Message-ID: <22361asstr$948388201@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Original-Path: extra.newsguy.com!newsp.newsguy.com!edrn From: DrSpin <drspin@newsguy.com> Lines: 632 X-Original-Message-ID: <865vpm$1n79@edrn.newsguy.com> Subject: {ASSM} Felicity The Beast (MF not rom, not zoo) Date: Thu, 20 Jan 2000 12:10:01 -0500 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org> Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2000/22361> X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Moderator-ID: Lambchop, Vulpine Felicity the Beast (MF not rom, not zoo) by DrSpin January 2000 * The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to drspin@newsguy.com =========================================================== Standard Disclaimer: I write and you read, if you care to. That's all there is to it. If any reader is offended, and I would be surprised to hear it, he/she should not have been here in the first place and only has himself/herself to blame. If this story is relocated, please leave my name intact as the author and please include my email address. =========================================================== I don't think I ever told you about Felicity. She was a beast, that one. Never known anyone like her. She ripped open my life for a few chaotic weeks. Felicity had an unshakeable confidence which stemmed utterly from the power of her sexuality, and that was mighty considerable. I don't know how she ever acquired it and she never offered an explanation. Maybe she was born with it. When she turned on her power she hit you like a tropical rainstorm. If you didn't run and take cover, you got soaked to the skin in a second. Maybe she was just a slut. I don't know. She never seemed like a slut. I mean, if you asked me to describe a slut I wouldn't think of Felicity. A beast, yes. No doubt. But a slut? I don't know. You be the judge, because I'll tell you about her, my dear, and how she shook the stuffing out of me. It was six years ago but I remember it definitely. I was cruising on down an empty highway, the road easy and the car virtually driving itself. I had this imported Swedish motor back then, a Saab. The business was going well. Anyway, the sky was a fierce and cloudless blue and I was very pleased with myself because I'd driven 300 miles just to see a special client. Winnie Potter, her name was. She's dead now, unfortunately. It had definitely been worth the drive to extract a 250 percent profit out of Winnie, who was a compulsive collector of 19th century German figurines. It was as easy as showing it to her. She paid the price I asked because once she saw it she had to have it. Such is the value of knowing your clients, my dear. Pity she's dead now. I could do with the business. Anyway, I was pleased with myself as the car cruised on down the empty highway, which might have explained what happened. I saw the hitchhiker. Now, I never pick up hitchhikers. I swept past and noted she was a girl. Quite young, quite attractive. Dressed in jeans and a tee shirt. I never pick up hitchhikers but this day I stopped and picked her up. Don't ask me why. I just did, maybe because it was a nice day and I was pleased with myself. Such days you can share. She appeared at the window and I leaned across to open the door. I smiled because I was at peace with the world. She had long red hair and maybe she was 20 but I doubted it. I watched as she flashed a big wide smile in return and bent to get into the Saab, throwing a backpack into the back seat. Big smile, big tits hanging down and swinging in the gaping neck of the tee shirt as she climbed into the car. She was quite attractive in a big-and-strong-boned way. Perhaps a little on the grubby side. She closed the door and I drove back to the road. My good mood remained. Presently I spoke to her. "Where are you going?" "Wherever you like," she said. She had a remarkably deep voice. After a silence which lasted some time, I spoke again. "Nice place, is it? The middle of nowhere, I mean." "Bastard," she said flatly. "Who?" "A truckie." "Oh?" "Unzipped himself. Wanted me to go down on him." "Ah." "Bastard." "So," I said. "Not your style, eh?" "Fuck that. Not while he's driving. Too dangerous. He hits a tree and I die with a truckie's cock in my mouth." "You have a point," I said. She was very matter-of-fact about it, her voice deep and relaxed. Soon I tried to restart the conversation. "Occupational hazard, I guess." "What?" "Truckies unzipping. Charging for the ride, I guess." "Some do, some don't," she said. "Must make it awkward for you, getting chucked out on the roadside a lot." "Oh, I do it," she said. "Do what?" "Eat cock. I do it. You have to do it on a regular basis if you want to get around the country on a regular basis. But I don't do it while they're driving." Silence again. Presently I felt her looking at me. "No," I said. "Don't worry. This is a free ride because it's a nice day and I'm in a good mood. Besides, it's not the sort of thing I go in for." I turned my head to look at her. She had blue eyes and they were laughing at me. "Not really my style," I said. She held my eyes, composed, relaxed, at ease. "I wasn't worried," she said. "Why, were you?" Did I tell you she had this really deep voice? Well, she did. It was, I'm searching for a word, thrilling. God, she had a great voice. Anyway, I turned back to the road, not so composed and relaxed. "So where do you want to go?" I asked. "Anywhere." "Or nowhere?" "Or nowhere," she agreed. "Who gives a shit." "You talk tough," I said. "Are you tough?" "You have to be. Mostly I don't give a shit." Again I felt her blue eyes. "And you," she said. "What about you?" I shrugged. How do you answer a question like that? "I don't know," I said. "Probably not. Doesn't seem like the right sort of description, somehow." "I'd say you were tough enough," she said. "In a pretentious sort of way. Maybe smug is the right description, and you can't be smug without being some sort of cold-blooded bastard." My eyebrows rose. Who was this girl? "Perhaps," I said. "But I'm having a day off. If I wasn't I would not have picked you up back there." "Yeah, smug," she said. "I was right. Half cool and confident, half frightened and lost. Typical man." "Hey listen," I protested. "Some people say I'm pretty much together. Quite a cool fellow, some say." "Colder than cool," she said. "Several degrees colder, I would say." "That's not too attractive." Her finger touched my ear, tracing around it. I tried not to flinch and failed. "Oh sweetie," she said. "I didn't say you were not attractive." Happiness flooded my system. I hated that but it happened. How weak was that? How gullible. Who was this girl? "There now," she said. "Feeling better?" Who was she? "Who are you?" "Felicity," she said, as if the name carried a total answer. "Who are you?" "Harry. I'm cold-blooded but nonetheless not unattractive." "You learn fast," she said. "I like you a whole lot already." "Who are you?" I asked. "Do girls like you wander the highways and byways? Where do you come from? I've never met anyone like you before." "I can believe that," she said. "I'll bet you're carrying more money on you right now than I've ever seen in my life." I let it pass, aware of Winnie Potter's cheque for $10,000 in my wallet and a few hundred in cash for emergencies. "Yeah, top bunk stuff," she said. "Top bunk car. I'll bet you live in a nice house. Maybe a nice wife and some nice kids." "No wife. No kids," I said. "So, real top bunk stuff and all of it for big old you. Harry's got it all." "Where do you come from?" I asked. "How did you get here?" She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. "I come from back there." "Do you always take the lead?" "Well, you have to," she said. "I want it, I take it. The choice is mine." "I see. You've taken me, then? Is that right?" The finger was at my ear again. "So insecure, Harry. So insecure." She took away her finger and turned her attention back to the road. "I took you a long way back on the highway," she said. "You were worrying about yourself so much you didn't notice." You see, that was Felicity all over. She just hit you with a short right hook and there you were sitting on the canvas blinking and trying to come to terms with it. Straight away I knew she was dangerous. But when I picked her up on the road she snatched me so quickly I couldn't think about resisting her. But I thought, well, maybe, a sexy young broad like this would maybe stay the night and disappear. She could do a lot better than me, I remember thinking. I was probably just a passing fancy. The day after I picked her up, I came home at the usual time. What? You really want to know about all that stuff? My dear, you are so salaciously greedy. Okay, okay. I'll come back to it in a second. I just want to make a point about Felicity and what she was like. As I was saying, I came home at the usual time, parked the car, turned off the engine and heard fearfully loud music crashing down from above. Felicity. I had thought she would have disappeared. She'd been a one-night special. I thought she had understood that. Mind, she had been special. Yes, I'll come to it shortly. I told you I would. Anyway, that business was the night before and that evening was today, and today had been daily business as usual. There had been no talk about Felicity hanging around. There hadn't been much talk at all. When I left that morning she'd been asleep and I had taken care not to wake her. Mornings after. I don't like them, usually. Awkward. You can never say anything that is positive enough to sound sincere. I'd left a note, brief and to the point: Gone to work. Business as usual. Help yourself in the kitchen. Harry. I thought she would have vanished into her own world, but there she was still in mine. I climbed the stairs, flinching at the wall of music, and pushed through into the living room. I stopped. There she was, sitting in the middle of my expensive big white carpet surrounded by plates, magazines, ashtrays, all sorts of things including a big vase of flowers she obtained God knows where. She was wearing two towels, one wrapped around her waist and the other around her head to hold her wet hair. Her body was white and freckled across the shoulders, her breasts heavy and nipples large and reddish-pink. I looked at her, taking her in. She was a natural redhead. White skin, freckles. She didn't see me, she didn't hear me. The music was too loud. She was leafing through a magazine and eating a pear. I would have liked to have taken a photograph of her just like that. It suited her. She looked terrific. Behind her the glass doors were open to the sky and her clothes were drying on the balcony railing. Idly she scratched the underside of her left breast. I stood there, just looking at her. She flicked over the page of the magazine and saw me. For a moment her face was impassive. She studied me. Then she smiled on one side of her face, put down the half- eaten pear on my once-clean carpet and said something I didn't hear. I strode across to the stereo system and shut it down. "Now," I said, facing her. "What was that?" "I said, your clothes are awful. You must buy them yourself." I looked down at myself. "I'm comfortable in them. That's what counts." "I suppose it wouldn't make much difference anyhow," she said. "Clothes are not made for people of your shape." She stood up from her cross-legged position, took the towel from the damp hair which tumbled down her white and freckled back and sauntered out to the balcony. She stretched, her hands fisted above her head, in plain view of anybody below who cared to look. She leaned straight- armed on the balcony rail, looking at the street. "You may be putting on a nice show for somebody," I said. "So?" She turned from the rail and put her back against it, looking at me challengingly. She stretched again and her breasts pulled tight. She put down her hands, pushed off the rail and came to me. "Am I putting on a show for you?" She stood directly in front of me, strong and bold, eyes clear and blue. "You know you are." "About time you came home," she said. "I've been horny." "Well," I said. "As long as we can leave the music off." And so on. Do you get the point? The problem was that she wasn't so easy to do anything about. She moved in and took me over, and I can tell you I wasn't thrilled about it. That sort of thing didn't happen to me. I liked to run my life on my own terms. But Felicity pushed aside terms like a bulldozer. All up, allowing for an occasional unexplained absence, she filled up my life for nearly three months. She turned my house upside down and she lost things I've never since found. I hate that. My business suffered badly, because she had an uncanny knack of stopping me from deciding to do anything. She had an easy answer to any problem. "Fuck that," she'd say, in her deep and thrilling way. You couldn't distract her. She ploughed on regardless. It all came down to sex, and before you could blink or think, you were ploughing into Felicity once again. Morning, noon and night, you'd as likely be fucking Felicity as anything else, including eating or sleeping. I performed the act of sexual intercourse with her an unbelievable number of times, so many I grew heartily sick of it. I'm not kidding. I kept thinking I had other things to do with my life. I lost a lot of weight and a lot of money, because my business barely opened for business. Bosh, you're saying. Stuff and nonsense. He could have put an end to it any time he liked. Well, my dear, it just wasn't like that. You'd start to think about going to work, and hey presto! You'd be fucking Felicity instead. You'd start to think you were sick and tired of all this fucking, and hey presto! You'd be fucking her again. "Hey Felicity," you'd say. "I'm hungry. Let's go out and eat." You'd say that because you hadn't had time in a long time to do any shopping. Felicity hated going out. Mostly she stayed in bed. "Fuck that," she'd say, and make some noise or do something with her hair or make some gesture with her hand, and hey presto! There you were, fucking her all over again. She really knew about sex, that one. She was a maestro, a master practitioner. She was a beast. You'd think sex was her only form of sustenance, other than the odd glass of water. That and extra-long very hot showers. One day, long after I had lost the will to scheme her departure, she left me. Like a terminal cockroach struggling to throw off the effects of poison spray, I staggered around in circles for a day or two. Gradually I rediscovered life's ordinary fare, like food, television, mail in the letterbox and Sunday supplements. She picked up her backpack and disappeared. "Time to move on," she said, and went away out the door. I thought I'd never see her again. But I did, and I'll tell you about that in a minute or two. At your insistence, I have to catch you up on Felicity's extraordinary capacities. Like a very powerful vacuum cleaner, she sucked you into her. You didn't stand a chance. She threw the switch and whoosh! Parts of you disappeared inside her body. And it was weird, you know, that she was such a great fuck because she had a few things not going for her. For example, she had a big and roomy vagina, looser by far than any I've encountered. Conventional male wisdom has it that the tighter they are the better they are. Well, I have to tell you, based on the Felicity experience, that is just not true. She was a loose fuck but still a great one. You just sort of slipped easily into her. She was always ready. I never knew her not to be ready and I must have fucked her several hundred times. I told you she was a solid girl. Fucking Felicity was like riding a horse. You got into the saddle and you held on when she started to gallop, which did not take long. Now you know I'm a big man; six foot four inches; and although I was skinnier then, I was still a fair old weight. But when you rode Felicity you knew you had to concentrate or be thrown off. She was a beast. My dear, I can see your brain working. You're thinking: So why was she so good? She was biggish, maybe not so pretty, aggressive, destructive, selfish, demanding, and to top it all off, a loose and sloppy fuck. True. All true. And let me tell you something else about her. She had a strange pungent smell, an all-over-the-body distinctive odour. Not exactly unpleasant but not normal either. But put all that aside. I've told you what she did not have going for her. Now I'll tell you what she did. Felicity was the only, the only, really red-hot true-blue vaginal intercourse genuinely multi-orgasmic female I ever knew. You know the old saying about a girl going off like a firecracker. Well, Felicity went off like a million dollar public fireworks display on New Year's Eve. It just went on and on, like those monster sky rockets that explode high up in red, then green, blue and silver in turn. I used to worry about her having a heart attack. She was truly awesome. The reason, I guess because I never actually asked her, was her very obvious and very visible clitoris. The thing attacked you like a mongoose. It was also harder than I was. Like a chip of granite. I know that because a swift series of fucks with Felicity left me bruised and sore in the pubic hair region. I didn't realise how bruised until she left me, because one day I became aware a dull but constant pain had gone away. She always had three orgasms per fuck, minimum. That was like a quickie; you know, if I was running late for an appointment and needed to get out the door fast. But if I was feeling good and warm about it or even mean and cold about it (little difference, my dear), then she would just go on and on, climbing the heights again and again. Her body would tremble from the sheer exertion. Her long and thick red hair would get wet. The body smell would get stronger and more invasive. And the longer I kept going the more it happened. She told me that when she was in the rolling waves of this stuff she would look up at my face and see it twisted in the snarl of a tomcat. Maybe so. It was extremely intoxicating, doing this wondrous thing to her. It made you focus your energy so you could throw her off the clifftops again and again. Of course, Felicity had the effect of making me feel like the world champion fuckmaster. I thought I was pure magic. But it was an illusion. It wasn't me at all. It was all her. I found that out after Felicity went away. Performance anxiety pretty soon returned as unwelcome bedside companion. I should have known at the time because I'm smart enough to know, and because you could get Felicity going any old way at all. Fingers, tongue, toes, chin, elbow, two-day-old beard, anything. And in a moment of madness I bought her a state-of-the-art buzzing vibrator which sent her to the planet Mars and back. And which she took with her when she left, now that I remember. I'm sure you grab the point. Sex with Felicity was sheer addiction. She was a beast. Back to the story. Felicity came back on a Friday afternoon. She was sitting on the doorstep when I came home from work, and with her was a young man. Though it had been two years or so since I'd seen her, I knew her at once. "I never thought I'd see you again," I said. She stood up, came down the stairs and kissed me politely on the cheek. "No money, honey," she said. "Wilf is sick. Then I remembered you." The young man sat on the doorstep looking sick. He was thin, his hair was wet and his skin sallow. He looked at me dolefully. "I am sick, I reckon," he said. His name was Wilf and he was German. We put him in a spare bedroom and he climbed on the bed gratefully. He was a holidaying student hitchhiking his way around the country. Then he hitched up with Felicity. He told me this while Felicity was taking one of her very long hot showers. "Maybe I should not be in this place," he said to me. "My holidays are completed and I must be since two weeks in Hamburg." I nodded. "I understand," I said. "You meant to go home but somehow you never got around to it." "Not so. I do not want to go to Hamburg. I despise Hamburg. But alas, my money has run out." I nodded. "I had a return ticket with Der Lufthansa but now it is lost." I nodded. "Now I am sick. I have been badly sick since two or three days." I nodded. "No energy. I have no energy. I am, I think, lethargic." I nodded. "But Felicity has been very good to me." I nodded. "She is a wonderful companion." I nodded. "So full of energy," I said. "I think so, yes." I nodded. "I will get a doctor for you," I said. "Then we will call Hamburg and tell them you are safe. I will talk to Lufthansa about your ticket. Finally, I will make sure you have a good long rest so you can recuperate. No strenuous exercise, especially with Felicity. Will that do?" He clutched my wrist. There were tears in his eyes. "Excellent," he said, shaking my hand. "You are a very understanding person and most kind." "How long have you been with Felicity?" I asked him. "Since five or six weeks." I nodded. "You poor bastard," I said. "I understand." "She is a wonderful companion." I nodded. "Yes, I know." "I am very tired now." I left him to sleep. I told Felicity he was very ill. I told her he needed medication. I told her she had to let him rest. I told her to sleep in another room. "Fuck that," she said. "He's my man." I told her Wilf had to be nursed carefully back to health with sympathy and understanding. "Fuck that," she said. "I'm not his mother." She'd come out of the shower wearing a towel on her body and another on her head. She unwrapped the lower towel and readjusted it, flashing her heavy breasts. Immediately I felt the pull of her. "I have to go out," I said, thinking quickly. "I'll be gone all weekend. You can stay here until Wilf gets better. The doctor is coming. I'll leave you some cash." "You could change your mind," she said in her deepest voice. "No," I said, fighting. "Not on your life." "That's bullshit, Harry. I'm the best fuck you've ever had in your life and the best you're ever going to get." "Nevertheless, I'm committed elsewhere. That's just the way of it." She pouted distinctly. "Then go and get fucked elsewhere," she said crossly. So I did. And I really did, actually. It was a limp, well- mannered and vapid thing and not comparable to anything Felicity could have offered but I managed to prolong my stay with petite, pretty but unfortunately forgettable Christina for three days and maybe she saved me from a fate worse than death and I'm being unnecessarily unkind. You remember Christina, don't you? She was around for a while. Nice girl. But who cares. I don't think I could have handled Felicity again. There was nothing nice about Felicity. She was too much for me. I did the only thing possible and that was to run away. I returned home cautiously but she was gone. So was Wilf. So was all the money I'd left, three expensive suitcases, a few odds and ends and a laptop computer. And a Chinese vase I really liked and which was worth a whole lot more than Felicity could have known. Nevertheless I counted the cost as cheap. It was worth it. Maybe she'll return some day. But I'm older and tougher now. She won't get her foot in the door. I'd rather live a long life with mediocre sex. I can't afford Felicity. She's a beast. It's good that we're just friends, my dear. I can talk about things like this with you. Platonic is best for friends. We should make a pact on it. I often wonder, though, about Wilf. Poor boy. I'm willing to bet big money she wasted him. ENDS * The author welcomes (and gets blood transfusions from) comments and opinions from readers and is invariably motivated to respond. 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