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Message-ID: <48311asstr$1088183402@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: f.aces@idonthavea.domain.name (f. aces)
User-Agent: tin/1.7.5-20040615 ("Gighay") (UNIX) (Linux/2.4.25-1-686 (i686))
NNTP-Posting-Date: Fri, 25 Jun 2004 05:36:58 EDT
Subject: {ASSM} Need <*> {f. aces} (m/f, warning)
Lines: 117
Date: Fri, 25 Jun 2004 13:10:02 -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

Small warning this time. There's some pain. Don't want to be
more specific, as it is up to the reader to decide what's going on.

f. aces
-------------------------------------------
Need
by Cutting Kind

She struggled a bit more, but it was almost over. Blood ran colder, now,
as things took their course. The fight was over, and things had
proceeded as they always did: with her on her back.

She tensed her right leg, he tightened his grip, she backed down -
that's how it happens.

He straightened up over her, assuming a more dominant position.
Breathing became deeper, the smell of sweat and nakedness, the dry grip
of the carpet eating into his ankle, belying the sweaty intersection of
his knee and her right inner-thigh.

Time for a smile, he'd earned it.

"Julie...you know you don't have to struggle like that. Things don't
have to work out this way."

She began to tremble. Well, she was trembling before, but that was in
effort.  Now was the cold tremble, when she knew what was going to
happen next. What she wanted.

And he was such a tease.


    "Yeah, I'll be there in a minute."
    
    He turned off the cell phone, and stuck it in his jacket.
    Cigarettes, cell phone, coffee, and greed. It's what made the world
    run. Well, this portion of the world.  You buy and sell people, you
    buy and sell their dreams. It's what it was all about.

    The wind picked up, so he put his hands in his pockets. The
    lighter's metal case warm against his knuckles.


*Whitch*

Hard to describe just how a Zippo lighter sounds being lit. There's the
rasp of the flint, and then the fuel catches on the wick, and it makes
that tiny sound of air being sucked in. It's the sound of heat.

Well, one of them.

"Aaaaa---kkk" his hand on her throat caught the scream, and held it
straining, like a butterfly caught on tar paper, slowly moving less and
less --- like the wax running down from her nipple, and pooling in the
cleft between her breasts.

He pushed his pelvis even harder against the back of her thighs, his
penis buried inside her.  Somewhere in all this was what he wanted.
Somewhere between the glassy look in her eyes, and the pain running up
and down her brain stem.


     "It's what you need. I don't have to sell it to you, you're going
     to buy it from me."

     A moment to breathe the smoke of his cigarette, choking out the
     cloying oxygen of the room. You just had to know what was real and
     what was not.

     The client wasn't sure about reality. Maybe his house didn't face
     East, or maybe he'd become a teetotaler. He needed convincing, he
     needed a sale, he needed a soft touch.

     But that's the thing about reality.

     Reality is what you can't wish gone, it's what you can't fit on
     your plate that morning.  It has no salesmen, only priests.

     And they gave up on sermons a long time ago.


"Oh god. Oh. God."

He steadied himself, placing his weight on a hand cupped just below her
breast.  The weight of her breast slapping against his hand, the weight
of his body crushing the breath out of her, while their sweat dripped
into the carpet. The carpet chafed his knees.

He pressed his cheek against hers, his arm wrapped behind her neck. He
shuddered, finishing his conversation with her.


     "Good to hear."

     He finished his drink. There is a certain intimacy after a sale is
     finished, you're quiet and you let the client do his thinking.
     Think about what he's going to do. What's changed in his life ---
     what he has changed in his life.

     You just get out of the way.

     He picked up the cash on the table, and learned back in his chair,
     respecting the silence.


She whispered in his ear, "history knows, Michael"

And it knows damn well.

He relaxed more, letting his weight fall upon her, sticking them
together with drying sweat.

"And what will it think of me?"

-- 
f. aces
More at http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/f.aces/

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