
Message-ID: <55636asstr$1176959402@assm.asstr.org>
From: Russell Hoisington <hoisingr@hushmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} RP GSN27 - Girl Scout Pussies {Russell Hoisington}(nosex, humor, scoffing, eye-rolling, chorusing, Cheez Doodles)
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Date: Thu, 19 Apr 2007 01:10:02 -0400
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===================


                   Girl Scout Nookies 27
                     Girl Scout Pussies


                     Girl Scout Pussies
                     Russell Hoisington

************************************************************

Welcome to the Girl Scout Nookie story collection.  In
honor of the Girl Scout Cookie season, this collection is
being reposted in the story order sequence we used in the
Girl Scout Nookie Collection story site at

    http://www.asstr.org/~denny/

This is story number 27.

Russ is mortgage free, it's a warm January afternoon, Girl
Scout Cookies have just gone on sale, and a beautiful Scout
is making him a "special" offer. What's wrong with this
picture?

************************************************************

         Author's Attempt to Further Cover His Ass
                    Once More Yet Again

This is an erotic fantasy and, in case you've forgotten
the rules, you shouldn't read it if you are:
    1) under legal age.
    2) living where reading this material is forbidden.
    3) in your right mind.

Any similarities to any other "Girl Scout Nookie" events
chronicled by the talented writers remain absolutely
coincidental. In fact, those are no longer are taped to my
computer desk. And pay no attention whatsoever to the link
to the Girl Scout Nookie Story Archive on my monitor. You
don't need to know that I'm too lazy to type
http://www.asstr.org/~denny a dozen times a day.

Thank you.

************************************************************

It was unseasonably warm for a Saturday in January, the
kind of warm that makes going out to play Frisbee more
enticing than staying in to play pocket pool. Even when the
Management of the Universe schedules January weeks to be
warm and sunny, it bureaucratically schedules Saturdays to
be as cold and blustery as a Baptist preacher gazing at
dancers, so this was, indeed, a rare treat. Nevertheless, I
was inside and away from the welcome weather, relaxing in
my recliner with a gin & tonic in one hand and a dead tree
copy of Bill Fitzhugh's "Heart Seizure" in the other.

Baggins chased dream squirrels in the sunbeam puddle below
the living room window. CJ had flown to another weekend
Muse Convention. Allie had gone shopping with Nykki
Collucci, her new best friend for the past few months.
Nykki's father had this particular Saturday off, meaning
her mother was unable to slip over here as Nykki's
replacement for some horizontal gymnastics. And, best of
all, I was sitting in a house that I owned 100% free and
clear, having made the last payment of the last mortgage on
the last day of December.

Peace and quiet! The only interruption was Baggins's
occasional random snore from either end. Days like this
were a rare treat, and I was going to enjoy this one to the
max. Or at least until the Broncos' playoff game that
evening. It was, without question, the best, absolutely
perfect day.

Which is why, in blind obedience to Murphy's law, the
Management of the Universe had scheduled that very moment
for my doorbell to ring.

I know, I know. You're saying, "Just let it ring, you
blathering idiot!" Well, I did. And it did. With ever-
decreasing intervals between the rings until, after two
minutes, whoever it was left his finger on the button,
leaned into it for support, and dozed off.

Baggins raised his head and barked twice, once from either
end. His mother was a Labrador retriever. His father was
half Irish banshee/half farthound, and his snarl said
Daddy's genes were about to launch an operatic aria with
musical accompaniment. I surrendered with far less grace
than Lee at Appomattox and rose from the recliner. I left
my book on the chair arm and put the gin & tonic on the
bookshelf coaster before lifting the Thesaurus and holding
it low in front of me. That was just in case the doorbell
drowser lashed out when suddenly awakened.

The distractions had distracted me, and I foolishly opened
the door before checking the peep hole. I saw nothing but a
few people on the sidewalks along the street and a flash as
Mrs. Coldmelon lifted her binoculars in her living room. I
looked down.

And almost crapped my culottes.

A GIRL SCOUT UNIFORM! But only A Girl Scout Uniform, not
The Dreaded Four Girl Scout Uniforms. And the friendly face
did not belong to an occupant of The Dreaded Four Girl
Scout Uniforms. My heart hammered relief for the time it
took to open the storm door and then stopped again ere my
eager eyes enfolded and encompassed the ethereal enigma.

Okay, so I was unable to think of a different noun
beginning with "e." I didn't want to look at the Thesaurus
instead of her.

This oval alabaster face, fresh-scrubbed-wholesome and
unblemished, had sweetness and sensuality supremely scribed
all over its sumptuous surface with subliminal neon magic
markers. It was framed in authentic auburn hair as lush and
lustrous as cordovan leather polished with lanolin from
virgin merino sheep, the ones too fast for Spanish shepherd
boys. Her enchanting eyes were the rich Baltic blue that
told seagoing sailors the nearest lump of land was three
days thither. The sensuous smile was carefully constructed
with the sumptuous style of luscious lips that proficient
plastic surgeons always advertised to lure hapless
housewives into elective surgery.

The utilitarian uniform was clean and unwrinkled, as crisp
as unwilted celery but a darker green, sculpting
captivating curves at the sides and molding subtle yet
provocative topographical terrain transcendencies at both
the upper front and lower rear. Her delicately feminine
feet were daintily adorned in frilly white ankle socks
inside shiny black patent leather shoes so reflective that
they revealed my drooling mouth and her absence of panties.

If this vivacious version of virginal vision had claimed
she'd been sent by the Management of the Universe, I'd have
believed her without question. Instead, she spoke sweetly
in a voice that chimed lower than a celesta but higher than
a Christmas carillon, "Oh! You have a Thesaurus! That makes
you a Grand Prize Winner!"

Clearly this was a moment requiring my most witty-but-
reverent repartee. "Huh? I... Really? No shit?" Okay, I
wasn't Jonathan Winters, Robin Williams, or cmsix. I wasn't
even Kenny Gamera. In my defense, let me say that I was
distracted by the need to get my heart going again so that
it could pump blood to one head or the other.

"Yes!" she said with a knowing smile and a quick glance to
either side. Then she gazed up at me with enrapturing eyes
of ephemeral essence that Ted the Taxidermist couldn't buy
for a thousand bucks each. "You see, I'm one of those
'special' Girl Scouts." She lifted the front of her skirt
to reveal a small, sparse equilateral triangle that
couldn't have been more precise if it had been laid out
with a craftsman's compass and a steel straightedge. It
perched pensively above lickable lips as puffy and inviting
as pink Cheez Doodles.

"You're drooling," she giggled without lowering her skirt.
Peripheral vision, because you couldn't move my eyes from
her with logging chains and a D9 Caterpillar, told me that
Mister Coldmelon had just trained his binoculars this way
from the end bedroom. I was vaguely aware of the continued
streetside stream along the front sidewalk and of Peewee
Pete's pickup passing, but I didn't look away from this
virginal vision of promising paradise, not wanting to lose
one second of peering at perfection personified in perky
pre-teen pulchritude.

"Ayyuz..." I garbled before her words penetrated. I wiped
my mouth and tried again. "I was picturing that with a
couple of boxes of crumbled Thin Mints."

"Ooooh!" she squealed before adding a gleefully girly
giggle. "You'll like that. You'd also enjoy it ever so much
with our new trans-fat-free Taga...."

"HEY!"

The shout rang out from the street end of the sidewalk in
a four-note E-minor chord. Mister Happy immediately
reversed course and tried to turn himself inside-out in
retreat. That, rather than my simultaneous recognition of
the voices, told me who was coming up the sidewalk.

The virginal vision dropped her skirt and jumped, spinning
like a tiny tornado to face the onrushing hurricane.

Mistress Star's face flushed to a cinnamony-chocolate
color as a dusky hand rose to shake her quarrelsome quirt
at the walking wet-dream. "We told you he was OURS!"

"But... but I thought HE," she lifted her left arm and
pointed next door, "was the one off-limits to the rest of
us."

"That's the neighborhood pervert," I effused in a defusing
voice.

She glanced up over her supple shoulder and smiled at me.
"Yeah!" She looked back to The Dreaded Four Girl Scout
Uniforms as their occupants clambered up the steps to the
porch. "That's Mister Hoistigon over there."

"Hoisington," I corrected. "And I..."

"Who cares?" snapped Maria.

"This," said Buffy, stabbing a forefinger at me as if she
were thrusting Maria's switchblade, "is him."

The delightful dish of diddleable delight frowned at me,
then at my tormentors. "Are you sure?"

"Here," said Ming, producing her sheaf of papers from
somewhere and riffling through them. She pulled out three
pages. "Read what he's written so far."

I never knew heavenly angels could produce such hellish
retching.

"Um, what do you think?" I asked when she lowered the
papers but kept her head down.

Her face slowly rose past my knees, past Mister Happy's
hiding place, past my belt buckle, until she was staring
directly at my eager face. She looked as incredulous as a
muslim gazing at civilized behavior. "It's erratic and
puerile. The alliteration is infantile and inconsistent.
The similes and metaphors lack grace, rhythm, and most of
all, coherence. You actually wrote 'diddleable delight' and
'lips as puffy and inviting as pink Cheez Doodles'? Good
grief, you ARE him! No wonder you can't pay people to read
your crap! I'm out of here." She shoved the papers back at
Ming, pulled her arms around the order sheet clasped to her
budding breasts as if using it as a life preserver, and
stormed down the steps. "Maybe my father can transfer to
Money Sucking University and I can join Troop 469. I'd much
rather put up with Mister Gamera. Now I understand why
Mister Four changed his name. He doesn't want people to
know that he knows YOU!"

"You might try the house across the street," I said. "I'm
sure Mister Coldmelon would like a nice box--YEEOOOOWWWWWW!"

Mistress Star examined her quirt to see if Mister Happy
had damaged it when her worrisom wand found his hiding
place. "Do I have your attention now, worm?"

"I doubt it," said Ming as she refiled the returned
raunchy writing.

"Nope," agreed Buffy. "He's still using awful alliteration."

"Maybe you'd better hit him again," Maria suggested.

                           ~ ~ ~

"I think he's coming around," said Maria's voice as I
sputtered and wiped the stinging liquid from my eyes. Damn.
That was the expensive gin in that drink.

I was gazing at the blur that normally was the porch
ceiling. It needed painting. There were large greenish and
whitish splotches....

No, those weren't splotches. They moved. Splotches don't
move. I forced my eyes to focus. The Dreaded Four Girl
Scout Uniforms and their curvaceous contents were standing
in an arc around my head, peering down at me like the next
door pervert's household standing in their front yard and
gazing down at Baggins' latest gift to the family.

"Well?" asked Mistress Star. "Now what do you have to say?"

I knew that tone of voice. I had to say something--
anything--immediately. "Um...." NO CLUE. "I see you're
still not wearing panties?"

                           ~ ~ ~

"I think he's coming around," said Maria's voice as I
sputtered and wiped the warm salty liquid from my eyes.

WARM? SALTY? YES. IT WAS....

"Uh, girls, I'm not really into water sports, though I
wish I'd been awake to see it."

"No, you don't," scoffed Buffy.

"He might," added Ming. "He's a pervert."

"It wasn't us," subtracted Maria.

Mistress Star divided her quirt into the house via the
storm door I was blocking open. "Old Swarthy Fartblast is
still too fat to make it down the steps, so he looked
around for a place to hike his leg. You won."

I gagged and sprang to my feet, barely noticing that
across the street a dejected vision of loveliness was
moping her way down to the street while Mrs. Coldmelon
thumped her husband's head with her binoculars. I threw the
Thesaurus at the recliner, ignored its ricochet to the
floor that took the novel with it, and raced into the
bathroom. I shoved my head under the shower for a minute
and then gargled a new one-point-five-liter bottle of
Listerine. I threw the empty bottle in the trash and
stepped into the bedroom.

The quirt, tapping my nose as gently as a two-year-old
with a ball-peen hammer, halted me. Mistress Star looked
down at me, which wasn't difficult because she was sitting
atop the chest next to the bathroom door. Ming sat on the
corner of the bed, shuffling through her papers. Maria had
lifted the bedspread and was examining the sheets while her
other hand pinched her nose closed. Buffy, squatting in
front of Baggins, was patting his head while speaking to
him in a low voice.

"Listen, worm, counting your stupid disclaimer, we're now
on Page Five and we've just been pissing around. No more
stupid alliteration, no more pathetic similes, and no more
avoiding the fact that you told everyone this would be
"Girl Scout Spookies" but instead gave it a different
title. Clear? Say, 'Yes,' because we don't have time for
you to wake up to Maria's voice again."

"Yes!" I had a suddenly-lucid moment and blurted the
appelation, "Mistress Star."

She smiled, reminding me of a pit bull gazing at a pot
roast, and jumped down, causing the skirt of her studded
leather Dreaded Girl Scout Uniform to rise. She looked up
at me and then smiled like a pack of pit bulls gazing at
only one pot roast. "What are you looking at, worm?"

"Your... uh, I mean, you... uh, well... I see you've been
busy with a razor."

Group eyerolling ensued, and then the others went back to
their respective tasks. "I couldn't very well wear a bikini
the way it was, could I?" she scoffed.

"In January?"

"I was our troop's entry in the Miss Girl Scout Contest.
Don't you remember?"

MISS GIRL SCOUT CONTEST? I was as clueless as an aborigine
looking at a ferris wheel. "No."

Buffy looked up from Baggins, who appeared very pleased
with the way she was scratching behind his ears as she
talked to him. "Have you forgotten, Star? The Boss said he
wasn't to know about it because he's a pervert."

I'd have stamped my right foot, but this was the wrong
story. "The pervert lives NEXT DOOR!"

They ignored me. Mistress Star slapped her forehead.
"You're right! She did say that. And we didn't tell that
neighbor, either."

Ming's jade green eyes lifted from her papers. "I'm
starting to worry, Star. We've gotta quit hanging around
with this bozo so much. He's beginning to rub off on you."

"Can I?" I asked in eager anticipation. Okay, so the wrong
head was doing my thinking, as usual. "YEEOOOOWWWWWW!"

"That should stop it from thinking for you," Mistress Star
smirked, pleased that once again she'd found Mister Happy's
hideaway.

Buffy rose to her feet. "Okay, Baggins agrees. He won't be
a problem."

I blinked at her and then at Baggins. "You can communicate
with dogs?"

Buffy rolled her ice-blue eyes and scoffed. "I can talk to
YOU, can't I?"

"You talk," scoffed Maria to Buffy, "but he never listens."

Mistress Star placed her quirt none-too-gently against my
face and pulled it around to hers. "Now we're at the end of
page five. Here's the deal. Your delivery arrives in two
weeks."

So much for enjoying being mortgage free. "I'm getting
another truckload of cookies," I gulped.

"No," they chorused in E-minor.

"We're going to grant your wish," smirked Maria as she
dropped the bedspread and wiped her hand on her skirt.

"A whole truckload," smirked Buffy.

"All the pussy you can handle," smirked Mistress Star.

I gulped again. I was going to need a bigger house! I
couldn't put that many girls in here. I wondered if I could
afford to buy Camp Lotta Sticky Nookie. It had plenty of
room for girls.

Ming's almond eyes sparkled as she offered me a paper.
"Sign here, please," she smirked as Buffy hiked her skirt
and produced the pen. I eagerly scribbled my signature on
the mortgage, visions of pink, and other variously colored,
Cheez Doodles dancing before my eyes, blotting out
everything else.

Everything except one word. I gulped yet again.

"CATS?"

Synchronized nodding accompanied the synchronized
smirking. "Black cats," they said in synchronized chorusing.

Mistress Star rolled her eyes. "'Synchronized chorusing'?"

I shrugged. "I was too stunned. I couldn't come up with
anything better."

Buffy shook her head as she hiked her skirt and put away
the pen. "Duh!"

Maria shook her head. "Caramba!"

Mistress Star shook her head. "Sheeeit!"

Ming shook her head. "Oy vey!"

"Black cats?" I asked in an attempt to get the story going
again.

Buffy rolled her eyes. "It's your own fault."

Maria nodded emphatically in emphasis. "You told everybody
you were going to write 'Girl Scout Spookies.' Well, we can
always use some extra cash, so the Boss cornered the market
on black cats. You get to keep them until Halloween, when
you can write that other stupid story which nobody will
read."

My mind raced, trying to think of what to do with a
truckload of cats.

The quirt flicked to within a millimeter of my nose. It
made a nice breeze on a warm day. "You aren't thinking of
drowning them, are you, worm?" she snarled, like a pit bull
gazing at a burglar rifling the family silverware chest.

I gulped once more yet again. "Not anymore."

Her dark hand waved the quirt to emphasize her words.
"Good. If anything happens to them, I'll personally lead
the NAACP Enforcement Committee here."

I gulped still once more yet again. "The NAACP Enforcement
Committee?"

"Yes. The 'Never Attempt to Assassinate Cute Pets
Enforcement Committee'." With a snarl she thumped a fist
between the leather blouse's hidden baseballs. "I'm the
Committee's head."

I thought about inserting a 'head' joke here, but she had
said we didn't have time for me to wake up. I was afraid
they'd leave me unconscious, and as you know, Baggins
couldn't make it down the steps. "What about the cookies?"

Ming extracted a paper and waved it. "We found a new
volunteer to store those this year."

"Besides," said Buffy as Ming re-filed the paper, "Baggins
needs to lose weight. Maybe you should order some of our
new trans-fat-free Tagalongs for him." She eyed my
waistline. "And for you." She lifted her skirt and produced
the pen as Ming extracted yet another paper. "How many
cases should we put you down for?"

My throat was beginning to hurt from all the gulping. "One?"

"Right!" said Ming as she scribbled on the paper. "One
pallet of cases."

Maria waited until she had finished writing. "Ming, from
the looks of those sheets, I think I've found the missing
case of Thin Mints. He ate them out of the fat bitch. Add
that at last week's price."

"One case of Thin Mints at twelve hundred dollars a box.
Got it." Ming produced her calculator, punched numbers,
whistled, and punched them again to verify that it wasn't
too low. She wrote it on the mortgage form and held the
paper and pen to me. "Sign here, please."

I handed the signed paper back to her, and she put the
sheaf wherever she carries it. I wasn't sure where that was
because I was watching Buffy put away the pen.

"Finally!" sighed Mistress Star in relief. "Let's get out
of here."

I followed them down the hall. "Just who did you get to
'volunteer' to store the cookies this year?"

Maria rolled her umber eyes up at me. "Do you have enough
brain cells not soaked in gin so that they can remember the
military term, 'Need to know'?"

"Uh, yes."

"YOU DON'T!" they chorused in E-minor, Mistress Star's
quirt emphasizing the exclamation point.

In the living room they rolled their eyes down to the
Thesaurus in the middle of the floor, next to the scattered
"Rocky Mountain News" and my book. Which had landed in the
empty popcorn bowl. Atop the wadded tortilla chips bag. At
least it hadn't landed in the gooey residue of the salsa
bowl or the mostly empty sour cream dip container beside
it. "What a pig sty," they said in synchronized chorusing.

Okay, so I still hadn't come up with any better phrase.
I'd been busy.

They halted and waited for me to open the storm door for
them with all the patience of four nudists in a swarm of
malnourished mosquitoes at dinnertime. Through the glass of
the storm door I saw Mister Collucci, Nykki's dad,
lumbering up the sidewalk like a redwood on tranquilizers.

When The Dreaded Four Girl Scout Uniforms and their
occupants emerged onto the porch, he saw them, screamed,
and ran down the street at a three-minute-mile pace.

I wondered if Nykki's bedroom would be too full of cookies
for her to live in it. I could always make room for her
between Allie and me.

************************************************************

Copyright Russell Hoisington 2006

--
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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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