Message-ID: <30028asstr$988308603@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: X-Original-Message-ID: <200104261329.GAA30011@mail21.bigmailbox.com> From: "Deja User" Subject: {ASSM} "Alphabet Game: Hangover"{Dancer}(no-sex) Date: Thu, 26 Apr 2001 14:10:03 -0400 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: t4425, kelly [Emp's Parting Shot: I suppose you could make a claim that the characters almost definitely engaged in 'intimate relations' before the story begins, so I'm still gonna post this one here.:)] ------------------------------------------------------------ <1st attachment, "Hangover.txt" begin> SUBJECT LINE: {ASSM}"Alphabet Game: Hangover"{Dancer}(no-sex) ------- Admonition: This story contains explicit descriptions of people engaging in careless and unprotected sexual activity. PLEASE do not emulate these people since they are fictional characters existing in a fantasy world where sexually transmitted disease and unwanted pregnancy don't happen. You don't live in such a world, so "let's be careful out there." Oh, and minors shouldn't be reading this stuff - if you can't place the quote I just made in the last paragraph, you probably aren't old enough to be flipping through ASS*. Bugger off and watch 'TV Land' instead, so you can bone up for little age-testing quizzes like this! :) Copyright notice: Dancer, the author of this smutty little opus, holds all rights of reproduction. Private copies for personal perusal and archives for NON-commercial distribution are permitted by her. Plea for attention: The only reward ASS* authors can expect is the joy of sharing their creation with the rest of humanity. But wait - how does that author KNOW if people are reading and enjoying his story? Yep; if you like a story posted to alt.sex.stories.*, the fair thing to do is email the author and tell them so. I promise that it'll make YOU feel good to send them kudos, after all, Mark Twain said, "The best way to cheer yourself up is to try to cheer someone else up." As always you may contact me (and my wife Dancer) through my 'legacy' Deja News email account: (Wow, I'm not just an author, now I'm an AGENT, too! ;) Editor's Note: Here it is - part eight of Dancer's 'Alphabet Game'; twenty-six hot, little vignettes she whipped out in something like a week or two - Lord Malinov eat your heart out with that semi-annual 'story-a-day' run I remember *way* back in the 20th century! ;) (Is he still around?) And relax - these stories are all self-contained - you don't HAVE to read them in order, or read any of the ones that might squick you... ============= The Alphabet Game (8/26) Hangover Copyright Dancer 2001 "Oooo," Marc moaned as he slitted his eyes against the bright sunlight. A marching band drummed through his aching skull, reminding him yet again how bad hangovers are. The inside of his mouth tasted like a wool sweater and his teeth felt fuzzy from the booze. Marc grunted and groaned as he rubbed the grit out of his eyes and tried to shift his right arm. "Uh oh." He sidled a glance at what was pinning his limb. "Fuck," he whispered, praying the woman didn't wake. "We did that already," she grumbled against his armpit. She raised her head slightly, tousled brunette hair obscured her face until she shoved out of the way. "Jesus fuckin' Christ. My first woofer," Marc said. "You were the one howling last night, not me," she retorted and rolled to the other side of the bed. "Spare me the details, honey. I'd prefer not to remember." He sat up slowly and massaged the pounding across his forehead. "Damn. Feels like the Rockettes are grinding their heels into my brain." Marc gingerly got out of bed and shuffled his way to the door. "I'm gonna take a shower. Get dressed and get out." "My pleasure." The woman waited until Marc had left before testing her body. "Head doesn't hurt too bad. Legs are fairly steady. I think I can do this." She crawled off the bed to the floor and slithered over to her pile of clothes. Using TLC, she slipped her smoky tank top and linen shorts on, then lay breathless. Disgusting retching noises came from the closed bathroom door and her stomach reeled in protest. "Oh shit," she gagged and rushed to the door. She banged it against the wall and fell to her knees. Pushing Marc out of the way, she puked into the toilet bowl. Marc grabbed her hair and jerked her away just in time as he puked over her head. They took turns praying to the porcelin god until their stomachs were emptied and cramped. The toilet flushed when he poked the handle down and he gave her a dopey stare. "I have never seen a girl puke like that." "It was the pizza," she told him, her voice raspy. The couple sat on the cool tiled floor looking at each other. The woman managed to gain her footing and said, "We'll have to do this again sometime." Marc brushed a hand along her bare leg. "Sorry about that shit earlier." "'S okay." "You're not a dog. Can I get your name and number?" "My number's 465-8881. As for my name," she slapped his right biceps. "You already got that." He squinted at the red and gold letters tattooed in his flesh. "Monica. The perfect end to a horrible night." End part 8 ============= Editor's Postscript: Right! Here's the real test of Dancer's fans - this story says UP-FRONT that it doesn't have any actual sex in it, so let's see how many people read it...:) <1st attachment end> ----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------ Notice: This post has been modified from its original format. 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