Message-ID: <10596eli$9804241333@qz.little-neck.ny.us> From: john_dark@anon.nymserver.com Subject: {DirtyDawg}JDR"Brandy A"( MF )[1/2] Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Note: This message was posted by a secure email service. Please report MISUSE OR ABUSE of this automated secure email service to . Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <6hp9ln$hpn$1@sparky.wolfe.net> JOHN DARK REPOST The following story is posted for the entertainment of adults. If you are below the age of eighteen or are otherwise forbidden to read electronic erotic fiction in your locality, please delete this message now. The story codes in the subject line are intended to inform readers of possible areas that some might find distasteful, but neither the poster nor the author make any guarantee. You should be aware that the story might raise other matters that you find distasteful. Caveat lector; you read at your own risk. The enjoyment of these reposts can be increased by reading the "Coming Attractions," which includes some of the thinking behind the pattern of the reposts, as well as the titles to be reposted in the next week. These stories have not been written by the person posting them. Many of those e-mail addresses below the author's byline still work. If you liked the story, either drop the author a line at that e-mail address or post a comment to alt.sex.stories.d. Please don't post it to alt.sex.stories itself. Posting the comment with a Cc: to the author would be the best way to encourage them to continue entertaining you. The copyright of this story belongs to the author, and the fact of this posting should not be construed as limiting or releasing these rights in any way. In most cases, the author will have further notices of copyright below. If you keep the story, *PLEASE* keep the copyright disclaimer as well. ===================== Copyright Notice : This and all of the Dirty Dawg stories are Copyright (c) 1992 by Dirty Dawg. These stories may be distributed freely, as long as this and all other copyright notices are included. It is the responsibility of anyone handling these stories in any format or medium, including electronic, printed, or otherwise, to ensure that no one under the age of 18 views, reads, or has access to the materials contained herin. ================================================ ========== Brandy Dirty Dawg Section A: Well, friend and neighbors, this particular story is from the Dawg's own files. That's right, this one actually happened to the 'ol Dawg, and he thought that you'd like to know what kind of erotic, perverse situations the Dawg gets himself into... It was a Friday night, and the Dawg decided to take in some of the more interesting night life in Las Vegas. First on the hit parade was, of course, a local titty bar. Now, Las Vegas has more than its share of titty bars, but everyone knows that the Insane Stallion Deuce is the best one in town. The Dawg arrived at just after ten, when things were just starting to get into swing. As any good connoisseur of female flesh knows, the best girls work the nine PM to five AM shift at the bar. Arriving any earlier would just be a waste of good money. And the Dawg, thanks to a generous employer, had more then enough cash to enjoy the night in the right way. Almost immediately, a waitress appeared. Blonde, tall, with sparkling blue eyes that seemed to promise everything and nothing at the same time. She was not dressed like most of the girls, and the question I posed to her she probably answered at least twice every five minutes. "Do you dance?" I asked her. As she placed the napkin on the table in front of me, a small, coy smile played across her face. "Sometimes," is the only answer, albeit cryptic at that, that I got. I ordered the Dawg's favorite drink (beer, 'natch...) and turned my attention to the half-naked woman writhing on stage 1. Like most dancers she had an air of practiced detachment as she moved to the pounding beat of the music. Large breasts capped with silver-dollar size aureole and tiny pink little pencil-eraser nipples bounced lightly with her movement. I was mildly interested in meeting this woman a little closer up, perhaps with a table dance. Then I started to look around and see what other talent might grace my vision. And then I saw her, the woman I knew I would be spending a lot of my money on. She was diminutive, with long blonde hair and a tiny little body. She looked just barely old enough to be dancing, and she had this sexy way of biting her lower lip when she was dancing. As Raymond Chandler once said, "She was a blonde. A blonde to make a bishop kick in a stained glass window." She was walking down the isle between the square-shaped bar and the individual tables when I caught her eye. She smiled at me, nodded once, and then the contract was sealed. She raised an eyebrow in silent question and I nodded at the pile of dead presidents on the table between us. She reached over and pulled an Andrew Jackson out of the pile and raised the eyebrow again. My expression conveyed...maybe. She pulled another Jackson out to join the first one, and I nodded. She smiled at me, sat down next to me and opened her mouth. "I'm Brandy." And I'm the pope. I've been to titty bars in almost every state in the union, and never ever has a dancer given her real name to me. And I always answer the same. "Tell me your real name." She was one of the good ones. Instead of laughing in that you're-so- silly way that really annoys most men, she looked at me steadily across the table and said, deadpan, "I'm not allowed to tell you." I told her my name as we waited for the song to end. "But everyone calls me the Dawg," I added. "Why...do you like to do it doggy-style?" she asked. "Sometimes..." I said. The next song started, and Brandy began to dance for me. She was wearing a peach colored bikini, and her first order of business was to remove the top and place it on the table next to me. I handed it back to her. "I don't want to see your breasts," I said. "I want to see your eyes." The eyes widened for a moment as surprise and suspicion flashed across her face. I reached out and lightly touched one breast while gently cupping her mound with the other hand. "Sex isn't here," I said, immediately removing my hands from her breast and vulva, and cupping her face in my hands. My forefingers tapped her temples. "It's here. Your most erogenous organ is your brain. Use your brain, not your body." The suspicion flared again, and I'm sure she was thinking that she had a weirdo on her hands. "Sit down for this song, and I'll explain it to you." She sat down next to me with an expression of frank curiosity on her face. "If I want to see your body, anyone's body, a stranger's body...I can buy a magazine or rent a movie. I want to see your body, but only when you want to show it to me, not when you reach a certain point in whatever mental meter you're running. Do you understand?" "You don't do this often, do you?" "More than you would ever think, Brandy." "Well, what do you want me to do?" "I want you to dance for yourself...and let me watch. Don't dance for me. Pretend you are dancing by yourself...that's what I want." She smiled shyly at me. "That's different. No one has ever asked me to do that before." "Try it," I said. "You might just like it!" The song ended (I planned it that way....NOT!) and Brandy stood again. She looked at me looking at her and began to slowly writhe to the new music. It was a slow song, a ballad by an artist I didn't recognize. What I did recognize was a new expression on her face. Brandy slowly traced the length of her legs with her hands, looking into the mirror above my head as she touched herself. A quick spin, and her ass was an inch from my face as her fingernails slowly traced the silken slope of her buttocks. Every pore of my body called out to bury my face between those cheeks. I was reminded of two things at once. First, in a popular movie last year, one character refers to another character as "Three fingers on the finger scale.' When I first heard it, I thought that it meant she was loose enough to fit three fingers inside. Only later did I come to understand that what the character actually meant was, "I'd cut three of my fingers off to fuck her." Brandy was definitely three-fingers good. Three fingers-lickin' good, as a matter of fact. The second thing I was reminded of was what a friend of mine and I called 'Marmalade.' We had been working a job in one of the casinos when an outrageously stacked and dressed woman strutted past. My partner looked over at me and whispered, 'Marmalade.' I shot him a quizzical expression and he elaborated. "I'd like to lick Marmalade from between her sweaty butt cheeks." I almost broke up, but professional discipline kept me from showing any outward signs of emotion. Brandy was definitely Marmalade material. Without a doubt. By the time these thoughts flittered through my head, Brandy had turned to face me again. Her nipples were pushing through the material of her bikini top, two unmistakable signs that she was aroused. She placed one high-heeled foot on the bench between my legs and put my hands on her ankle. Now folks, the Dawg has always considered himself an ass man. Nothing turns my head more than a perfectly-formed rearend packed tightly in skintight jeans or a short miniskirt. But at that moment in the Dawg's existence on this wretched planet, a new light shone. Brandy's ankle was small and well-formed. Her legs were smooth, too smooth to have been shaved. She had to wax. I looked up into her deep brown eyes as I ran my hands up her legs and over her knees. She bit her bottom lip again, and we locked glances. The music faded into silence and everyone around us disappeared as we looked into each other's soul. I knew in that moment that I would be seeing Brandy outside of the club, outside of this existence. It might not happen tonight, or tomorrow, but I would. The first song ended and Brandy stopped dancing. Her fingers lightly traced my face as we continued to gaze at each other. Her hand dropped to my chest and then around my left side. I felt her stiffen as she detected the Ruger P85 9mm hanging in a shoulder holster. "It's OK," I said. "I'm not a cop. I'm a professional bodyguard." That wasn't the entire truth, but that could wait for another day. I reasoned with myself that I'd tell her what I really did for a living when she told me her real name. She relaxed a little and hefted the weight of my leather-clad piece. "I like a man who can take care of himself," she said. The second song began and Brandy stood up. This time, she put her high- heel clad foot directly on my thigh. As she began to get into the music and the moment, I could feel the pressure of the heel digging into the muscle of my thigh. What happened next was both a test and an experience in erotica. As she slowly applied more and more pressure to the heel, Brandy checked my expression to see when I would feel pain instead of pleasure, when I would ask her to stop...if I would ask her to stop. Brandy's hands cupped her breasts through her bikini top, slowly running her thumbs across her nipples, even more slowly increasing the pressure of her heel into my thigh. I ran my fingernails up the skin of her right leg, past her knee, and then towards the juncture of her thighs and the mysteries that lie between them. My hands were far enough away to satisfy the bouncer, but I knew that she could feel the warmth of my hands inching slowly towards the center of her sex. Brandy lowered her head, making as if to kiss me. We both knew the rules of this dance, and inches before we would have locked lips, we each turned our heads, our noses lightly brushing. The small smile that played across her face was mirrored by my own. The pressure on my thigh was becoming a little much, but I had sworn to myself that I wouldn't give in, wouldn't let her know that I was feeling it, that she was getting to me. Suddenely, Brandy shifted feet, placing her left foot on my right thigh, and the dance began again. Her breathing was shallow and quick; she sounded like a panting dog. In the middle of her bottoms, a little low, a small circle of wetness appeared and began to grow. The music swelled and surrouned is, covering us in our own little cocoon. I could feel the beginnings of an erection stirring in my jeans. Too soon, the song and dance ended. I palmed two business cards from my jacket pocket and wrapped them around a fifty. I tucked the fifty into Brandy's bikini and mouthed the words, "Let me know," patting her ass as she walked away. The waitress had appeared during my dance and left a beer. I called her over and asked if she'd gotten paid. She shook her head. "You looked pretty involved, and policy doesn't allow me to touch your money." I thanked her for her honesty and paid for the beer, adding a five-dollar tip while asking her to make sure that I had enough beer for the night. She smiled and left me alone. As the night wore on, I watched Brandy dance on the stage twice, although I didn't ask for another table dance. I wanted to watch how she danced for the other men in the place, knowing that when she danced for me, she was really dancing for herself. I was hoping to do two things with Brandy (Well, actually more than two, but you know what I mean.) I wanted her to have a feeling of emancipation, a freedom from the bonds that dancing for money brought with it. By telling her to do what she liked for me, I was also telling her without words that her happiness was more important to me than mine. And that, I thought, would get me what I really wanted, which was to see Brandy outside the confines of the Insane Stallion. Two hours later, as I was finishing a shot of Cuervo 1800, I saw Brandy making her way across the room to me. Her gaze was locked onto me again, and we traded soft, quiet smiles as she settled into the booth next to me. "How can I get a hold of you?" she asked. "It's on the card. Office, home, portable and pager. All numbers are answered twenty-four hours a day. My address is on the card. But always, always call first. I keep strange hours. I never know when a client is going to feel threatened. More importantly, how can I get a hold of you?" Again, she gave the expected answer. "I'm not supposed to give any information out to clients. They watch everything on the cameras." She pointed to the reflective spheres on the ceiling that were disguised to blend in. She'd made a horrible mistake, because by pointing she had now indicated to whomever was watching that she had told a non-employee something she wasn't supposed to. "Call me tonight at home," I said under my breath. "Just call me. You don't have to tell me anything, but just call me." Slowly she nodded, and I made my way out of the bar. Just as I was about to step outside, I felt a hand close over my shoulder. I turned and looked at the owner of the hand. It belonged to a huge gorilla, the kind of guy that spends most of his time pumped up in front of a mirror, his body covered in some greasy substance. He was the kind of guy who looked like he used his size to intimidate and stop problems from happening before they even got started. "What did Brandy tell you?" he asked, gruffly. "To get lost. So I am. I can tell when I'm not wanted." He looked at me hard, and I felt the hand on my shoulder tighten. "We don't like it when someone gives the girls trouble," he said, low and I guess what he considered to be 'with menace.' I looked pointedly at his hand. He smiled at me, a shark's grin that seemed to say, 'Try and remove it.' So I did. I reached across with my right hand and gripped his fingers, pulling and twisting at the same time, until I had his entire arm and upper body contorted. "And I don't like being touched by fag bodybuilders. If this is the way you treat all the customers, perhaps I should have a word with your boss." "Leggo!" he pleaded. I applied a fraction more torque to his fingers and hand. I could feel the tendons and ligaments stretching. Just a fraction more, and every bone in his wrist would shatter. "Just stop fucking with the customers, man." I let his hand go and gave him a shove. He stood slowly, rubbing his hand. I saw his shoulder turn, and I knew he was going to sucker-punch me. "If you throw that punch, I'll break your arm." My voice was just low enough to be heard over the music. The goon considered a moment and finally decided not to test me. I left the Insane Stallion and drove home, parking the car in the garage. The mail was waiting for me, most of it bills or junk mail. No letters from my parents or siblings, but that was no surprise, since I was an orphan and an only child. I undressed for bed while drinking the last beer of the night. The Ruger came out of my shoulder holster and went into the bedside table to join its brothers. I flopped into the bed and turned the TV on. While watching the late movie (why is it always a damn Western on at two in the morning?) my eyes caught sight of my thighs. There were two small, perfectly round welts on either of my thighs, were Brandy had pushed the heels of her shoes into me. My cock jerked at the rememberence of Brandy's face and the pressure of her shoes against the skin of my legs. I briefly considered masturbating, but discarded that notion almost immediately. There was a chance, a small chance, that Brandy might call, and I didn't want to be stuck with a gun that wouldn't shoot. I dropped off into sleep almost immediately. I dreamt of a blonde goddess named Brandy. ===================================================================== If you liked this story, tell the SYSOP of the BBS you got it from, and look for other exciting adult erotic stories from Dirty Dawg. If your favorite adult BBS doesn't carry Dirty Dawg, ask them WHY?! Dirty Dawg stories are available from Big Joe's BBS in Las Vegas, Nevada, and from the MotherBoard BBS in Pelham Manor, NY. Check your local BBS listing for node numbers and modem speeds supported. If you have a favorite sexual fantasy that you'd like turned into an adult erotic fiction story, leave a message for the Dawg on either Big Joe's BBS or on the MotherBoard BBS. Leave the following information: 1) Basic story category (ie, straight, bisexual, cheating, group sex, etc.) 2) Character names, if you want it truly customized. If you do leave character names, please leave a brief physical description you would like used. 3) A plot outline, or just a starting point. If you trust the Dawg to take you places you've never been before, indicate that in your message. And finally, the most important part: 4) Lewdness Level. There are four basic levels of Lewdness: a) Clinical and Puritanical, which uses phrases like "He thrust into her depths, cutting a swath into her core like a hot knife through butter." Not much 'dirty' language, and it gets the imaginative juices flowing. b) Slightly Lewd, which uses, using the same example as above, "He thrust his manhood into her very center, feeling the sugar walls of her vagina contract around his penis like a vise." Etc. Level C) Medium Lewd, is more of the Penthouse Forum or Penthouse Letters level of graphic description. Lots of euphamisms for female and male genetila, like "He jammed his pink beef stallion into the waiting warmth of her quim." Level D) Maximum Lewd, is for the hard-core reader that likes words like "Cunt" and "Cock", like "He thrust his throbbing cock into the welcoming walls of her overheated cunt, feeling her tighten her muscles around his invading meat." Because of other literary (haha) demands made on the Dawg, personalized stories may take up to a month to be created. There is NO monetary consideration REQUIRED, but any contributions to the Dawg's Dish will be appreciated, and just might 'speed things up.' If you wish to make a contribution to hasten the creation of your story, leave that information also with the message addressed to the Dawg. NOTE: Any readers giving a contribution to the Dawg will also be given a diskette (3.5" or 5.25") in IBM Text file format containing up to 25 other adult erotic stories. Some of these stories are NOT available on the BBS, and have been written from the Dawg's own experiences. Again, please understand that monetary contributions are >>>NOT<<< required to get a personal story written. All I want to do is hear your ideas for a hot, erotic story, and then turn it into literary reality. Copyright Notice : This and all of the Dirty Dawg stories are Copyright (c) 1992 by Dirty Dawg. These stories may be distributed freely, as long as this and all other copyright notices are included. It is the responsibility of anyone handling these stories in any format or medium, including electronic, printed, or otherwise, to ensure that no one under the age of 18 views, reads, or has access to the materials contained herin. Dirty Dawg and the BBSs that carry the Dirty Dawg stories hereby ABSOLVE themselves of all responsibility as to the suitability of these files for a particular purpose. Dirty Dawg will retain ALL copyrights to this and any other materials created under the 'Dirty Dawg' trademark name. Personalized stories remain the property of Dirty Dawg for distribution as he alone sees fit. For stories that are personalized, all names will be CHANGED after the person or persons comissioning said story have recieved their copy. Unless otherwise noted, this is a work of ficton, and all characters are creations of the author's imagination, and any similarity to any persons, places or situations are purely coincidental. Copyright (c) 1992 Dirty Dawg Productions All Rights Reserved "Woof Woof." ========== Brandy Dirty Dawg Section A -30- -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |