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From: DrSpin <drspin@newsguy.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Not A Pretty Woman (MF) ~ by DrSpin (NEW to ASSM)
Date: Sat,  4 Jan 2003 21:10:23 -0500
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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Not A Pretty Woman (MF)
by Neil Anthony (aka DrSpin)

---------------------------------------------------------
* This story is published here by kind permission of Ruthie's 
Club, where it appeared illustrated by Sergio Hugo 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.
---------------------------------------------------------

Sandra taught me how to be cute without even raising an 
eyebrow, which is what it's all about. She was a great 
teacher, and it worked smashingly from age 20 to age 35, after 
which natural boyish charm unfortunately dissolved overnight 
into unappealing middle-aged desperation and delusion. It was, 
however, a valuable quarter-life lesson, and it stood me well 
during those fifteen years.

The magic recipe? If you're male, and you can muster a bare 
average grade in personal presentation, it's right before your 
eyes. But it will need a story to explain it.

At twenty, I imagined I would become a writer. That showed 
just how young and stupid I was. People who earn a living from 
writing what they want to write may well be less common than 
Olympic gold medallists in the luge. I moved from a medium-
sized provincial town to the city to get work writing what I 
didn't want to write until I was inevitably discovered and 
could write what I wanted. I became a copywriter for a 
national advertising chain.

There is a certain admirable creative force associated with 
copy writing. But that's about the best you can say for it. 
After the lightning flashes of brilliance, it's all dog food 
under different brands. But this is not a story about the 
advertising industry. It's about Sandra, who lifted me from 
beige mediocrity. She taught me that the bathroom mirror was 
misleading and unflattering, and that it told lies. You can be 
what you think you're not. All it takes is very little effort, 
preferably none at all.

I arrived in the city with hope but little confidence. I was 
an only child, I had never been a great social mixer, and I 
had formed a strong opinion that the other guys got the girls. 
All I had going for me was a bit of clever speak, and the 
girls couldn't even find that out if they didn't hang around 
long enough to catch it. I was an ordinary package, 
unremarkable, verging on invisible.

Don't get me wrong. I'd had some experience with females. I'd 
had three maybe-could-be-perhaps girlfriends, and I'd had sex 
twice with two of them. I was no shy, retiring virgin. But 
they were ordinary package girls for an ordinary package guy--
in fact, more ordinary than I was. I don't mean that 
arrogantly. It would be nice to say that although they were 
not pretty, they were at least nice people. But they weren't. 
Plainly, they were hoping to do better than unnoticeable me, 
and vice versa. We hoped we were stepping stones to better 
things. We were not. Life's a bitch when you're not pretty.

I arrived in the city with high hopes for a brilliant career 
and low expectations for a brilliant girl. The city didn't get 
the message. As the days passed I became more invisible. I was 
a real person at work, with a telephone, a computer, and even 
a business card. But once I left the building I became 
anonymous -- just another worker ant in the anthill.

The two Misses Beazley had a large house in decline, and I 
rented the back three rooms. The old dears were distantly 
polite and, best of all, distant. I rarely saw them and I kept 
myself quiet so it stayed that way. At night I tried to dance 
lyrically on the keyboard of my notebook computer and after 
four months I had many words written without significant 
purpose. Apart from a couple of work-related events, I had not 
been out on the social warpath at all. One word summed up my 
life -- routine.

Enter Sandra Lomax, and a dramatic entrance it was. A furious 
thunderstorm, arriving with short notice and cyclonic gusts of 
wind, snapped off the power one night around eleven o'clock, 
irritating me because I thought I'd probably lost a new story 
I was writing. I ventured out the back door to look at the 
violent entertainment of the storm, just in time to see a big 
tree come crashing down in the yard of the house next door. 
Entertaining, certainly. But it was a great deal more 
disconcerting for the neighbours. I saw torch flashes and 
heard shouting. Something was clearly amiss.

Country boys help out in a crisis of nature. You just do. It's 
part of your upbringing. In the howling wind and driving rain, 
I scaled the back fence, groped my way through the undergrowth 
with the help of intermittent lightning flashes, and presented 
myself for duty -- skinny, bare-footed, hair plastered to my 
head, and, I realised belatedly, wearing only pyjama shorts.

I approached a figure grappling with whipping tree branches. 
It was cursing hoarsely. As I got close, a great jagged 
lightning bolt threw brilliant white light across a woman 
bending over in front of me. She was soaked. The neckline of 
whatever she was wearing gaped open, and I saw two round and 
heavy breasts hanging down. Wonderful, glorious breasts. 
Magnificent. I saw them clearly, though the light lasted less 
than one second. She looked up and saw me looming over her. 
She reeled back and screamed.

I waved my arms at her, panicked and startled myself. "I came 
to help," I shouted desperately. She picked up a flashlight, 
flicked it on, and shone it at my face. Astonishingly, she 
burst out laughing. I guess I didn't look menacing, or even 
like I had a huge amount of help in me. 

"I live over the fence," I yelled, pointing. "I saw the tree 
come down."

She put the torch on the ground. "Help me lift this branch 
away," she shouted into the wind. "It's smashed my orchid and 
bromeliad shadehouse."

Together we dragged and pulled the branch clear to reveal a 
collapsed structure. Earthenware pots were scattered all over 
the place. "Nothing more we can do," she bellowed, grabbing me 
by the arm and propelling me through the dark. "Let's get out 
of here."

With the help of the flashlight, she guided me up a small 
flight of steps and through wide-open verandah doors into a 
room as dark as pitch. She went off searching with the torch 
and returned with a candle stuck in a beer bottle. The flame 
slowly took hold and cast a small but widening pool of amber 
light.

Dear God. I saw her clearly for the first time. The woman was 
generous in every possible aspect. She was wearing a large 
white tee shirt that didn't reach to mid-thigh, and it was 
moulded to her body in unambiguous fashion. I could see she 
was wearing one piece of underwear, and there was certainly 
nothing holding back those big, heavy breasts.

She was a generation older -- well into her thirties, I 
guessed -- and nearly as tall as I was. Long legs, strong and 
lean; hair that looked like it was longish and blonde when not 
raggedly soaking wet; a long, narrow, weather-hardened face 
with a wide, worldly-wise mouth; and those tremendous tits, 
slung low, nipples nudging darkly and insistently through the 
wet cloth. She wasn't pretty. She was, though, a strong and 
mature woman of manifest power and form -- so much so that I 
was struck by a spell that turned me into a stupid statue.

"Oh dear," she said with mild and barely restrained amusement. 
"Perhaps I'd better put on some dry clothes."

She set down the candle and went away into the darkness, 
leaving me feeling like a dork. And looking like a dork, no 
doubt. I realised I had a pole-like erection tenting my 
bedraggled pyjama shorts. Jesus. It couldn't have been more 
obvious. My face burned hot with embarrassment, while my body 
shivered from the cold. I looked about wildly. I had to get 
out of the place before she came back.

Too late. She came padding back into the pool of light on 
silent feet, wearing a tired old faded blue dressing gown, 
drying her hair with a towel. I turned away from her hastily, 
pretending to look at something interesting on the other side 
of the room. Something. Anything.

The damn woman followed me around, stood in front of me, and 
produced in her hand another blue dressing gown, one in better 
condition. She looked me straight in the eyes, very directly, 
pointedly not looking down at my body. But her face gave the 
game away. Her eyes danced with glee, and she was struggling 
to contain her smile to merely polite proportions. "Here," she 
said, and laughter was only just below the surface. "You'd 
better put this on."

Damn woman. Damn her eyes. All I had going for me, all I could 
make an impression with, was my wit and clever speak. Shamed 
and humiliated, I couldn't say a word, let alone a smart one. 
The damn woman was laughing at me.

I shrugged on the gown, and she picked up the candle and led 
me with a light hand on my arm. She set the candle down on a 
table surrounded by chairs. I sat on one side and she the 
other. She folded her hands on the table and looked at me so 
intently I could not look away.

"Who are you?" she asked. "What's your name?"

"Douglas Winter," I said, and broke into coughing. "I rent the 
back of the house over your back fence." I struggled to get 
the words out. There was a catch at the back of my throat.

She went away a few paces and returned with a glass of water. 
"How old are you?"

"Twenty."

"Ah," she said, as though that revealed a library of 
information. "Twenty."

The candle burned, the wax dripped on the table, and I came to 
know Sandra Lomax. Outside the rain rattled the roof and the 
wind lashed the trees. In Sandra's kitchen I warmed slowly and 
talked about myself, but only in bits and pieces. The smart 
stuff, the way I'd learned to talk to tell the world I was 
clever, well, that didn't make it to the surface. It wouldn't 
have worked. She was older, she was wiser, she had big tits. 
She was too intimidating.

Mrs. Lomax was more or less married. David Lomax was a 
businessman who was away a lot. It became clear he was away so 
much he was rarely there at all. There was a story to it but 
she didn't tell it, and I didn't ask for it. She brewed 
seductive aromatic coffee, and mostly I listened as she pulled 
the fluffy collar of the robe tight around her neck and 
cradled her coffee mug with both hands.

She spoke with educated sophistication, and I admired the way 
she didn't talk down to me. It takes class to do that. She 
certainly had class. She was a lawyer who used to do 
passionate causes, but the fervour had diminished over time, 
and now she worked at a big central city legal office. The 
trouble with representing the desperate, downtrodden poor, she 
said, was that they never paid their bills. But worst, they 
were almost always guilty. Idealistic young lawyers looked to 
carry the great struggle to the cold and ruthless corporate 
giants, or uncaring governments enslaved to economic 
rationalism. But the corporations and the governments were 
inevitably right and the confused and angry clients wrong. And 
in the criminal courts, she wearied of plying her skilled 
trade merely for clemency and amelioration.

I'd observed that Sandra Lomax, soaked, was not pretty, and 
she did not become any prettier as she relaxed and dried out. 
Without hesitation and as part of her narrative, she gave up 
her age as 36, and from my perspective as a twenty-year-old no 
woman could be pretty when she was 36. Pretty was for girls 
and much younger women than Sandra. It stopped at some time 
barrier in their twenties, maybe as early as 21. After that, a 
much broader and more complex range of descriptions applied. 
Or that's what I thought. But I was only twenty, then.

No, she wasn't pretty. Her leftist leanings made her a woman 
you took or left. She didn't pander to fashions or fads, to 
looks of now or even then. By the appearance of the kitchen 
and what I'd seen of the house, she was maybe a bit of a slob. 
She didn't care, you could tell that, and you could bite 
yourself on the arse if you had a problem with it.

No, she wasn't pretty. Her face was long, drawn, and a touch 
beaten-up by life and climate. Her eyes were set deep in dark 
hollows--moody eyes, temperamental, but sharp and active, 
looking at and snagging on everything around her. Her nose was 
too long by a fair bit, and it bent distinctly to the right at 
its sharply-pointed tip, and her mouth was too wide as well. 
Her hair, still damp, was too long for a woman of 36, and it 
was drying yellow. It was an odd face. She had the look of a 
woman not quite human, as though a long-gone ancestor had been 
a goblin.

No, she wasn't pretty. By Christ, though, she was as sexy as 
gunpowder, primed and loaded. Those long, long, skinny legs, 
those big feet and hands, those deep and heavy breasts, those 
broad hips, and that tiny waist. She had it so much she was 
frightening. Sandra Lomax was assuredly a woman, and I had not 
so far laid an honest claim to being a man.

The line of storms passed and the rain was a lingering 
aftermath. The candle was burning low, and she rubbed at her 
eyes. "You look tired," I said.

She flicked her eyes back at me. "I was going to ask whether 
you have a sweet little sweetheart, but it's a silly question. 
It's obvious you don't."

"Obvious?" I couldn't help myself.

Her eyes roamed over my face, picking up information. She 
smiled briefly, switching it on, then switching it off. 
"You'll not understand," she said.

I wanted to give it a shot, but the lights stuttered and came 
on all over the house. "It's late," she said, standing. I got 
the message. The audience was over.

"Tell you what," she said. "In the morning, whenever you can 
make it, come back and help me move the tree. I have a mean 
and sexy chainsaw in the shed. I'll chop it up and you can 
carry it. After, we'll have a nice lunch."

It wasn't a proposal. I was on my way out, she was escorting 
me, and she was telling me what we'd be doing next day. She 
was that sure I didn't have anything better to do, and she was 
dead right.

"Uh," I said on the verandah. "Your gown." I started to take 
it off.

"Bring it back tomorrow," she said. "If you take it off now, I 
won't be able to get to sleep."

I looked at her in astonishment. She burst out laughing at her 
hilarious joke. I smiled weakly and went out into the 
darkness.

I scaled the back fence, checked my computer, found my story 
intact, and thought about doing more writing. I looked at the 
screen for a while, thought about all the things I knew so 
little about, turned it off, and went to bed.

And got up late and sluggish. And got up because the 
distinctive snarl of the chainsaw said my presence was 
required. Dressed in tough country jeans and boots, I climbed 
the fence once more.

Sandra was wearing filthy khaki overalls, at least a tee shirt 
beneath, and thick industrial goggles. She seemed to be 
handling the chainsaw comfortably, and she cut it back to an 
idle when she saw me approaching. She grinned with her big, 
wide mouth and pushed the goggles to the top of her head. Her 
long blonde hair was all over the place, untidy, uncared for, 
hanging in lumps and strands.

"I love this thing," she said, loud and happy. "After the 
storm, there's always the nasty machine with the big teeth. 
Douglas Winter, it's your job to stop me when it's over, 
because I'll want to go on and on, cutting down everything in 
sight."

Following directions, I stacked logs and made a rubbish heap 
out of the smaller stuff. Post-storm, the weather was hot and 
humid. She sawed lustily, and I watched her while I worked. 
She seemed stronger than other women I knew, even those 
accustomed to work on the land back in the bush. She had dirt 
smears on her face from constantly wiping it with the back of 
a sweaty hand.

The chainsaw soared hysterically, and I looked up from 
stacking to see her advancing on me, lips drawn back and teeth 
bared, sawblade thrust at me like a lance and aimed at my 
crotch. I fought off a strong instinct to back away, and she 
switched the machine off, laughing at another of her jokes.

"Come on," she said. "Job done. I'm starving. Let's do lunch."

I sat at the kitchen table and she looked around the room 
indecisively. "Food or shower?" she asked. She looked down at 
her grimy hands. "Shower," she answered herself. "For hygiene 
reasons alone."

She left the room and came back on bare feet, wearing a pair 
of men's Union Jack boxer shorts and a faded blue tee shirt 
stretched tight across her breasts. Somewhere I heard a shower 
running. "Get yourself a drink," she said, passing through. 
"Anything you can find."

I sat in the chair, stunned. Those big tits pushing out 
against the fabric, nipples like buttons. Those long legs. I 
heard a door shut and lost the sound of the running shower. 
She'd be naked, washing herself clean.

I was still sitting, trying to remember it was just another 
Saturday and telling myself Sandra Lomax was only five years 
younger than my mother, when she returned, wearing that tired 
old dressing gown again. "I left the shower running," she 
said. "Your turn."

I looked around uncertainly, not knowing what to do or where 
to go. "Here," she said, grabbing my hand. Hers was still wet. 
She tugged me through her bedroom and shoved me none too 
gently towards the bathroom, which had no door. She left me, 
and I took off my clothes, slid the screen door across, and 
stepped under the running water.

I had the hardest erection possible, but I couldn't 
masturbate. In her own private shower cubicle, it just seemed 
too disgracefully tacky. Shuddering and aching, I washed 
quickly and stepped out of the stall, looking for a towel 
before I turned off the tap.

She came bustling into the bedroom. "I'll put the gown on the 
bed," she shouted, so I could hear her while I was showering. 
But I wasn't showering. I was standing there, dripping wet, 
looking at her, my dick standing out hard and straight.

She stopped dead. "Damnation," she said, quietly but 
distinctly. "Now look what you've gone and done."

"Sorry," I stammered desolately, my feet rooted to the floor 
with shame and humiliation. I was a perverted fool, and she 
was going to throw me out of the house.

She dropped the gown on the floor and came slowly towards me. 
"I made myself promise I wasn't going to rape you today," she 
said, almost reflectively. "Now you leave me no choice."

She said what?

She stood a pace away from me, and reached out and took my 
hand. "It's all your fault," she said, with no smile but a 
trace of it in her voice. "You are so totally irresistible."

Me?

She tugged me forward. "Get on the bed," she said.

This was happening to me?

The bed was lumpy, unmade, and it seemed scandalous. Sandra 
was a slob. My mother would hate her. I lay on my back and she 
stood beside the bed, looking down at me. "It's probably just 
as well," she said. "It would have taken you six months to 
find the courage."

She unbelted the robe and let it fall to the floor. Naked, the 
components of Sandra Lomax flowed downwards and outwards. She 
was lushness exaggerated, a full-bodied woman with pendulous 
breasts bigger than I imagined they would be and broad hips 
cradling a verdant crop of caramel-brown pubic hair. There was 
not an ounce of dainty in her. She had it big-time.

There must have been an awed expression on my face, because 
she smiled not quite pleasantly. "I will try not to kill you," 
she said with a touch of irony, "but there are no guarantees."

She sat on the edge of the bed. "If you're wondering why this 
is happening, you're not on your own. Here I am, working hard 
at my job, my marriage all but over, not a man in my life and 
not wanting one, and a skinny boy hops over the fence and 
knocks me head over heels."

She reached out and gently ran a finger down the length of my 
erection. "You blew me away with your earnest puppy-dog face 
and your stiff cock pushing out your wet pyjamas. I went 
weak at the knees. I suppose I must have reached a certain age 
to become so vulnerable. Look at that, I said to myself. This 
delicious adolescent wants me. Well, by God, Douglas Winter, 
much sooner than I planned, you're going to have me."

She swung her legs over me and I caught a passing glimpse of 
the hair-guarded gate of her sex as her ankles passed over my 
head. Then she was astride me, sitting on my lower legs, and 
she took hold of my penis with both hands. Her body was 
intimidating, the way she was behaving was intimidating, and 
she quickly confirmed she meant to be intimidating.

"Let's get one thing clear from the start," she said. "I'm the 
boss. I know what I'm doing and you don't, and if you're as 
smart as you think you are, you'll learn a lot. Do we 
understand, Dougie?"

Why did her eyes have such hostile flecks in them? Why was she 
being so aggressive? I thought sex was sensual, secretive, 
soft, romantic. Not always, it seemed.

"Dougie?" Her tone was impatient.

She was waiting for a response. "Yes," I said. "I understand." 
I didn't, though. Not really.

She bent forward and licked her tongue over the head of my 
cock. I nearly fainted from the thrill. "You want that, 
Dougie?"

I nodded. Yes. I did.

"I'll do that and things you never even heard about," she 
said. "Just do what I say, when I say."

I nodded vigorously. Yes, now I understood. Clearly.

"Good. And so to episode one, in which you do nothing." She 
wriggled up my legs, lifted her haunches, and pointed my cock 
at her vagina. She closed her eyes for a moment, as though in 
anticipation, then settled herself down and slid me into her. 
I was shocked at how easy I was taken all the way inside her. 
Was I that small? Was she that big? My other experiences had 
been uncertain, uncomfortable work for them and me, but Sandra 
just simply swallowed me.

She leaned forward slowly, holding her weight on hands on 
either side of me, until her breasts hung pendulously above my 
chest. Her vagina gripped me, and my penis was bent into an 
alarming curve to accommodate her position. I could feel the 
strong pressure on it.

"Good boy," she said softly. "You're doing very well." She 
dipped so her nipples scraped across my chest. "Don't worry, 
you won't break. It's more flexible than you think. It's all 
about friction in the right places, Dougie, and you're doing 
just fine. I think I'm about to cum all over you."

I expected her to start pumping up and down with her hips, but 
she merely wriggled and squirmed -- to good effect, 
apparently, because her face said interesting things were 
happening to her. I had feared I wouldn't be able to hang on 
for more than a few seconds. The friction she was getting, 
however, was in the right places for her but not for me. The 
sensitive parts of me were getting no real attention at all, 
and I lay back with a chill thrill and watched her at work. 
As much as I could see, anyway. Those big breasts hanging and 
swaying in front of my face blocked a lot of the view.

Her face contorted, and she lifted one hand from the bed and 
jammed it down between our bodies, manipulating herself 
urgently. It did the trick, and she reared back and let out a 
strangled groan. Quite subdued, I thought. The fiction books 
said she should be shouting loud enough to wake all the babies 
in the child care centre down the street.

She sat on my cock, back straight, looking down at me with 
dull eyes. "Not so good?" I enquired anxiously.

Her eyes snapped back into focus and she grinned at my 
naivety. "It was fantastic," she said, chuckling. "You are a 
beautiful boy but you know nothing." She tilted her head, 
amused. "Which is what makes you so beautiful, I guess."

She lifted off me and lay down beside me. My cock, still stiff 
as a board, flopped wetly on my abdomen. "Don't worry," she 
said, following my gaze. "Aunty Sandra has a plan for it."

She rolled on her back and piled her breasts together with 
both hands. "Stick it between these," she said. "Let's get 
Dougie his first-ever tit-fuck." She leered at me 
lasciviously. "You'll love it. They all do."

With her directing and arranging, I sat on her stomach, taking 
my weight on my knees, and slid my cock, copiously oiled with 
her juices, into the tight valley.

"Good?" she asked.

It was. It felt good and it was nasty good. "Go for it," she 
said, "and when you're ready to cum, pull out and shoot it all 
over my face."

I was shocked all over again. No doubt I showed it, because 
she shook with laughter. "Oh God," she said. "Corruption of 
innocence is wonderful. I never realised it would be so much 
fun."

I slipped slowly back and forth in the tunnel she was making, 
and now there was plenty of friction in all the right places 
for me. The build-up arrived quickly, and I had a swift 
decision to make. Where was it going to go? Right there, 
between her breasts? Or, as she apparently requested, right 
smack in her face? Was she serious? Really? Who would want 
that?

But that's what she said, and the matter was pressing. I slid 
free and pointed directly at her face. And she winked. She 
damn well winked at me. The first gush rushed out of me and 
splattered right on her nose. Then I lost control and the 
power of clinical observation. Six, seven gusts of it, and God 
knows where it went. I was in terrible but excellent agony.

It passed and I refocused my eyes. Good God. It was in her eye 
sockets, her hair, all over the place and most of her face.

She brought up a hand, wiped one of her eyes, and opened it. 
"Jesus," she said. "You young guys sure have a lot of that 
stuff stored away."

"Sorry," I stammered, appalled.

She grinned at me. "It's okay, kid. Really. It's kind of 
awesome. Anyway, it'll do your fragile ego a power of good. 
You won't forget that in a hurry."

I didn't. Still haven't, after all these years.

Party games over, we had lunch. Then, after that, she got 
seriously down and dirty. On that first afternoon I spent in 
her untidy, rarely-made bed, I discovered how little I knew 
about women and about sex. She was thirty-six, had been 
married for thirteen years, and that was by no means the full 
account of her experiences. Sandra had been sexually active 
since she was sixteen and she had come to an understanding of 
who she was, what she wanted, and especially what she looked 
like.

She sure looked nothing like a femme fatale. She looked damned 
strange -- sometimes bleakly plain, sometimes downright ugly. 
She was taller than most, with long, stretched legs too thin 
to harmonise with her overall size and shape. Her thighs 
looked extravagantly long, and so skinny you could read a 
newspaper through the space between them. Her buttocks were 
large and flat, and her broad hips tapered abruptly to a waist 
that appeared remarkably narrow. Her torso flared out again 
dramatically to carry her breasts. Really big breasts. Bloody 
huge. Then wide shoulders like a competitive swimmer, a long 
and gawky neck, and that odd, fairy-like face framed by long, 
straggly, bright-yellow hair.

She was a strange-looking woman. But she had raw female power, 
that's for sure. You looked into her eyes and you knew it 
immediately. Sandra was some sexy mama.

For all that, she wasn't so nice. Not really. There was a 
cruel streak in her, and she liked nothing better than to 
shock me, and sometimes, scare me half to death.

"Dougie," she said, halfway through one of her fabulous 
blowjobs. She was kneeling on the floor in front of me and 
there was spittle on her lips and on her chin. Sandra was 
never one for caring about how she looked.

"Uh, yes?" My eyes were spinning. It was the third time I'd 
been at her house and the sex action was not abating. If 
anything, it was gathering momentum like a tumbling avalanche.

"If you cum in my mouth before I tell you to, I will bite down 
on your cock so hard it will come off. You hear?"

Jesus. She would do that? But she already had it back in 
mouth, running her tongue around the head, killing me softly. 
Christ, I was close. When would she give me the word?

"Sandra," I said, agonisingly, pleadingly.

"Not yet," she mumbled, mouth around my cock.

"Jesus, Sandra."

"Not yet."

"Sandra!"

She withdrew her mouth. "Oh, go on, then," she said grumpily, 
and plunged me back so violently that I lost it completely, 
gushing torrents.

She pulled me down on the floor beside her, made as if to kiss 
me, and dribbled sperm on my mouth. "Dougie, I am going to 
make you so dirty," she said. "And I'm going to teach you to 
hold back until I say so."

Occasionally she'd tie me to the bed. At first it was nice. 
Then it started to get scary. She singed my pubic hair with 
the end of a glowing cigarette, laughing gaily as I sweated 
with anxiety. Another time, real pain as she gently touched 
the cigarette to my abdomen. Then there was the time she tied 
me up with the promise of sex, completely ignored me, got 
dressed, and went out. I was tied up alone for four hours. It 
scared the crap out of me.

She'd never do it again, she said. But she did. The very next 
time, in fact. It was a Tuesday, and I'd called in sick to 
work because she asked me to. She tied me up, got dressed, and 
left me.

Half an hour later a small, middle-aged woman came into the 
room. She was Vietnamese, I think. She stood in the room, 
open-mouthed, looking at me tied naked to the bed. I couldn't 
think of anything to say to her. She shook her head, amazed, 
and then vacuumed the floor all around me.

Sandra came back before the cleaner had finished. They spoke 
in the kitchen. Sandra brought the cleaning woman back into 
the bedroom with her. "This is Tran," she said. "I've told her 
she can have you if she wishes."

Tran giggled and covered her face with her hands. "No," she 
said. "Not want boy."

Sandra nodded. "True, he is still just a boy. But he's getting 
there."

Above all, Sandra taught me women knew lust. At the age of 
twenty, I didn't know that. In my naivety, and because nobody 
showed me otherwise, I thought males lusted and females 
acquiesced, and that female acquiescence ranged from dull 
resignation to polite enthusiasm. Until I fell into the 
clutches of worldly-wise Sandra, I had no idea the little lust 
bug surged through the female bloodstream just like it did the 
male. 

She put me through every kind of sexual experience, and made 
me pay attention while it was happening. 

"You might not like it," she said, "but at least you'll know 
you don't like it."

I'd known her for eight weeks when, without warning, she 
pulled the plug on me and let me slide down the drain.

I cried, and she was unsympathetic. "Don't be a baby, Dougie," 
she said. "Look and learn. You're not truly grown up until you 
learn how to handle goodbye."

"But I love you," I said, blubbering appallingly.

"You don't," she said. "Trust me, I know."

"But why?"

She gave me one of her truly nasty smiles. "You're going to 
find a girl your own age soon, and I'm getting in first."

"I won't," I promised fervently.

"You will," she said implacably. "You think I'm going to risk 
being dumped by a skinny boy from the bush?"

"I'll never dump you, Sandra."

She tousled my hair. "You're a sweet liar, but you're still a 
liar. Now fuck off, Dougie. It's finished."

For six days I was devastated. On the seventh day, I rested 
from devastation and discovered a girl at work who I realised 
had been looking at me in a particular way for some time. 

Funny. Why hadn't I noticed that before?

Her name was Angie. On our second date I forgot for a moment I 
didn't know her very well and I slipped into a Sandra Lomax 
routine so effortlessly she was naked and wanting sex in no 
time at all. She wasn't too experienced, and I had to take 
charge.

I moved to my own apartment after the Misses Beazley spoke to 
me quietly about having female visitors in my room, especially 
those who shouted "fuck me" over and over.

I never saw Sandra again, but I'll never forget her. She 
showed me you don't have to be in a long-term relationship to 
have sex. She proved to me that beauty is in the eye of the 
beholder. 

Most of all, she taught me that a man is most attractive to a 
woman when he is simply himself.

You don't have to be bigger, stronger, tougher, smarter than 
the other guy. Just be you.
 
ENDS

Edited by Ruthie and Nat.
Illustrated by Sergio Hugo Castro.

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