Message-ID: <40247asstr$1041646227@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: X-Original-Message-ID: <200301031627.h03GRi9L025472@fozzie.webservepro.com> From: jimmy@jimmy-hat.com (Jimmy Hat) X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Fri, 03 Jan 2003 16:27:44 GMT Subject: {ASSM} The Gift of the Maytag 3/4 (wife MMF MF oral ice) Date: Fri, 3 Jan 2003 21:10:27 -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, newsman "I don't know," said Maytag. "That just seemed awfully sudden." "Your partner is usually more reserved?" asked Cynthia. Maytag had to admit that was not necessarily so. But the sudden change in her attitude was highly unusual. She was normally more stubborn than that. She had decided that she did not want to be in Duluth for this case, and normally she would keep that attitude no matter what they encountered. "Maybe she honestly fell for the guy," Cynthia offered, "I've seen it happen before." "When you met him here before?" "Yes. He's not exactly my girlfriend's type, but she was eating out of his hand before the night was out, and they left together. He's like catnip or something: once these women get a whiff they just want to cling to him for a while." "Catnip?" repeated Maytag. "Like they were drugged?" Cynthia was taken aback, and then asked, "You don't think that little balding man is actually drugging these women? With what?" "I don't know," said Maytag, "But it's a thought. He was a chemical engineer for pharmaceutical companies. Maybe he found a drug that acted like an aphrodisiac." "That would be worth millions," countered Cynthia, "This guy was a company man, not some mad scientist. He would patent it and live off the royalties. What motivation would he have to do otherwise?" "I think that motivation is back with him at his townhouse right now," said Maytag. * * * Heather kicked off her boots in the foyer, threw her jacket over an armchair, and flopped down on the sofa. Ron closed the door behind him, removed his coat and approached the young woman nestled in his living room. "So glad you could join me," he said. "So nice of you to invite me," Heather responded. Ron knelt on the oriental rug next to the sofa, and leaned over Stanton to kiss her. Her embrace was eager. Their lips met and pushed each other apart. Heather's lips were cold still, and Ron moved his mouth over them as he would ice cream. Only this treat did not melt on his mouth to a fleeting ribbon of sweetness. Instead it warmed and grew fuller, and the sensation of the kiss amplified and fed back to him tenfold. He pulled away to look into her sapphire eyes. The clarity of the color was remarkable. He sought to find her reaction there. Each woman reacted differently and the cataloging, the details of the seduction was as much a part of the thrill for Ron as the actual sex. Her reaction, it seemed, was one of pure arousal and the need for release. She brought him forward for another kiss, then breathed hot into his ear and declared, "I want you to eat me." * * * "Could it have been something she ate?" suggested Cynthia. "Possibly. But her dishes were always in sight of someone. I doubt he could have slipped something to her without one of us seeing it. Just too risky. Maybe someone on the wait staff?" "Maybe, but that would take some communication from Gustafson, and I didn't see him signal anyone. Besides, you couldn't keep a secret that long, and I don't think Ron has that kind of resources." "Yes," agreed Maytag, "If he's using these women to help him pay for his nights at the Blackjack tables, it's unlikely that he can pay off an entire cooking staff." "Maybe he doesn't have to," said Cynthia, "Maybe he just has some key people involved, like John River, say." "I don't know. Conspiracies are just too hard to contain. Someone always talks." "All right," said Cynthia. She enjoyed her new role as an FBI investigator, even if she thought that image of Ron Gustafson as criminal mastermind was a little far fetched. "Let's assume he worked alone. How could he deliver a drug without help?" "There are only so many ways to deliver a drug. We ruled out oral methods." Maytag thought for a few seconds and then said "He could have done it topically." "I don't understand," replied Cynthia. "By contact with the skin. The drug could be absorbed that way. I doubt it, though. He could get an excuse to touch her hand, say, but she would certainly notice any solution." "How else could he do it?" "Oral delivery is out, so is topical. Maybe an airborne agent," mused Maytag. Then his eyes opened wide and he exclaimed, "That's it!" * * * "That's it!" Stanton called out, "Don't stop!" Not that Ron could if he wanted to. Heather clenched his head firmly with her thighs and kept his face in place. His body twisted uncomfortably as he knelt on the floor and licked Heather's pussy. Her hands gripped at the remaining hairs on his head and pushed his nose into the dark curls above her slit. Ron's hands ran over her smooth full buttocks. He paused to take hold and slide her ass off to the side of the couch so that he might straighten his own upper body. Then he returned to to circling his hands over her haunches and enjoying the delightful mix of soft tissue and muscle. Heather relaxed her grip, confident that the man lapping away at her cunt was not planning to leave. When he continued to lick her, Heather lifted one leg onto the arm of the sofa, and opened herself to the probings of his tongue. Ron cooperated by diving his smooth pink tongue inside, licking the walls as he brought his tongue back out and slid it over her enlarged clitoris as a final flourish. He bounced off that button and dove in again and again, with twists and flurries accenting each plunge. Ron relished Heather's groaning reactions to what he considered to be his signature moves. * * * "His signature piece," Maytag said excitedly, "He's drugging these women with his clove cigarettes!" "What?" Cynthia exclaimed. "He gets those at a tobacco shop. It's not as if he's rolling them himself. Besides, I breathed that in, and so did you, how come we aren't affected?" "Maybe something to do with body chemistry," Maytag offered. Actually, he had not wanted to mention it, but he was feeling attracted to her. Of course, he felt that way before the meal and Gustafson's clove cigarettes, so he found it difficult to pin down the source of his arousal. Nevertheless, it was clear that Cynthia did not display the wanton libido that Stanton had earlier. Cynthia had not made a show of licking ice cubes and passing them to him after she rubbed them on her face. As the waiter returned with the check, Maytag had his second flash of insight. "Ice," he said. "I'm sorry, sir, would you like some ice," asked the waiter. "No," answered Maytag as he took out his badge, "But I'd like to see the ice machine if I could." "Of course," said the startled waiter, "please follow me." * * * Following his tongue, Ron brought one hand from under Heather's ass, and pushed a finger inside her. His face was wet with her juices, and his dry hand slid quickly along the underside of his chin and into her warm cunt. Ron continued to lick at her, but now his tongue felt his knuckle as well as the stiff outcrop of her clit. Heather ran a hand along her side, and squeezed at her own breast. She then reached down and pulled Ron's free hand away from her ass and lead it to her tit. He took the hint and rubbed and massaged the tender flesh. His ambidextrous coordination rushed Heather to her climax. The sensation of his finger twirling and sliding inside her, combined with the generous pressure on her clitoris and nipple pushed her towards orgasm. Ron sensed Heather's arousal build. The sugar walls tightened against his finger, and her hips flexed to push her pussy towards his face. Her breathing changed pace as she struggled to reach the top of her climb. As best he could, Ron licked at her folds and stimulated her clitoris. When Heather erupted in orgasm, Ron tried to continue but she squeezed her legs so hard that she pushed his head away in the process, like a greased marble squirting out of a tight grip. "Oh, Ron," Heather sighed. Ron took a deep breath, and wiped at his slippery chin with the back of his hand. "That was nice," he said. "It was more than nice," Heather replied. She stood from the sofa. "Now let's see what I can do for you. Where can I get some ice?" * * * "This is the ice machine right here, sir," announced the waiter. "Thank you," Maytag replied. "You can go. If we need anything we'll call for someone." Cynthia watched the waiter take the stairs, then turned to see Maytag examining the machine. "What are you looking for? What does ice have to do with this?" "I'm not sure," he said. "This is just a guess." Maytag took a small flashlight from his pocket. A small circle of light appeared on the wall, then turned to an oval as Maytag pointed the beam down behind the ice machine. "But a good guess," he added. "How's that?" Cynthia asked. "Ron Gustafson's townhouse is right next to this casino, right?" "Yah, you betcha. He's in here so often I think he should build a doorway for himself." "I think he already has," Maytag said. "Only it's just big enough for a water pipe." Maytag started to head upstairs. "Wait!" Cynthia called. "I'm coming with." Cynthia caught up with Maytag at the top of the stairs. He used his hands and body, turning them at right angles to remember which direction the pipe left, or entered, the basement. They reached the exit and stepped outside, crunching the snow beneath their feet. Maytag performed a similar set of contortions. "Which way to Gustafson's house?" Maytag asked with his right hand pointing out from his side. "That way," Cynthia indicated. Her hand lined up with Maytag's. "Let's find the back door," Maytag said. The back door of Ron Gustafson's townhouse opened in to a pantry, and the pantry had an open doorway to the kitchen, and a closed door that led to the basement. Gerald Maytag and his newly appointed investigative assistant, Cynthia, crept across the pantry and discovered the stairs behind the closed door. A loose floor board in the fourth step yawned with a loud creaking sound as they walked over it. A box of empty jars on the floor failed to move out of Cynthia's way, and clinked in agony as her foot struck it solidly in the side. The lightswitch eluded detection by Maytag and his pocket flashlight. But the basement did not betray the intruders' position, and when Maytag did find the switch, the secrets of the entire house were laid bare for the pair to see. * * * Ron laid back, but not bare, on the sofa. Heather slid along top of him and began to unbutton his shirt. After her fingers passed each pip, her face brushed against his uncovered chest. Her lips touched the pale smooth skin, and the ice cube in her mouth slid against him like a frozen tongue. The cold sensation flayed at his nerves, and his attention focused on trail she made that seemed to draw the life and heat right out of his chest. "Oh, I'm glad I don't have a heart condition," Ron said. Heather giggled but did not lose her place. She continued down to his navel. There, her icy kisses met the trampoline response of his abdomen, and Ron alternated between laughing and biting his lower lip. Her hands reached for his belt buckle. Quick wristwork and a long yank removed the belt. The zipper required more delicate attention, and received it. Heather's fingers felt the unmistakable outline of a hard cock inside his trousers. Heather wanted to make a comment, but she couldn't speak through the half melted ice cube in her mouth. She purred instead. * * * "My god, he's a mad scientist," Cynthia said. Cynthia was lost staring at the uneven phalanx of glass beakers and flasks scattered arranged on the workbench. Maytag focused his search on the bookshelf. Texts on pharmacology and organic chemistry lined the shelves, but a set of notebooks with handwritten dates on the spine drew his attention. "Mad or not, he's certainly a scientist," Maytag replied. "I think I found his journals." Cynthia looked over his shoulder. Extensive notes filled the pages, peppered with charts, tables, and notation for chemical compounds and reactions. "Do you know what you're looking for?" Cynthia asked. "Not in these books," Maytag answered. "But we'll get back to that. I came down here to find that water pipe." "What water pipe?" "The one that feeds the ice machine in the casino. The one Gustafson is using to deliver his chemistry experiment to his concubines." "He's tampering with the ice?" "What better way to do it?" Maytag responded. "You'd need inside help to fiddle with the food, or be damn lucky to do it yourself and not get caught. You wouldn't want to do the whole water supply because you would lose too much of your magic potion in things like washing dishes and flushing toilets. But the ice machine is used almost entirely for human consumption, and the best part is that Gustafson can tell at a glance who's sipping his secret formula." "Uff dah!" Cynthia exclaimed. "But he'd still need to get inside to make his connection." "Yes," Maytag admitted, "But only once. And John River from the Silver Dollar told me that Gustafson did some consulting work for them. Consulting on their water supply." Maytag scanned the walls of the cellar. He was looking for copper tubing and any place it might leave the house. Instead he found a bigger prize. * * * Heather's tight grip and skilled wrist left Ron's cock bigger than she found it. She grabbed a fresh ice cube with her free hand and popped it into her mouth. Then it was Ron's turn. The warm flat surface of her tongue replaced the cold rolling marble of ice, and his cock felt curiously as if its parts were freezing and then melting again. The mix of hot and cold sent a shock through Ron's body that made his toes curl, his balls tingle, and his eyes roll back in his head. It was only the beginning of the blowjob but the sensation was like that of a surging orgasm. "Hh-huh", he stammered. The tender flesh of his cock adjusted to the iced coffee confines of Heather's mouth. Heather stopped swirling and began sucking him off. She flicked her tongue, and the ice cube, against the head of his prick each time it receded from her mouth. "That's so freaking cold," Ron said. "But good." He cleared some of the silky hair from Heather's face, and held her by the back of the neck as she continued to suck at his cock. Heather wanted to take all of his shaft in her mouth, but the ice cube was in the way. She spit it out into her hand and took Ron's meat back between her lips, pushing forward until her nose met his curls. Ron let out a low moan. "Oh, yeah, take it all--" His speech was cut short when Heather nestled his balls against the fridgid piece of ice in her palm. While she worked her mouth back and forth over his tumescence, she slid the ice underneath his scrotum and back towards his ass. Ron bucked his hips to escape the penetrating cold but succeeded only in fucking Heather's face. She encouraged that with her hands. Heather kept her head still and let him stroke in and out of her lips like a machine. * * * Maytag missed the machine at first because it had the shape of a hot water tank. But hot water tanks don't have hinged covers, and when Maytag opened the door that moved almost half the shell, he knew he found the source. Pipes ran everywhere, columns filled with beads held clear liquids, and a small motor sat idle. "What is it?" Cynthia asked. -- 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 | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+