Message-ID: <44646asstr$1065600603@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: X-Original-Path: tango.newsreader.com!not-for-mail From: parthenogenesis X-Original-Message-ID: <97j6ov8dfi834j5bn5n77cbmd60p98v365@4ax.com> MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Tue, 07 Oct 2003 16:34:51 -0700 Subject: {ASSM} Another Invocation (Flash, M/Muse, nosex) Date: Wed, 8 Oct 2003 04:10:03 -0400 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: hecate, dennyw Another Invocation by parthenogenesis "Goddam it, bitch, where the hell are you when I need you?" I asked aloud, hyperbolically, after reading the winning entries in Desdmona's Erotic Postcard Fiction Contest. I heard a sound like a raspberry, or perhaps a wet fart, from the other side of the room. The bitch, wearing a too-tight red tube top and black microskirt, was sprawled in the beanbag chair, idly massaging her vulva as she squinted at me through the last toke on her roach. She was jowly, her breasts sagged, her stomach bulged, and she had a jagged tear in her fishnet stockings. "Now, there's a fuck-up," I said. "Go look at yourself in the mirror. How am I supposed to be inspired by something like that?" "Kiss my ass," she said, exhaling. "What have you been doing for yourself lately?" "C'mon," I said. "I sit at this keyboard every day. I just finished a story. You've seen what I've been writing." "You finished that story three weeks ago, dickhead. Sitting at the keyboard isn't the same as writing, you know. You're not even a wordsmith. You're a fucking carpenter, chopping out balsa nouns and wormwood adjectives. Better not quit the day job," she added, swallowing the roach with an emphatic gulp. "Give me a break, swamp-ass!" I ejaculated. "This is supposed to be a partnership. When are you going to do your half the job?" "For you, assbite, four words," she expostulated, her breathing and the motion of her hand between her legs speeding up. "Close Agent. Open Word." And, with an orgasmic scream, she was gone, leaving behind nothing but a dent in the beanbag chair, and fading aromas of weed, stale sweat, and cheap perfume. -- 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: Moderators: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |ASSM Archive at Hosted by | |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}| +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+