
Message-ID: <55662asstr$1177135803@assm.asstr.org>
From: Russell Hoisington <hoisingr@hushmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} A*F*T*S {Hoisington} (Mf f-solo pett nosex humor)
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Date: Sat, 21 Apr 2007 02:10:03 -0400
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===================


                          A*F*T*S
                     Russell Hoisington

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

This is an erotic fantasy.  The characters and the
situation are purely imaginary, and this story is NOT
intended to be a guide for actual behavior.  Any
similarities between this story and actual people, or
actual events that you should be ashamed of, are purely
coincidental.  If it is illegal in your part of the world
to access and read erotic fiction, or if you are underage,
or if you don't like sex stories, then stop now.

This story is copyright 2004 by Russell Hoisington. 
Please do not remove the author information or make any
changes to this story.  You may post freely to
non-commercial (free) sites, or in the "free" area of
commercial sites.  That does NOT mean that they are in the
public domain, nor does it mean that I give permission for
you to use them in spam advertising.  I reserve the right
to determine what is "spam advertising" by MY definition,
not yours or anyone else's.

Thank you for your consideration.

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

I am reposting this story because it is the basis for my
contributions to the Girl Scout Nookie Collection being
reposted on ASSM and located at
     http://www.asstr.org/~denny/

If this is not the worst story I've ever written, it's not
from lack of effort on my part.  I wrote it as an exercise
in bad similes, metaphors, and other big grammatical words
most people don't learn in High School English.

If you aren't familiar with Edward Bulwer-Lytton and his
(in)famous novel "Paul Clifford," or at least with Snoopy's
attempt to be an author in "Peanuts," then the first
paragraph (and everything after it) will have little
meaning for you.  People looking for a "stroker" will be
joining you at the exit.

My sincerest thanks to Billy Forrest, DB_Story, Denny
Wheeler, the Dirty Old Man in North Carolina, and Uncle
Sky, without whose help this story might accidentally have
been in far better taste.

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

BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!

     It was a bright and shiny day; my wood-frame house
shook like a stressed-out crack junkie in the pangs of
withdrawal as I stumbled from between the rumpled sheets of
my comfortably lukewarm waterbed, grabbed freshly laundered
jockey shorts from the clean-laundry basket, and,
staggering with drowsiness, got them properly oriented the
second time I pulled them on, before finally reaching for
my comfortably shabby, knee-length, plaid, flannel robe,
the one I normally wore only inside the house out of sight
of the general public because it had more variegated stains
defiling it than has a whorehouse mattress, but I had no
other choice since it was the only robe handy, and I had to
get to the front door before the pounding sent the neutral
beige Sears Best Easy Living interior latex paint on the
gypsum board walls fluttering to the floor in small chips,
like a bland snow storm of mediocrity.

BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!

     Grumbling like a frustrated spinster with bad false
teeth I jerked open the front door and beheld the entire
defensive line of the Broncos on steroids--to include the
developmental squad. I blinked and they coalesced into one
beefy, red-faced man sporting shoulders as wide as the
flight deck of the *Nimitz.* It was the incredible Hulk's
bigger and far meaner brother. Menace swirled around him as
thick as electrons about a uranium atom.  He was drawing
back either a small Celebes ox with a bad complexion or a
well-battered fist.

     "HEY!" I said, jumping backward and slipping on one
or two dropped sports sections of the "Rocky Mountain
News," but managing to remain as upright as a Baptist
preacher thinks he is--and in the path of imminent danger.

     Okay, so "HEY!" wasn't a grandiloquent speech, and
you'd expect better from a famous author.  Or from an
infamous one (I always get those two words mixed up).  I
didn't have time to reinvent Hamlet's soliloquy, okay? 
Let's see how inventive YOU are when you're life's about to
go the way of buggy whips, Edsels, and eight-track tape
players.  But he lowered the fist to his side, though he
kept it clenched tighter than Great Grandpa Macleod
squeezing a buffalo nickel when the collection plate passed.

     The man--I reasonably assumed from the narrow, ratty
beard that crawled around its jaw line like an unpressed
caterpillar, the Schwarzeneggeresque physique, and the
seventeen tattoos on each of its upper arms that it was
male--was a gall-swollen redwood growing out of my front
porch.  Try to imagine a redwood topped by leaves the color
of recently tarnished brass and possessing a face like a
rabid buffalo with its balls caught in a bear trap and
you'll be close.  "Your name Hoistigon?" he snarled,
displaying half-dissolved sugar cubes in a cup of cold
French roast Folger's as his concept of teeth.

     "No."  I decided I would show the fearsome brute no
fear, even though he was tougher than a Welsh spelling bee.
He obviously was the type of thug who, even as an adult,
roasted ants in the noonday sun with an eight-inch
magnifying glass just to watch them explode.  But I
instinctively knew that he would respect someone standing
up to him.  Okay, I was silently and fervently praying to
every major and minor deity I could name that he would show
me that respect because I knew that slamming and locking
the door would offer me as much protection as a starched
kleenex in a Tokyo tsunami.

     I crossed my arms across my chest to hold my robe
closed, and to pin my heart between my ribs lest it burst
forth like the *Alien*.  I hoped he wouldn't realize that a
wet, yellow patch now stained my formerly-clean, white,
cotton underwear the way gangbang semen stained the virtue
of a Catholic girls' school Honor Student.

     He blinked.  Slowly.  Like someone who routinely has
to blink via conscious thought.  A primitive frown of
puzzlement sprang to life on his blood-red face and slowly
evolved into abject confusion.  "I thought this was the
Hoistigon place," he rumbled, and I suddenly knew how Roman
marble statues tumbling in the drum of a runaway cement
truck with a defective power take-off would sound.

     "The Hoistigons live about three counties over that-a-
way." I started to point, but I was afraid my quaking hand
would imply that I was either terrified or offering to jack
him off.  Neither indication promised less than a trip to
the emergency room--more likely to the city morgue--for me.
I nodded vaguely past the escarpment that was his left
shoulder, and I wasn't surprised when he twisted to look.
With the shifting of his weight the boards of the porch
groaned like oarsmen on a slave galley learning the Captain
wanted to go water skiing.  "My name's Hoisington."

     He turned slowly back to me, as inexorably as a
continental glacier scraping Canada off the map.  "Close
enough."

     I was afraid it would be.  The man was as pissy as a
twelfth-hour diaper and certainly no more pleasant. 
Keeping my courage from scattering like children at recess
took more effort than was required to lift the turret from
a tank, or to hurl a space shuttle into orbit, or to keep a
priest off an altar boy. "And what brings you here,
Mister...?"

     "Collucci.  I'm looking for my daughter, Nykki."  He
gave me the kind of look most frequently used by policemen
when a man wearing a mask and holding a gun and a
overstuffed bag runs out of a bank and into their midst. 
"You just get out of bed?"

     I stroked my unshaven chin with a thumb-and-
forefinger pinch and looked down past a recent pizza sauce
stain on my robe to bare legs and feet scarred by multiple
accidents while playing mumbletypeg as a teenager.  My
breath was worse than an armadillo that had lost a game of
chicken with a Peterbuilt outside Del Rio in August. 
Although I'm over six feet tall, he could easily look down
at my tangled hair that was indistinguishable from a nest
built of cheap grey yarn by a schizophrenic rat in a
government drug research lab.  Clearly I was in a battle of
wits and had the superior weaponry with my intellectual
howitzer versus his BB gun.  But was I sufficiently awake
to aim?

     "As a matter of fact, I did."  That was Plan A:
confuse him with facts until I was coherent enough to think
of Plan B.

     One bloodshot eye, its sclera displaying a map of the
interstate system in red, closed a little more and began
twitching erratically, as if telegraphing his alleged
thoughts in Chinese Morse code.  "Whadda ya doin' in bed
this time of day?"

     I shrugged and tried to pinch off another dribble of
urine through conscious effort while maintaining a face as
calm as the corpse I could easily become.  "I work nights. 
I have to sleep sometime."

     The twitching became a flutter, not unlike the wings
of a hyperactive butterfly with its feet caught in an
Okefenokee swamp sundew.  Suspicion dripped from his voice
with the annoying predictability of a leaking faucet at
three in the morning.  "On a Saturday?"

     I subtracted another five points from my already low
estimate of his IQ.  "Last night was Friday.  I got off
work three hours ago.  Why are you looking for your
daughter here?"

     As if he had finally made the Friday-Saturday
connection he grunted, a drawn-out occasion accompanied by
malodorous breath still saturated with last night's garlic
and beer.  "I figure she's been foolin' around lately.  You
know--by the way she'd been actin'.  All moonstruck eyes
'n' giggles?  I found where she hid her diary under her
mattress.  It says she's been doin' some guy named
Hoistigon."

     "Oh, well, then that's not me.  They live about three
counties over that-a-way," I said with a directional nod
and an unsuccessfully restricted milliliter of urine.

     He turned like a sorghum molasses tornado in a
Siberian winter to look over his right shoulder and then
twisted back, one Jimmy Dean Sausage thumb emerging from a
fist the size of a 1996 four-door Buick Century to point
over his left.  "You said they lived over that-a-way."

     ULP!  "Until you told me about your daughter I
thought you meant the southern branch of their family. 
Couldn't be them, though.  They're Celibate Baptists. 
Haven't had a single stroke of sex for over three
generations."

     "Oh," he said with a slow, contemplative nod of his
head. Clearly each of his thoughts, small though they were,
threatened to overflow the banks of the mental stream in
his cranium like the Han River in monsoon season, so I
subtracted five more points. "Billy seen her coming up your
sidewalk."

     I was as clueless as an Amish bride on her wedding
night--unless Billy Forrest had traveled seven thousand
miles just to give that message to Collucci as revenge for
my mentioning his name in the author's comments, which
wasn't all that unlikely.  "Billy?"

     "Yeah."   To him that was self-explanatory.  It
couldn't have been more final if it were a speeding ticket
in West Point, Kentucky on Easter Sunday.

     I just wanted to return to bed with my teeth in my
mouth instead of my hand and my blood in my veins instead
of on the porch.  And to get away from Mount Vesuvius
Collucci before he erupted on Pompeii Hoisington.  "Mr.
Collucci, is your daughter an intelligent girl?"

     His head nodded like that of an arthritic bobble-head
doll in the rear window of a '64 Chrysler with bad shocks
crossing railroad tracks.  "Smart as a whip."

     I have many startling and wonderful talents. 
Controlling my tongue is not among them.  "Takes after her
mother, eh?"

     He frowned and leaned down to fisheye me with that
reddened interstate map. The stale beer and garlic was
joined by a faint whiff of Old Spice, a combination that
promised death as certain as the combination of a smart
bomb's whistle and a laser designator's glowing spot on
your chest.  "You sayin' Renee's been fuckin' around, too?"

     For an instant I thought I had dodged a calamity, but
reality suddenly slapped me in the face like Ginger McFall
when she caught me looking down her blouse in tenth grade. 
"No, I.... Uh, what does she look like?" 

     He looked even more confused, which as an
accomplishment ranks at least even with the Red Sox winning
the World Series. "Renee?"

     Minus another five points.  "No, your daughter."

     From the look on his dinnerplate face you'd have
thought I'd asked him to explain the Theory of Relativity
in Swahili.  "Why?"

     "I have an idea."  In truth I had only its shipping
invoice. With any luck it would arrive while I still had
thirty-two teeth in my mouth.

     "Hmmm."  While he blinked with the speed of a snail
on tranquilizers and pondered that, my cerebral UPS van
delivered. I pressed the wrinkles out of the details while
he said, "Nykki's seventeen, 'bout five and a quarter.  Got
real bright red hair and green eyes.  Been kinda skinny-
like, but she's startin' t'fill out like Renee."

     I nodded slowly, pursed my lips in feigned thought,
and looked left and right.  I leaned forward to whisper so
he would know I wanted to avoid being overheard by those
guys in trench coats overhead in their black stealth
helicopters.  "I think I understand what's going on here."

     He clouded up like the skies of hurricane Isabel and
thundered,  "What's goin' on here is I'm gonna beat your
ass into a pulp if you're humpin' my daughter."

     The wet yellow stain grew a little larger.  We were
dangerously close to having a brown stain enjoin it in a
territorial dispute.

     He sniffed like a Lewellyn setter seeking a covey of
quail in sagebrush.  "You pissin' in your pants?"

     "I can't.  I'm not wearing pants."  I spared another
nod to indicate the side of the porch.  "One of the
neighbors' cats uses those petunias as a litter box."

     The head slowly turned to look at the hanging basket.
His face couldn't have looked more awestruck if the top
five NASCAR drivers had walked up and addressed him by
name.  "He gets all the way up there?  Somebody oughta put
him on stupid pet tricks." He hummed in alleged thought,
sounding like a dying model airplane engine.  "Wonder how
much they pay for that?"

     Another five points.  "Look, I'm a psychologist," I
said as he oozed back to me.

     His face again darkened like the Seattle skies in the
rainy season.  "What kinda psychologist works nights?"

     I added back those last five points.  Apparently
someone did live inside that intellectual tenement.  "I
treat work-related stress problems in overnight-delivery
loading crews at the airport."

     His brassy eyebrows slowly rose into twin arches
resembling nothing so much as a hamburger chain's patina-
stained sign. "Oh!" he said in almost reverent tones.

     He bought that?  Maybe I was hasty restoring those
points. "Mister Collucci, I think you have two distinct
problems here."

     I swear the man grew fangs that would have given a
smilodon canine envy.  "You fuckin' both my daughter AND my
wife?"

     "NO!  Your daughter...."

     His fist slowly drew back like a battering ram at the
gates of a besieged castle.  I had no doubt it could do at
least as much damage to me.  "So you ARE doin' Nykki!"

     "THATSNOTWHATISAID!" I screeched, felt my control
weaken, and wondered how much more my underwear could hold
before the urine started dripping.  The fist paused, cocked
and ready to fire, held back by a hair-trigger with the
sensitivity of a hemorrhoid infected with jock itch. 
Keeping my voice as steady as a jackhammer on overdrive I
said, "Your DAUGHTER has two problems: a schoolgirl crush
and AFTS."

     Acronyms:  your friend indeed when you're in need. 
The Sisyphean task of birthing a thought appropriated all
of his mental processes, including the ones necessary to
keep his fist aloft and cocked. Eventually that thought,
like Athena, sprang to fully-formed life in the desolate,
rocky cavern of his head and announced its birth with a
resounding, "Huh?"

     "Her description sounds like somebody I've seen
around here a few times.  Look:  your daughter obviously
has developed a schoolgirl crush on me for some reason. 
Maybe I remind her of someone she can't have, a movie star,
or a rock performer perhaps, or maybe there's some feature
of mine she fixated on.  I mean, who knows why women do
anything, right?"  Obviously one Mister Collucci didn't
understand women any more than he understood differential
calculus, celestial mechanics, or two plus two without
using your fingers.  "Anyway, for some strange reason she's
fixated on me.  With me so far?"

     "Ummm..."  I waited for his cogwheel train of thought
to climb Pike's Peak to the station.  "Yeah?"

     "Excellent!  I knew a man of your vast intellectual
depletion would understand.  Now: she's fixated on me for
some reason, but she can't do anything about it.  I suspect
she hangs around here hoping to catch a glimpse of me, and
that's why Billy saw her coming up my sidewalk.  Maybe she
was going to peep in one of the windows."  I lifted one
hand from my crossed arms enough to snap my fingers but not
enough to display my mostly-yellow with white jockeys. 
"I'll bet she's the one who scared the cat out of the
petunias on Thursday of last week."

     The storm clouds darkened further, and his eyes
crackled lightning while he again lifted the battered Buick
for a high-speed drive into the bridge abutment of my
charming face. "Then why's her diary say she's doin' you?"

     "Aha!  That's the AFTS: affectionate feelings
transferral syndrome, a concept probed in Erie depth by
Sigmoid Fraud and the subject of two broken treatises
concerning Cherry Kay and Sue and without the usual Apache
reservations, but let's not dwell on those Indian details
because it's your daughter who has the problem."

     If he had been attempting to assemble a thought, that
drivel should have scattered the parts and shredded the
instruction manual as effectively as a four-year-old on
Christmas morning.

     "She's found somebody else who has whatever trait
attracted her to me, and she's having sex with him.  But IN
HER MIND, she's pretending it's me.  Then when she writes
about it in her diary, she says that it's me for two
reasons.  One, she's protecting him, but primarily she's
pretending that it's me to bolster her AFTS fantasy."

     He waited three breaths and then said, "You said
there was two reasons."

     Minus another five.  We were rapidly approaching
negative numbers here.  "That WAS two."

     A spark of understanding slowly grew visible in the
darkness of his eyes.  I wondered if it would die of
loneliness.  Perhaps, but the Buick unclenched and lowered.

     "In her diary she said somethin' about your eyes." 
He leaned down again and peered into each one, again
blessing me with the sacrament of garlic, stale beer, and
Old Spice and a ritual frown.  "They are kinda weird
colored."

     "There you go!  No doubt she's found someone with the
same color eyes, and she's having sex with him, but writing
in her diary that he's me."

     The calm eye of the hurricane passed.  Cumulonimbus
clouds reappeared, but not to rain blows upon my parade. 
He snarled and thundered, "Billy!  THAT'S where I seen them
eyes before."  He turned and stomped away, the one-bys of
the porch threatening to break as they sank and heaved and
popped loose more green chips of Sears Exterior
Weatherbeater paint.  He paused on the creaking wooden
steps to look back at me and growl,  "Thanks.  Sorry to
disturb you."

     "That's okay," I said, hoping I was speaking normally
instead of squeaking like an asthmatic hamster sucking
helium. "Glad I could help."  I closed and locked the door,
fully aware that he could just come through the wall if he
changed his mind. But maybe the lock would keep out the
transient riff-raff.  I heaved a deep sigh out of my path
and returned to the bedroom.

     While I removed my robe and wet underwear I watched a
slender middle finger slowly stroking the hot, wet slit
dividing a bush that resembled steel wool in the jet of a
propane torch, only redder and much, much hotter.  Her
diddle-dew made it glisten like nose hair after a sneeze. 
An undeniable surge of desire went through me like a dose
of Milk of Magnesia with a prune juice chaser.

     "I thought I'd warm it up for you," she said with her
own desire rampant in the mosh pit of her emerald eyes. 
"What was that about."

     Even though she had just awakened, she looked as
snappy as a wet towel in a boy's locker room, and I felt
the boom of my sexual derrick slowly extend.  I crawled in
beside her and stroked my hand up one firm, smooth thigh as
luxurious as the finest French velvet, stopping at the top
to displace her oscillating finger with my own trembling
digit.  I plunged it into her, causing her to groan like
the hull of a diesel sub at a hundred fathoms, and found
her wet with her own secretions and my two-hour-old semen. 
She needed a fresh injection of Hoisington Happy-Juice, and
Doctor Russ was the only one in a three county radius who
could fill that prescription.

     As my erection hardened like the heart of an under-
quota tax collector, I tongued her ear and whispered, 
"Your father said you need to find a new hiding place for
your diary.  You want to scoot over this way a little more
so we don't wake up your mother?"

Copyright Russell Hoisington 2004

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

     Those of us who write the stories you like to read
have received and continue to receive a lot of support from
ASSTR (The Alt Sex Stories Text Repository). The major
service they provide is archiving our stories to make them
available to you, the readers.  This is a non-profit
organization and is staffed by volunteers. The operation is
costly and the only income they have is from donations. I
ask that you consider making a donation if you have enjoyed
my stories.  Your donation will help insure they remain
available for all to read at no cost. You can find out
about donating at this link:

    http://www.asstr.org/donations.html

Russell Hoisington
State of Confusion

Stories archived at
http://www.storiesonline.net

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reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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