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From: DrSpin <drspin@newsguy.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Fair Suck of the Sausage (MF oral, beads) ~ An Ace Dyson Story
Date: Fri, 28 Jul 2000 05:10:03 -0400
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Fair Suck of the Sausage
(An Ace Dyson Story)
by DrSpin
July 2000
==================================================
This is the fifth story in the Ace Dyson
misadventures, in which the amiable Australian fixit man
stumbles through mishaps and crises with help and hindrance
from many a female. The previous Ace stories are:
1 Abducted By Aliens (March 2000)
(http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/DrSpin/www/Abducted_By_Aliens.html)
2 Dyson Does Dunedin (April 2000)
(http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/DrSpin/www/Dyson_Does_Dunedin.html)
3 Banged In Bahrain (May 2000)
(http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/DrSpin/www/Banged_In_Bahrain.html)
4 The Colonel's Red Nails (June 2000)
(http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/DrSpin/www/The_Colonel's_Red_Nails.html)
Further Ace Dyson stories to appear will include:
- Nasty, the Russian Interpreter
- Big Sleaze in P.E.
- Rainbow Serpent Dreaming
==================================================
* Acronyms appearing in this story are explained at the
conclusion.
==================================================
Standard Disclaimer:
I write and you read, if you care to. That's all there is
to it. If any reader is offended, 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.
==================================================
* The author welcomes comments and opinions from
readers and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to:
drspin@newsguy.com
* Ruthie edited expertly. Nat inspires and does the
website.
==================================================
The Colonel glanced over her shoulder. "I may not know much
about this game, Dyson," she said to me, "but I do know
that the object is to run forward, not backward."
In the Pacific Rimfire corporate box at Stadium Australia,
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. The comment was cruel
but fair. My younger brother, Fletcher, was playing his
third Rugby international for the Australian Wallabies, and
it wasn't going well for him. Fletch was a bear of a man
with huge strength and power, but tonight he was being
pushed and shunted around the field by the New Zealand All
Blacks like the runt of the litter.
Something was clearly wrong. The only reason he had not
been pulled from the field was because a run of injuries
had depleted the reserves. It was embarrassing. The Colonel
was here with all her friends and cronies and, as a former
centre three-quarter with the New South Wales Waratahs, I
was here to provide expert opinion. That, and the fact that
my brother had reached exalted international status at the
tender age of 21.
The door to the corporate box burst open and, amid a flurry
of arms from a sheepish security guard, a barrel-shaped
white-haired man wearing tinted spectacles bustled into the
room. His eyes searched out and found me.
"Ace," he shouted, "call off this fucking goon and tell the
stupid fuckwit who I am."
I made appropriate gestures to the guard and he closed the
door grudgingly. The Colonel, alarmed, looked around.
"Er, may I introduce Senator Graham Richardson of the
Australian Federal Parliament," I offered. She looked at me
sharply, then melted her frown into a welcoming smile.
"Colonel Ruth Webster," I continued smoothly. "The boss."
Richo waggled his eyebrows at her ferociously. "This is a
pleasure I'd like to explore to the limits of your depth at
another time," he leered in his trademark fashion. "But
right now I need to borrow my old mate Ace for a moment."
He grabbed me by the elbow and pushed me out the door. I
saw the stony expression on the Colonel's face and knew I'd
owe her a tutorial on the blunt ways and means of
Australia's political power brokers.
"Listen," Richo hissed urgently at me in the corridor.
"Before the game started I saw this foxy young chick giving
your brother a blow job down below the stadium. Just
thought you ought to know, because he's playing like day-
old dog turd."
What was this? Fletch getting a blow job before the kick-
off? What the hell did he think he was doing? I'm not one
to let an opportunity pass myself, but this was a Rugby
Test Match, for fuck's sake, and the fearsome All Blacks
were pretty well-known for not putting on a teddy bear's
picnic.
"You saw it?" I asked.
Richo's eyes were gleaming behind his glasses. "Like an X-
rated video on the big action-replay screen," he confirmed.
"What's more, the others saw it too."
"Others?"
"The official celebrity party," he said. "The one I
organised and escorted down the tunnel to meet the players
before the game."
Oh shit. "Celebrities?"
"You know, the usual suspects promoting themselves. Like
Elle, for example."
"MacPherson?"
"Yeah, her. Nice tits. Nicole and Tom, of course. Nice
legs."
"Who, Kidman or Cruise?"
The Senator considered that. "Both, I guess," he said,
chuckling.
"Jesus, Richo. They saw Fletch getting a blow job?"
"Couldn't miss it, Ace. I opened the wrong door and there
he was in this little office, regulation Wallaby shirt and
socks but the shorts were around his ankles, and this sexy
long-haired brunette had two hands wrapped around his old
feller giving him a tongue bath."
"What did you say?"
"Well, that wasn't fair play at all, so I shouted: `Fair
suck of the sausage, girl. This bloke has got to pack into
the front row, and I don't reckon that's part of the
official warm-up.'"
"What happened then?"
"Well, the girl got up from her knees as cool as a
cucumber, walked across and shut the door in my face.
Fletch was leaning back in the chair all blissed out. Big
boy, your brother. That's what Russell Crowe said, anyway."
"Jesus, he was there too?"
"Yep, and Mel Gibson. Supposed to be real tough guys but
they're both smaller than the Kiwi halfback."
"Who else was in this official party?"
"Nobody. Wait, I forgot Kylie Minogue. She wanted to go
back and check on your brother, but I told her she'd missed
the money shot."
I scratched my head, perplexed. This wasn't like Fletcher.
He was so dedicated to the sport. But whatever the where
and why, there was no doubt he was in deep shit.
"Listen, Richo, do you reckon you can hush this up with
your celebs? Gotta keep it from the Rugby authorities, you
understand."
"Consider it fixed," he said. "I still owe you a big one
for helping me out of that scrape at Surfers Paradise. But
there's something you can do for me. I've got a shitload
of cash riding on this game, and if New Zealand wins I'll
be off the champagne and caviar for a month. I smell a rat,
my son, and when Richo smells a rat you can be sure the
rodents are running riot. Check this thing out, Ace. I'll
stall on paying the bookie until I know it was a fair
result, and maybe you can help your brother at the same
time."
The Senator winked at me conspiratorially, turned sharply
on his heel, and left to conduct business that ordinary
God-fearing folk would not want to know about. I wandered
distractedly back into the corporate box. A few minutes
later Jonah Lomu scored the winning try for New Zealand,
and the Kiwis had snatched victory from the jaws of defeat.
It was a close run thing, and I had a bad taste in my mouth
about the role of my brother in the result.
The Colonel confronted me. "Was that loud-mouthed white-
haired sleaze for real?"
"Big time, ma'am," I said. "Be nice to him, because he's a
useful man to know."
She took a step back and looked at me with eyebrows raised.
"Be nice?"
"Oh hell," I said grumpily. "It might cost you an exuberant
grope or two, but you know very well how to handle men like
Richo."
She laughed her little laughing bark. "My place," she said.
"09:30 tomorrow."
* * *
I let the boys cool down after the game and get some oxygen
running back to the brain. When finally I found Fletch he
was dressed in the official team trousers, blazer and tie,
and he looked like a human being except for the empty look
in his eyes.
"Nobody's talking to me," he said bleakly. "I think I
fucked it. How bad did it look?"
"You were as useful as tits on a bull," I said. Brothers
shouldn't spin the crap.
Fletcher winced. "I had no strength," he said. "I felt as
weak as a kitten and I've still got a killer headache. I
think something funny happened to me."
"You mean, like some sheila playing the saxophone on your
dick twenty minutes before kick-off? Is that what you mean
by funny, Fletch?"
He winced again. "You know about that?"
"All of Hollywood knows about it. What the fuck did you
think you were doing? And who the hell was she?"
"Only Miss New Zealand," he muttered sheepishly.
My mouth dropped open. "The current title-holder?"
"No, but she was a few years back."
"When did you meet her?"
"At yesterday's training session."
"Tell me, Fletch, what's wrong with this picture?"
He looked at me stupidly. "What are you saying, Ace?"
"Richo smells a rat and now I do too."
"Huh?"
"What's her name, Fletch?"
He frowned in concentration. "I think she said it was
Sarah."
"Go home and get some sleep," I told him. "While you're
about it, come up with a story about the sudden onset of a
mystery virus to explain your feeble performance tonight.
I'll be in touch."
* * *
The Colonel opened her door to my single knock as if she'd
been waiting beside it. "You're late," she said, leaving
the door open and marching smartly back into her apartment.
"The coffee is no longer fresh."
Shit. Your boss really should not look that good on a
Sunday morning. White baggy shorts, plain white tee-shirt,
and bare feet right down at the bottom end of those long
brown legs. I'd have said something complimentary but it
was definitely not allowed.
"Looking good, ma'am," I said involuntarily. Damn. Where
did that come from?
She stopped dead, her back to me. "You know, Dyson," she
said, "just when I'm coming around to thinking maybe you're
not a total waste of time, you do something to irritate me.
Is it deliberate?"
But she didn't sound irritated, so I pressed. "Sorry,
ma'am, but it takes talent to look good in shorts."
She hesitated for a moment, then headed off towards the
outdoor balcony. "You've been here before, Dyson . You know
where to get your coffee."
I joined her shortly. She was taking the sun, semi-
reclining on a stretch lounge, newspapers spread around
strategically on the floor. She looked out across the water
through high-shine mirror sunglasses, no doubt USAF issue.
"Beautiful view," she said.
She meant Sydney Harbour. I'd seen it a few hundred
thousand times. The Colonel's Ferrari-red fingernails and
toenails flashed in the sun, one smooth leg was bent at the
knee and the other stretched out and hung over the edge of
the lounge. A sliver of tummy was showing where the shirt
was riding up, and her chest was bumping out in showy snowy
hills. "Most invigorating, ma'am," I said.
She looked up and the mirrors threw blinding rays of sun at
me. She chose to say nothing, but the unsaid comment hung
in the air for a moment. Then: "This sleazy Senator. Bring
me up to speed."
Ah yes, Richo. It could have been a long story but I cut it
to the size and shape she required. "You really ought to
read his autobiography called, `Whatever It Takes'," I
finished. "He says it all himself. And by the way, he's
also the Mayor of the Sydney Olympic Village. Some would
regard that as a token honorary position, but Richo sees it
as a gilt-edged opportunity for fame and fortune."
She sighed. "Looks like I should get to know him a lot
better," she said, red fingernails scratching lazily along
the inside of her thigh.
"Oh please, ma'am," I said. "You must choose your words
more carefully when you're talking about Richo. Or to him,
especially."
She laughed, pushed the mirrors down her nose, and looked
at me over the rims. "Point taken, Ace. But don't worry
your pretty little head, because I can take care of
myself." She speared me with her greenish-brown eyes. "Do
you doubt that?" she challenged.
"Not for a moment, ma'am." Fuck. She called me Ace. Was
this a breakthrough?
"You seem to know him well enough," she said, pushing the
glasses back in place.
"He owes me a favour, ma'am."
She laughed again. "When I was in the outback last week I
saw my first dingo," she said. "Instantly I thought of you.
Rangy, quick, shifty, and opportunistic."
"Dingos are great survivors, ma'am."
She studied me from behind the mirrors. "Set us up a lunch
with Senator Richardson, as soon as you can," she said. She
sat up and yawned blatantly, stretching her arms over her
head. The tee-shirt pulled tight across her breasts and her
nipples poked a greeting. She was way too smart not to know
it.
"No problem," I said. "He wants me to do a little job for
him anyway."
She lifted her head sharply. "Yes?"
"It's about Rugby. And bookmakers. And little brothers who
should know better."
"Then do it," she said. "Just as long as he knows the
favours will be called in sometime someplace."
"Oh, he knows that, ma'am. He knows all about favours and
how they work."
"Now get lost, Dyson," she said pleasantly, fingering the
hem of the tee-shirt with intent, and with a smile on her
lips. "I want to catch a whole lot more of this sun, and I
don't need any sly dingos lurking around while I do it."
I knew enough not to look back as I was leaving, but I
thought I heard her laughing.
* * *
A few phone calls and I had her. Too easy. It was not yet
lunchtime. Sarah Tuimara answered the door of the Bondi
holiday apartment like she was expecting somebody else.
"Morning, Sarah," I said cheerfully. "The name's Dyson, and
there's quite a hell of a lot you're going to talk about."
Her dark eyes widened and she tried to shut the door, but I
put out a hand, pushed it wide open, and stepped past her
and into the room. I settled into the most comfortable
chair and she stood perplexed at the door.
"I see you recognise the name," I said. "That was my
brother you played the magic flute with last night. Excuse
my cynicism, but I'm just not buying that it was a random
act of passion."
She shut the door, came slowly into the room, and stood
beside the desk telephone. She was tall, slim, dark-haired,
olive-skinned, and dark-eyed, with full lips indicating
more than a trace of Melanesian ancestry. She looked at me,
then at the telephone, then back at me.
"You want to get help from the reception desk?" I asked.
"Don't bother. It's fixed and they're on my side. From
somebody else? Go ahead, because that's what I came here to
find out."
"Fuck you," she said, but it didn't come out right. She
stood up tall and straight, certainly beautiful, and there
was real nervous fear and concern behind her eyes. "Who are
you?"
I smiled my best dangerous smile. "The fix-it man. Just
call me Ace."
"What do you want?"
"Your story, sweetheart. All of it. Now."
"Fuck you."
"Let's not get nasty, Sarah, 'cause I can get a lot nastier
than you. I can stick you upside down in a bucket of shit
without hardly moving my eyebrows. Tell me, why Fletcher
and why last night?"
She shrugged, and I could see she was halfway towards
regaining some cool. "He's an adult." She picked up a
packet of cigarettes, drew one out, and lit it with a gas
lighter. "Look," she said, blowing grey-blue smoke, "I have
a thing about Rugby players, all right? They turn me on."
"Fletcher is hardly yet an international star," I said,
"and both teams were full of genuine stars. Why him?"
"So I like big forwards," she said. "Big shoulders, big
thighs. Like I said, turns me on."
"You're telling me you're a football groupie, is that
right? So how many players have you fucked?"
"Didn't say I had," she said.
"Just Fletcher, then?"
"Maybe. That's for me to know and you to find out."
"Don't worry, sweetheart, I'll find out."
"Anyway," she said, "I didn't fuck him."
"I know what you did to him, Sarah. Senator Richardson told
me."
"Who?"
"He was with Tom Cruise."
She was instantly impressed. "Jeez, was that Tom Cruise? I
thought he looked familiar."
"When did you first meet Fletcher?"
"At training two days ago."
"Who introduced you?"
"Nobody. I just got talking to him. I said I'd see him
before the game to wish him luck and he arranged a pass for
me."
"And that's the way you wish good luck, is it? With a blow
job?"
She stabbed her cigarette into an ashtray. "I'm famous for
it," she said, with a sour tang. She looked up at me
defiantly. "How do you think I got to be Miss New Zealand?"
"Sarah, this is bullshit. Are you trying to tell me your
blow jobs are so famous you can turn a fit and strong
footballer into jelly for two hours?"
She had a crafty look on her face. "Well, why don't you
find out?"
The offer was as genuine as Gucci perfume from Taiwan. I
could hear the gears turning in her head as she made her
calculations. She didn't want me there. She was afraid of
me. She wanted me the hell out of the place, and she
figured I'd go quietly without asking more questions if I
shot my load into her face. I couldn't work out all the
motivation, but maybe I'd find out more than she was
currently telling me. And she was beautiful.
"Maybe I should," I said.
She sauntered over to stand in front of me, hands on hips,
all trace of worry gone. She was in control. She licked her
pouting lips deliberately. It was a whore's cheap trick but
it got me as hard as a housebrick. "I'll be back in a
minute," she said. "Gotta go to the bathroom first."
"Impress me by coming out naked," I said to her. "Unless
you're scared I'll just fuck you instead, that is."
She smiled mockingly. "You wouldn't want to pass on Sarah
Tuimara's blow job, I promise you. After that, you won't be
able to fuck your own fist for a week."
Now that was really sexy. My sympathy for Fletcher was
growing fast. She turned away and went into the bathroom,
shutting the door. Careful, Ace, I told myself. Stay
objective. There's a job to do. I got out of the chair
quietly and listened at the bathroom door. Much clinking of
toilet equipment and no tinkling into the toilet itself.
What was she up to? I listened a bit more and heard her
moving about, so I went back to my chair.
She came out stark naked and carrying something wrapped in
a bunch of tissues. "Poor Fletch," I said. "Did he see you
like this? He's only a baby and it might have stopped his
heart." She was tall and slim, with small breasts perfectly
curved and shaped, with dark, broad, and stubby nipples
pointing distinctly upwards, and ebony black pubic hair
obviously trimmed and barbered.
She said nothing, and knelt down in front of me. She placed
the bundle of tissues beside her. "What's that for?" I
asked. "Surely a famous Tuimara blow job means you
swallow."
"Just shut up and let me get on with it," she said,
reaching out to unbelt my trousers. I looked with
appreciation at her very fine body as she eased off my
shoes and drew the trousers all the way off my legs. I
lifted my hips and she worked my briefs down and away also.
She took hold of my jutting penis and licked her lips once
more. "Now, fix-it man," she said, "prepare to get fixed."
I love it when they have long hair hanging down over your
thighs. Sarah had long, heavy, and black hair that fell
dead straight. It caressed and tickled my skin as it waved
and swayed with her head movements. Mother of God, she was
good. Lips, tongue, cheeks, and throat, she employed them
all with rare skill. It was so good it nearly hurt.
"La-la-la," I said softly, head back and looking at her
through eyes I could barely keep open. "How come you didn't
win Miss World?"
She lifted her head and looked up at me, eyes sullen, lips
wet. "The Mexican was better," she said bitterly. "She's
been sucking cock since she was six years old."
Sarah reached down beside her thigh for the pile of
tissues. "But since then I've learned a few special
tricks," she said, unwrapping what looked to be a string of
small beads. She dangled it in front of me. "Oriental
Pleasure Pearls," she announced, with a hint of malice.
Small fine hairs on my arms and legs stood up in deep
suspicion, and I looked more closely. The beads were pea-
sized, appeared to be made of jade, and were linked with a
fine gold chain. "What do you think you're going to do with
that?" I asked.
"Pop them neatly, one by one, into your poop chute," she
said.
"Like fuck you will," I said instantly. "I'm a virgin back
there and plan to stay one, thanks."
"I thought you wanted what your brother got," she said,
head tilted and almond-shaped eyes slanting at me.
Damn. Applied research can get your arse in trouble. "This
is a good thing?" I asked dubiously.
She smiled like a cat with a trapped mouse, slotted a gold
ring at the end of the string on her long middle finger,
and bent her head back to the task.
Now she was humming, tunelessly but loudly. I could hear it
and I could feel the vibrations right down into my balls.
The hair, the humming, the tongue, the velvet wetness of
her mouth. Oh fuck. It was good.
Invasion. She was probing at my anus. Plop. A jade bead was
inserted. Huh. No problem. Didn't feel anything. Plop.
Another. Plop, plop, plop. Fuck, how many were there? I'd
forgotten to count.
Whoa. Suddenly the climate changed. Things were pressing on
things internally and sensations became sensationally
intense. Jesus. I felt sweat break out on my forehead, and
I was leaning way back in the chair, thrusting forward to
meet her mouth and her hands. It was coming on fast like a
flash flood.
Ooh wumpa! I shot like a hot springs geyser, and right at
that critical moment Miss New Zealand ripped out the beads
in one savage sweep.
Squirming, I kept on gushing in rippling spasms that gave
me cramps in the soles of my feet. I was in an agony of
mixed-up pleasure and pain. My eyes were screwed shut and
my face contorted.
Finally it subsided. I opened my eyes, and I saw the
curtain of her black hair and her head, still moving,
swallowing, taking it all, finishing.
No more pleasure, no more pain. I was awash with lethargy
and stupor, and I drifted away on fluffy clouds. I opened
my eyes once more and she was looking straight at me, a
smirk on her face. "How're you feeling, Ace? You don't look
so good."
Didn't feel so good, either. I had a sudden headache, and I
was desperately tired. I shook my head vigorously. Or I
tried to. Nothing much happened.
"Let's get you dressed," she said. "Time for you to go home
now."
I stumbled to my feet and made a hash of trying to step
into my trousers. Sarah helped me. I needed it. I sat down
again while she slipped on my shoes. She pulled me out of
the chair and herded me to the front door. Somewhere
sometime she'd put on a dressing gown. No, wait. I hadn't
finished talking to her yet. I turned and tried to assert
some authority, but she pushed me on the arm and I
nearly fell to the floor. What the fuck? What was wrong
with me?
She shoved me outside and I couldn't seem to resist. "Bye,"
she said, chuckling, and shut the door.
I stood outside in the garden and tried to clear my head,
but I had to grab hold of a post just to keep myself
standing. I was doing that, head down and taking deep
breaths, when a short and stocky Chinese man in a grey suit
and a black roll-neck pullover walked past, staring at me
curiously. He kept going, and as I watched, knocked on
Sarah Tuimara's door. I'd seen him somewhere. But I was
too ill to think about it.
I made it out to my car, had huge trouble unlocking it, and
slumped gratefully into the driver's seat. Could I drive?
No fucking way. I leaned back, closed my eyes, and blacked
out.
* * *
A horn blew and it woke me. I looked at my watch. I think
I'd been asleep about 25 minutes. The headache was worse, a
real pile-driver, and I felt like drain sludge. No question
about it, something was badly amiss.
I started the car and drove carefully, barely able to
concentrate. I worried about making it home intact and
turned aside and headed for the Colonel's apartment block,
which was a lot closer.
"Dyson?" She was smart enough to know something was wrong.
She pulled me inside and shut the door. "What's wrong? You
look like you've gone through 10Gs."
I fell back into a large leather couch. "I've been drugged
with something," I said, trying hard to get my brain
functioning properly. "We need to know what." I fumbled for
my wallet and extracted a card. "Ring this woman," I said.
"Get her over here. Do whatever it takes, but it needs to
be soon before it wears off. She knows me. Boss, I need to
sleep until she gets here."
I slept on the bed on which I fucked the Colonel's niece a
few weeks earlier. I woke when the door opened but I still
felt like a bag of shit and I couldn't seem to get around
to opening my eyes. I could sense them in the room, though.
"Handsome devil," said a quiet voice I hadn't heard in a
long time. "Sound frame, good bones."
"All I see is another one of those cock-of-the-walk pretty
boys," said the Colonel, just as quietly. "I've met too
damned many in my life."
Dr. Allison King had managed to get a lot more out of me
than I'd ever had from her. Thanks to me, she'd produced a
much-heralded medical paper on the unintended priapic
effects of New Zealand shellfish on an appropriately
receptive male. As a result she'd won a coveted position
with the 2000 Olympic Games drug-testing laboratory, and
she'd moved from Nelson to Sydney with her baby daughter. I
knew this because she'd sent me a letter enclosing a
charming photograph of the sleeping infant and an
unambiguous instruction not to look her up for a possible
intimate renewal of acquaintance. The child was mine, but
it was part of the deal that I could never claim her. You
never think about kids when you're making them. It's
afterwards that you count the cost.
"Are you - I mean, do he - or have you?" Behind my closed
eyes I could imagine the gesture that went with Dr. King's
ever-so-polite inquiry.
The Colonel snorted. "Not on your life. Besides, I already
own him body and soul."
Bitch.
"Yes," said Dr. King. "He's useful in short bursts, but you
wouldn't want him hanging around the kitchen. I recall he
drops wet towels on the bathroom floor."
Bitch.
"Bad training," said the Colonel. "I blame a generation of
soft mothers."
"I guess I should be waking our sleeping beauty," Dr. King
said, and I felt her hand on my chest, prodding me
insistently.
I opened my eyes and looked straight into the face bending
over me. "I'd know those cool grey eyes anywhere," I said
croakily. "We meet again, Dr. King."
She favoured me with a brief thin-lipped smile. "What have
you got for me today, Ace? I don't give up my Sunday
afternoons lightly."
"I've been nobbled by Miss New Zealand," I said wearily.
Her eyebrows shot up behind the tiny gold-rimmed reading
glasses she wore for examinations. "You're delirious."
"When did I ever lie to you, Allison? I've been drugged
with something horrible, same as my brother was drugged and
nobbled in the Rugby Test last night. Only I think I got a
much bigger dose and I'm hoping you can find out what it
is."
She sat down on the bed. "Okay," she said. "With you I know
to expect the improbable. I'm interested. Details. Leave
nothing out. You know the score."
I glanced across at the Colonel, leaning against the wall
with her arms crossed. Allison followed my eyes.
"Forget it," the Colonel said. "He works for me, he's over-
paid and under-worked, and he's in my bed. I'm staying
put."
I told the story slowly, from Fletcher's disgrace to my
debacle, struggling against the crippling headache to find
and interweave the fine details Allison required. Lips
pursed, eyebrows frowning in concentration, she listened
intently. At the back of my brain I was rolling a memory
movie of her yellow-blonde hair unclipped and falling free,
of her pale and slender body under the shower with me, and
of the demanding intensity of her love-making. She was a
special recollection. I was slightly sentimental about her.
I finished and she shook her head slowly. "You shouldn't be
allowed out on your own," she said sarcastically.
"Told you he was over-paid," added the Colonel. "He's a
minder who needs a minder."
"Now then," said Dr. King, business-like. "My first guess
is that you have been dosed with a powerful, fast-acting
sedative."
"When?" I asked. "How?"
"The so-called Pleasure Pearls of the Orient, of course,"
she told me, as if I were an idiot. "Inserted into the best
orifice for the purpose. It would act almost instantly. Why
on earth would you let some stranger stick something up
your bum?"
"Because she was Miss New Zealand," the Colonel chipped in
acidly. "What other reason would he need?"
"Time for some samples, Ace," said Dr. King. "A spot of
blood from the finger, and of course a smear from the
rectum. Better get that first, so let's get your trousers
off." She started stripping me more familiarly than a
doctor ought to, and I looked hard and meaningfully at the
Colonel. Arms crossed, she looked back implacably. She
wasn't shifting.
I've been caught in undignified positions in my time, but
this one took the cake - trousers around my ankles, bum
stuck in the air, two females looking right at it, and one
of them actually poking a finger into it. Embarrassing.
Only one thing could make it worse. Perversely, my cock
started to rise.
"Jesus, Allison," I said, trying to shift some
responsibility, "what the hell are you doing to me?"
"A hell of a lot less than Miss New Zealand, my dear," she
said primly, smacking me smartly on the buttock and
directing me to roll on my back. Rock hard now, I dared not
look in the Colonel's direction.
Dr. King pricked my finger and drew a spot of blood.
"That'll do fine," she said. "Now you'll be needing a
couple of strong pain-killers and a good long sleep. Should
do the trick, I think." She glanced across at the Colonel.
"Can he stay here the night?"
"I guess," the Colonel said grudgingly.
"Then we'll leave him alone with his firm friend and
lifelong companion," the doctor said.
Bitch.
* * *
I woke feeling zillions percent better. It was dark, and my
watch said 10:15. The night was still young and I knew what
needed to be done. I rolled out of bed, dressed quickly,
and went looking for her. The apartment was in darkness. I
groped around, opening wrong doors until I found her
bedroom, and walked on in.
"Dyson," her voice growled warningly from the gloom. "If
you attempt to get into my bed I'll break your nose with a
regulation hand chop."
"Fear not for your honour, ma'am," I said. "I'm just off
for a spot of breaking and entering, and I thought I ought
to tell you first."
The Colonel clicked on a bedside lamp and sat up. She
appeared to be wearing bright yellow silk pyjamas with a
blue cartoon animal print. "Very cheerful and gay, ma'am,"
I commented politely.
"In thirty words or less, Dyson, what do you plan to do?"
"Break into Sarah Tuimara's place and retrieve vital
evidence of sinister malpractice. I smell an international
doping conspiracy possibly aimed at the integrity of the
2000 Olympic Games."
"What makes you think it's that serious?"
"It's only a hunch, although an educated one. Sarah Tuimara
had a visitor after me. It came to me when I woke twenty
minutes ago who he was - the former head coach of the
Chinese women's swimming team, the one sacked and disgraced
for using prohibited drugs to build his charges into
awesome monsters who obliterated world records as though
they'd been formerly held by small children. Turned out he
was more of an expert on drugs than he was on swimming."
She sat quite still in her bed, thinking. "This could be
big," she said quietly. "This could be very big for Pacific
Rimfire."
"I can see why you're the boss, ma'am."
She whirled aside the blankets and bounced out of bed. The
yellow pyjamas only existed as a top, but it reached
halfway down her thighs. Good thighs, lean and strong. "I'm
coming with you," she announced.
"With all due respect, ma'am," I said, "this is not a job
for a woman, and especially not a woman of your exalted
corporate position. It's my job to take risks because I am
expendable. You are not."
"Your gallantry is noted," she said. "It is, however,
misplaced. Not only do I take more risks every day than you
do in five years, I am also an accredited unarmed combat
instructor and I could beat you to a pulp in less than one
minute." She smiled disarmingly. "Dyson, you are accident
prone. You need me."
Bosses are hard to say no to, and this one was harder than
any. Fifty minutes later we stood in the Bondi carpark,
looking around furtively and acting decidedly
conspiratorial. The Colonel, who seemed to have clothes for
any possible occasion, was suitably dressed in black,
tight-fitting, leather pants and a black, zipped-up, bomber
jacket. "I've never had training in burglary," she said.
"How do we get in?"
I flourished my picklock set. A fix-it man always has the
right tools. While she kept a lookout and shone a low torch
on the lock outside Sarah's darkened room, I tried various
combinations. Minutes clicked by while I fiddled with the
tumblers. Exasperated, the Colonel tried the handle. The
door had not been locked and it opened smoothly. We slipped
in quietly, and a flash of the torch confirmed the bedroom
door was closed. Good. I knew where I wanted to be, and led
the way into the bathroom. Carefully I levered open the lid
of the cistern, because that's the noise I'd heard earlier
in the day when I'd listened at the door. Just as I hoped,
in the water was a parcel wrapped in black plastic and
bound tightly with rubber bands.
"Bingo," I whispered fiercely to the Colonel. "Now let's
get the fuck out of here."
At that moment the bathroom door opened, the light snapped
on, and a naked Sarah Tuimara came in, no doubt for a
sleepy and comforting pee. She stood looking at us blankly.
Her mouth opened in surprise, uttered a piercing scream
that frightened the shit out of me, then she backed out
quickly and slammed the door shut.
"Wonderful," said the Colonel irritably, as though it were
my fault. "What do we do now?"
"We depart as scheduled," I said. "She's just a beauty
queen and you're an unarmed combat expert. If she gives us
any trouble, beat her to a pulp in less than a minute."
I marched confidently out of the bathroom. The lights were
now on in the main room and Sarah huddled in the corner,
unaccountably trying to cover her nakedness with hands and
arms. "We meet again, famous blow-jobber," I said with the
arrogance of a man backed up by talented muscle. "Love to
stay for a kiss and a cuddle, but I have pressing business
elsewhere."
"Not so fast," said a short and stocky Chinese man who
suddenly appeared from the bedroom. He was as naked as
Sarah.
I snapped my fingers. "Mrs. Peel," I said crisply, "beat
this little, nude, tiny-peckered, Oriental man to a pulp
immediately."
"Not so fast," he said again, producing a snub-nosed pistol
from behind his back.
"I don't suppose you brought a gun?" I asked the Colonel.
This immediately focused his attention. He took a couple of
steps closer and pointed the pistol at her chest. "Search
her," he commanded Sarah.
She'd found a sheet to wrap her body in, and she moved
around behind us. She patted the Colonel ineffectually
about the body. "Search her properly," ordered the Chinese
man.
Sarah reached around, tugged down the zip of the Colonel's
bomber jacket, and spread it open. Under it she was wearing
a sexy black lacy bra. "Pretty little number, ma'am,"
I said, and she glanced across to look daggers at me.
"You," said the Chinese man to me. "Drop that package."
"This?" I asked, holding it up. Sarah reached across the
Colonel for it, grabbing as I held it high in the air.
The Colonel struck like lightning, shoving Sarah hard and
straight at the gunman. He cursed in Mandarin as they both
fell to the floor, and in a flash the Colonel was on him.
She stomped her foot on his wrist and the pistol fell free.
He reached for it and she swung the heel of her hand
savagely into the back of his neck. He fell flat on his
face, groaning.
I picked up the gun and checked. It was loaded and the
safety was off. "Fuck me," I said. "I think he meant it." I
waved it idly at Sarah, slumped on the ground, glaring, and
with the sheet twisted off her body. "Ugly company you
keep, Miss New Zealand," I said.
"Fuck you," she said bitterly.
"No time," I said. "We have to be off now."
The Colonel was breathing hard, but she grinned at me
excitedly. "That was fun," she said at the door. I took her
by the elbow and steered her away and back to my car.
"That was fun," she said again, sitting in the seat beside
me, as we drove away. "Beats desk work hands down."
"Er, ma'am," I said, troubled.
She looked across at me, eyes dancing with excitement.
"What's wrong now?"
"We're in traffic," I said. "Maybe you should zip up your
jacket."
She looked down at herself and laughed. "We make a good
team, Ace," she said.
* * *
I assumed we'd be talking to senior police officers, but
the Colonel had an eye for the big picture and where it
would hang in the boardroom of Pacific Rimfire. Next
morning she gathered together a hand-picked group in her
office - Dr. King, Senator Richardson, the company's head
lawyer, and me.
She reported events concisely and without unnecessary
detail, stressed the circumstantial nature of our
suspicions, tabled a document she'd obtained impressively
quickly on the life and times of Dr. Kwok Kweng Hong,
former Chinese women's swimming coach, and spread on her
desk the contents of the package we'd obtained from Sarah
Tuimara. It contained jars of ointment with Chinese labels,
phials of liquid, syringes, and several varieties of the
unforgettable Oriental Pleasure Pearls.
"At the least," she said, "assuming Dr. King can verify the
nature of this material, we have evidence of an attempt to
alter the result of an international Rugby match. Our
field operative believes Dr. Kwok's ambitions reach into
the proper running and staging of the 2000 Olympic Games,
and that the Rugby international was a trial run. Given the
obviously paranoid nature of Dr. Kwok as outlined in this
report, and with the Games close upon us in this very city,
I think Mr. Dyson's suspicions should be considered
seriously. The question is, what do we do now?"
"Take it to the police," the lawyer said immediately.
The Colonel smiled at him graciously. "Thank you, Martin.
You've done your job and your advice will be formally
noted. Your presence is no longer required."
He looked startled, but gathered up his papers and left.
"He may be right, of course," she said to us, "but I'd like
to keep a handle on this thing for as long as we can. In
particular, I'd like Dr. King to confirm these substances
were those used on Mr. Dyson, and I'd like to know what
they are. Yes, Dr. King?"
"I'll have to report to SOCOG and the IOC," Allison said.
"But I need to find out what I'm reporting about first."
"Very well," said the Colonel. "Take what you need from the
package and get your butt in gear."
Allison also looked startled, but placed a few things in a
bag and left.
"Now," said the Colonel, looking from me to the Senator,
"let's get down to brass tacks. Assuming we're right,
what's in it for us?"
"The grateful thanks of a nation and the world," I said
airily.
"Shut up, Dyson," she snapped. "I don't pay you for
statements of the obvious." She looked directly at the
Senator.
Richo considered. "What's in it for Pacific Rimfire? At the
least, government, IOC, and SOCOG contracts," he said. "But
you'll need a friendly face on the inside to make sure it
runs smoothly."
The Colonel smiled sunnily. "Dyson, leave us for a moment.
Don't go far. Your services may be further required."
I tried not to be startled. Naturally she wouldn't want me
around when she was planning to talk money. I knew all
about dirt but never about money.
It didn't take long for a deal to be struck. She buzzed for
me. "Dyson," she said, "the Senator has an idea and we need
your opinion." I looked at Richo enquiringly.
"That Kiwi cocksucker," he said. "I figure she'll be in a
monster panic by now and looking for a way out. What she
needs is a friendly face on the inside who can pull some
levers for her."
"Possibly," I said. "That face would, I gather, bear a
remarkable resemblance to your own."
"My twin brother," he said, laughing. "The nice one.
Listen, Ace, here's the deal. I'll get her on the blower,
offer her a figure in the region of" - I saw his eyes
flicker to the Colonel and I saw her small headshake - "a
fair bit of cash for a full and frank discussion, send my
driver to pick her up, put her in a discreet hotel under
observation, and wrap this thing up with a signed
statement to go with the scientific findings. That way we
also keep your brother out of the official reports. What do
you say to that piece of inspired fucking brilliance, my
son?"
"I say hurry up before she's found dead, Richo."
* * *
I don't see much difference between Juan Antonio Samaranch
and the Pope. They're both old and frail, obscenely rich,
and make decisions that bring despair to billions of people
throughout the world.
The lizard-like IOC president also had another thing in
common with His Holiness. He didn't speak unless he had to.
I was awarded the privilege of a private audience. In a
suite that occupied most of the top floor of the best hotel
in Sydney, Mr. Samaranch sat tidily in a chair with his
legs crossed, sipping herbal tea from a dainty cup and
saucer.
"The President would like to personally thank you for your
efforts in the distressing Chinese matter," an aide told
me. He was young, suave, impeccably dressed, and as fruity
as home-made rum punch.
Dr. Kwok was in custody, awaiting trial. Crazy bastard had
suffered inexcusable loss of face over his sacking as
Olympic coach, and he was determined to prove his
brilliance to the world. He had indeed been planning to
wreck the Olympic Games by recruiting a clutch of
irresistible fellatrices to blow the prospects of selected
male superstars with a potent sedative mixture applied
anally. The story naturally made world news. Richo would be
elected for life, Pacific Rimfire was an exemplary
corporate citizen with a swag of new managerial and supply
contracts, and the Colonel just kept on smiling at me. Life
was good.
"It was merely duty," I said, observing protocol and
choking back a few random observations. Besides, if the old
bastard didn't like me he had enough raw power to order my
balls deep-fried in extra virgin Spanish olive oil. Anyway,
I was last in the queue. Richo, the Colonel, and Dr. King
had all gone before me to receive the presidential thanks
and blessing. Tomorrow we would be presented with Olympic
contribution medals in a special public ceremony.
The aide beckoned me over. "The President is interested in
the welfare and whereabouts of the New Zealand woman with
the extraordinary talent," he murmured quietly, while the
little big man himself stared at his cup of tea.
Dirty old bastard! I wondered who had told him the
unofficial story, rather than the sanitised version that
had featured in the world press.
"The young lady received protection as a critical witness,"
I said. "Her name was suppressed and I do not know what
became of her."
The aide studied me carefully and decided I was not about
to be useful. "The President wishes you good fortune in
your future endeavours," he said, shaking my hand. "Your
efforts on behalf of the Olympic movement have been noted
and will be remembered on appropriate occasions."
I took the hint. On my way out, I stopped and looked back
at Samaranch. "Careful," I said directly to him. "If you
look too hard you might find her. She's the best hornblower
I ever met and she'd likely kill you stone dead."
The wrinkled old man favoured me with a wintry smile.
* * *
Allison King was not a woman who beat around the bush. I
opened my door on a Friday night and she was standing there
holding a small overnight bag.
"I never said I didn't fancy you," she said. "I just don't
need you, that's all. Except at times like this, that is.
My daughter is with her father for the weekend. I'm at
itchy loose ends and I thought of you."
With her father, eh? But she said it carefully and
deliberately, and I knew the rules. "What if I say no?"
She gave me her trademark thin-lipped smile. "Ace, you
never say no, and that's precisely the long-term problem."
She had the body of a Scandinavian fashion model - tall,
pale, slender, blonde. She liked to be fucked furiously and
without sentimentality. Small talk was not essential. I
wished, not for the first time, that she wasn't slightly
special to me.
She was lying across my chest and her delightful small and
pointed breasts poked into my skin. After the storm comes
the rain. "You haven't told me anything about our little
girl," I said.
"I'll tell you all you like, but you still can't see her,"
she murmured. "She doesn't belong to you, Ace. You know
that."
"Why did you split with your husband?"
"Not over that. He doesn't know. I have an important career
and he doesn't, so we went our separate ways."
"Dr. King, you use people too much for your own ends."
She sat up and looked at me with her cool, almost
colourless, eyes. "And you don't?"
I sighed and pulled her back down to my chest. "Maybe," I
said. "But I'm getting older and wiser."
She chuckled quietly. "Never do that. Part of your charm is
that you're a bad little boy in a man's hard body." She ran
the flat of her hand down my flank. "Damn fine body, too."
"We all get older, Allison."
"Not you, Ace. Never you."
I fucked her many times during the weekend but never got
close to her.
* * *
The Colonel summoned me. "Important job," she said, handing
me a fat envelope. "Special delivery, your hand to his, to
Senator Richardson. He's waiting in his Sydney office."
But he wasn't. He was called away urgently minutes before I
arrived. His Executive Assistant would see me.
"Hello, shithead," she said, when I was shown into her
plush office. Sarah Tuimara stood there in a pink suit that
showed nicely against her dark hair and olive skin. She
came around her desk, not a thing on it but a layer of
fresh furniture polish, holding out her hand demandingly.
"Give me the money."
"Gee, Sarah, after all we've been through and we're still
not friends?"
"Fuck you, Dyson. Just give me the money and fuck off."
I folded my arms across my chest. "No deal," I said. "His
hand only."
She picked up a mobile phone, punched in a number, spoke
Briefly, and handed it to me. "Ace," said Richo cheerfully.
"Called away at the last minute. I appreciate your concern,
but it's okay to give it to Sarah."
"Just like you've been doing, no doubt," I said.
He laughed. "Until I get tired of her," he said. "But she's
pretty good at what she does, as you know yourself. Gotta
go." The phone went dead.
I gave Sarah the envelope. She licked her full lips slowly
and provocatively with a long tongue. Bitch. It worked. I
had a ramrod erection, and her eyes laughed at me.
"I see," I said. "Same job, different employer."
"Five figure salary, nice new car, nice new apartment, nice
new office," she said. "I'm not complaining."
"You're beautiful this year, Sarah. Don't waste too many
more."
"Fuck you, Dyson."
She didn't seem to like me. But you can't win `em all.
ENDS
==================================================
IOC = International Olympic Committee
SOCOG = Sydney Organising Committee of the Olympic Games
And just in case it's not clear from the context, "fair
suck of the sausage" is an Australian expression meaning
"fair play", or "fair go". A variant is "fair suck of the
saveloy".
==================================================
* The author welcomes (and gets blood transfusions from)
comments and opinions from readers and is invariably
motivated to respond. Write to: drspin@newsguy.com
* The Stories of DrSpin are at http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/DrSpin/www
==================================================
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/DrSpin/www/
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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