Message-ID: <4689eli$9710071056@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: mouthbrthr@aol.com (MouthBrthr) Subject: Mint Green Part 1 (FFm, light B&D, Intro) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-Id: <19971007085001.EAA11726@ladder02.news.aol.com> What does it say about a story (or the author, for that matter), when the disclaimer is written first? This is not an adult story. Sure, it's an "Adult" story, and for those readers whose parents still think they're children-shame on you! Log off, and zip your pants back up; don't you realize they could come home at any minute? Quick, do something that our society has deemed wholesome by allowing it into the marketplace-like playing Duke Nukem. Where was I? The sexual fantasy soon to pour out of my head borders on the sophistication of the pre-pubescent. The story is not degrading, at least not obviously, but the author needs a good long lie-down with a true psychoanalyst, since his libido is permanently stuck at age thirteen. But it's a particularly good puerile fantasy, one that needs to be shared, even if anonymously. So-- Here goes… ***** MINT GREEN DODGE DART by Mouth Breather Alright, so posing for "Hugely Hung!" magazine was a bad idea. I really needed the money, though, and it was time for my uncommon anatomy to be an asset rather than a setback. So I took the $300, and they took their pictures. And no one was the wiser, right? When the request for the private photo-shoot arrived in my mailbox, I should have been worried. I had never given the magazine my real name, but there it was, right next to a $2000 advance! My secondary thinking organ took over-my wallet, I mean-and the next thing I new, I was in my car, lost in upstate New York. The address for the shoot was a large, private estate in the middle of nowhere. I parked my mint green Dodge Dart (did I mention I could really use some more money?) in the gravel driveway, and looked around: a huge house of stucco on a manicured lawn, with high hedgerows to hide from the neighbors, if there were any; a custom Ford Bronco with monster truck wheels and tinted windows; an uninviting set of double-doors, of blue beveled glass. Porno-producer heaven, I naively thought. I wormed out of the Dart and headed for the door, in an unflattering swagger that only 2% of the male population can sympathize with. With my full payment, I knew, I could get that reduction surgery I had always wanted. I rang the doorbell, and a hulking shadow lurched into view, obscured by the beveled glass. I flinched as the door burst outward. My mind had ordered up a "Sorry, wrong address; obviously you have plenty of Watchtower issues already," but when the figure in the doorway came into full view, I think my mouth managed a clever, "Duh-whuh?" A titan of a woman filled the entire doorframe like a Jane Mansfield clone gone horribly awry. At my modest height, my chin came up just to the bottom swell of her chest, which was wrapped in a blue, velvety material that pinched and puckered at every curve. "Kevin?" she asked, in a voice that could melt a monk. Said I, "Uh. Yeah." Her lips, fuller than any airbrushed dream-girl's, crooked into a knowing smile. "C'mon in." She stepped back, and I was drawn into the foyer by her wake. Like everything outside, the inside of the house was gaudily big, in old Vegas style. I must admit I was not paying much attention as she gestured down a hallway in a liquid motion that could have slam-dunked a basketball for a three point shot. I lead the way, in body at least. I felt the radiant heat of her closeness behind me, the occasional brush of a hand, and a velvet softness that gently bumped my neck. The susurrus of her incredible dress was the only sound as we padded across the shag carpet into a room dominated by a huge sofa and a coffee table that could qualify as a dining table in my apartment. On the couch, curled around an double-sized cappuccino mug, sat the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Her skin as dusky as her coffee, her hair in corn-rows lazily framing a glorious heart-shaped face. Looking to us, to the pair of eyes behind and above my head, she gave a now-familiar, crooked smile, and placed her mug on the table. And stood up. I was in trouble. Two large hands swallowed my shoulders, reassuring but firm, as the dark, lovely, inhuman creature unfurled out of the plush couch. She wore a pair of purple silk pajamas that could have comfortably housed an Olympic shot-putter, but strained to contain her impossible harmony of tight musculature, voluptuous flesh, and massive bone. She walked closer, and closer, never taking her eyes away from the woman behind me. I started back when I realized she was not going to stop until she arrived deep inside my personal-space zone, but those hands on my shoulders grew into arms that snaked down to my belly. I felt the delicious softness of the body behind me, from my enveloped neck to my pressed-forward knees, and a forest of platinum blonde hair tumbled down to obscure my view. The dark women reach out both hands to be, around me, past me, and leaned forward to plant a kiss somewhere far above my head. I was lost in a world of blonde curls, baby powder, breasts, and the bombastic beats of their hearts. They broke their deep kiss, and the dark woman stepped back, looking at me for the first time. "You can run away now, if you like," she said. "No." I said softly, regaining my composure. Then, "No way. Not ever." She laughed. "It's just a job, Kevin. The oldest profession." I had to smile, but then stooped as the seductive fog cleared and delayed pain signals entered my brain from a 16 inch curse in a pair of custom jeans designed to dress it, concealed, to the left. The dark woman looked down, raised an eyebrow. "Well, maybe two or three jobs." Some hidden signal past between the two women, and I was released from my incredible prison, and physically encouraged to turn around. I had to hop to do so. "Mother of God," the blond woman said. "The best find yet." That brought the worry back, and I tensed. The dark woman must have noticed, and she quickly said. "Kevin, you can leave at any time-up to a certain point. And you will be paid in full by tonight, I promise." I moved away from them, and sank into the couch, to ease the pressure and readjust myself. "I'm Kyle," said the dark woman, regaining that Mona Lisa smile. "I'm Gwen," said the other, pushing the river of long ringlets out of her face. A pause, and I said, "I'm Kevin." Idiot. I tried again. "What is going on?" Taking that as a cue, Gwen glided down beside me. Right beside me. Her weight on the couch formed a gravity well of white leather, and I was plopped into her side. Again, she was incredibly warm, a furnace wrapped in velour. She bent down to look me in the eyes, but at my height it did not work so well, so I wound up listening to a pair of painted, cupie-doll lips, breasts bigger than my head, and a frame of crazy blond curls. "Kyle and I have a fantasy, Kevin, and we're willing to pay you to help us fulfill it." Kyle joined us on the sofa, dangerously close. "We are very happy together," Kyle explained, "but there's one thing we've always wanted to try." She laughed, "Something my brother said that if I tried just once, I'd come to my senses." Gwen bristled at that. I could feel her whole body tense. "It's *our* fantasy," she said in a frightening tone. I felt I was to blame, suddenly ashamed. "I don't understand. I'm sorry. Maybe I should just--" Gwen relaxed, put her arms around me, and I experienced the most sexy bear-hug in the world. "It's okay," she said. "That's part of it." She looked at Kyle. "It's really okay. It's just going to be done my way." Kyle eyes glittered with mischief, as if to say that doing things Kyle's way was dandy with her. "These are the rules," Kyle said, palming her coffee mug. "You can't ask questions. You can't speak. We won't speak to you. Before we enter the bedroom, you can say 'No, thanks' at any time, and you can go home and deposit your cash advance. Once we enter the bedroom, though, a 'No, thanks' will not only get us very upset, but the check will be cancelled, with possibly other repercussions." I followed her gaze to the coffee table. There, with a wet cappuccino ring actually improving the layout, was a mint copy of "Hugely Hung!", my issue. I nodded. Kyle continued. "Afterwards, we'll pay you the balance of $8,000. If you want to say something, go ahead now. It's your last chance to say anything except 'No, thanks.' But no questions." I though for a good while. "I understand," I said. Then I blushed, "and I'm incredibly turned on. But I feel very strange about accepting money…" Gwen put a long finger up against my lips. "It's part of it, for detachment." I didn't understand, but I nodded. Kyle stood up and moved quickly out of the room, excitement in her step. "Then it's begun. No more talking." Gwen stood, and I lost my hand in hers as she lead me down the hallway, up a flight of stairs. I had to extend my stride across the tall stairs just to keep up with her. With Kyle nowhere in sight, she lead me past a large, ornate door to a smaller plain white door, and ushered me in without a sound. I found myself in a circular, walk-in closet bigger than my studio apartment. Garments and apparel of every description filled the shelf-and-rack lined walls. About half of the clothing was smartly placed, the rest folded with less concern. The room was dominated by a large, mirrored vanity table. Gwen smiled, turned her back to me, and tugged at the zipper of her dress. I took the clue, but several thumping heart beats passed before I worked up the courage, stepped up on tippy-toes, and slowly pulled the zipper down, revealing an widening triangle of golden-white skin. I knew I was not the center of attention, so I helped her out of her dress as matter-of-factly as I could with trembling hands. The heat I felt when I was close to her-did it come from her, or me?-reached solar flare intensity I help to remove her bra and garters at her mimed request. She stepped away from me, wearing nothing but that crescent smile. I wanted to say something poetic, but I remembered the rules, and I was sure I could have only managed a "wow," anyway. Part Ruebenesque, part poster girl, even the curve of her bare shoulder made me weak at the knees. She walked without any sense of modesty to the vanity table, plucked out a few hair combs, and wrestled for control over her locks. The very act of reaching up to put the combs in made her breasts-large but perfect for her gargantuan ribcage-strain and sway, her brown nipples easily encompassing the span of my hand, if I dared but touch. As she silently prettied up, she gestured to my pants, my shirt. I stripped down as fast as I could. I even hopped about the room pulling of my socks. The bodily feature whose name was more well known than my own swung into the air. (Some time back in early freshman year of college, I was caught darting out of the bathroom. No towel could hide my particular problem, especially after being awoke by a healthy soaping. Rumors flew, and the next thing I knew, the campus BBS servers had crowned me-or rather, it--"Maglight.") She lost her composer for a second when she caught me in the corner of her eye, and my heart sunk. But she did not avert her eyes, and then she made eye contact, pursed her bottom lip and nodded curtly, as if saying, "that'll do. Maybe." I then realized what women of Gwen's and Kyle's stature might want of me, and it was my time to smirk. Kyle bounded into the room just then, from another set of doors, wearing nothing but a peculiar, wide black belt. Her toned, coffee colored skin absorbed all the colors in the room-even the most flashy pantsuit looked drab, washed out, compared to her. I simply stared, rudely, taking in the triangular muscles of her legs, the inviting flair of her hips, that ship-launching face… I had not noticed, but Gwen had reached into a drawer in the vanity and drew something out-something with buckles that jingled. Now, before I posed for that greasy magazine I had very little experience with anything kinky, especially bondage. During that trip through the heart of darkness, though, I saw my fair share of leather goods: hoods, gags, lashes, straps, corsets, ball-busters. Nothing in my repertoire helped me identity the tangle of leather, gleaming buckles, and bungee straps that Gwen had produced As Gwen hastened to untwist the mass, I though I recognized a binder-a corset for men-at the heart of the tentacular creation, but with a growing sense of apprehension I realized that, while I had no idea what it was or what it did, it was meant for me. Gwen shot me a searching look. This was it, then. The 'No thanks' moment. Adventure or mediocrity. A story for Penthouse Forum or another jar of hand-lotion. I looked to Kyle. She was gazing at Gwen, her face flush with passion and aggression. I was opening my mouth, and taking in a breath to speak, when it suddenly struck me that these two were crazy in love for each other. Kinky, sure, but love-crazy. I exhaled, starting with a "N-" but ending in a whooshing sigh. Gwen stood, walk close passed me, gave Kyle a tender kiss on the cheek, and went through the doors to the bedroom beyond, taking the contraption with her. Kyle followed, never looking at me once, but left the door open. I guess I don't find out what that thing is for until the point of no return, I thought. With only a slight hesitation, I entered the bedroom, closing the door behind me. ****** Wow. That just poured out of my head all at once. Much better than I thought it would be, but still, who knows (except Celeste). It's way past my bed-time, though, so I can't finish it now. I'm starved for critical attention, however, so with apologies, I'll just post it as Part I. I promise to finish it, however, and to upload the final version in it's entirety. If I get feedback (positive or negative), I'll probably post it sooner. Hope you like it, Mouth Breather -- +--------------' 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> /