Message-ID: <34816asstr$1011377414@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: X-Original-Path: not-for-mail From: nickurfe@yahoo.com (Nicholas Urfe) X-Original-Message-ID: <5a5d3dd2.0201172255.68e338a7@posting.google.com> Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit NNTP-Posting-Date: 18 Jan 2002 06:55:41 GMT X-ASSTR-Original-Date: 17 Jan 2002 22:55:41 -0800 Subject: {ASSM} cuyahoga.004 [urfe] [new] Date: Fri, 18 Jan 2002 13:10:14 -0500 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: gill-bates, kelly . :: as falls cuyahoga, so falls cuyahoga falls :: Richie Meeuwissen groans, his hand tangled in the silky fall of silvery blond hair puddled in his lap. You see, he says, the thing of it is, he says, unh, is that I never would have pegged Pooh, you know, as a hockey player. Oh. Shit, Sam. Oh. No fucking teeth, dammit. Winnie the goddamn Pooh? says Sam, licking the beet-red head of Richie's cock. Winnie the goddamn Pooh, he says, unh, as she swallows the length of him again. He hits the steering wheel once, hard, with the heel of his hand. But there he is, on the T-shirt, right next to Tigger, on ice skates, with hockey sticks. This, this is some kind of betrayal, of, of the basic concept - whoops! Whoops! Sam sits up abuptly, her platinum wig slithering off her head. Richie grunts. A jet of sperm the size of a thumb flies up between them, as high as his flared nose before succumbing to gravity, puddling in the folds of his black pants as another dollop pumps up to fall the length of his cock and lose itself in his dark pubic hair. I'll shoot the moon right out of the sky, croons the radio, for you baby, I'll shoot the moon for you. Showtime? says Sam, settling the wig back over her own hair, short and black and glossy in the darkness like some exotic fur. In a, puffs Richie, minute. Let me - I need to be able to put this back in my pants - Is that enough? she says. We need some more? Richie cocks an eyebrow at her, and she snickers. I want to build a nest in your hair, croons the radio, I want to kiss you and never be there. Sam opens the door and steps out, knee-high silvery boots with soles as thick as a hand on edge. Silvery hotpants with a V-shaped notch cut in them right up front and deep enough to let you know for sure she's shaved her pussy. A silvery lam handkerchief top sways with her tits. One hand holding up a little mirror as she touches up glittery silver lipstick to match the smears of silvery glitter above each eye, and then the mirror and lipstick are tucked into the little aluminum case dangling from one bare shoulder. Richie long and lean runs one hand through his shaggy black hair, settles his geek chic glasses back on his nose. Tightens his narrow black tie. Sam steps up close to him. What, he says. She cups his groin. Leave it - he says. She lifts a finger and smears it around his lips, leaving a faintly glistening trail in his three-day stubble. Kisses him. The crowning touch, she says. Yeah, he says. But it's mine. Spunk's spunk, she says. He's going to kiss you, right? This, says Richie, is the last goddamn favor we ever do for your brother-in-law. This is the first time we've ever done him a favor, says Sam, frowning. And I'm doing all the fucking work. You got what you need? She taps the aluminum case. The joint is jumping, music loud enough to bleed your ears. Too many people to take in all at once, smoke and flesh and dim red lights, a suggestion of a bar over there, bottles glinting and a certain studied stillness in the crowd. Sam like a fish slipping through them lifts one hand in the air, silvery nails glittering. Points. Richie follows and sees the tall thin man by the wall and nods. As Sam's hand comes down someone else's freighted with rings, glass jewels winking, snakes around her belly. A rustle of some stiff plasticky material, a minidress barely as long as Sam's hotpants, unzipped to a navel pressed into the small of her back. Hips swaying and tocking to the engulfing beat dragging hers with them. A mouth, in her ear. You're special. I'm listening. Across the room the tall thin man smiles to see Richie, who ducks his head. The tall thin man beckons him closer. Another hand, bare, slips under Sam's top. Fingers ripple the lam . Sam licks her lips. You're fuckable. The ring-heavy hand cups Sam's crotch. You're forward, says Sam. The tall thin man pulls Richie to him, presses his forehead to Richie's forehead. Holds Richie's hands. Saying something. He leans in to kiss Richie, a kiss that starts to linger and then stops, dead. A bored Russian voice chants something about signals from space over the beat. The ring-heavy hand grinds against Sam's pussy. You inspire me. Oh, says Sam. The tall thin man snapping something at Richie wipes his lips on the back of his hand. Richie starts back, surprised. Sam catches the ring-heavy hand in her own, lifts it to her mouth, kissing it. You're sweet, she says, turning enough to kiss the mouth, licking those smiling lips. But I'm working. Slipping through the bouncing crowd, kissing off a catcall from a boy in baggy jeans and a baseball cap. Richie, alone, jerks a thumb at the bathrooms. Grinning. Shakes his head, rolls his eyes. Sam with aluminum case ducks down the hallway, glittering even in the darkness. The music dulled now, not so insistent. A beer bottle clinks at the kick of her boot. There might be someone in the far corner who doesn't seem to care that Sam is pushing open the door to the men's room. White tile grimy with neglect, beats muffled, roar of the bar seashelled into dim white noise. A lusty gush of piss. Three men stand before the bank of floor-set urinals beneath a massive mirror etched and pocked with gold-tinged rust. A big guy, jeans jacket and a green beer bottle in one hand, zipping up with the other, turning away, staring at her, at what she holds in her hand. The tall thin man wears a dove-grey Nehru jacket and doesn't look at his corroded reflection. Balding on top, he has a thin mustache. I know what he did to you, Sam says, loudly enough. His eyes flick up to peer at her, silvery pale in the golden murk of the mirror. I know, Sam says, what he did. Coming to you with stained pants. Someone else's jism in his mouth. Her free hand unsnaps the single snap of her hotpants, there in the crook of the V-shaped notch. The guy with the spiky hair teased out in tiny braided tails flushes his pisser with a mighty crash and carefully does not look at them on his way out. I have what you need, says Sam. Do you, says the tall thin man. His piss falters, redoubles, slows. Sam has tucked the base of an icy clear dildo into the fly of her hotpants, tugging them closed and snapping them to hold it in place, jutting out a good eight inches from her groin. She lays a hand on either of his hips and pulls herself closer, her platformed shoes lifting her so she can smile into his ear. Do you want it? What I've got? She tugs a little on his pants, and they slip a little, and she tugs a little more. Don't turn around, she says. The transparent dick is sliding between his thighs, and she rocks her hips a little, back and forth. The beat, thump thump. Just tell me, yes or no. Do you want it? Do you want to do to him what he did to you? Yes, or no? The tall thin man licks dry lips. He nods. His eyes are brown and sad. Sam nudges his feet apart, tugs his pants down till they hang about his knees. One hand under his jacket, on his ass. His piss-wet cock still sprouting pale from a fist. How much is it worth to you? she says, into his ear. He blinks. Sam smiles. We'll find out. Put your hands on the wall. On the wall. This leaves him awkwardly bridging the urinal, bent a little at the waist, his toes kicking the raised porcelain lip. Leaning back, the transparent dick appearing again, she rubs his buttocks, hiking the jacket over his hips. Using her thumbs to spread him, his ass a dark dry hole in a scattered hatching of black hair. Biting her lip she carefully nudges the dildo tip against the pinkish hint of pucker around it. Pushes. The tall thin man groans and each word crisp says Oh. My. Dear. Sweet. Lord. The dildo hitches and she pushes, harder, silvery hotpants snugged up against his flesh. His belt jangles on the tile as his pants drop to his ankles. Is this? says Sam, Is this what you? Is it? What you want? His hands make fists, knuckles pressed to gold-tinged mirrored knuckles. Rocking back, the dildo catching the light again. Sam, hands on his hips, looking down at it. Forward, hitching, past the hitch. Another groan. And back again, Sam not taking her eyes off it. It, says the tall thin man, it hurts - Uh, says Sam, looking up suddenly and then all in a rush, oh, right, does it hurt? And then she shakes her head, a little, eyes rolling. Does it hurt? she says, into his ear. Does it? Does it hurt like what he did to you? Does it feel a little like that? Yes, says the tall thin man. Yes. Oh. Ow. One of Sam's feet wobbles a little, on those highstepping platform soles. It squeaks on the damp tile. The door swings open, and a man in a tweed jacket steps in, stops, blinks. Um. Um. I'm, ah - excuse me. And he's gone. The tall thin man's cock appears, slowly, peering up from the bottom of his jacket, nosing it aside as it slowly inflates. Bobbing as he rocks with each thrust. Hanh, says the tall thin man. Sam grunts. Oh, says the tall thin man. Ow. Oh, ow! Fuck - dammit! Sam slaps her groin against his ass, jerking his hips. And again. Dammit! I, ow! Really! Oh, oh fuck, rhu - rhubarb! Goddamn rhubarb, already! And Sam freezes. The tall thin man pants, harshly. Ow. Sam steps back, and there's the didlo, its glossy clarity smeared a little now, marred. Frowning. I'm, uh - Hey. Mister Marlowe? Are you - ? The tall thin man, leaning heavily over the urinal, gasping. Rhubarb. I am sorry, Mister Marlowe, says Sam. Reaching out to touch him but not quite. Do you? Want to maybe take a minute? Or - Shaking his head, the tall thin man turns around. Not looking at her. Catching his breath, still. His half-erect cock still bobbing there, pushing aside the skirts of his jacket. Takes a step but tangles his foot in the pants still around his ankles and staggers down to one knee, holding up a hand as he goes down to forestall her attempt to help him. I'm okay, he says, knuckling the white tile. Looks up, at her for the first time. His eyes are big, his eyebrows arched a little. His mouth unreadable beneath the mustache. Come here, he says, beckoning her with one crooked finger. Frowning, Sam takes a step, and then another. Closer, he says. Mister Marlowe, says Sam, and he says, Closer, dammit! Sam takes another step, and he grabs her hips and stuffs the dildo into his mouth. Um, she starts to say. The vigor of his sucking mouth wobbling her a little. The dildo somewhat resilient bending with the strain of it. His cheeks hollowing, his throat hucking and grunting. His eyes closed. His fist squeezing his cock. Sam bites her lip and puts her hand on the back of his head and bucks her hips a little, with him. Mmm, she says. Oh, yes. He jerks her hips once, harshly, sucking, his other hand still squeezing, rolling, his thumb rubbing, almost strumming the bare red head of his cock. Sam doesn't say anything else. The door opens again. The man in the tweed jacket sticks his head through, says, No, wait, and someone else pushes past him, Fuck that. Ignores Sam, ignores the tall thin man, steps up to the urinal. Ah, fuck. Sam bites her lip and is obviously trying not to grin. The tall thin man's come shoots between Sam's legs. It is cleaner somehow than the tile it lands on. Glimmering, seeping oily into the yellowed cracks between. Ahh, says the guy at the urinal, zipping up his pants. You done? The blond in his hair came proudly from a bottle, and his eyebrows are dark and prominent. How much? To take you in the ass. He turns around, adjusting his belt under an impassive gut. Or since you've got it, in the box, he says, cocking an eyebrow at Sam's unsnapped shorts. Nice dong. Sam's dropping the dildo into the aluminum case. Fifteen, says Sam. Hang on, says the tall thin man. But that's just a straight shot, says Sam. Anything more is negotiable. Fifteen, says the bottle blonde. Hold on a minute, says the tall thin man, climbing to his feet. Shit, says the bottle blonde. I'm not saying I ain't tempted, but shit. Sam shrugs. You're forgetting something, says the tall thin man, pulling up his pants. Dammit. You're forgetting something. Oh, says Sam. Don't. It's covered. A friend. The tall thin man freezes, his hands on his belt. Shivers. Some fucking friend, says the bottle blonde, washing his hands at the sink. The man in the tweed jacket opens the door one more time and says, Thank God, stepping through. No, says the tall thin man. No. It's important. It's important. It's covered, says Sam. I don't care! snaps the tall thin man. Sam opens her mouth and shrugs again and holds out her hand and says, Hand it over. All of it. Like you mean it, says the tall thin man. Sam shrugs. Whoa! says the bottle blonde as Sam grabs the tall thin man's shoulders and runs him back into the urinals, his butt slapping the porcelain, his head smacking the mirror, one heel stumble-slipping on the urinal lip. The man in the tweed jacket prairie-dogs over the top of his stall. Give it, says Sam. Shaking the tall thin man's shoulders. Now. Shaking, the tall thin man reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a black leather wallet. Sam snatches it out of his hand. Done? she says. The tall thin man scrambles past her, out of the bathroom. The wallet has nothing in it but five new fifty dollar bills. Well? says Richie. He's sitting at a table in the corner. There are two tall glasses with shallow puddles of something clear and alcohol-oily at the bottom. Sam snatches one up and drains it in a single swallow. Bends over his lap. Undoes his belt. Sam? he says. Do you know, she says, tugging down his fly, how fucking horny I am? He unsnaps her hotpants as she fishes out his cock, there at the corner table. He tugs the shorts open and down a little, so he can work a finger inside, his other hand sliding up her belly under the lam . She chuckles. My, says Richie. I'm getting the idea. Sam sits in his lap as he gets his hand out of the way and she kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him. So do something about it, says Sam. :: as falls cuyahoga, so falls cuyahoga falls an object lesson.004 --n. :: http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/nickurfe/www/ http://www.ruthiesclub.com/ nickurfe@yahoo.com This story may be freely circulated by anyone, anytime, anywhere. "I'll Shoot the Moon" by Tom Waits. . -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Archive: Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository | |, an entity supported entirely by donations. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+