and wriggling to get comfortable. 
"It sure is."

We fell asleep like that. Fact is often stranger than fiction. 

* * * 
 
The Colonel did indeed know what she was doing, and we 
strolled comfortably into the base camp at exactly 10.30am.

I shook her hand. "Well done, ma'am," I said.

"Thank you, Dyson," she said.

It was back to the way it would be.

Umpire Holly Hooper looked at me curiously. "Your boss is 
looking very relaxed this morning," she said. "Anything to 
report?"

"Gentlemen don't tell tales," I said.

I took an invigorating shower and packed my bag for departure. 
It occurred to me suddenly that I hadn't got laid at Upper 
Yuralla. Adventures and alternative excursions, sure, but I 
hadn't actually and properly got laid. The bus was leaving in 
thirty-five minutes. Hell, it was worth a try.

I walked into Dr. Dohickey's office without knocking. Time was 
of the essence.

"Congratulations," she said, looking up from her paperwork. 
"I've just finished my report for your company. Ms. Hooper 
judges that you came top of the course."

"Fine," I said. "Where's my reward? And don't we have 
unfinished business?"

She took off her glasses. "You cheeky sod," she said. "You're 
just passing through, Ace, but I live and work here. My 
husband is the manager. We own the property. I do not dally 
with the clients."

"You dallied in the pool with me, doc."

She shifted uncomfortably. "A moment of weakness," she said.

"So have another."

She laughed. "Here? Now? With your bus outside the door? Ace, 
you are totally outrageous."

I looked at my watch. "You're right," I said. "Not enough 
time. Pity. Tell you what, doc, I'll settle for a compromise. 
Show me your breasts."

"What?"

"You heard me. They've been on my mind since Friday night."

"Ace, why would I do that?"

"Because I'm asking."

She looked at me steadily. "I can't believe I'm even 
considering it," she said.

I smiled. "You draw the curtains, I'll lock the door," I said.

I was last on the bus. The engine was running and the driver 
pursed his mouth impatiently at me. The Colonel was moving 
down the aisle. "Where were you?" she asked crossly. "I was 
just coming to look for you."

The bus took off in a lurch and I fell backwards, flat on my 
back. The Colonel stumbled and fell right on top of me, face 
down in my lap.

"Dyson," she said, lifting her head. "When do you NOT have a 
hard-on?"

ENDS

Edited by Ruthie and Nat.

Neil Anthony/DrSpin can be contacted 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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