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Message-ID: <44636asstr$1065561004@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Kenny Gamura" <turtlemeat69@hotmail.com>
Mime-Version: 1.0
Subject: {ASSM} Prize Money {Gamera} (Flash MF prost)
Date: Tue,  7 Oct 2003 17:10:04 -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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                        Disclaimer

Welcome to the world of alt.sex.stories where sixteen-year-
old girls have nothing better to do with their time than
chase adults to have sex with. The characters and events
that follow are not real and are the result of my
imagination. My imagination works this way because I am
under the curse of Satan; please pray for the deliverance of
my worthless soul. Don't read further if you fear just
damnation by governmental, parental, or godly authority. The
only thing worse than writing pornography (or my spelling)
is stealing intellectual property. Unauthorized republishing
is not allowed and will result in an eternity spent in the
seventh circle of hell, living in crap, and turning into
unlikely and hideous herptiles. It just ain't worth it.

This story was a losing entry in Desdmona's 2003 Erotic
Postcard Fiction Contest.  View the winning stories at
http://www.desdmona.com/contest.asp

Thank You and Good Day,
Kenny N Gamera
Turtlemeat69@hotmail.com

www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Gamera/www
www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Gamera


                        Prize Money
                             by
                       Kenny N Gamera

I slow the car as I pass the girl. Her hair, a mix of blonde
and brown, is cut short to her shoulders.  Earrings like
fishing lures dangle from her ears.  A short, black skirt
and white halter-top display a slim, lanky body.  A silver
bar graces her navel.  Unlike others, she looks her age.

I turn the corner and navigate the block. She is still
there.  I swallow, coming to an uneasy halt in front of her.
I reach across the seat and roll down the window. A sequined
handbook is held tight to her smallish breasts as she mince
steps over in tall platform shoes.

"Hi." Her voice breaks.  She cringes. "Looking for some
fun?"

"Yeah.  I just, uh, won some money, a contest.  I was hoping
for some, uh, entertainment?"

Brown eyes study me. Then, she shrugs.

"Okay."

I pull the handle.  She steps inside and sits close to the
car door.  I follow one-word directions to a downtown motel.
I get a room for an hour.  She follows me inside.

The door clicks shut, the sound echoing off yellowing walls.

She stands next to the door watching me.  I stand near the
corner of the king-sized bed, looking first at her then at
the worn carpet.

Seconds pass like minutes.

She moves to me.  Undoing my shirt buttons, she starts to
strip me.  I lean down for a kiss.  She moves away.  Her
mouth lowers to my chest as she shoves the shirt down my
arms.  She takes one of my small nipples into her mouth.
I...

...wake up as the whiteness of the word processor flicks
into stars.

I will never win if I don't start writing, I remind myself.
But wishing words on paper is not writing, and no ideas
come.

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