Message-ID: <38638asstr$1033708202@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: X-Original-Path: 53ab2750!not-for-mail From: HammonWry@spamtrap.yahoo.com (Hammon Wry) X-Original-Message-ID: <3d9dbc36.2223347023@news.east.cox.net> MIME-Version: 1.0 NNTP-Posting-Date: Thu, 03 Oct 2002 17:58:36 EDT Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit X-MIME-Autoconverted: from quoted-printable to 8bit by sara.asstr-mirror.org id g93LxBjF028211 X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Thu, 03 Oct 2002 21:58:36 GMT Subject: {ASSM} Ho'omaluhia (nosex,BDSM,FF rom) Date: Fri, 4 Oct 2002 01:10:02 -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: RuiJorge, hecate Notice: The following is a work of erotica, and is meant for those of legal age and inclination in their jurisdicions. If you are not of age, or if this is illegal where you are, please do not read any further. (C) E. Howe 2002 All rights reserved Author's notes for ASSM: The following was the result of a competition on a web-bulletin board. Required use of the words "telephone, rags, chopsticks, garage and screwdriver" I did not win any prizes, but I am still proud of this piece. Enjoy! Author's note regarding the title of this entry: Ho'omaluhia is a composite verb. In order to translate it, I will break it down into its two component parts: Ho'o- is a causative, and will change a noun into a verb. Consider it the same as "to make" or "to create". Maluhia is a noun, "shade". Combined, it means "to make (or create) shade." In the Hawaiian mind, this is synonymous with "take a break". In the heat of the Hawaiian Islands, one sits in a shady spot to take a break! Ho'omaluhia Na'ome wiped the sweat from her forehead with a kitchen towel, and squinted out the window over the sink into the glare of the late afternoon sun. The cooing of the mourning doves on the road was a sibilant roar, even at this late hour. It had been hot all day. Her collar would be leaving a dark mark on her already irritated skin. She tucked the towel between the leather and her skin. She reached over to the wood bowl and took the last orange. She made sure of her fingers before pressing the edge of the knife to the brilliant orange skin, slicing the succulent fruit into perfect hemispheres. The juice pooled on the wooden cutting board, and the aroma of tangy citron filled her head. She wanted to lick her fingers, but she did not dare. Na'ome knew that her drink would be served in a bowl on the floor, and only if poured from Madam's glass. She could wait. She lifted the halves of the oranges, and began to grind them one at a time on the green-glass juicer. She twisted and pressed downward, and the precious liquid ran in runnels down into the collecting bowl. This last one would fill it. She tossed the empty husk into the trash with the others. There, all done. She took the precious liquid and passed it through cheese cloth in a fine mesh strainer into a bowl. Then she took the cloth out, and wrung it. Again, her fingers dripped with the sweet and sticky juice. She covered the bowl with a clean towel, and set it in the refrigerator. She turned to the sink, her bare feet soundless on the linoleum tiles. She turned the cold water on, and washed her hands carefully. Liquid soap with the fragrance of lavender foamed between her palms, and up to her wrists. Its tart fragrance blended will with the scent of oranges, and was offset by the scent of plumeria blossoms on the tree outside the kitchen window. Water rinsed the suds away. A quick wipe with a cloth cleaned the cutting board, and the knife sparkled under the running water. It was dried and put in its holder. Na'ome glanced around the kitchen to be sure it was in order. Madam would give stripes if it was not. She turned, and her breasts bounced with the movement. Her ass still showed the marks she had received earlier today from not making the bed to Madam's military specifications. She had no desire to endure that again. She wanted nothing more than to please Madam, to feel Madam's palm stroking her face, thumb caressing her lips stretched tight around the ball gag. Or to feel the thrust of the strap-on spearing her, or... She opened her eyes, and shook off the arousal. She would receive stripes for that too, if Madam knew. Na'ome opened a cabinet, and withdrew a graceful pitcher. She rinsed it in cold water as well, and dried it, in an effort to cool it off some. Her hips swayed invitingly to an empty room as she went to the liquor cabinet. She pulled out the cobalt blue bottle of top-shelf American vodka. Madam had little liking for the Russian imports. She checked its level. More than enough. Good. The heat was getting to her. She took advantage of the fact that she was allowed to take water from the tap. No glass for her. The water cooled her some, slaked her parched throat, and eased her thirst. She wiped her mouth with the first towel. A single bead of sweat trickled between her breasts. She wiped it as well. She opened the freezer, and as the cold air cascaded over her nude form, she was tempted to just stand there. Her nipples puckered, while her ass burned. Her back was sweating, as well. With a sigh of resignation, she withdrew a bag of ice. She closed the freezer door, and walked with the bag to the pitcher. She filled it halfway with ice, and then trotted back to the freezer before the bag dripped on the floor. She berated her inefficiency. She did not linger as she opened the freezer and put the bag away. The bottle of vodka made a gurgling sound as she measured and poured it over the ice in the pitcher. Bottle capped, she returned it to the cabinet. On her return, she was interrupted by the jangle of the telephone, a discordant note in the bucolic afternoon. She let it ring, and the answering machine activated. The mechanical voice was just out of range of hearing, and then the squeal of the tone. A tinny voice spoke, irritation evident. Na'ome smiled. Madam's ex-slave again. It had been 8 years since the two had parted, and still she called. Madam never returned the calls. Na'ome resolved never to become like the rejected slave. For five years Na'ome had shared Madam's home in servitude. She never wore clothes, just the leather collar about her neck, removed when she bathed or showered, or to clean and condition it. She had tan lines around it from the brilliant Hawaiian sun. Madam had chosen her at a club in Honolulu one night, simply walked up to her kneeling form, and raised her face to look deep into her eyes. "You into this for real, or do you just play at it?" Na'ome remembered that night with a crystal clarity. "If it pleases you, Madam, I would be a full-time willing slave." Madam had nodded slowly. "You use personal pronouns. I think I like that. Come home with me, and we will talk about an arrangement." Five years had passed since that night. Na'ome's life was simple now. Please her Madam. The stripes inflicted by the crop or the cane faded, and once punished, Madam would not torment her for the same infraction again. Na'ome knew that occasionally Madam would make a reason to beat her. She accepted this, because that was one of Madam's needs. She liked to inflict pain. Na'ome had come to...not enjoy it, but benefit from it. Endorphins coursing through her blood made the sex hotter, afterwards. They spoke little. There really was no need. Na'ome served, and Madam took. It was right. On her way to the refrigerator, Na'ome picked up the pitcher, and brought it with her. She set it on the counter and opened the refrigerator door, again relishing in the cool air sliding to her feet. She removed the bowl of orange juice. The door swung shut. She uncovered it, and poured it into the pitcher. The ice made a sound against the glass as she poured, a clinking muffled by the liquids swirling within. She swirled the pitcher some to mix it further. She retrieved a tray and a tall narrow glass. She reached to a container at the back of the counter. She withdrew one of the chopsticks held there, a mother-of-pearl inlaid and lacquered jewel. Placing the single chopstick in the tall glass, she poured the concoction into it, making sure some ice was included. Madam did not like straws, but would stir the drink idly with a single chopstick as she thought. Na'ome placed the pitcher and glass on the tray, and exited the house through the lanai. While there, she plucked a single plumeria blossom, orange, pink and yellow blending into a semblance of a sunrise over Diamond Head. She dropped it into the pitcher, and smiled as it caught and rested on the ice. She stepped down the stairs, mindful of her feet for rocks, and began the short walk through the overgrowth to the shack that served as the garage. The foliage of ti plants, croatia, and vines clinging to trees glistened with the wetness of an early mauka shower. She passed the ancient mango tree, the fruit hanging pendulously on long strands, like breasts bound and dangling for the plucking. It was too early for them, the fruit would be hard, and sour. She passed the guava, the yellow skins splitting to reveal the hot pink pith within. Finally, she stopped at the ohi'a'ai tree. The small, pear-shaped mountain apples were so delicate that they had to be picked at the stem, the brilliant red skin so thin it would rub off and stain fingers. A single stone nestled in an opening at the bottom of the fruit; The hole would widen as the fruit ripened, until the stone fell from its nest. Na'ome placed the tray on a stump, and then searched the branches for one perfect fruit. Deftly she snapped the stem, and cradled the precious fruit in her palm. She rolled it carefully to the tray, and continued on to her Madam. When she entered the shack, the smooth dirt floor was cool against her feet. Madam was leaning over the side of the engine compartment, elbow cantilevering a wrench. As Na'ome approached, Madam stood, and wiped her hands on one of the many rags she had made of Na'ome's clothes. Na'ome recognized the pattern on the material, a shirt she used to wear to clean house. That part of her history was as relevant to her life now as the rag was to he shirt she used to wear. With her back still to Na'ome, Madam extended a single greasy hand to her and said "Pass me a screwdriver, would you?" Na'ome lifted the sweating glass, and smiled. -- 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: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}| |Archive at Hosted by | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+