Message-ID: <1592eli$9706231553@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: Path: qz!not-for-mail Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: From: Subject: STORY: "Seductions 11"/MrSpraycan Standard Disclaimer: Adults only. This item is of fictional nature. All persons and most places in it are imaginary; no resemblance to real or historic characters is intended. No illicit behavior is endorsed or condoned. Art and/or Entertainment is the idea. Copyright (c) is claimed 1997 by Baton Rouge Thoughtscapes and its author, MrSpraycan who chooses to be 'anon'. No commercial use is warranted. For personal or entertainment purposes only. Do not retransmit or store in public archives. SEDUCTIONS 11 by MrSpraycan The next morning, the two sluts are up and about before me. I wake up with an impressive early morning boner, and neither is to be found. Treason! But the bathroom is free, breakfast is cooking and some pleasant domesticity is evident. Keep women happy and all sorts of good things happen. Sophia is making coffee, Maria is tidying up, taking out the garbage, changing towels, stacking newspapers for the recycle. Both look lustfully at my erection as I walk by naked, but neither acts on it. Right, I get it. They're practising for funeral mode. It's not going to be a pleasant experience. But it can't take long: this is a budget cremation at a local grilling place, with a 30-minute turnaround, max. Neither Wayne nor Gregory has drawn much of a crowd. There are a half-dozen feeble old drunks with that 'vet victim' look, a ratbag sister with dishmop hair. Two dressed-at-the-garage-sale neighbors. A couple of Wayne's school friends, whose parole must have coincided with his. Us, the odd trio. And several cops, scowling, sports-talking, watching everybody else. Hoping to find Wayne's partners? How difficult could that be? After the lackluster ceremony, I see a black Porsche Carrera hovering at the end of the driveway. The windows are very tinted, but I see three or four large black guys in reversed baseball caps and ultrabaggy clothes. His connection, making sure he's gone. Oh, he's gone alright, to his own little ozone hole. The cops pay no attention, as I'd half-suspected they would. Why mess with it? When we get home, the hunger to prove we're among the living takes over, real fast. Clothes are coming off, drinks are poured, some Bessie Smith finds its way on the player. Sophia is skittish, but when Maria and I sandwich her for a serious hug, she soon starts to move in a sensuous fashion. My cock is prodding at her backside, and Maria is massaging her mother's tits with good intent. There's no conversation -- rare for us -- as we instinctively do what we want, what the others are expecting. By mid-afternoon, we're all snoozing peacefully. The phone wakes me. Often it doesn't: that's what voice mail is for. It's Sally, my friend from the salon. Should she still come by, did I still need her? Jesus, I'd forgotten. Sure, I say. She says she has a friend visiting from California -- someone who's "into your kind of stuff" -- and asks if it would be okay if she joined us. Yes, I tell Sally: she should invite her buddy too. Around 7pm, the new duo shows up. Maria and Sophia are watching CNN, blowing smoke out of the kitchen window. It was the only way I could get them to stick around the apartment. Keeps the smell down, somewhat. Sally is a thin, hyperactive Italian woman in her early 30s, with long straight black hair. Her 'friend' is of the same age, I'd guess, maybe a little older. A lithe, tall black woman with that Nile valley, East African exotic look too her. Nefertiti. Shaved head, very dikey and Grace Jones. Her name, which seems ridiculous to me, is Alice. Sally is never shy or circumspect. She'll do the craziest things for a dare: I've discovered that the hard way, and betting against her has cost me money. So I'm not surprised to see her grab Maria and begin to frenchkiss her hungrily. Sophia is gazing hungrily at them and isn't ready when Alice seizes her and begin to do the same. I pour myself a fresh coffee and watch. With my usual romantic eye, I'm thinking it's time for some new (larger, stronger) furniture if we're going to have orgies like this with any regularity. This IKEA stuff is going to disintegrate with four or five asses pounding up and down on it. So who does what to who? The simple answer is that Maria and Sophia are the twin vortices of the hurricane. I fuck them both, but I'm only a bit player in Sally and Alice's onslaught with fingers, tongues and fists. We pause around 9.30pm to get the last call on Chinese takeout: yes, a monotonous, unimaginative choice, but a veggie stand-by, and rich with yummy sauces for everyone to wallow in. Just a few of the inspirations from these filthy-minded trollops include 'hunt the steamed dumpling,' 'noodle wrapped nipples,' and novel ways to snap open fortune cookies. It's midnight before we're through, and frankly, I think it's only the prospect of work tomorrow that has Sally and Maria eyeing the clock and yawning. I'm not bothered when Alice and Maria pair off in my bed and Sophia and Sally make themselves comfortable on my pulldown couch. I pull some clothes on, say I'll be back in an hour, and walk out for some fresh air. All that cigarette smoke, yeuk! I walk around the block, taking my time. My balls are aching, and I resolve that I'll ignore the next three invitations to fuck that I get. I have my car keys, and decide to climb in the Merc. Somewhere in the glove compartment, Maria's spare pack of Marlboro. I take one, look at it for a minute, push in the virgin cigarette lighter. Pop. Time to say no. Filthy habit. But I don't. I light up. Choke. But after a few puffs, the old familiar sensations return. Mostly disgust. How many long nights had I killed with these dried leaves and others like them? Out of the corner of my eye, a movement. I turn to find a skinny black kid lounging against the next car, lighting up too. He has a cadaverous face, a weakling's ugly smile, the look of the speed or coke user about him. Eyes a little glazed, a shake to his hands. From the gloom, three or four more appear. All in dark clothes, baggy to the point of caricature. Baseball caps on backwards, or at goofy angles. I motor down the driver side window, push open the car door, step out. "Help you?" I say, drawing heavily on the Marlboro. It crackles. A long silence. Then skullface speaks. "Yo, we's lookin' fo somethin' we lost. Personal property. Loaned to a Mister Wayne dude. Honky sucker you knew, gramps." Gramps, eh? Well, I'd led dozens of guys old enough to be their grandfathers from the nearby ghetto to a place on a long black wall with 58,000 other names. "Wayne?" "Greek guy. Don't shit wit' me, motherfucker. We seen you wit' him. Seen you at the funeral." "Then," I said calmly, "You know he's dead, right?" "He be dayd, yo. But where his stash at? What you know bout dat?" "If I understand you correctly, you mean, his ... uh, merchandise?" "Dat shit, yeh. It's ours." "I believe the police made a search . . ." "Dey won' touch our shit, dey know better," another low-rent tonton macoute growls. "Les' fuck him up, see what he know . . ." The group starts to move my way. They are a menacing, but basically uncoordinated team. The car door is half open. It goes the rest of the way in a fraction of a second, propelled by my foot, catching the leading menace firmly in the crotch. My right hand has scooped up that ever-handy Club anti-theft device. A heavy, modern-day mace. I swing it like an axe into the shoulder of the next nearest thug, prodding a satisfying snap of shattering bone. The next swing separates a small automatic pistol from the hand of a third, sending it skittering along the ground and under a parked car. The fourth is waving what looks like a meat cleaver. Is a meat cleaver. Rings musically as I block its swing with the Club. Rings again as it flies out of its owner's hand. I deck him with a sideways kick to the midriff. "Shall we start again?" I ask the first thug, who is on his knees, clutching his crotch. The blade of the meat cleaver on the side of his throat gets his attention. "No shit from any of you, or I'll chop this fucker's stupid turniphead off." I try to keep it calm and informative. Emotion is so bad in interpersonal relationships. There's a lot of angry protest, but no one makes a move in my direction. "Now, tell me about Wayne's 'stash'." "Sucker was holding it fo us. No one look in dis part a town, no one think a poor-ass honky ratfucker redneck got nuttin'." "And he didn't, really. So, how much stuff are we talking about, guys?" "Two hunnerd, at least." "Am I guessing $200,000 is the lucky number?" "200 gees, yeah. An', tell ya what, we cut you in fo 25 if you can finger it." "Uh, why wouldn't I keep it all?" "No distribution channel, dat's why." "Okay, let's see if we can figure out a plan. And, may I suggest? -- all of you! -- keep your hands in sight or I may have to make me a new hood ornament out of old chemohead here." "So, scope it out. 25K do ya, Mr.Charlie?" "Don Carlos was some other dude. Let's go to fifty." "Thirty." We agree at 36K. In kind. "You wants crack? You crazy? You ain't got no way a sellin' it, man." "No, I'll take a Volvo 850 Turbo. White would be nice. Figure you can do that? Register it in my girlfriend's name. I'll give the dealer details when you've paid him." There are scowls. "Yeah. Deal." "So where is it?" "Backpack, in the Taurus over there. Don't damage it too much, belongs to a nice old lady. Call me at the office tomorrow, huh? I'm in the book. DG Smith." I walk away, pocketing the cleaver. At the apartment, the smell of sex is powerful. I notice I am getting stiff again. Oh well. Which of these delicious tarts should I wake up and give a boning? It's difficult. I sneak in between Sophia and Sally, but respect Sally's need for rest. A slow grind with Sophia is paced by some excited grunting from the distant bedroom. Oh, Maria is really motoring tonight. A day or so later, I hear about an interesting automobile acquisition. Won't Sophia be pleased? The vile old Taurus clunker is going to be traded in, she just heard how much insurance money she stands to get. Let's just say, several houses' worth. I had helped her by introducing her to my lawyer, Cohen the Barbarian, and he'd cut right to the chase in his usual way, unearthing all kinds of little insurance fragments, liabilities to exploit. It'll be a while, but she's going to be in good shape. Forget the freelance and the shit jobs I had lined up for her. So let's wrap things up here. Maria interviewed with my buddies and got herself a job as a stripper, and headed for San Francisco, a little tearfully. We'll meet again, often. She's close to Mummy, and me. But she's also enjoying a hot, hot relationship with Alice. Isn't that cute? My autopurchasing benefactors? Well, two died in a little disagreement with rivals the next week. Another was self-defensed by the police one afternoon. And the one with the broken arm? I see him around, but he's got the message, and he's saying nothing. Am I a remorseful drug dealer's accomplice? Nah. We did much worse things in the Phoenix program, and I washed that off my soul. Sophia stuck around. She got to be quite beautiful, with some work, a new wardrobe, a personal trainer (me!). Money does that to some people. We're kinda close. I wouldn't call it love, 'cos who the fuck knows what that is, really? Just a second hand emotion, like they say. But we keep each other company, she gets my jokes, she even likes Wagner and Donizetti. But above all, she loves "the king of bomp diddle diddle," Wolfie Baby, Mister Mozart. And his swaggering big-willy hero, Don Giovanni. Bitch has got excellent taste, what can I say? Copyright (c) 1997, Mr.Spraycan [Part of "Just Like Don Giovanni's Blues." Visit MrSpraycan's homepage at for listings, reviews of other stories. [ Via EDTec Anon Remail Service: ] -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | \ .../assm/faq.html> /