Message-ID: <41579asstr$1049220605@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Originating-Email: [empath69@hotmail.com] From: "just empath BJ" X-Original-Message-ID: X-OriginalArrivalTime: 01 Apr 2003 11:42:26.0174 (UTC) FILETIME=[C46C89E0:01C2F843] X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Tue, 01 Apr 2003 08:12:25 -0330 Subject: {ASSM} "Dream Maker" {Dancer} (MF rom slow) [1/5] Date: Tue, 1 Apr 2003 13:10:05 -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: RuiJorge, gill-bates Warning: "This [work of prose] contains scenes of nudity, sexuality and coarse language. [Reader] discretion is advised." {I.E. If it's illegal/dangerous to read/possess pornography where you are, don't bother.} Disclaimer: Dancer - the authoress of this work - and Empath - its 'publisher' - take no responsibility due to any harm or misfortune that befalls someone from reading or possessing this work. Copyright: This work of prose is the intellectual property of Dancer, and is protected by the Berne Convention. *Unauthorized* publication or redistribution is prohibited. {Non-legalese translation: if you want to put this on a web site, just drop us an email; we'll probably say yes. :)} Bonus Question: Where is the quote in the 'Warning' from? :) _________________________________________________________________ Protect your PC - get McAfee.com VirusScan Online http://clinic.mcafee.com/clinic/ibuy/campaign.asp?cid=3963 <1st attachment, "Dreamkr1e.txt" begin> Dream Maker (1/5) (no-sex, humor) Dancer 2002 (c) On the way to the airport, my agent, Daniel Hollings, casually dropped the name of the person who was to play 'meet 'n greet' with me when I arrived in Oklahoma. "Are you insane?" I shrieked, nearly causing Daniel to ram the car ahead of us. "I can't meet him! He thinks romance novels are trash!" Dan quickly swerved into the next lane, avoiding the accident. "Amanda, calm down," he said in his most ingratiating voice while flipping the driver of the car beside him the double bird. "For one thing, he said they were tawdry, not trashy, and another, he doesn't know you're -the- Amanda Kiss, best-selling authoress. All he knows is he's to meet Amanda Kesselring and show her the sights of his home state." "Okay," I replied and slipped off my glasses, rubbing the bridge of my nose with two fingers. "I'll trust you on that part, but what lame-ass story -did- you tell him?" "I told him you're doing some research for a client I represent." He gestured with his right hand. "As close to the truth as I could get and still have him agree." Something smelled funny in Toronto and it wasn't Tim Horton's coffee. "There had to be more than that for him to say yes, Dan," I said and reset my glasses. "So what else did you tell him? What 'thing' did you use as blackmail?" He gasped and I rolled my eyes. "Mandy, blackmail is such a harsh term. Call it a little 'elbow twisting'." He negotiated the turnoff for terminal two while I waited for the rest of the story. "I just happen to mention his latest manuscript sat on my desk-" "Hang on. How in the hell did you manage to get your grubby, little paws on it? I thought Bess Thornton was his Canadian agent at Kilroy Publishing." "She is but she's on maternity leave for the next four months and her workload got divvied up amongst the rest of us," Dan replied, stopping at the parking gate and getting a ticket from the automatic machine. "Also, Max and I are on good terms business-wise. Bess snagged him because they use to date way back when. Anyway, I dropped a few hints about pushing the publishing date back another six months if he didn't play nice and escort you around Oklahoma." "Jesus Jones," I sighed and beat my forehead lightly against the dashboard. "You miserable bastard. I'd rather you told him the truth." "Excuse me. I'm very happy in my life and my parents were married, so neither epithet applies." "Oh, picky, picky! Just drop me off here and I'll take the metro home." He found a parking spot after circling the entire garage once. It was far from the entrance. He got out and walked to the rear of his car, unlocking the trunk to get my suitor. I got out when he did and joined him. As he hoisted my bag out and placed on the concrete, he said, "Amanda, everything will work out in the end. It always does." He patted me on the arm, his smile making me a tad uneasy. "Put your faith in Danny-boy here and buck up. Now, enjoy your trip south and give me a ring when you get there." Dan bussed my right cheek and climbed back into his vehicle, leaving me to carry my luggage out to the main terminal building. I managed to haul my bag outside and across the lanes of traffic to one of the entrances to terminal two. I dropped a Loony into a luggage cart holder, jerked out one and rested the bag on top of the metal base. Pushing the cart inside, I steered it toward one set of departure monitors and parked out of the way of other travelers. I scanned the screens, searching for the 1.45 pm flight to Chicago and found it. My flight was supposed to leave from gate C2 and on time. I pushed my luggage cart up to one of the lines for check-in and settled in for a long wait. This was the part I hated the most about airline travel - the wait for check-in. It always seemed to me I got stuck leaving some airport during peak hours and the game was 'hurry up and wait.' I wondered how bad customs would be. I hadn't flown since early in 2001 but knew security at the airports in the States was high after the hijackings in New York. I was sure I hadn't packed anything that could be used as a weapon but I did have some hair accessories (barrettes and combs) that, if a person -really- wanted to jump the pilots, might scratch the skin and draw blood. "Well, if they get confiscated, I'll just have to buy new," I said to myself. "Pardon?" asked the man standing next to me in line, sticking a finger in the pages of his paperback novel. My face grew warm with embarrassment at being overheard. "I've got a pair of metal hair barrettes in my case here," I explained and he nodded his understanding. "Don't worry," he replied. "My daughter went through here with something similar and the guards let her keep them." He smiled and I returned the favor, glancing at the book he carried. 'Rings of Saturn' by Maxwell Stone. I pointed at it, asking, "Would you mind? I haven't had a chance to read that one yet and I'd like to get a hint of what's going on." The man bent down a corner to mark his page, then passed it over to me. I read the back cover, disappointed it contained only quotes from several science fiction authors and nothing about the plot. I flipped it to the inside and there he was in black and white. He did pose a little likeness to Michael Crichton - dark hair and eyes with a serious downturn to his mouth. Following the photo was a brief biography of his birth year (1966), where he was born (Tulsa, OK), where he was educated (University of Texas at El Paso) and a short listing of his novels. Well, at least I could pick him out of the crowd when I arrived in Tulsa, which was comforting. I turned to the front pages and discovered a blurb of a few sentences: The sand beneath his feet showed the path his quarry had taken. East at a run. Dalton Hayes checked the setting on his laser pistol, then set out, trailing his nemesis across the lonely landscape, completely unaware the mutinous ensign wasn't the only one being stalked. Which told me nothing. Who was this ensign? What did he do? Who was Dalton Hayes and what was stalking him? The line had moved while I read, so I handed the book back to the man and pushed my cart ahead. Those kinds of intros bothered me, especially when that was all you got for a hint of the storyline. Now my books, on the other hand, were published with a blurb on the back and the beginning scene of when the heroine and hero first hook up, a teaser to catch the browser's attention. But who was I to complain? Maxwell Stone had no more control over how his book was finally printed anymore than I did. Maybe not. I did get some power over what the front picture insert looked like, mainly because my fifth book, 'Reaching for the Stars' described Matilyn, the heroine, as having curly black hair that cascaded down her spine like an oil-rich waterfall and the cover art portrayed her as a redhead. Boy, the fans really deluged me with critical emails and letters to Kilroy for months, demanding the portrait be corrected. Kilroy caved in to the pressure, ordered the artist to redo it and republished it the next year. I think the original is a collector's item now. It wouldn't surprise me. People like holding onto mistakes, like that American stamp that was printed upside-down in the twenties. Finally, I was next up and wheeled my luggage to the counter. The Canadian agent looked over my ticket, tagged the handle of my suitor, told me what gate to go to and bid me a good flight. I sighed, knowing the big hurdle was coming up with the security checkpoint of customs. Strangely, there wasn't a big waiting group when I got there. I showed my boarding pass to the official and walked through the metal detector cleanly. Next, another official took me aside and asked me to spread out my arms and legs. She swiped a detection wand over my front and I turned, letting her do the same to my back. She thanked me for my cooperation. That was it? That was the new and improved Canadian Airlines' security against terrorism? Jeez, what a let down. But, what can I expect? This is Canada. We're a nice, apologetic people who dislike making waves, preferring to go along with the crowd. Okay, there is that French-Quebec issue of autonomy that we're non- committal about, but I'm not going to get into that. I made it to my gate with half an hour to sit down and relax before boarding. The thirty minutes went quickly. The attendants called for early boarding of passengers needing assistance (handicapped and those with children) and Gold Mile members, of which I was one. It's just a fancy term for people who fly first class. I found my seat at the front of the plane, settled in and buckled my seat belt. The attendants gave the usual, preflight instructions of how to do up your belt and what do if we crashed. I tuned them out and shut my eyes for a nap to make the time pass. I woke up midway through and accepted a packet of salty pretzels and a soda. Trust me, you need a drink to choke those nasty snack foods down, and the complimentary champagne isn't it. It seemed to me that they'd just passed out the snacks when they were collecting the trash before arrival. I still had most of my soda, deciding to chug it quick so the guy could take the can. We landed in Chicago on time (yippee!) and I changed planes, running through O'Hare International like the hounds of hell were nipping at my heels. I made it with time to spare. I'd gone through O'Hare before and knew where I was supposed to catch my connecting flight to Tulsa, which was on the opposite end of the airport, naturally. They were just making the pre- boarding announcement when I arrived, leaving me with no chance to pee in a normal toilet. I showed the attendant my pass, rushed down the accordion-like tunnel and popped into the first class washroom. My belly was just starting to cramp from the swelling of my bladder when I unzipped my pants and sat on the seat, pissing out a stream of urine into the blue water with a sigh of relief. "Never again," I reminded myself and steeled my mind against the lure of a second Coke. I wiped with a wad of paper, refastened my zipper and flushed, waiting for the noise to stop before stepping out to find my seat. I buckled up and spied a folded newspaper in the pocket of the seat in front of me. Taking it out and unfolding it, it was the front page of the Chicago Sun Times. Not my forte, but I didn't have anything better to do than take another nap. Safety instructions, crashing, arriving at Tulsa International at 5.30 pm, enjoy your flight, the attendants stated. I chuckled over the 'International' tag. There's a direct flight from somewhere (probably Mexico) to Tulsa? Oh well. I'm sure they meant Tulsa received visitors from other countries as a stopping point while they flew elsewhere. Like I said, oh well. The flight was boring (big surprise) with the same stale pretzels handed out for a snack. Grudgingly, I accepted the small bag but declined the offer for a drink. I'd finished with the paper and tucked it back inside the pocket before lowering my tray table. I opened the pretzels and slowly nibbled on one piece, worrying about Max Stone. All I had was what Dan told me and the info from the paperback. Would he be there to pick me up? Had he discovered my 'real' identity and decided to let me fend for myself? My stomach churned. ======= Max stood just outside the arrivals area with an index card in his left hand. He felt like an idiot, meeting a stranger at the airport. How did he let Dan talk him into this? "He threatened to hold back 'The Dawning' another half year," Max grumbled to himself. Why did Bess think now was a good time to start a family? He flipped the card over and stared at the name. Kesselring. German. He conjured up a mental picture of a busty, tall blonde with ice blue eyes and legs that went on forever. 'No, that's what Frieda looks like,' he reminded himself. Frieda Hess was Dalton Hayes' lover at Martian Base Seven-Four. "Sad; really sad, Max,' he thought. His dream woman was his main character's girlfriend and even though Dalton was Max's novel self, he couldn't think of himself screwing Frieda and not feel a pang of adulterous guilt. He replayed the phone call from Dan in his head for the umpteenth time. The woman he was meeting was Amanda Kesselring and she was doing some research for a novel about the American South. Dan hadn't given a physical description of Amanda, which made him slightly uncomfortable. So maybe she wasn't the blonde goddess of his fantasies. He swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. But what if she was an older lady, close to his mother's age? "God," he groaned and began to pace. 'Please don't let her be the Canadian equivalent of Grandma Moses.' He couldn't picture escorting a grandmotherly-type around Oklahoma for two weeks, especially having her stay at his place. 'Talk about cramping your lifestyle.' He checked his wristwatch, noting the Chicago flight should have landed already if nothing delayed it. People started coming through the gate. Max went on alert, combing his hair back with his fingers, and then stroking the corners of his mouth out of habit. He lifted the card up to his chest, high enough for people disembarking to read. He cocked an eyebrow as a leggy blonde walked toward him and he whispered a prayer, "Let it be her." The woman went passed him and into the arms of a man behind him. Still eyeing the blonde, he never noticed the young woman standing in front of him until she coughed discreetly. "Maxwell Stone?" she asked and he looked, adjusting his sight downward a bit. Not the Germanic gal he dreamt of but a brunette about five foot six. Her eyes were blue though, if that counted. Some of her hair was pulled back in a ponytail while the rest spilled across the shoulders of her jacket in thick, curling waves. Her wire-framed glasses made her look studious and put him off a little. "I think you're waiting for me." She brushed a finger against the card he held. "Amanda Kesselring, right?" he asked, content that she was at least three decades younger than his mother. Catching himself, he halted that train of thought before it left the station. 'Why should I care how old she is?' he asked himself. And the glasses - why did he think they put him off? It wasn't like he wanted her as a lover. 'Jeez, we've just met two seconds ago!' He folded the card into quarters, stuffed it into his back pocket and motioned her to follow him. "We should get your bags now," he told her as she fell into step beside him. They rode the escalator down to the lower level and strolled passed a few open shops on their way to the luggage carousel. "This your first trip to the States?" Max asked. Amanda shook her head. "No. I've been around California, the east coast and part of the Midwest but this is my first time in Oklahoma. I have to say it really is 'OK'." Her pun of the state's motto made him smile. Maybe her visit wouldn't be so bad after all. A sense of humor counted for a lot in his book. They followed the signs, arriving at the pick up point midway through the rush. People milled around the area. The conveyor belt was motionless, meaning the airport guys hadn't unloaded the bags from the Chicago flight yet. Amanda and Max stood together close to the machine, prepared for the moment it began working. "Mr. Stone?" "Max," he replied, watching her flush a little at the correction. "Okay, Max," she said and twisted her fingers around each other. "I have to tell you something Daniel neglected to mention." His mind started racing. 'Dan's sent her down here as a 'mail-order girlfriend,'' was his first thought. Nothing against her but he wasn't that hard up for dates. There were plenty of women who wanted him, usually for the prestige of his name and the five-figure advances he received for his books. His second and third thoughts were, 'She's gay' and 'She's married'. Whatever it was, it must be huge the way she's squirming and shifting around. "I'm a writer," she finally blurted out, biting her lips while she waited for his reaction. "So? Dan told me already." "Well, I've been published." Her body language was screaming at him. He frowned, wondering what about her writing was so bad. She refused to meet his gaze, opting for peering up at him over the lenses of her glasses. Did she compete with him in the science fiction/fantasy arena? Her wringing hands and lip chewing was concerning him. He reached out a hand and touched her on the shoulder - a mistake. His fingers connected with her long hair and he rubbed a curl between his fingers and thumb, thinking how soft and thick it felt. "Amanda, whatever you want to tell me can't be that horrible," he said, unconsciously brushing her hair behind her shoulder. Wayward strands of chocolate brown caught his fingers, wrapping themselves around the digits. She felt the tug on her hair when he tried to extract himself and brought her left hand up to help out. "I write those romance novels you aren't fond of." That was it? The big thing she looked so distraught over? "Oh, I see my bag," she informed him and gave him a shove toward the carousel. He stumbled but managed to catch himself before knocking into the crowd ahead of him. "It's the black duffle with a blue and white ribbon tied onto the zipper." She hopped up and down, pointing. "There is goes, Max!" He apologized as he pushed through the throng of people, leaned down and snagged the bag before it got away. Carrying it over, Max said, "Let's go see if my car is still out there." "Why wouldn't it be?" she asked, synching her steps with his. "There's been a rash of car thefts around the airport for the past couple of weeks," he replied, noticing her breathing becoming ragged and slowing his stride accordingly. "I had my car stolen once. I got it back the same day, parked right where it was taken with twenty kilometers on the odometer and a full tank of gas." He chuckled along with her. "Even Canadian thieves are polite." "Where in Canada are you from?" Max pushed open the door to the outside and let her go first. "Originally, Newfoundland. But I was part of the yearly migration to Toronto." His blank look told her to give more detail. "You know what Maine's like?" He nodded. "Well, cut it loose from the continent and haul it maybe a hundred miles offshore - that's Newfoundland." "So you're sort of a younger J.B. Fletcher who rights bodice-rippers instead of whodunits." Before she could reply he pointed toward the parking garage in front of them, saying, "It's the red Cadillac two-door over there. You can see it between the concrete supports." "Don't you have a truck?" Amanda queried. "I can't get into the story without the stereotypical mode of transport." "What are you working on anyway?" They walked across the frontage road via the pedestrian crosswalk, and then took the smoothed ramp up to the garage. She didn't answer right away and he thought he knew the reason behind her silence. "You can tell me after I get your bag stowed and we're inside." "Thanks," she said with a brief smile, then leaned closer and whispered, "You never know who's listening and might jerk the rug out from underneath you." Her breath warmed his right cheek, along with certain points south. Not enough to be visible but just enough to be annoying. He chalked his body's reaction to knowing she wrote what he considered soft-core porn. Then again, her voice had that breathless, confidential quality to it due to the brisk workout her legs got trying to keep pace with him. Or after she'd been thoroughly loved. 'Don't go there,' he commanded his brain. He pulled out his car keys and hit the button to turn off the alarm system, the double beep echoing off the concrete. He unlocked his side first, opened the door and placed her bag on the back seat. He got behind the brown leather-clad wheel and reached over to yank up the door lock on her side. She climbed in and buckled her belt, adjusting the slack a bit. "I do have a pick-up, if it's any consolation," Max informed his passenger as he did up his own belt, then started the car. "Is it a battered, faithful blue one with bad shocks?" He snorted. "No. It's a '96 short-bed, red Chevy with a topper." He backed out of the spot, shifted into drive and headed for the exit. "And the shocks are just fine." He stopped at one of the tollgates and paid his ticket. Amanda kept quiet, giving him the chance to concentrate on getting out of the airport property and onto the main highway. "The car's not bugged so it's safe to talk," he said. "Dan says I need to write a book based somewhere in the American South," she told him. "Texas is pretty big right now as a background for the story. You know, the wildness of the state and men being perfect gentlemen until they fall in love with the women they despised at the beginning of the book. My theory is Texas is hot because of that line, 'Everything's bigger in Texas'. I assume that includes the male anatomy as well." Max coughed, not expecting her to be so forthright. She rubbed her left hand over his upper arm in a soothing gesture. "Look, I know my books have racy content but that's what my readers want. Most romance readers are women looking for a little fantasy fulfillment and I cater to that." ======= I'm fairly sure I'd embarrassed him with my speech. His tan was somewhat ruddier across his cheekbones and the tops of his ears turned an adorable shade of light pink. Hmm, I'll have to remember that and add it as part of my hero's blushing technique. On the flight, I'd thought of the title for my next novel, 'Chasing Raymond', and the hero's name would be Raymond Chase. Betcha didn't see that one coming! Guy's names I could think up on the spot but the women's were harder. I always put a part of me into the female character and like for her name to reflect her biggest strength. 'Maybe Carmen,' I posed to myself. The Carmens I knew of were vibrant, strong- willed ladies and gave off the vibe that they'd fight for their man to the death. Yes, Carmen would work. Carmen Parker. That was done. I could turn my attention back on the okay Oklahoman chauffeuring me around Tulsa. Maxwell's jacket picture did nothing for him. Instead of black hair, his was burnished brown with red and blonde highlights from the sun. And he was shorter than I expected, about five-nine. I don't know why I thought he'd be taller, closer to six feet, and figured it was because of the Michael Crichton resemblance - Mike's six-four or something. Anyway, back to Maxwell. His best feature (to me) was those long, long legs of his encased in snug denim which cradled his butt if you don't mind my saying so. During the walk through the airport, I dawdled by gazing at his butt, and then had to play catch-up so he wouldn't know I'd been checking him out. His eyes were very dark, a rich coffee-and-cream color that disguised his pupils. All this from carefully planned, sidelong glances I hoped he didn't notice. My hand was still on his arm. I took it away reluctantly and rested it in my lap again. "Sorry about that," I said and tried my best to look apologetic. "It's fine," he replied. "If you don't mind my asking, why come to Tulsa? It's nowhere near Texas." Shrugging, I answered, "I like to be different. Other authors are writing up Texas like it's going out of style and I think people might like a change of scenery, so to speak. I can play up a rivalry. Carmen can tell Ray-" "What? Who's Carmen and Ray?" "My main characters," I explained. "Anyways, Carmen can tell Ray she doesn't believe he'll measure up to a Texan and, of course, he'll insist on proving her wrong." "Ah," he said and shot me a quick glance. "I take it that little argument will lead to the initial physical encounter." My stomach chose that moment to growl. Max patted my shoulder and chuckled, "We'll be at my place in ten minutes. Can you hang on that long? I've got a roast in the oven for supper." "Mmm," I replied with a sweet grin, my stomach calming down at his promise of nourishment. "Mashed potatoes, too?" He grinned. "Yep. Homemade. I threw a couple in with the roast along with some carrots and onions." "You better not be teasing me, Maxwell." "Just Max." I demurred, "Okay, Max. I get tetchy when someone says they're having one thing for dinner and they give me something completely different. I've fallen for that trick too many times. Don't be surprised when the first thing I do is check the oven." "Thanks for the warning," he said, pulling into a winding, graveled drive. It led us toward a ranch- style abode painted white with an attached, double garage on the right. I felt slightly let down, maybe because I guessed he'd live in a two-story with a sprawling ranch surrounding it. The front yard was groomed with neatly trimmed grass and a line of hedgerows squared it off, using the house as the fourth side. There was a break in the shrubbery from a walkway of placed stepping-stones that connected the drive to the front door. Something was wrong to me or out of place. "What's that look for?" he asked, tapping a flat button on the device clipped to his visor and making one of the garage doors open. "There's something missing," I said with a frown. I craned my head around the car, peering out all the windows. "Trees. You don't have any trees on your property," I happily exclaimed. The door was fully up and he pulled in, shifting into park and turning off the ignition. "This is part of Tornado Alley," he said and I nodded, understanding the lack of foliage. Why plant trees when a cyclone or tornado tears through town on a yearly basis? Max said exactly what I was thinking and I laughed, telling him so. "Great minds think alike," he shrugged but I took it as a compliment. "I have a great mind? You really think so?" I undid my seat belt when he did and his reply waited until we were both outside the vehicle. Withdrawing my suitor and setting it on the ground next to his feet, he leaned an arm against the roof of the Caddy and answered, "Amanda, you do. You write in a genre that can get stale and repetitive fast. It takes a great mind not to write the same thing over and over, to keep each story fresh and separate from everything else on the market." His eyes narrowed a bit. "What name do you write under? I don't recall a Kesselring in the stacks of the library." My turn to blush. Saying my pseudonym out loud made it sound like a proposition. "I'm trusting you not to outright laugh in my face, Max," I said sternly but braced myself for the inevitable jokes. "Amanda Kiss." "I guess I don't see the humor," he said with a quirky half grin. "I can see the romantic quality of it but not the funny." God, he wanted me explain! "Just say it out loud a couple times and I think you'll get the joke." "Amanda Kiss," he said and I felt a little flutter of warmth across my body. It had to be his gender. Oh, and the soft tone he spoke it in, the hissing of the double esses whistled when his tongue pushed toward his teeth. "Amanda Kiss." He said is quicker the second time, the Kiss on the heels of my first name and he got it. "A man to kiss; Amanda Kiss. Kind of like Mike Hunt." He paused between the Mike and Hunt and I grinned over at him. "Why didn't you use your real name?" I walked around the rear of the car and he waited for me. "I tried but someone in the editing staff kept spelling my last name 'el ee' instead of 'ee el'." We went through the garage to the outside and he pressed the rectangular box just inside the small, vertical partition between each garage. The door began to descend in relative silence. "I remembered back in school when Les Kaven broke into the office and started paging people over the intercom system. You know. 'Would Peter Wanker please come to the office?'" "Did he get caught?" Max unlocked his front door, shoved it open and motioned for me to go ahead of him. "Uh-huh," I stepped in and aside, nervous. I looked around. I stood in a short hall beside a shuttered closet and came to grips with the fact he brought in more money than I ever could. I guess science fiction pays better. The carpet under my feet was an oatmeal- colored tweed with little to no pile to it. The walls were the obligatory off-white and decorated with a few pictures and prints. "This is a lot nicer than my condo," I breathed and darted a glance in his direction. He shied away by saying, "Your room's this way, next to the bathroom." He went first and led me down the rest of the hall, rounding a corner to the left. We strolled down another hall, past the bathroom and into the guest room. It had gray paneling along the walls with lacy curtains and a shade hanging in the two windows. The same carpeting from the front hall covered the floor here and the bed was fairly large, a double or full size I guessed, strategically placed away from both windows in a far corner. He set my duffle near the closet. "I'm going to check the roast. You can come with me if you like," he said, holding his arm out in a guiding gesture. "You go on," I replied. "I'll stay here and unpack." "Okay." He dropped his arm to his right side. "I'll give a shout when supper's ready." I nodded to him with a smile, then softly sighed as I watched his cute derriere (along with the rest of his hot bod) walk out of the room. I crouched down and unlocked the small brass lock securing my bag, pulling back the zipper. My pants and jeans came out first and I carried the stack over to the closet, hugging my clothes to my chest while I turned the knob with my free hand. The closet was bare except for the usual bunch of plastic hangers. I threaded the legs of each pair over a hanger, then hooked it on the metal bar. I surveyed the space. Most of my clothes would fit in here just fine, aside for my socks and underwear. Glancing around, I spied a five-drawer dresser next to one of the windows. I walked over, tugged open the top drawer, returned to my duffle, grabbed most of my undergarments and deposited them inside. A second trip proved necessary. I couldn't get my brassieres along with my panties and socks and I was hauling them over when Max popped in. I jumped in surprise and one bra fluttered onto the carpet, inches away from his feet. "Supper's ready," he told me and bent down to retrieve the article. My mouth suddenly went dry as cotton. The skin tone of his hand contrasted with the stark whiteness as he rubbed his fingers against the material. I gave myself permission to be shaky on the reasoning he was male and my bra held up a pair of feminine assets. It wasn't even a sexy one either, just plain white nylon over cotton padding with extra support on the sides. No frills or useless lace or little ribbons decorating the cups - absolutely nothing to be ashamed of or concerned about. So why was my body unable to create saliva and there was a large lump in my throat? Max folded it into a compact bundle with a deftness that told me he'd folded plenty of women's bras in his day. He offered it to me and I snatched it from his fingers, throwing it in with the rest I held as I dumped the lot into the drawer and closed it with an unwarranted slam. I slipped off my jacket and tossed onto the foot of the bed, saying too brightly, "Good 'cause I'm starving." ======= More to come... <1st attachment end> ----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------ Notice: This post has been modified from its original format. The post was sent as an email attachment and has been converted by ASSTR ASSM moderation software. ----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------ -- 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 | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+