Message-ID: <814eli$9705151446@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: Path: qz!news.accessus.net!not-for-mail X-Path-Preload: news.accessus.net preloaded to thwart rogue canceller there Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: From: M1KEHUNT@aol.com Subject: Women Are Stupid - by MIKE HUNT It's OK to forward these stories to other people. I mean, as long as it's OK with the other people. I wouldn't want you to send it to your 9th grade homeroom monitor or anything. Unless she really was fucking the Science teacher like we all thought. It's also OK to print the story out and make a copy for a co-worker. I'd be careful not to leave it on the secretary's desk, especially if her Rolodex is open to a lawyer's phone number. Make sure the person you give it to is over 18. Otherwise you could be in deep shit. I don't know exactly how deep. I'll measure it and get back to you. Women Are Stupid - by MIKE HUNT Yes, I know the title "Women Are Stupid" will cause an uproar. It's bound to in today's world. And when an author is assailed by critics - as I am sure to be - he inevitably backs off or tries to weasel his way out of the controversy or claims he's misunderstood. Or misquoted. Or something. Not me. I really believe it. Women ARE Stupid. I'll take it a step further. Not just some women, not even most women. All Women. They're ALL stupid. I have a story that illustrates it. I don't know how else to prove it, but I think it's obvious. The story starts below. Spare me a few sentences for the logic: Men will do anything for pussy. I mean anything. We'll fly across the country for an illicit rendezvous; we'll revisit a bar and hope to meet a girl we saw there last Tuesday and don't even know; we'll even pretend to like Yanni, or whatever the fuck his name is. Do you think women behave like that? Shit. You can barely get them to sit down in front of a porno movie. Even a good one, where the girls have big tits. Think about it. Women have all the pussies in the world. 100%. They *OWN* the market. And yet men have most of the good jobs, big cars, best toys, political power and prestige. If women just all snapped their legs shut for a couple of months every man on the planet would be a whimpering fool, and would happily chuck his power and possessions for a piece of ass. It's true. The funny thing is that every man knows it and women apparently don't. Now that's a worldwide conspiracy of silence if I ever saw one. I wonder if Oliver Stone has thought about this? That's why I say Women Are Stupid. All of them. Well, maybe hookers have it figured out. But nobody else. * * * * I was the luckiest guy in the world. For about a year. When I was 28. A friend of mine was looking through the front of a major men's magazine and for some reason was reading the credits. The masthead, they call it. I never spent much time on that page myself. Anyway, my buddy called me and said, "I didn't know you worked for Playboy." "What??" I barked into the mouthpiece. He said, "Your name is here on the masthead. Do you have a copy? Take a look." I went to my living room and got the latest issue. Sure enough, someone with my exact name was the Assistant Photo Editor. It was a funny coincidence, and I pointed out it out to friends over the next few days. Within a month I was convinced that women are stupid. Like, I could start up a conversation with a pretty girl in a bar, confident that she would eventually ask me what I did for a living. Now my choice was to tell her that I was an accountant for a small CPA firm or to lie and say that I was a photo editor for a magazine. You guess. Right. So when she asked which magazine, I would reply "Playboy." I was rarely challenged, but if I was it was simple to find a recent issue and produce my driver's license. Voila! I'm him! I got one of two responses. The first was cold, like I was some kind of dirtbag. That happened maybe 2% of the time. The other 98%, well, that's what this story is about. One time, I was hanging around a bar that had girls in T-shirts serving beers and chicken wings to guys. The bar was called "Jugs," or something subtle like that. They served their beer in jugs, get it? It was kind of a slow day, and I was chatting with a couple of the waitresses. One was cute and one was pretty. There's a difference. One was short, one was tall. One big busted, one pretty. You understand. It was three minutes of "Where did you go to school?" and "What movies have you seen?" and stuff like that. Thank god "What's your sign?" went out in the 70's. And then, "Where do you work?" I paused. "Playboy. Local office. I handle the northern part of the state." "You're kidding," the blonde piped up. "Nope. I get that a lot. Why doesn't anybody believe it when I tell them?" I asked. "I never met anybody who worked for Playboy," the cheerleader said. "I never even met anybody who *knew* anybody who worked for Playboy." I could have written cue cards last October for this conversation. The other girl looked up at me and asked "What do you do there?" "I'm Assistant Photo Editor. I scout talent, go on shoots, stuff like that." "You scout for talent? You mean..." she said with wonder. "Girls. I find models for the magazine. Centerfolds, pictorials, other stuff. you know." I shrugged. She was fascinated. Pretty girls usually are when they think about the fame and fortune that can come from being photographed in a classy men's magazine. I mean, she'll happily take off her clothes in front of a stranger with a camera. But do you think she'll let you unbutton her blouse in the back of a Ford? Not likely. Well, not without a fight, anyway. Women are stupid. The second waitress was taller and had dark hair. She was more of a classic beauty, either Italian or Greek, I decided. Her deep tanned "look" didn't seem to jibe with the hot pants and the T-shirt tied under her tits. Still, given a little direction she could be a real piece of talent herself. She was quieter, surveying me, deciding whether this was just a line or something. "How do you do that?" the sis-boom-bah girl asked. She was doing most of the talking. "I mean, I guess I know how you do that, but how do you decide?" "Usually just a quick test shoot. I send 'em in to headquarters with my recommendation. Usually they follow it. Sometimes they don't." Hey, not my fault if you don't show up in the next issue. "Where do you do the shoots around here?" the European flavor asked. "Oh anywhere, really. The tests are only of the girls. Just Polaroids, you know. We spend a lot more time thinking about the composition and theme of the articles when they're actually going into the magazine." I'd said this maybe a hundred times before. I was even starting to think I knew what I was talking about. "You can never tell. Sometimes you'll find the prettiest girl, but it just doesn't translate through the lens. And sometimes you'll find a girl who's, well, sort of average, but the camera loves her." I shrugged again. "You never know until the test." I casually looked them both up and down. "You know, either of you girls could make it. You're both quite pretty, in very different ways of course. But actually I'm not working at the moment. I just came in to get a beer." I smiled a lopsided smile. This is how I always looked when I lied. The beauty turned to the cutie and said, "Do you think..." She restarted. "Would you, uh..." The cutie said "Sure. In a minute." In a New York second, I thought. "Yeah, well, I suppose I would too, come to think about it." The girls looked at each other and giggled. "Hey, I suppose we could arrange something," I said with practiced nonchalance. "What's good for you?" They haggled with each other. They wanted to be there at the same time; they were friends or something. But California girl got off shift in a half-hour. Dark Hair had to work til 9. Couldn't tomorrow, had to visit Mom. Dentist appointment Thursday. Date for a ball-game Friday night. The schedules just wouldn't mesh. I finally interrupted. "Why don't we just do it when you can each do it? Whoever isn't in front of the camera is going to be bored anyway. And you'll probably just make the other one uptight." They thought it over. The cute blonde said "I'm off shift in 25 minutes." I took the cue. "Fine. I'll just nurse a beer until you're ready to go. We can go wherever you're comfortable. You'll need a bathing suit or T-shirt or something." The bronzed babe looked disappointed, like there was only one lollipop and I had given it to her friend. I turned to her. "I'm REALLY looking forward to working with you too," I said with emphasis. "You both have such totally different looks. Variety is the spice of life, right? That's what we look for in the magazine. Exotic beauty from all over the world." Her eyes glazed over. I arranged to call her the next day. Tall and Tan put her name and phone number on the corner of a napkin. I figured I'd have my dick in the blonde's snatch in 90 minutes, two hours tops. You could call Morty in Vegas and make book on it. The cheerleader and I left together. She asked if I had a studio but I explained that I didn't since I traveled all over the state. I knew how to engineer the conversation into a sophisticated "my place or yours." I had done it dozens of times. We had to go to my apartment to get the camera anyway. It usually worked like that. She didn't have a bathing suit with her, of course. But just telling the girls that they wouldn't have to undress completely made them comfortable and and then they stripped naked. Stupid. I told her she could stay in her bra and panties, or even in her T-shirt, although it would make the pictures pretty useless back at the mansion. For Hef to look at, I meant. We walked into my place. I kept it neat, especially the living room. There was a mass of cameras strewn across one of my shelves. In truth, I had picked them up, broken and useless, at a couple of photo stores. Barely good enough for door stops. That's why they cost me a total of $50. They were just props. We made small talk, and I showed her the place. It wasn't big but it was nice, and at least I had put a little effort into decorating. I also left some open space on one side of the living room for my modeling sessions. "You can change in there if you want or you can stay right here. Whatever." I walked over and got my Polaroid. I had 94 film packs in a nearby drawer. I even had another cheap instant camera handy in case my good one broke. It was just insurance. The expensive model I used cost me half a week's pay. Top-of-the-line. Auto- focus, light balance, you name it. It did everything but undress the girls. Which was good, because I preferred doing that myself. "OK, let's lose the T-shirt," I said helpfully. Her hands flew to the bottom of the material and she prepared to whip it over her head. "No no, slowly slowly. Reveal yourself to the camera." She slowed down. I pushed a button. CLICK. The flash flashed. The mechanism whirred, and a white cardboard treat was ejected from the front. I took it and set it on the table. That's the only trouble with those instant cameras. You can't just CLICK CLICK CLICK, you know? Every push of the button generates several separate events. And you have to change film packs much more often. On the other hand, with those regular cameras you have to take the pictures down to the corner FotoMat and the girl at the counter gives you the hairy eyeball when you buy them back from her. Like you're some kind of sleaze, or something. "OK, lift the bottom up and let me see your bra. Higher. Higher. That's good." CLICK. FLASH. The motor whirred. "OK, let's lose the shirt." She lifted it over her head. I looked back at her. Her bra was not dainty; it was built for reinforcement and support. She needed it. She stood there without grace or poise. That was apparently part of my job. "Stand up straight. Shoulders back. Good. Tilt toward me a little. Good. Pooch your lips." CLICK. Another one wasted. The first half-dozen always were, but they were important to help the girls loosen up. I clicked a couple more as I walked around her and looked at her from various heights and angles. "Now reach behind and unclasp your bra." Her arms flew to the task. "Slowly. Slowly. That's good. Let the straps fall down your arms. Don't take it off completely. Tease me. Please me." She was beginning to understand what I wanted. She let the white material slip down the slopes a little at a time. Her tits seemed to get bigger and bigger the more she let it slide. Finally a reddened circle began to appear. CLICK. The camera spit out a picture. She dropped the bra to her navel. Her breasts hung low but firm. She was huge; at least a D cup. And I could tell by their sway that they were real, not like those plastic tits that stupid women buy. "Oh my," I said. "You really are pretty." 'Pretty' might have been the wrong expression. What I meant to say was "FUCK! LOOK AT THOSE KNOCKERS!" I clicked my way through two film packs while she followed my instructions to stand, bend, kneel, sit, roll over. I could have trained Fido with this routine. Bark! Come on, bark! She willingly lowered her panties and I took some tasteful shots of her in the buff, standing behind a chair, holding onto a floor lamp, that kind of thing. I said "Do you want to do a couple to Hef's taste?" I was an insider after all. "What's...that?" she said slowly. "What does he like?" "Well, tits, of course," I said. Who didn't know that? She chuckled. "But he really likes to see women lying back on a couch... I don't get it myself, but it's his taste, you know?" "Sure." She walked to the couch. She lay down. I fluffed a pillow. "Rest your head. That's it." She relaxed. "This is it?" she said. "Pretty much," I answered. "Arms in. Hold your, uh, tits up." She did. As she pulled her arms together the oversize mounds of flesh rose up like the mountains of Nepal. But where those are capped in white, hers were topped by rose colored peaks the size of chocolate chip cookies. "Wow. Terrific," I said. I moved down to the end of the couch. "Open your legs a little." She did. "A little more." She hesitated. "This is for Hef, remember." He knees fairly flew apart, blatantly revealing her womanness to me. I hunched over and snapped a picture. It would have her thighs in the foreground, her just revealed cunt in mid-frame, and her mountainous tits further back. Her face was hidden. To get it in the picture and over her jugs, her neck would have had to be two feet long. I walked back to the front of the couch. I leaned over and snapped a close-up of her snatch. The camera spit out the cardboard square. I had the lens pointing down at her and the undeveloped picture fell, hitting her in the pubic hair. I reached for it. Her hand got there first. "Sorry," I said. "I wasn't trying..." "Well I wouldn't be surprised if you were. Look at you," she said. She was right. I had an erection inside my pants that Houdini couldn't have hidden. "Sorry," I said again. "It's OK. I'd be insulted if you weren't excited, you know?" she said. Her hand reached out and touched my pants just below the knee. It slowly traveled up, kneading and stroking my leg as it worked its way to its destination. I felt her fingers touch my hardness. I stood there. "You're amazing," I said. "So beautiful. So sexy. This is so unexpected." I had met her an hour-and-forty minutes ago. I still had 20 minutes to my two-hour deadline. She pulled at the zipper to my pants. I stood and watched her hands at work. She said to me "No pictures now." "Of course not," I said. I put the camera down roughly at my feet. For $200 with an extended warranty it could take a little bouncing. She reached into my fly and extracted my dick. As her fingers encircled me I began to help. My hands pulled at my belt buckle and the pants fell to the floor. I loosened her grip on my member just long enough to push down my boxer shorts, then guided her back. I stepped out of my pants as I pulled off my shirt. I let her stroke me for several moments. The feeling was exquisite. "Omigod," I blurted. "What?" she said, concern in her voice. "I forgot the most important part. Your face. I need some shots of your face." I grabbed for the camera. She let go of my cock. "Just lie there," I said. I looked through the viewfinder. Her face filled the frame. CLICK. "Got it?" she said. "Oh no. Got to take several more of these. This is the most important part." I stood before her with my dick waving in the air. "Look sexy," I commanded. "Make yourself feel sexy. Show it to me in your face." Her eyes went to my erection. "That's good," I said. "Very good." CLICK. "Closer now. Closer." I moved toward her. I lifted one leg and stepped over her. I stood above and over her chest and moved the camera in even closer. I clicked the shutter again quickly. My enraged cock hovered over her breasts. I bent my knees, moving down for a closer shot. My balls dragged along her stomach. With a small movement of my hips I positioned my tool exactly between those soft mounds and rested it on the hard breastbone between. I held the camera over her face. "Come on. Look sexy. Feel sexy. Do sexy." She squeezed her arms together and her tits enveloped my throbbing penis; I was surrounded above and below, to the right and left. "Hold it right there," I said. She thought I meant the pose, but I meant my dick, of course. I clicked the camera. My puffed up prick sought escape. I moved it forward toward her face. Couldn't get through. I moved it back, toward her cunt. Again, no way out. "Your face is glowing," I said. "You must be having wonderfully sexy thoughts. This will make a great shot." My hips bucked forward and back again. And again. I aimed the Polaroid at her face and clicked. She was incandescent. "Look at me. Look right at me," I said. My hips continued to buck; she continued to hold her tits firmly together providing a tunnel of passion for my cock. Oh, did I mention my hobby? I'm a craftsman; I sometimes make jewelry. I can produce a pearl necklace in 30 seconds flat. I was about to give one to this girl and even help her try it on. Some talent, huh? On a side note, it's this exact moment that convinces me Women Are Stupid. Like if every secretary who ever did this with her boss stopped right NOW and demanded a promotion to Vice President of Marketing or something, do you think she would get it? Of course. But do they do that? Of course NOT. They're stupid. Uh, sorry for the interruption. Anyway, I continued to buck back and forth, call instructions and snap pictures until the camera ran out of film. I felt my fuse light on its way to the explosion that always followed. I bucked ferociously. She squeezed her tits together harder. Then I was at the flash point, my dick spurting and ejaculating as glob after glob of sticky, smelly spunk was ejected under pressure. Again and again. Each exciting tingle producing another string of white droplets. It was a pretty piece of jewelry, this necklace. The pearls were everywhere, tastefully arranged all over her neck and chest. One or two of my spurts had happened while I was in backstroke, and I had cum into the tunnel, only to push it out on my next thrust. I had jizz dripping from my cock and balls. Ummmm. It was OfuckingK. I glanced into the kitchen. "Unbelievable," I said. "You really think so?" she giggled. I was talking about the clock, not her. I still had three minutes to spare. Like I said, two hours from "Hi" to Pop City. Of course I hadn't cum in her pussy, so my prediction wasn't totally accurate. Close enough. "Really unbelievable." What else can you say? I walked to the kitchen and grabbed the dish towel. I tossed it to her as I pulled a paper towel from the roll to wipe myself up. The next part would take five minutes. It always did. She'd ask how long it would take to know something. I'd explain that I mailed the pictures to Chicago, and hopefully at the next monthly editorial meeting they'd be looked at, and then someone would call me. Sometimes those meetings were real busy, tho, and could slip a month. Or two. Occasionally I'd pick up a current Playboy from the coffee table and show the girl my name on the masthead. Sometimes not, it didn't matter. The girls always bounded happily out of my place leaving behind a satisfied impostor. The next day I called Contestant #2. She was the one with all the schedule problems, and we made a date for Saturday, three days away. There was just no way to make it sooner. She rang the bell at 10AM sharp. I always like punctuality. It shows interest. "Hello Rona," I said. "Come in." She stepped through the door. She looked wonderful. Tanned, mysterious, a trifle exotic. A nice change. She carried a little gym bag. "I brought a bathing suit like you said. Two suits, actually. You can take your pick." "Great," I answered. "Can I get you something to drink?" She shook her head. "Diet Coke? Fancy water?" She shook her head again. I gave her the nickel tour. It was a token effort; I only had a three room apartment. When we walked into the bedroom I gave the standard pitch. "You can change in here, or...out there. Doesn't really matter." Actually to some girls it does. Taking off their clothes to the camera is OK, but just standing and changing in front of that same guy, well, they think that's weird. Tell me that's not stupid. She said, "I'll change in here." "Fine," I said. "You said you had two suits..." "Oh, yeah." She fished around in the gym bag and brought them out. One was a loud bikini with big yellow and blue swirls. Well not that big, since there was so little material. The other was a soft blue one-piece, just a slight vertical ribbing to the material, no pattern. She just knew I would choose the bikini. Easy choice. I picked the one piece. It was a simple decision, really. The one piece was very low cut with slits running all the way down the sides. And it had no pattern to distract the eye. Not that my eye wasn't practiced and all, but I hate patterns on bathing suits. Why do you think the army paints that green shit on its tanks and battleships? Cause it makes you crazy and your eye can't focus. Same thing. Blue and yellow bikini, camouflage green Humvee. Same thing. Anyway the one piece was one of those cheeky models that I thought would be interesting. I left the room. When she appeared she was holding her T-shirt in front of her. "I didn't know if you'd want to have this..." she said, unsure of herself. "Yeah, bring it in. I don't know if we'll use it or not," I answered. I'd played the T-shirt game with her friend; she and I wouldn't need it. I wondered if beauty and cutie had talked. She walked over to the open area of the living room. "OK, stand up tall." I got ready to waste a half-dozen pictures. CLICK. "Shoulders back, good posture now." CLICK. "Pretty face. Smile." I moved in for a close-up. CLICK. I took one from a few feet away. She filled the frame from her covered navel to her dark haired head. She was taller than I'd remembered, a good 5'8" I guessed. The suit was quite attractive, if plain. The low cut front gave way on the sides to daring slits that ran almost to her hips. There was just a small spaghetti strap under each arm keeping the front and back panels pulled toward each other. There was a matching strap that looped behind and over her shoulder, and kept it from falling down. It was a nice effect. "OK, what should we do?" I asked rhetorically. "Well you started with the T-shirt a couple days ago," she said. So! They had talked. I wondered how much. "That was a couple of days ago. And, uh, it was different.." I tried to cover my tracks. "We could have you hold some props, maybe, or do some exercises, or..." She interrupted. "I do modern dance. Maybe you have some music I could dance to and you could take some pictures?" "Great idea," I said, walking over to the stereo. I punched the button on the CD player. Yanni's orchestra filled the room. "Oooo, Yanni," she squealed. "I love him." "Me too," I said. She began to move with the soft instrumental. She was lithe and she slowly twirled in front of me, her body twisting as she leaned against the couch. I grabbed the Polaroid. CLICK. Whirrr. Spit. I held a cardboard memory. She turned her neck and looked at me. CLICK. Another. "OK, let's get a little risque, here," I said to her. She raised her right arm, as if to conduct the orchestra, and reached around with the other. She pulled on the little bow that held the side together; the strings released. Nothing much changed, though; the taut neckline was still held in place by the shoulder straps. Then she bent forward as she moved to the music. Now I could peek in the side. Her bare breast visibly hung from her chest, I could see the small pink tip just brushing against the inside of the front of the suit. "Now that's terrific," I said. CLICK. A keeper. She straightened up, and though she was now facing away from me, said "I heard you like to be teased." She continued moving. "Is that part of the job, or just personal predilection?" "Both," I said. "All men like to be teased. Just not forever." Actually in my case I'll choose forever, but I'm weird. Not stupid, though. "I see. So if I did this.." She pulled the bow on the other side. Her hand flew to the opening and she pulled the material forward, giving me a flash of her other breast. CLICK. I already had a mirror shot of this, but you can never be too careful, right? Then she added, "I was a little worried, because I'm not built like, uh, well like you're used to." She spun away again. It was true; she was maybe a B cup. But her slim figure and height were perfect for her bust and hips and complimented her off-shore looks. I saw sultry. I wanted sultry. "What do you mean, like I'm used to?" "Like a few days ago. With those big hooters of hers. I know you *really* liked that." She hit the word 'really' hard. "I even know that it ended with you, um, having sex on her chest, and you know, I'm not built like that." Well. Apparently MIKE HUNT doesn't have any secrets from these two dolls. OK, maybe one. The name on the paycheck on Friday says "Harris Peterwick, CPA" instead of "Playboy Enterprises." I backpedaled. "Hey, uh, that just happened. I mean that's not usually how things end at all." Some women get offended if they think all you want is to fuck them. Most even want a card on Valentine's Day! They are soooo stupid. Statistically I was telling the truth. You see tit-fucking was less than 15% of my trade. Straight fucking was about 44%, blow jobs were 24% (about 39% and 61% swallowing and non-swallowing, respectively), and I got a hand job about 7% of the time. That was really out of style, I guess. I kept track because I'm an accountant, remember? It's not as easy as you think. For instance, how do you classify a tit-fuck where at the last minute she takes you in her mouth? These things take a lot of time to analyze. (The answer to this particular example: it's a tit-fuck unless she swallows. Then it's a blow job.) "It's OK. Live and let live, I say. But I knew that this session wouldn't end like that one for a couple of reasons." Her voice was firm. "Oh?" I didn't know what else to say. "Here are two," she said, hooking her thumbs in the bathing suit and pulling them to the center. Both tits popped out the sides as she squeezed the material together between them. My jaw must have dropped, because she burst out laughing. By the time I had the camera in position for a shot, she had released the material and the suit sprang back to its original shape. CLICK. I got a picture of a pretty girl in a bathing suit. Swell. "Obviously, they're not big enough for, you know, what you did." Obviously. "And I thought this was a professional shoot." Absolutely. "And I'm not lying down on the couch for any 'special pictures' for Mr. Hefner." Of course not. "I wouldn't think of it," I said. I might not get into this pussy after all. It happened occasionally. She seemed reassured. "Do you think I won't get in the magazine because I don't have huge, uh, breasts? I mean, I know that tits are important and everything, but there's more to beauty than just that." "I agree," I said. "For instance, with you there's your face and your smile." She grinned. She turned to the music. "And there's your overall body shape ... Would you pull that material forward again? I'm afraid I missed it last time. I can't quite see ... That's good ... CLICK ... Thanks ... You have wonderful legs, I mean look at them, long, tan, muscular ..." She lifted one of them and swung it at me. A quick beaver shot to the sounds of Yanni. CLICK. I inserted another pack of film. "Even nipples are important, believe it or not." That's true actually. Have you ever noticed how many different kinds of nipples there are? Small hard ones. The ones where the tip sticks way out. Nipples that rise like upside down ice-cream cones. Wide nerps with just a tiny tip in the center. Pointy ones. Even inverted ones, for heaven's sakes. Don't you love them all? Oop. Sorry. Got a little carried away. "We need to get sexier, here," I said. "There's usually no second chance. You have to put your best foot ... or whatever part of your anatomy you choose ... forward." I paused. "How about your ass?" "How about my ass?" she wanted to know. "I happen to think it's terrific. Walk to that table and lean over it." She put her elbows on the table and planted her feet about a foot apart. Her butt stuck high in the air; her smooth ass cheeks poked through the strategic cut of the suit. She took a cue from the increasing tempo of the music and rocked up on her tip toes, then back down. She moved her feet apart. Well apart. She held the pose. Then she recentered herself, and stuck one leg out straight behind her, as though she were a figure skater traveling the rink. I bent my knees and crouched behind her. I was four, maybe five feet back contemplating her perfectly round, firm buttocks split by the smooth, taut, narrow material of her suit when I heard her ask "Is this good?" It was very good. "Yeah, uh, sure," I said. It was better than very good. It was Ass-mate of the Month. It was Queen Ass. It was Miss Ass of the Decade, and there were still three years to go! It was a safe bet. Call Morty! I focused on the split between her legs, covered as it was by the thin bathing suit. "Perhaps it's time to lose the suit." Sometimes it's difficult for me to get through a sentence like that without interjecting an "Oh please oh please oh please." I can be a whimpering fool if I'm not careful. But hey, Men, I was strong; I didn't let down my guard. The conspiracy lives! Solidarity! To my everlasting gratitude and not a little surprise, she stood up and yanked at the shoulder straps. They untied like the strings on a present on Christmas morning, and my statuesque package stood before me, unwrapped and unashamed. She stood tall, with her breasts proudly jutting from her chest. The tiny pink nipples that I had only seen in flashes were gone. In their place were small hard buttons the size of quarters, with large taut points at the tip. Their color had deepened from a primrose to a scarlet ocher. CLICK. A fantasy captured on cardboard. CLICK. I had to have another. She turned around, did a graceful pirouette to the sounds in my speakers, locked her elbows and put her palms flat on the table. She tossed her head and looked at me over her shoulder. She was just as beautiful from the back. CLICK. Her hands began to slide away from each other, toward the ends of the table. Out, out they went. She bent from the waist. She stopped the slide just before her breasts brushed the table top. Her tits hung straight down, and gravity helped increase their dimension. She bent her neck and looked at me under the arch formed by her arm. She smiled at me. CLICK. I was uncomfortable. Not because this exquisite sexual creature was naked and writhing in front of me. Well, actually, *exactly* because she was naked and writhing in front of me. You see, I had an erection. A boner. A monster. About the general shape and size of the state of Tennessee. And it was in the wrong position inside my pants. You know the feeling. You should have something like it right now. As I casually tried to rearrange my firmness, she stepped back from the table and bent down fully, a complete jackknife, with her head at her ankles. Her bottom was just a few insignificant feet from my face. My knees trembled. I pulled again at the bunchee in my pants. She twisted her torso slightly, and her head appeared from behind her ankles. She looked straight at me. "Are you trying to touch yourself?" she asked. "Oh no," I replied quickly. "I was just sort of, ah, rearranging..." She cut me off. "Because if you were I would understand." My ears perked. "I think it's completely natural, after all." "Really? You wouldn't mind?" "Don't be silly." Now I can take a hint, which this wasn't. This was a sledgehammer. My free hand came up and found the tab of my zipper. I pulled. I reached inside. I withdrew my little friend. I wiggled in the open air. I waggled. She stared. I brought the camera to my eye. CLICK. I had a picture of the loveliest ass I had seen in 6 years, 3 months, and 14 days. (I'm an accountant, remember?) And framed by this perfect ass was a perfect pussy. The lips, while not puffy, had a fierce glow that reminded me of golden marshmallows over a camp fire. The target I aimed to pierce was nestled between a thinner set of perfectly defined lips which peeked out from behind the marshmallows. And directly above this stunning cunt was a pretty puckered asshole, small and symmetrical. I moved in for a close-up. The picture should have been great but it wasn't, as I only had one hand to hold the Polaroid. You understand. The way I was shaking, Hollywood's best Steadi-Cam wouldn't have helped. I eagerly stroked myself while I looked at the mountain of pulchritude before me. I asked "How long can you hold that position?" "Indefinitely," came the answer. "I told you I dance. It makes me very limber." 'It makes me very horny,' I thought. I didn't say it. "Are you going to stroke yourself off?" she asked. She caught me by surprise. "Well, uh..." I was embarrassed. "Because you're obviously not going to tit-fuck me," she giggled. "I don't have the equipment. And you're not going to stick that thing in my pussy because I'm not on the pill. And anyway I hate condoms." Disappointment. "So maybe you could use the back door?" Her voice was unassured, insecure, questioning. I gaped at her asshole. I stared at her face. I looked back at her asshole. Most days of my life I didn't know if there was a Deity or not. Now I knew. There is, and He is good. I didn't say anything for several seconds. My tongue was lost somewhere in the backwoods of Wyoming. She thought I was being reluctant. "I just thought you would enjoy, I mean, I know the other day that you, you know..." Aha! She was competing with the cheerleader. She didn't want to finish second in the contest. An hour ago the smart money would have been on the big tits. Even Morty wouldn't put odds on this race now. I stepped forward and aimed my cock. As it neared her asshole, a drop of fluid formed on the tip. I smeared it over my dick head. It was replaced by another. I smeared again. I made the lightest contact, resting the tip of my hard-on perfectly in the cavity of her pucker. NOW. Right now. If she turned to me and said, "You have to stop unless you promise to vote for any woman running for office for the rest of your life" do you think I would do it? Of course. And I probably would, too. Usually maybe. That's why I say Women Are Stupid. They have all the power. They just don't know how to use it. I mean shit, I'd vote for Gerry Ferraro anyway. I'd even take a shot at her, given half a chance. She looks like a nice piece of ass, really, in a mature sort of way. And I'd love to fuck a politician, if only to try to break even. What's my other choice anyhow, Madeleine Albright? Barney Frank? Oh, sorry. I get carried away sometimes when I'm spouting politics. Limbaugh should have such self-control. Anyway, I gave a gentle push forward. The pucker opened, and my mushroom cap disappeared. I pushed some more. I sank into her, inch by inch. I wished I had more lubrication handy; she had a tighter ass than most girls I'd experienced. On the other hand, who wants to slide into the Hershey Highway, Size 42? Well, I mean, if it's what's handy, but... Come on, you know what I meant. I continued pushing, then withdrawing, fighting and clawing my way in. She remained bent over; now she held her ankles firmly in her hands. "I have an interesting view from down here," she said, looking up at the fight raging at the top of her legs. "One minute I can see your nice long prick and the next it disappears. I wonder where it's going?" She cocked one eyebrow at me as I looked over into her face. "It's going in your ass, your beautiful fucking ass," I fairly shouted. I couldn't help myself. "My dick is going in your ass, and it's going to stay in your ass until I cum in your ass." I was entranced with her ass, I think. My rocking continued, she began matching the rhythm, my balls slapped against her cunt in synchronization with Yanni's orchestra. Now that I think about it, maybe I DO like him. I bent forward and grabbed at her tits. Hanging upside down and with the bouncing, it was difficult to keep a firm hold. The small nipples were so taut and pointy that at least I had something to scrape against with my fingertips to regain my grip. I was bent over her and my chest grazed her back with each backward thrust, my hands squeezed the hard tips of her soft boobies, my fierce digit pierced her rectum. How long could this go on? Not long enough. I knew I was ready. She knew, too. "Come on, Mr. Playboy photography editor, dump it in me. I want to feel your dick when you cum. I love the feeling when you fuck me and cum in my ass." I couldn't take any more. "Then get ready, because here I cum," I cried. She twisted her neck to look at my face as it contorted in orgasmic agony, then between her legs at my pounding pecker. I spasmed, and rammed myself as hard against her as I could. *WHAM!* I accidentally squeezed one of her tits too tightly as I convulsed. "Ow," she yelled. I couldn't help it. I thrust forward again. I squeezed again, more gently this time. She said "Ooo." I reared back and felt another on the way. I pushed forward mightily. *WHAM!* She let go of her ankles and reached for the table to steady herself. I poked her again. My eyes went foggy, my brain stopped functioning. I could only feel the thrill of each contraction as my balls erupted through the hard anger of my cock. WHAM! Juice delicious. Lots of lubrication now. WHAM! Another creamy deposit. I gulped a breath of air. WHAM! Another, maybe the biggest yet. The tickle in my dick was just indescribable. Wham! A good one. My head was spinning. Wham! Another. Wam! Coming down. wam. Ahhh. wam. When I pulled out of my reverie, had no idea where I was or what time it was. I glanced into the kitchen. I saw the clock. 52 minutes from "Hi," to Wham-O-Rama. Not a new world's record, but probably in the Top 20. And the force of my explosion was of greater magnitude than I could remember. I would have to check my records. I stayed locked inside her as my dick began to lose its hardness, then its angry shape, and finally its size. I didn't want to move. But as all good things must come to an end (if you'll pardon the pun), I withdrew. I knew we had about five minutes together. "Did you get everything you need?" she asked. "More," I said, gratefully. "Did you really enjoy the, uh, session?" "Beyond my dreams. It was the best I can remember." She beamed. She'd show Miss Big Tits a thing or two! The smart money would have been wrong. I threw her a clean towel, and wiped myself off in the kitchen. I was still breathing heavily as I walked her to the door. I wished her luck, and told her she'd probably hear from me in a few weeks. She wouldn't, of course. There were always new fields to plow. I surveyed the room; there were little white cardboard pictures scattered everywhere. The camera didn't care where it spit them out. I walked around gathering them up, and when I had all of them I opened a small jar on the coffee table. I took out two rubber bands, straightened up the pile of cardboard images, and applied the elastic tourniquet to the stack. I walked into the bedroom and opened the top drawer of a large filing cabinet. It was neatly labeled "M1KE HUNT's". There was almost no room left in the drawer. All the little white piles of pictures were neatly stacked and stored, and on the top of each one was a legend with the girl's name, type of encounter, and rating. I took out the marker pen and wrote on the back of the new stack "Rona. Ass. 10." I have to keep track. I'm anal that way. * * * * Well, dear reader, I hope I've proved my point to you. My essay point I mean. It's obvious that Women Are Stupid, isn't it? I mean, they think a dumb fuck like me actually works for Playboy. They think shoes are important. And they believe it when you say "I won't cum in your mouth." HA HA HA. Women Are Stupid. But if you see a bunch of them parading down the street with signs that say "Pussy Power" and "Turn Off The Cock" and stuff like that, hey, it wasn't me. I'm on the team. OK? * * * * This was a difficult piece to write. It's very tough to intertwine a political extract with a fuck story and not lose the momentum that I know you readers enjoy. I don't know if I succeeded or not, and the price I'm going to pay with flames from pissed off guys and criticism from women will undoubtedly contribute to my already elevated level of stress. I need a blow job! I thought of writing a sort of companion piece, not a sequel exactly, called "All Men Are Horny Morons", but I figured you'd kick the shit out of me. * * * * The term "Playboy" is a registered trademark, and is used without permission. I would have called and asked, but they probably would have just blown me off. I'm sure they have a whole building full of lawyers just waiting to hassle people like me. They shouldn't bother. I'm broke, and anyway I really like the magazine. Of course, I wish they had more snatch shots. A tastefully photographed pussy can be a thing of beauty. Not like those scuzzy cunts in Hustler, you know? The term "Hustler" is a registered trademark, and is used without permission. I would have called and asked, but why waste my time with those slimy perverts? * * * * MIKE HUNT has more stories to tell. Shoot a few electrons to Bannerboy1@aol.com to get new ones by e-mail. Please certify that you are over 18. Or at least lie convincingly. I obviously do. Send beloved fan mail to M1KE HUNT@aol.com. Flames also cheerfully accepted. Fuck you too. Note that the 2nd character in M1KE is a "one" (1) not an "eye" (I). Thanks. Copyright 1997 M1KE HUNT. My wife June and I were talking about this story last night in bed. She said I should use some protection before I released it. I'm sure this copyright notice is what she meant. I've also Trademarked the title "Women Are Stupid". I have really *BIG* plans here. Also protected are "Girls Are Stupid", "Politicians Are Stupid" and "Writers Are Stupid". I might register "Dental Hygienists Are Stupid" and "Surveillance Epidemiologists Are Stupid" and other variants but you have to stop somewhere, right? Free distribution by computer is allowed. Even encouraged. Otherwise we all have to go back to buying sleazy little paperbacks in dirty little stores. Note: The paperback of "Women Are Stupid" will be published early next year. Ask for it by name at your local community bookshop. For now "Women Are Stupid" is available with other M1KE HUNT free shit in the and usenet newsgroups. You can find my older crap (among other places) in Eli's Finer Archives at . I started in March, '97, but there's good stuff everywhere. Of course there's a lot of shit everywhere, too. Oh, and that other shit I mentioned at the top of the story? I measured it. It's about 30 feet deep. And yes, it's also free. -- +--------------' 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> /