Message-ID: <39836asstr$1039907406@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: DrSpin <drspin@newsguy.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Avocado Pair (MF/f exhib voy) ~ by DrSpin - NEW to ASSM
Date: Sat, 14 Dec 2002 18:10:06 -0500
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Avocado Pair (MF/f exhib voy)
by DrSpin (aka Neil Anthony)

---------------------------------------------------------
* This story is published here by kind permission of Ruthie's 
Club, where it appeared illustrated by Sergio Castro under an 
exclusivity period for six months. Ruthie's Club 
(http://www.ruthiesclub.com) carries about 40 more of my new 
stories. 

* The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers 
and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to:
drspin@newsguy.com or neil@ruthiesclub.com

* DrSpin's Standard Disclaimer: 
I write and you read, if you care to. That's all there is 
to it. Any reader who is offended should not have been here 
in the first place.
---------------------------------------------------------

There's a hell of a lot more poor people in this world than 
rich, but I reckon the poorest of the poor bastards are 
farmers. They gamble. They grow and hope to get it right, and 
when they get it wrong they're not just poor, they're minus 
poor. Following fads in horticulture leads you to peaks and 
troughs, and that's the trouble with fads. Everybody wants to 
get in on the action. With good timing, you'll make big bucks. 
Without, you'll be stuck with shitloads of stuff nobody wants 
to buy.

Two women sat in the shade of beach umbrellas, morosely 
tending a makeshift roadside stall piled high with dark green 
avocados. Ten for a dollar, the hand-scrawled sign said. Man, 
that was cheap. Avocados at ten cents each? I love avocados. 
Who doesn't? I hit the brakes, scrunching the dirt road and 
sending stones flying, then backed up twenty yards to the 
stall.

Two figures rose hopefully from their fold-up chairs and 
approached the car. I pressed the button to lower the window, 
and air-conditioning rushed out in a cool and visible cloud. A 
middle-aged woman stuck her face into it and closed her eyes 
blissfully. 

I climbed down from the chunky four-wheel-drive, walked around 
to the stall, and fished a ten dollar note out of my wallet. 
"Avocados? I'll take a hundred," I said.

"Mister, you're an angel," the woman said. She snapped her 
fingers at a girl who was standing awkwardly and squinting 
into the glare of the baking late-morning sun. "Simone, get 
out those plastic bags and start filling them up."

Both were wearing plain, working overalls. Farmers. In the 
foreground, beside the gate, was a battered tractor. In the 
background, rows of avocado trees marched in regimental order 
towards a low and unpretentious house surrounded randomly by 
galvanised iron sheds. Beyond the house, avocado trees. Over 
the road, avocado trees. As far as the eye could see, avocado 
trees.

"Good crop this year?" I asked.

"Mister," the woman said sourly, "we got enough avocados to 
feed all of China. Which we might as well do, because this 
season nobody's buying but you."

I opened the back of the car and Simone started loading 
plastic bags into it. The air was humid, stifling, without a 
smell of a breeze. The avocados were piled up rich and green 
on the stall, the trees behind them verdant and vigorous. The 
sale sign was distinctly desperate and told its own story of 
hard luck and tough times. Snap. I hustled back to the front 
of the car and extracted one of my cameras.

I don't do photojournalism as a rule. It's not my field. I do 
portrait photography for money and nature photography for 
passion. But this was a photo story, no doubt about it.

"Ladies," I said, checking the camera, "go back and sit down, 
as you were when I passed by. I want to take a few photos of 
you."

The woman peered at me suspiciously. "Why?"

"Because I'm a photographer," I said. "Look, I'll throw in an 
extra twenty bucks."

She shrugged. "It's your money, mister."

"Gotta get set up," I said, looking up at the sun and the 
patterns of the light. I threw the car keys at Simone. "Shift 
the car down the road a bit for me." All farm kids can drive.

She did, and came back to me with the keys, grinning. "Nice 
car," she said.

Hey, hold the phone. I got a good look at Simone for the first 
time, and she was a real little darling. Not so little, 
either. Tall, lissom, straight long hair, big eyes, a full and 
friendly mouth, and plump breasts pushing out the front of her 
overalls invitingly. Whew, a honey. Not very old at all. She 
was a sexy and fetching farm girl Lolita, and a menace to all 
men who should know better, and that's all men everywhere, and 
if it's not then it damn well oughtta be.

Her skin was perfect. I knew she would be like that all over. 
She would photograph beautifully.

I took my shots of them at the stall. Easy. No additional 
props necessary. The story jumped straight into the frame.

"You want to make some more money?" I asked Simone's mother 
casually.

She was only an avocado farmer, but that didn't mean she fell 
off a twig in the last shower of rain. "Like how?" she asked 
back, narrowing her eyes.

"I'm a professional photographer," I said. "Can Simone do some 
modelling?"

She looked at me straight and hard. "Like how?"

"I'm heading up to Yorky's Ravine. I have a map but maybe you 
can show me the way, and maybe Simone can do some modelling 
for me when we get there." I paused, letting that sink in. 
Then: "I'll pay $150 an hour."

Her expression did not change a fraction. "For that sort of 
money she takes off her clothes, right?"

Yeah. Actually, that would be excellent. "Possibly," I said. 
"If she's willing."

On cue, we both turned our heads to look at Simone sitting at 
the opposite end of the avocado pile. She had her mouth open 
in astonishment, and she was looking at me with huge, wide 
eyes. 

I thought mamma was going to ask her if she would, in fact, be 
willing. But mamma had already decided. "Call it three hundred 
and it's a deal," she said. "As long as I can be there too." 
She looked up at me with her flat, hard eyes. "Simone is only 
fourteen, and only just fourteen."

"Lots of big-time models are only fourteen these days," I 
said.

"Maybe," said her mother. "But let's get one thing straight 
and clear. You don't fuck her. Not for three hundred, not for 
anything."

"Mum!" It was Simone, complaining squeakily, whining in that 
terrible way children can whine to a parent.

"Shut up, Simone," her mother said, amiably but dismissively. 
"This is a professional man, and we need the money."

"Okay," I said. "Ten for the avocados, twenty for the sitting, 
and three hundred for Simone. That's the deal?"

She frowned. "But I'll have to leave the stall, and I really 
need six hundred to pay some bills next week." 

She looked up at me once more, a shrewd tilt to her head. 
"Mister, I have another daughter. She's not as cute as Simone 
but she'll take off her clothes without blinking." She laughed 
bitterly. "And she'll probably fuck you, too. I don't see why 
not. She seems to do it with most men."

Jesus. What was I getting into here? But I really, really 
wanted very badly to photograph the steamingly sexy yet 
cluelessly innocent Simone. "So where is she?" I asked.

Mamma reached into a bag and withdrew a cell phone. She 
stabbed at the buttons and waited. Then: "Sherry, get your 
lazy arse out of bed, put on a clean dress, and get down to 
the gate pronto. You're going for a ride with us to Yorky's 
Ravine." She listened for a moment. "Bring Dak too, of course. 
Whatta you gonna do? Leave him on his own?" She sighed deeply, 
switched the phone off and put it down.

"Daughters," she said to me expressively. "You married, 
mister? You got kids?"

No. I wasn't, I didn't.

Down the path, lugging a baby on her hip, came a young woman 
who had to be Sherry. She was maybe eighteen, nineteen, and a 
less perfect version of her sister. Heavier, less graceful, 
untidier, but she had nevertheless the same earthy, sly, and 
sexy fuck-my-mouth look about her as Simone. She was Lolita 
grown up coarse and slutty.

"Six hundred," I said, a little hoarsely. "It's a deal."

It took only twenty minutes to get to Yorky's Ravine. Svelte 
Simone sat next to me in front, and in the back mamma the 
manager muttered to sultry Sherry, no doubt about the 
arrangements and Sherry's contribution to the cause. There 
appeared to be no dissent. The baby squawked and Sherry 
slipped an arm out of her dress, uncovered a breast, and 
slapped the baby's face to it. I caught her eye in the rear 
vision mirror. She looked back at me without expression.

The ravine was not as nature made it. Decades ago a clean and 
precise slice was taken out of the hill for an open-cut copper 
mine that quickly ran out of viable copper. It left a vertical 
cliff face, and, at the bottom, a deep rectangular lake of 
eerily-purple-blue, copper-tainted water. Arsenic had killed 
off all the vegetation for 200 metres around and probably for 
another twenty years. The residual effect was off-angle wrong. 
Nothing looked as it should. It was a great setting for a 
photo shoot.

Simone peered over the edge of the cliff and turned back to 
me. "So?" she asked. "What do I have to do?"

Get yourself naked, little darling. But not yet. I could use 
some time getting the feel of the landscape, so I'd shoot her 
clothed until I worked out what I wanted and until she became 
more comfortable with the camera.

I hauled a bag of camera gear out of the car. Mamma was 
walking around but Sherry still sat in the back, nursing the 
baby. She had it fastened to the other breast. The front of 
her dress was in her lap. The consumed breast was bare, its 
nipple pink and stubby. "He'll be finished soon," she said to 
me. "Then he'll sleep."

I put Simone against a dead tree and moved around her, 
snapping shots. She was good. She did it naturally, and that 
takes natural talent. Mamma sat on a rock and watched.

I picked up my better camera. "Okay, Simone," I said. "If 
you're ready, let's be having the real you."

She looked at me and bit her lip. She looked at her mother, 
sitting implacably on her rock. She looked at Sherry, who was 
pulling up her dress as she got out of the car. She looked 
back at me. "Mister, I'm real skinny," she said sadly.

"Honey," I said, with a sincerity I didn't have to fake, 
"you'll never be quite so perfect as you are today. When I 
show you the photos you'll be amazed. I'm a pro. Believe it 
when I say so."

Simone bit her lip again. She made a little squeaky noise of 
apprehension. Then she started to undo the big brass clips on 
the front of her overalls.

She dropped the baggy overalls to the ground and stepped out 
of them. She was wearing a tight blue tee shirt that came only 
to her bellybutton and white panties none too new and, 
frankly, none too white. Her legs were elegantly long and 
slim. I watched with apparent professional detachment, but my 
heart was jumping in my dry throat.

She crossed her arms and lifted the tee shirt over her head. 
She bent over, small breasts and long hair hanging, and 
lowered the panties down her legs. She straightened, darted 
nervous glances at us all, and stood stiffly naked.

Yeah. Knew it. She was one hundred per cent.

She was at that particular age and stage of her development 
that passes in a regrettably brief flash of time. She had all 
that she would have as a fully-fledged woman but without the 
flaws and blemishes. She'd never have skin like that again. 
Her breasts would grow larger but they'd never again have such 
perfect natural shape. Most of all, she'd never again have 
that look about her--the woman who doesn't yet know she is a 
woman.

At seventeen she'd still be beautiful. Maybe she'd be 
beautiful at 25, at 38, maybe even at 50. But she'd never 
again be perfect.

I set about the task of capturing such perfection so that 
others could see it and marvel.

I knew what the best shot was as soon as I took it. You 
wouldn't see her face, you wouldn't see her breasts, and you 
wouldn't see the soft hair between her legs. What you'd see 
was her back as she sat on the edge of the cliff. Such a 
beautiful female back, a lovely vee from shoulder to waist, 
with the bones of a spine running down the centre. Magic.

"Okay, Simone," I said, after I took that shot. "You're all 
done. You can get dressed."

Like the natural she was, she'd become easy with her 
nakedness. She sauntered past me and flashed a sexy smile. 
"Did I do all right?" she asked.

"Yeah," I said, tearing my eyes away from her sharp nipples 
and resisting a strong urge to pick her up, throw her over my 
shoulder, and go racing off into the bush with her. "You did 
great."

Sherry hove into view. "My turn, I guess," she said.

"I guess," I agreed, trying not to show my lack of enthusiasm. 
After Simone, Sherry was an anti-climax.

"We could go down the hill a bit," she suggested. "Just you 
and me."
 
Down the hill a bit, where the trees were green, and where 
long, yellow summer grass waved indolently, Sherry slipped out 
of her dress with a wriggle and a shimmy. She wore nothing at 
all beneath it.

Her breasts were full and heavy, unsurprisingly. She had a 
bruise on her thigh, and she carried a little too much on her 
hips. Her eyes knew too much. She knew she was not perfect 
like her little sister, but she knew she had a lush body men 
liked to look at, to hold, and to fuck.

She stood around looking like a woman who fucked for the 
pleasure of it, and I took photos of her just like that, with 
her hands on her hips, staring boldly at the lens. Pretty 
soon, though, there wasn't much left to do. Sherry was sex, 
not beauty.

She was shrewd like her mother. "It's okay," she said, sharply 
amused. "We can stop pretending I'm a supermodel. I know I'm 
only the second prize here."

"Sorry," I said, letting honesty through. "It's not your 
fault. Simone is a hard act to follow."

"I wouldn't be so certain about that," she said, sidling up to 
me. "Simone ain't horny, but I sure am."

We fucked savagely, flattening the long grass. I hammered into 
her and she gurgled and chuckled, thrusting back. "Shut your 
eyes," she laughed, taunting me with pinpoint accuracy. 
"Pretend I'm Simone."

I boiled over, shooting wads into her in staccato spasms. She 
stroked my hair as I lay my head on her chest. "Good, good," 
she said soothingly. "Tonight I'm going to whisper in my 
sister's ear just how brutally you fucked her. She'll go 
crazy."

I pulled out and away, and got dressed. Sherry stood up, 
stretched her arms, yawned, and slipped the dress over her 
head. "Thanks, mister," she said. "That was fun."

Simone and her mother were sitting in the car when we 
returned. I stashed my gear and we drove back to the avocado 
farm. There I produced two model consent forms. Sherry signed 
one, and Simone and her mother signed the other. Then I 
counted out six hundred and gave it to mamma.

The three of them stood by their stall, shading their eyes 
from the sun, and waved at me as I drove away. The baby was 
crying.

I told Simone I'd come back and show her the photos. I never 
did, of course. I already had the consent form I wanted. And 
besides, I had enough avocados to last me for a long, long 
time.

Oddly enough, I made good money out of Sherry's photos. Some 
guy snapped up Sherry for a sex site on the Net. But one day 
soon I'm going to mount a Simone exhibition -- one day when I 
finish keeping them all to myself.

ENDS

Edited by Ruthie and Nat.

* DrSpin/Neil Anthony is at http://www.ruthiesclub.com
          

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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