Message-ID: <35766asstr$1016349001@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: X-Original-Path: not-for-mail From: nickurfe@yahoo.com (Nicholas Urfe) X-Original-Message-ID: <5a5d3dd2.0203161802.fd475cb@posting.google.com> Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit NNTP-Posting-Date: 17 Mar 2002 02:02:05 GMT X-ASSTR-Original-Date: 16 Mar 2002 18:02:05 -0800 Subject: {ASSM} giggling 1:3 [urfe] [new] Date: Sun, 17 Mar 2002 02:10:01 -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: hecate, gill-bates . :: Giggling 1 of 3 :: Next table over there's an infant who can't stop staring at his face. It's the beard. Babies just can't get over beards. It's fucking bizarre, all that hair on a face. Fucks everything up in their little heads. Roy mugs as he tries to close the deal. Look, he's saying into the cell phone. Look. I know. I know. It's part of the fuckin' Honey Ryder mystique. But it's like, it's like that show. The one with the guy, wants to fuck that girl, first she doesn't want to fuck him, then she does, except now he can't stand her. Right? Well, sooner or later the audience gets tired of that shit. Right? Sooner or later, bam! They got to get it on. Am I right? Shit yeah, I'm saying it's that time. This would be major. Think of the press. Think of the interviews. AVN, Flynt--what? What's that? You're breaking up. I said you're breaking up! He sighs. The kid's still looking at him. Kid's mama is yammering away at her friend, the one with the bad dye job and the sunglasses. He's in a tunnel, says Roy. The kid blows a bubble of spit. The cell phone chirps. He stabs it with a finger. Yeah. Yeah. All very good-- Yeah. But I gotta tell you, the mystique thing is wearing thin. Everybody knows about the video with her and whatsisname. Guy had that big hair band back in the eighties. You know what the fuck I'm talking about. The video. Two of them going at it like rabbits. Kinda blows the whole-- Shit yeah, I'm telling the-- You can download the motherfuckin' thing off the goddamn Internet-- What? What? I'll sue your-- What? You want to tell me that one more time? You want to tell me that one more time? No, fuck you. Fuck you. I'm not making fuckin' Dickless Wonder VII here, okay? I need--I need-- He looks away, listening. Looks back. Kid's still staring at him. Mama's laughing a nasty two-pack-a-day laugh. Rare sound in California these days. He takes a deep breath, sighs. He tried. Okay, he says. Okay. You made your fuckin' point. But I want two giggles out of her. Two, and I want some a. Bad enough there's no dick. If I can't get anything in the back door, it's fuckin' useless to me. Might as well cuddle for fifteen minutes and go home. You--what? What? You want to tell me that again? The scalp? You want her to get the scalp? Let me get this straight, you might be going through another fuckin' tunnel or something. She breezes in, does two giggles, blows me a fuckin' kiss, and gets the goddamn scalp? He sighs explosively. The kid is still staring at him. Roy screws up his face, makes his eyes tiny little ball bearings, bares his teeth in a snarl, sticks out his tongue. The kid bursts into sudden frightened tears. Fuck you, thinks Roy. All right, he says into the phone. What? Yes. I said yes. Fuckin' kid is wailing over here. All right. Twelve, though. Twelve and that is as high as we go on this. Absolutely non-fuckin'-negotiable. And the scalp. Yes. Standard fuckin' deal for the scalp. Twelve plus five for the fuckin' scalp. Are we done? Roy slaps his phone shut and drops it in his pocket. Prima fuckin' donna. He drains his cappuccino and drops fifteen percent to the penny on the counter. You want to shut that kid up? he says on his way out. :: Where is he? The first words out of her mouth. Honey's a vision, she is. She's wearing one of those long-line sports skirts and a spaghetti-strap crop top with barely enough room for her tits, much less a bra. Her hair's a wind-tangled mess and her face is bereft of makeup, which makes her look oddly naked to anybody familiar with her, shall we say, public persona. She kicks open the glass door to the house. One hand is struggling with a big black bag that's trying to fall off her shoulder, the other is holding one of those ubiquitous bottles of water. She's wearing puffy athletic shoes for some sport that hasn't been invented yet. Looks like they were molded on her feet. Where the fuck is he? she says, dropping the heavy black bag on the white shag carpet. Out back, Honey, says the naked man on the couch. The girl squatting between his hairy legs doesn't even look up. Just keeps stroking his mostly tumescent cock. Honey storms towards the back of the house, past the kitchen, a glaring vision of chrome and black and white and nasty fluorescent light. She throws open the sliding glass door. Out on the concrete deck by the pool, three guys are bent over a pool chair. One of them has a little hi-8 video camera. One of them is fiddling with a couple of big black lights on tripods. And one of them is Roy, in a big billowing ridiculous pink silk shirt. This is fuckin' nuts, says the guy with the camera. They're fuckin' antiques, says the guy with the lights. Give me a fuckin' break. Hey, Roy, says Honey. Since when do you spring for a fluffer, you cocksucking motherfucking shitheaded cheapskate? They all stand up and turn around. Roy snorts. How you doin', you skanky-assed crack-whore slit-lickin' bitch? What's with the chippie in there? Viagra doesn't work on Scottie any more? That girl's strictly freelance, says Roy. None of my concern. He starts walking towards Honey. There's a woman lying on the pool chair. She's naked and nut-brown and gleaming with suntan oil like a greasy sausage. Her face is buried in a hardcover book big enough to club a burglar with. She has a dark tattoo coiled around one breast like a threatening clump of mutant ivy and a gold chain around one ankle. She doesn't appear to care or even notice that one of the guys is waving a light meter over her shaved cunt. By the way, says Honey, that tape is a myth. Tape? says Roy. Don't give me that bullshit. I never fucked Sammy Dane, so he sure as shit never got it on tape. So ain't nobody downloading mpegs or jpegs or any such shit. So if I hear you say that to anybody else after this moment right here that we're having I'm gonna sue your lousy ass for libel. Honey grins. It isn't a nice grin. Who said it was Sammy Dane? says Roy. What? Who said it was fuckin' Sammy Dane? I just heard it was some hair-band reject. It's what I heard. Word on the street. Fuck the word on the street. Okay, okay. I spoke without what do they say. Attribution. Fuck it. I'm not a reporter. I'm makin' a fuck flick here. So you want to get your game face on and fuck, or what? You're lucky I don't walk right this instant, Roy. Go ahead. Roy shrugs. I'm sure the freelance fluffer in there can lick cooze as well as she can suck dick. If Scottie's fluffer can prove she's a day older than seventeen I'll kiss your fucking ass. That a threat? There's a minute where nobody says anything. The guy with the lights says, Okay, I think I got it, and the guy with the camera agrees with him. Somebody go get Scottie. Without putting her book down the girl on the pool chair scoops up a tube of lube, squirts some out on her palm with a deft one-handed twist and rubs it on and around her cunt. Mikey got you the scalp, says Roy. What? Mikey insisted. My girl gets scalp or no deal. I told him there was no way you'd want your face on the box of a Roy Smolin fuck flick, but he wouldn't hear otherwise. I have to pose for fucking stills? You have to do me two giggles with a and then you pose for stills and then we go back to our respective fuckin' homes and toast a job well done. Shit. Hey. Honey. You know why you're doing a Roy Smolin fuck flick? Scottie's walking out of the kitchen, his cock bobbing in the air, the tip purple and swollen and wet. His fluffer hangs back, away from the Teamster rejects. She sure looks like a groupie. Honey's about to answer Roy when the fluffer looks up and meets Honey's gaze. She holds it for a moment with big brown eyes that blink once, twice, and then look away, somewhere, anywhere else. Honey frowns. I have bills to pay, she says to Roy. You're on my set because you're on fuckin' stage four, says Roy. Speed, says the guy with the camera. Scottie grunts. Oh, oh God, says the girl on the pool chair. Oh, God, you're so big, oh. Cut, says the guy with the camera. I can see your fucking book, Deedee. Jesus Christ. What the fuck is stage four? says Honey, when it's clear Roy won't tell her unless she asks. Roy holds up one thick furry finger. Who's Honey Ryder? he says. He holds up a second. Get me Honey Ryder. A third. Get me someone looks like Honey Ryder, she's too fuckin' expensive. A fourth. Get me someone looks like Honey Ryder, but younger. He waves his fingers a little in the air between them. And what's five? she says, voice even, calm. She knows there's a stage five. Has to be. He sticks out his thumb. Who's Honey Ryder? He grins. You're on stage four. You're this close to fuckin' stage five. He jerks his thumb toward the house. So you want to get naked and earn your goddamn money or what? Honey turns on one artfully molded athletic shoe and marches back inside. Speed, says the guy with the camera. Scottie grunts. His ass starts pumping up and down, his skin pale and white compared to the roasted tan of the girl on the pool chair. Oh, she says, oh God. Oh, God, you're so big, oh. Unh. Unh unh unh unh unh oh ohh! :: Scottie says you're a dyke. It's Scottie's freelance fluffer, sticking her head around the bathroom door. She doesn't seem to mind that Honey's naked and in the middle of lipsticking her mouth. Well, says Honey. You're going to come in, you might as well come all the way in and shut the friggin' door. Which is what Scottie's fluffer does. Sonofabitch can't even be bothered to spring for makeup, says Honey. Her face is creamed and blushed and powdered, her cheekbones shine, her eyes are shadowed green, her lips are cocksucker red. She blots them and smiles, grimaces, then suddenly dabs her nipples with lipstick, one, two. She grins, looks over her shoulder in the mirror to see Scottie's fluffer, her face solemn, biting her lip. Well? says Honey. What do you think? Are you? says Scottie's fluffer. What's your name? Barbie. Honey tries not to roll her eyes. How old are you, Barbie? I turned eighteen last week. Honest. I could show you my driver's license and everything. Uh huh. Scottie says you're a dyke. Are you? Honey turns around so she can look at Barbie directly and holds up her left hand. There's a thin silvery ring on her ring finger. The diamond isn't very big at all, but it catches the light. I'm married, says Honey. I like girls. But I'm not a dyke. I just don't fuck guys on film for money. Why not? It's just something I don't do. Why do you care? I just... says Barbie. He said you were a dyke. That's all. Scottie know you're in here? Barbie shrugs. They're doing the come shot. When he's done, he'll go take his vitamins and drink a protein shake. He says I can't mix his protein shakes right. I always fuck it up. They're going to shoot you next. He won't need me for a while. You want me to...? Do I want you to what? You need help getting ready, or anything? I already hosed myself out. But thanks. I mean, says Barbie, and she steps closer, I know how to eat pussy. I've done it before. Honey blinks. I don't need fluffing, if that's what you're asking. I just like to make people feel good. I just want to make you feel good. That's all. She takes another step. Her hand drifts over, floats unsteadily, fingers trembling, over Honey's tiny, carefully trimmed patch of bleached pubic hair. It's really pretty, she says. Thanks. Grew it myself. Can I, says Barbie, but Honey is already leaning back, resting her butt against the bathroom counter, spreading her legs a little. Barbie's fingers are feather-light. She doesn't look Honey in the eye at all, just looks down, and down. She takes a deep breath and holds it a minute, then lets it out and kneels all at once. Maybe she's done it before and maybe she hasn't. She's clumsy but enthusiastic. She sucks up Honey's outer lips and worries at them with her mouth like a teenaged boy. Honey hisses and Barbie starts licking ferociously, great swooping licks from bottom to top like she's trying to win a pie-eating contest. Her tongue rasps like a cat's over Honey's suddenly sensitive clit. Easy, she says. Easy. Barbie's eyes flick up from Honey's cunt, worried, and Honey makes a face, ooh, oh, oh that's nice. And it is. Barbie's calming down, she's settling into it, and in spite of everything Honey can feel the cold greasy knot of tension that's been tangling in her gut all day start to loosen and melt. Maybe she has done this before. Honey rests a hand on Barbie's head. The bathroom door opens and the girl from the pool chair, Deedee, looks in. Hey. Twenty minutes or so. They're having problems with the lights again. 'Kay. Um. You my first? Yeah. You doing two? Uh huh. Cool. Deedee leaves. Barbie never even looked up. Honey closes her eyes, smiles a little, to herself. Mm hmm. Oh. Hey. Sweetie. She runs her hand through Barbie's hair, strokes her temple with a thumb. Sweetie. Let me ask you something. Barbie pulls her mouth away and looks up with those puppy's eyes, big and brown. Want me to stop? She lays a sticky kiss along the crease of Honey's thigh. No. No. Let me just. Ah, let me--your dad. Let me just say something and see if I get it right. Your dad. He left at some point. He died, or, ah. Honey feels Barbie's jaw working under her fingers, and she feels weirdly detached. That rolling, chewing motion of Barbie's mouth is somehow more real, more immediate, than what her tongue and lips are doing so far below, so very far away. He just up and left one day, says Honey. She swallows. And your mom, she took up with somebody, or maybe a couple of different somebodies, and one of them, ah... Honey shifts her butt against the counter, arching her back a little, her hips forward, as Barbie falters. Barbie's fingers dig into Honey's ass, her thigh. She looks down and away, her chin leaving a smear of spit and juice along Honey's hip. It was my uncle, says Barbie. Your uncle. Honey reaches under the girl's arms and pulls her up on her feet. Look at me. Look at me. She kisses Barbie's forehead, and then tries to kiss her mouth. Barbie looks away. No. It's gross. Don't. Don't? Don't. Are you saying I'm gross? says Honey, gently. She kisses Barbie's mouth. She can taste herself. She can taste Barbie's lip gloss. She can taste an actinic hint of the shaving cream from the trim she just gave herself. No, Barbie's mumbling. No. You aren't. Honey unbuttons Barbie's cutoffs. Tugs the zipper down. I can't, Barbie is saying. I have to go back. Scottie's-- Scottie is making a protein shake, says Honey. Scottie's popping Viagra. Scottie's lucky if he can even remember you're here. The zipper catches. Screw it. Honey tugs the cutoffs over Barbie's hips. She's wearing cotton underwear, white cotton underwear with little flowers sprinkled all over like marshmallows in some kid's cereal. Honey slides her hands under the waistband and feels Barbie's skin, cool and a little clammy. She pushes the underwear down, too. I wanted... says Barbie, as Honey's fingers spread her open. Shh, says Honey. Barbie's so wet one of her fingers almost falls in. Barbie gasps. I wanted to make you feel good, she says. Honey slips her finger almost all the way out, and then back in again. You are, babe, she says. You are. :: You found Dixie yet? Roy is saying. She's not answering, says the big bald guy. His name is Marvin. She's not answering? I don't get an answer. Just her machine or voice mail or whatever. I left a coupla messages. Did you try her cell? I said, did you try her fucking cell? Jesus, you shit-brained lunkhead. Think! Roy picks up his bag in a sudden fury and fishes a battered black Daytimer out of it and throws it at Marvin, who ducks. The thing bounces off one of his meaty forearms and sends business cards and tattered notes and post-its fluttering away like moths. Look up her goddamn numbers and find her! Christ, says Linus, who's been trying to keep the lights lit. It's not like we're even ready for her yet. I don't give a flying fuck! She was due on the set a fuckin' hour ago! Haven't you people ever fuckin' heard of professionalism? Jesus! Why are you still here? he shrieks at Marvin, who's trying to pick up the cards and notes and post-its, looking for Dixie's phone numbers. Call! Hey. Roy's head turns like a slow gun turret on his massive neck. His mouth is twisted under his beard and his eyes have turned into ball bearings. Honey's standing there wearing a white terrycloth robe, her black bag slung over one shoulder. She's made up, hair's done, ready to go. One eyebrow's cocked and she's meeting Roy with a cool glare of her own. What's the build? she says. The build? For the fucking scene, she says. What's the build? What am I doing here? What am I wearing? What's the scenario? This ain't Stanislavski, he says, his voice low and dangerous. You want your fuckin' motivation? Go do dinner theater. I just want to know what the fuck I'm doing. You're horny! She's a chick! You dig chicks! You want to fuck her! She says why not! You fuck! End of fuckin' story! We could do something with me swimming in the pool, says Deedee, not looking up from her book. You know. I'm swimming, she walks up, I climb out of the pool. Now she looks up, her mouth half-grinning. And Honey's so blown away by my awesome bod she gets down on her knees right then and there. You wish, says Honey. We could shoot it a couple of times for coverage and then set up for the master, says Terry, loading a fresh hi-8 tape into his camera. He starts hooking it to what looks like a tripod jerry-rigged with a couple of trucks from a busted skateboard. Whatever! screams Roy. Where the fuck is Dixie? He goes storming back towards the house. So, says Honey, looking into her bag, you're thinking swimsuits? I got this bikini... Nah, says Deedee. I'll just hop in. It's like maybe I want to get clean after fucking Scottie. There's a round of chuckles at that. Scottie's inside, he can't hear. And I just happen by? Naked? Just wear the robe. Keep it simple. Deedee stretches and lifts herself off the pool chair in one easy motion, steps up to the edge of the pool, and dives in. She surfaces, playfully spitting water. You getting this? Speed, says Terry. Honey shrugs, ditches the bag, and steps up to the pool ladder, watching Deedee swim. Whenever you're ready, ladies. :: Hey, says Deedee, treading water. Hey, says Honey. You want to come in? The water's fine. Actually, I'm pretty wet already. They manage not to giggle. Deedee strokes over to the ladder as Honey steps down into the water onto the first rung. Deedee hoists herself out of the water, gleaming like a dolphin, face uplifted, eyes closing, mouth opening. Honey meets her kiss, sliding one hand--left hand--down Deedee's flank. She tilts her head to the left--the right, the right. Terry's over there with the camera. She tilts her head and showily licks Deedee's lips. :: Hey. Hey. Want to come in? The water's fine. Actually, I'm pretty wet already. Deedee rolls her eyes at that, which is fine for her, since the camera's close in on Honey's face. Terry backs away a little, the camera gliding back smoothly enough on its primitive dolly, as Deedee hoists herself up the ladder, gleaming like a dolphin, her skin bare and brown all over, water streaming in a little rivulet down the pursed furrow of her smooth, bare cunt. :: Hey. Hey. You should come in. The water's fine. I'm wet enough already, thank you. Honey's step is a little unsteady on the ladder. When Deedee hauls herself up she nearly tumbles into her, and she grabs Deedee for support. Left hand? Right hand? Fuck it. Deedee grabs her and gets her robe. They manage to kiss, but it's clumsier. The robe slips off Honey's shoulders and she crushes Deedee to her to keep them both from falling. Oh, Terry's saying. Hey. That works. That's hot. As the robe slides down her arms, Honey tips one shoulder back and lifts her head so Terry's camera can film Deedee kissing her neck, licking, taking one of Honey's nipples into her mouth. Damn, says Terry. Can we get that one more time? :: Hey. Hey. She remembers to step with the right foot first. Right hand on the ladder's rail so her left hand is ready to slide down Deedee's flank. Deedee explodes out of the water, gleaming. Cool, wet skin, smooth and bare, the weight of her in Honey's hand. The sunlight is bright on the water, lapping in Deedee's wake. It blazes from the lens of the camera as Terry crab-scuttles behind them. Rough terrycloth slides down Honey's shoulders. She tastes coconut oil and chlorine. :: Giggling 1 of 3 --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. Originally published at Ruthie's Club. Thanks to Ruthie for editing, Garv for illustrating, and MichaelD for Reseda. . -- 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. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+