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"Doing Rachel" (mf teen caution) - Write Club story - 
Baird Allen

<Baird's comments>    
Well, here it is, I think I finally got the beginning to meet up with 
the ending somewhere in the middle. I;m already way over the alotted 
time and therefore must disqualify myself from the competition, but 
here is the story. No time now to do any polish, this is pure first 
draft, gotta get some sleep now. I hope this worked out better for 
the other guys than it has for me. 



semicolon, luffa, Camaro, badminton, brick, oatmeal, proverb, Rachel, 
rictus 

"Doing Rachel" (mf teen caution) Write Club story - 14 Sept 2000 
Copyright 2000 by Baird Allen <baird@pair.com> 


I lost my virginity last month, at age sixteen. I also lost my life, 
and my future. It happened like this: 

I was always the new kid at school, because my dad's job required 
that we move a lot. It was mid-October when we moved to Smithville, 
and the school year had already started. My natural shyness didn't 
help me any when it came to making friends. But one girl was nice to 
me: Rachel. 

Even if she hadn't brightened up my life by actually saying "hello" 
to me each day in English class, I still would have been smitten by 
her beauty. Fair hair, creamy skin, blue eyes, a body that heated my 
dreams - she was a goddess. Of course I could never dare to speak to 
her, not a mere mortal like me. Whenever she spoke to me I would look 
away to hide the blush that I knew burned furiously across my face. 
Nevertheless she remained friendly, and my awareness of her presence 
in the desk behind me dominated my consciousness, condemning me to 
remain forever unaware of the niceties of proper usage of the comma, 
semicolon, and assorted other punctuation symbols that I was supposed 
to be learning about in that class. 

I could never look upon her divinity when she was close enough that 
she might notice me looking, but I watched her avidly from afar. I 
thought of her constantly. When I was at home, alone, I tried to draw 
pictures of her, then tore them up when they necessarily failed to 
live up to my visions. She was an angel, distant and untouchable, a 
being of unspeakable purity and goodness. The only times I 
deliberately banished her from my thoughts were those times when I 
masturbated, as it would have been darkest blasphemy to have sullied 
my mental image of her with such filth. 

Then I started to hear things about her. 

She was no angel, I heard. Not that anyone would discuss such things 
with me, but I couldn't help overhearing what the other guys talked 
about at the lunch table, where my presence was tolerated at the edge 
of the group as long as I kept my mouth shut. She was no angel at 
all, according to what I heard, but rather a whore, a slut, an easy 
lay. The guys would watch her as she walked across the room or sat 
and ate with other girls, and they would talk about her. 

One guy told about how she had sucked his cock one day when he was at 
her house on some unspecified errand. Another said that that was 
nothing, he had danced with her one time at a party and ended up 
fucking her in an empty bedroom. Another reminded the group that he 
had gone steady with her when they were in ninth grade, and told of 
how she used to give him handjobs every time they went to the movies 
together, and how he had been the first guy she had ever fucked. 

After I heard that, I didn't bother trying to keep her out of my mind 
when I jerked off. In fact, as I imagined myself doing all of those 
naughty things with her, she became my constant companion in orgasmic 
bliss every night before I went to sleep, and every morning as I 
showered before school. 

I still couldn't talk to her. Merely the sight of her within any 
normal speaking distance was enough to turn my brain to oatmeal and 
my tongue into a dry luffa sponge. I suppose she thought me odd, but 
there was nothing I could do about it. I was just too damn shy. 

Then came the party. 

Not that I would ever be invited to any social gathering of my peers. 
No, my presence at the party was entirely accidental - my mother had 
to attend a meeting and couldn't pick me up after school, so I had to 
walk home with the son of one of her co-workers who lived near the 
school, to be picked up later in the evening after the meeting was 
over. The boy was a senior, someone I'd never met. I guess he tried 
to be nice to me, asking me what classes I had and so forth, but my 
inability to make any sort of coherent response effectively stifled 
his attempts at conversation. 

The phone rang while we were watching TV, and from what I heard of 
his side of the conversation I figured out that he was being invited 
to some kind of get-together. After he'd hung up the phone he stood 
looking at me for a moment, then shrugged. He told me that he 
couldn't leave me there at his house by myself, so I would have to 
come with him to the party. I shrugged back and went along with him 
out to where his Camaro was parked, got in and away we went. 

The party was in a basement at a house where someone's parents were 
away. I never knew whose house it was, or why they were having a 
party, if indeed there was any particular reason for it. The kids 
there were all drinking red punch that had been mixed up in an empty 
trashcan. The guy who took me to the party handed me a cup full of 
the stuff and warned me that it "had a kick", then he ditched me and 
I was there alone in the middle of the crowd, sipping tepid red 
liquid out of a plastic cup. I guessed that there was some kind of 
alcohol in it, but it tasted to me just like Fruit Juicy Red Hawaiian 
Punch, so I figured it must be pretty weak stuff. 

I didn't have anything else to do, so I just stood there and drank my 
cup of punch, then helped myself to another cupful and went to lean 
against the wall out of the way of the crowd. My face started to feel 
warm, but I attributed it to the crowded conditions and kept on 
sipping my punch. The room seemed to tilt when I stepped away from 
the wall to go and get a second refill, and I bumped into a couple of 
people as I made my way back to the trashcan and filled my cup. 

Someone put a hand on my arm, and I was incredibly surprised to hear 
my name. "Davy?" I looked up, and there she was, right there next to 
me, actually touching me with her hand. Rachel. 

I reflexively started to turn away, but I was having a little trouble 
orienting myself, and after I got my balance again I was still facing 
toward her. 

"Umm, hi, Rachel." I'd done it! I'd actually spoken to her, right 
there, face to face! I exulted inwardly, feeling my whole being 
flooded with energy and power. 

"God, I'm so, so, so glad to see someone I know!" she gushed. She was 
happy to see me? Me? 

"Umm, hi," I said again, with ineffable wit and style. 

I could see that she had already had some of the punch - there were 
bright spots of it dotting the front of her white sweater, right 
across her - her - her breasts? I was standing there like a fool, 
staring down at her luscious, softly rounded tits, at the red dots of 
spilled punch, and I suddenly felt like I had a brick where my 
stomach was supposed to be. I tried to draw a breath, to apologize, 
but I was tongue-tied again. 

She didn't even notice. 

"Gosh, isn't this punch delicious?" she said. "I think I spilled some 
of mine, can you help me get some more?" 

I took her cup, accidentally dropping my own into the punch barrel in 
he process. I managed to fish it out and refill it at the same time, 
then scooped a cupful for Rachel and held out the cup for her. She 
reached to take it but caught hold of my wrist instead. 

"Oops!" she giggled. "I missed!" We had a good laugh together over 
that, and she tried again and got hold of the cup, and I managed to 
let go of it without spilling too much. 

Together we moved away from the trashcan and toward the wall where I 
had been standing earlier, but somehow we got turned and ended up at 
a couch instead. We turned and sat in unison, spilling a little bit 
more punch and having another good laugh. 

I could not believe how relaxed I felt, yet at the same time 
electrified and charged with life. I was a fountain of scintillating 
conversation, pouring forth witticisms, bon mots, and wise proverbs. 
(I wish now that I could remember some of what I said then. I'm sure 
it was brilliant.) Rachel was captivated, hanging on my every word. 
We talked and talked for what seemed like hours, but for some reason 
I can't remember any of what she said to me, either. 

"Sick," she said. 

"What?" I didn't understand. 

"Help me find the bathroom," she said. "I'm feeling kinda sick." 

We got up and staggered together into a dark hallway, past groping 
couples, and somehow found the bathroom. I helped her toward the 
toilet, and she almost made it there before she lost it and a torrent 
of red erupted from her mouth. The stream of liquid splashed all over 
the toilet, some in the bowl, some on the seat, some spraying around 
onto the floor and onto me and onto her. I held her while she shook 
and heaved again, and then it seemed to be over. 

"Pee," she said. 

What? 

"Gotta pee. You go." She gestured vaguely toward the open doorway. 

Oh. She wanted me to close the door. I lunged over and slammed into 
the doorframe, then leaned against the wall while I reached out and 
got hold of the doorknob and closed the door. I turned back to look 
at Rachel and she was sitting on the toilet, her skirt hoisted up 
around her waist, her panties lying in a twist around one ankle, 
soaking up the red juice from the floor... and I could see her pussy. 
I'd never seen one before, never live and in person, and only a few 
times in rare glimpses in pictures in forbidden magazines. Her curly 
pussy hair was light-colored, which according to what I'd read would 
mean she was a natural blonde. I could just barely make out the lips, 
the opening of her cunt. God, I was looking at her cunt! 

She finished peeing and tried to stand, looked up at me and got a 
strange expression on her face, a tight look as if she were trying to 
smile and not quite making it, a rictus of... what? What was she 
saying? 

"Tony!" She was messing with her skirt, and stumbled toward me, right 
into my arms. Oh wow, she wanted to do it, she wanted to do it with 
me right here and now! I grabbed her and held her close and kissed 
her, not caring or even noticing anything except the feel of her 
warm, soft body against me. 

"Tony!" She moved in my embrace and we fell together to the floor. I 
heard her gasp and was afraid I'd fallen with too much of my weight 
on her, but her arms were around me and I was lying on top of her and 
HER LEGS WERE SPREAD APART and I was lying right there BETWEEN HER 
THIGHS. I kissed her harder, not sure of what I was doing but only 
sure that this slut girl was about to be mine. She wriggled 
violently, rubbing her groin against mine, and I reached down and got 
myself unzipped and then my hard cock was there in my hand, the head 
of it was warm and wet and I realized that I had it in just the right 
place, positioned right at the opening to her pussy, and she moved 
against me and I suddenly knew what to do and I lunged and drove it 
into her. 

How to describe that feeling as my prick drove deep into her body? 
Hot. Wet. Soft. Tight. Those are the words that come to mind, but 
they just don't do it justice. It was so incredible, so good, so 
amazingly awesomely fucking fantastic to be on her, holding her, my 
rock-hard cock driving in and out of her hot slippery cunt. I was 
fucking her! I was fucking Rachel! I was doing it! With her! With 
Rachel! 

I was hardly aware of her except as a warm soft body under me, a warm 
soft body with a hot wet pussy into which I was thrusting myself over 
and over and over. She had to be liking it, she was crying out in 
ecstasy, she was twisting and wiggling and squirming in my arms. My 
mind drifted while my body moved of its own accord. I thought of how 
much she must love me, how she'd never again fuck anyone but me. I'd 
show those guys! This slut, this whore, this nympho girl was MINE! 
Mine to fuck, screw, hump, mine to hold forever and ever. I could 
hardly wait for my first blowjob, I knew she'd be good, she had to be 
good, as much practice as she'd had, oh wow it would be great, to 
have my dick in her mouth, her sucking, licking, just the way she did 
in my mind when I was jerking off, and coming, coming in her mouth, 
OH GOD I WAS COMING, coming in her, coming in her pussy, pumping my 
jizz into her wetness, still thrusting, I could never stop thrusting, 
oh man it was so much more intense than anything I'd ever felt by 
myself, god, this was the WAY to COME, this was IT! 

With the last spurt of my come into her belly, my thrusting motion 
stopped, without any conscious thought on my part. I rolled off of 
her, onto my back, lying there looking up at the ceiling above. I was 
drained, drained of energy, drained of come, drained of ambition to 
ever move again. But I had done it. I had fucked Rachel! 

God, it was such an awesome feeling. I wasn't a virgin anymore; I was 
a man! I'd fucked the girl of my dreams, pumped her slut pussy full 
of my come... Uh-oh. My come, in her pussy. Uh-oh! What if she got 
pregnant? My rollercoaster of joy had gone over the top and now went 
crashing down down down the other side. Pregnant! No! Oh, wait, no, 
of course not, I told myself, emotions leveling off and climbing back 
toward the heights again. Of course a free-fucking slut like Rachel 
would be on the Pill - there was no way she could get pregnant! 
Problem solved, I grinned hugely and congratulated myself on a job 
well done. I struggled to sit up so that I could look at her and see 
how well she had liked my performance. 

She was crying. She was a mess, hair awry, white sweater splashed 
with red, skirt up around her waist, more of that red punch dripping 
between her thighs, and her lovely face all pinched and anguished and 
wet with bitter tears as she sobbed. 

"Why?" she asked, in a husky whisper. "Why?" 

I sat, looking at her, puzzled. What was she talking about? 

Her voice rose as she went on. "I was a VIRGIN, oh gawd, oh gawd, I 
was a VIRGIN and I was SAVING myself and you TOOK IT AWAY FROM ME! oh 
GAWD, you TOOK IT, you RAPED ME, oh gawd, Tony, WHY? WHY? You RAPED 
ME!" she screamed. "You RAPED ME! OH GAWD, WHY?" 

She was crying, sobbing, screaming and I couldn't figure out why. 
Hadn't she liked it? 

The door crashed open as somebody kicked it in, and then the lights 
came on and people were flooding into the bathroom. The girls crowded 
around Rachel and the guys grabbed hold of me, and it seemed that 
there was some problem with my hearing as I could not make out any 
words in the tumult of shouting - or rather, I could make out only 
one word: "Rape! rumble-rumble-grumble-mumble Rape! brumba-grumba-
mumba RAPE! razza-frazza-brazza-grazza Rape! RAPE! RAPE! RAPE!" I 
realized then that my life as I'd known it was over. 

They beat me up, of course. There were a couple of big football jocks 
who felt it necessary to vent their anger and show off their 
manliness by pounding the living shit out of me. I'd never felt such 
pain as when two of my ribs broke; at least, not until they broke my 
nose. That was worse. The last thing I remember was a blow to the 
side of my head that shot flaming hot stars all across my field of 
vision - then nothing. 

I woke up in the hospital, where it soon became clear that everyone 
knew what had happened to put me there, and equally clear that they 
all hated me for it. I'm sure there must have been less painful ways 
that my wounds could have been cleaned, gentler ways that my bandages 
could have been changed. Nobody seemed interested in letting me find 
out, though. 

I didn't know what to say to my parents when they came to visit, and 
they didn't know what to say to me. We had some really long silences. 
No one else even came to visit me. No one at all. 

I guess I was lucky that I was only sixteen. There was no formal 
prosecution, only a referral to the juvenile office. A caseworker 
came to interview me while I was still in the hospital, and I spilled 
my guts. It was stupid, I guess, telling him everything like that, 
but he was the first person since it happened who actually wanted to 
talk to me and it all just came pouring out. If I was looking for 
sympathy or understanding, that was the wrong place to look for it. 
My confession only sealed my fate. 

There was a court hearing the day I got out of the hospital, before I 
even had a chance to go home. I don't remember much of it, except 
that everyone there hated me. The caseworker gave a report to the 
judge, and the judge told me that I was a juvenile sex offender, a 
criminal, not fit to associate with decent people. He seemed to think 
that he was letting me off easy in sentencing me to a "juvenile 
treatment facility" for an indefinite term. 

My story actually bought me some status at Oak Crest Home. I was a 
rapist, a violent criminal, a tough guy, and I was looked up to by 
the other guys who were there for habitual stealing or taking drugs 
or just being unable to coexist with their own parents. Some of the 
girls even seemed impressed by it, unlikely as that sounds. 

One who didn't seem to be impressed was Natasha. She lived in the 
cottage next door to mine, and we were on the same meal shift. She 
was a beauty, with dark hair and darker eyes. She looked like an 
angel to me, but the guys in my cottage told me she was a real slut. 
None of them had actually been with her, but they knew two guys from 
another cottage who had done her together, one guy fucking her while 
she sucked the other guy's dick. I looked at her a little differently 
after I heard about that. Maybe she wasn't an angel. But maybe I 
should get to know her, anyway... 


The End 




 "R Jacobin" <jacobin2k@hotmail.com> 
 Subject: Write Club: Taking the Flyer [mf] 

Taking the Flyer 

I never meant to go bad. I just hung out with the wrong people. I 
went to college with my friends, who all became computer science 
majors, took the same crappy tech support jobs with them to pay 
tuition, booze, and drugs, and followed them in to Microsoft, where 
my sociology degree somehow landed me a job as an HR recruiter, while 
my friends drank from the firehose of stock options, Bill Gates 
feeding a sea of gaping programmer rictus with dangling T-shirts and 
merchandise at the annual meetings as I wondered where my parents had 
gone wrong. 

Which is how I got to be on a flight to San Francisco, first class, 
bored and tired, on my third beer, trying to shake up a conversation 
with the beautiful woman next to me. Because I didn't care anymore: 
normally I'd give her the polite nod, and go about my way. But this 
woman was a beautiful fair blonde wisp with long straight hair, 
dressed in what appeared to be a silk dress, slick off her shoulders 
to her little breasts, and I wasn't going to see her again and didn't 
care anyway. Nothing I'd been doing had worked in months, I was bored 
with work, and decided, then, that I was going to do things 
differently and see what it got me. 

I stole her newspaper. It was the San Jose Examiner, the Silicon 
Valley paper of record, which she must have had to seek out at 
Seatac. She stared at me. 

"You stole my paper," she said, turning to me. She had bright green 
eyes that flashed, a cute upturned nose. Her eyebrows were low and 
angry. 

"I didn't steal it," I said. "I'm embracing it and will return it to 
you later with new proprietary extensions." 

She sighed. "You're a Microsoft boy, aren't you?" 

"A man, yes. I'm Denny, likeable black man." I offered her my hand. 
"What sends you to San Francisco?" 

She stared at my hand. "I have a conference to go to." 

I held my hand there, between seats. "Hey yeah? Me too. I'm going to 
the big San Jose IT Hiring Conference." 

She blinked. "You damn well are not." 

I turned my hand up. "I swear," I said. I put it back out to shake. 
She shook, her hand cold in mine. "So," I said, "you want to go to 
dinner, we get into town? I'm sure there's someplace to eat 
somewhere." 

"No." 

"Why not?" 

"I just don't want to." 

"You have a guy?" 

"No, I just don't want to." 

"Look, you don't know me, you're never going to see me again, just 
tell me why. Otherwise I'm going to bug you the rest of this flight, 
and I'm feeling really immature." I poked her. "Tell me." I poked her 
again. "Tell me." 

"I don't date black men," she said at last. Across the aisle, someone 
looked at us. 

"Mind your own damn business," I said. "Why not?" 

"Never appealed to me." 

"I'm actually sort of mixed, racially, if that makes you feel any 
better. You don't find me appealing?" 

She smiled, and I reeled in shock. "A little, in a childish sort of 
way." 

"Hey, you ever had sex in the bathroom?" 

"No," she said. "I like to keep my functions separate." 

"You don't ever feel the need? Don't ever want to do something crass, 
like walk up there with me, get in, struggle around, have some 
awkward, unsatisfying sex, and then come out, almost daring someone 
to say something?" 

She chewed on this. "You've got me. But the answer to your question 
is no." 

"What about some rubbing under the trays?" I leered, trying to work 
the eyebrows. 

She laughed. "No." 

"How about dinner, then?" 

"Fine, just shut up," she said. "Stop talking." 

"I'm Denny, likeable black man," I said, extending my hand. "What 
kind of food do you like?" 

"I'm Rachel, baffled white girl," she replied, shaking again. Her 
hand was still cold. "I like sushi." 



I bribed my way into a packed sushi bar, our luggage stashed in the 
trunk of my rental car (the Lincoln Town Car, choice of quality 
mobsters everywhere, acquired by bribing the Hertz rental clerk 
repeatedly), and I talked to Rachel about the challenges of picking 
out ideal candidates to join a massive, evil, wildly successful IT 
company. It turned out she knew me by reputation from two friends 
who'd moved south after leaving the Empire. I turned on her, asked 
random entertaining questions about her life hopping from belly-up or 
belly-uping startups in the Valley, and lo, at the end of the dinner, 
we went out for drinks and after drinks we were heckling some 
terrible comedian in some hole, and then she was kissing me in the 
brick alley two streets off, one hand on my crotch, rubbing, the 
other around my shoulders. I looked around, worried we were going to 
get the beatings of a lifetime, but she seemed not to care, stripping 
my jeans down with the fine boxer-briefs. I felt the cold night air 
on my sweaty erection, and looked at her to see where this had come 
from. She was looking down, her blonde hair draping down, her fair 
hand on my light brown shaft, and under the alcohol haze, I could 
feel her soft touch moving back and forth, dragging electricity with 
it. 

Rachel knew how hard to touch, hard enough that I could feel she was 
serious, know where the hand was. It was already the best sex I'd had 
in months. 

"You don't have to --" I started. 

"Oh, shut up," she replied. "That good?" 

"That's great." 

She kept her head close as she went on. "We've been pretty honest 
with each other, Denny, so I'll be blunt -- I thought black people 
were supposed to be hung." 

I scanned the alley again. "Oh, we are. But you just have to get us 
real excited. Takes a while for all the blood to get down there." 

Rachel worked on my erection a little harder, a little faster, 
keeping it from curving up towards my belly. She looked up at me, 
smiling. 

"Is that so?" 

I nodded. She put her lips to the head of my prick and drew down 
softly, and I moaned. She drew off, and then back, and I ran my hands 
through her hair, feeling her hand on my shaft, keeping slow time 
with her hot, wet mouth. I could feel the quick tingling building in 
my back; I would not be long for this world. 


There was someone to my left. He was huge, black, and built like an 
ice-cream cone, huge shouldered, and wore a uniform. 

"The hell are you doing?" he asked, in the cop voice you get issued 
at academy along with baton and badge. Rachel froze, as if the cop 
only reacted to movement, like a raptor. 

"Hang on just a second," I said, pushing my slick head past Rachel's 
lips gently. I shuddered and came, then shortly again, and stopped, 
breathing hard. I stepped back, gently stuffed my erection into my 
shorts and went all the way down to pull my jeans back up. Rachel 
stood slowly, turning away from the cop as she swallowed, making sure 
her hair fell across her face to keep her profile obscured. 

"Nothing," I said. "I've been drinking, you see, and I was going to 
urinate here, in public, but I couldn't work my belt, because it's 
complicated, when you've been drinking, and my girlfriend Rachel here 
was helping me undo my pants and so I admit it, you can go ahead and 
cite me for urinating in public, I'm sorry I did it, but I'll pay my 
dues." 

The cop looked at me, at Rachel. "Do you have ID, ma'am?" 

Rachel fished a white card out of a pocket and handed it to him. He 
looked at it for only a moment and handed it back. "It's really not 
worth my time to write you up for public urination," he said. He 
cracked a smile and almost started to laugh. His smile disappeared. 
"Now get on out of here." 

Rachel started to talk in the elevator to my expensive, bribery-
upgraded hotel suite (seriously, folks, if you can't just bill these 
things, find the lowest-paid employee who can upgrade you and slip 
them twenty as an opening bid and work from there). 

"I always wanted to do something like that, just really sexy and in 
control. I almost took you up on the plane." 

"On the bathroom?" I said. "You're kidding." 

"Nope," she said. "You're a real charmer, in a weird sort of 
adolescent sense." 

Rachel took off the dress before the door had even closed, pulling it 
over her head. What had I started? She walked to the bed, where she 
flopped down on her back, eyes closed. 

"Your turn," she said. "What do you want to do that's really dirty?" 

I paused. "I've always wanted to have anal sex," I said. "Never 
have." 

"Got a condom?" 

I did. Rachel put it on, bantering as she went. "I used to have this 
boyfriend, he was into straight sex but for some reason he always 
wanted to come in my ass." She shrugged, done. "Ah, I don't know. 
People are weird." 

She bent over the bed, leaning a little so she was lined up for a 
nice, easy entry. It didn't work -- nothing opened, I was loathe to 
push on past that unwilling barrier, and after some aligning and 
instruction, I gave up and started all over, sitting on the bed, with 
her on my lap, kissing her softly, touching her hair, until finally 
she rose a little, came in a little, and settled down into my second 
quality sexual experience in months. I paid all attention to her 
then, grazing my hands along her chest softly, circling the soft rise 
of her breasts, keeping one hand at the small of her back so she was 
well aligned for both sliding and rubbing, and slowly she responded, 
keeping just on the entry and near-exit, rubbing forward against my 
stomach as she went. She bit my neck, hard, and cried out softly as 
she trembled in my arms, coming again and again, squirming and 
grinding, and then sighed, pushed off, and laid back on the bed, 
naked and shining in sweat, head on pillow. 

"Are you hiring?" Rachel said, her chest rising and falling. A tear 
ran off one eye, and she destroyed it with a backhand wipe. 

"As long as there is a market undominated, yes," I said. "I don't 
know if I'm going to keep doing it, though." 

"What? You're funny, even if you're sort of being weird on a lark, 
and..." she seemed to be considering saying anything. "Look, here's 
the scoop. I'm thin, so I get the first look, but I don't have tits -
- I mean seriously, they don't sell bras my size that aren't padded, 
Denny -- so it's like I'm cute and not sexy. My dates have been so 
awkward. I've felt good tonight, even when we couldn't get something 
working. You're a born recruiter." 

I looked at Rachel lying on the soft, fluffy, wet comforter for a 
long minute. 

"Now sleep in the wet spot, and we'll head out tomorrow." 


I showered alone in the morning. You want to know what a posh hotel 
this was? No washcloth in the shower: they had a luffa for my bathing 
needs, scratchy, organic, and painful. Part of the New Cruelty. I 
used a washcloth. 

Rachel was making coffee as I came out. 

"You want to go get breakfast?" I asked, mopping my close crop of 
hair with a towel. She gave me the look again. I approached the bed, 
tossed the 

"I was just thinking that you never finished last night," she said. 
"I was thinking that'd be a good start." 

"Beats oatmeal," I said. "But we have to get to the keynote, or we'll 
miss check-in and I'll have to come up with excuses about what that 
expense money bought." 

Rachel sighed. "Well, let's meet up again later. We're not done yet." 
She walked to the bathroom to shower, and I dug some clothes out of 
my carry on. 



The IT Hiring Conference is like an exhibition, except that no one 
really cares about the booths, or the companies. And while it's 
supposedly there to get us to go to seminars and training, what it's 
really about is sending your best HR recruiters to recruit other 
companies' HR people, who are there for the same reason. It's 
cutthroat networking with unreasonable signing bonuses. 

I met a sweet young woman from India named Hema at the booth for some 
database company . She was a foot shorter than me and flashed a 
killer smile as she shook my hand. 

"Denny? I heard about you from Jessie, she used to work with you. I 
heard you never made a bad hire." She was still smiling but it was 
thin, as if she didn't really believe the rumor but had a plan if it 
was true. 

"Nope," I said, looking at her. "I don't get fooled." 

"That's a valuable talent. We could use a person like you," she said. 
"Jessie told me I should see if you're interested in leaving." 

I laughed. "I'm not fooled," I said. 

Hema looked me up and down, chewing over her plan again. Their 
display space was short and shallow, especially compared to the space 
they'd rented and tented. If this had been a software expo, I would 
have figured that was where the post-NDA demos were. 

"It's just not worth it to leave," I said. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean 
to be rude." 

"Come back," she said. "I'll show you what we're working on." She 
ducked behind the curtain, and I followed. It was a bunch of demos, 
running some sort of database thing I didn't understand. I stared at 
it, and then looked at the woman, who was unbuttoning her shirt. 

"Denny," she said. "I will have sex with you right now and all I want 
in return..." she dropped her shirt. She had lovely breasts, hand-
sized. "... I want you to consider leaving. Seriously consider it. If 
you don't come work with me, okay, but while you're down here, think 
about a new job." She stepped out of her khaki slacks. 

"Uh, okay," I stammered, stupidly. 

"Take off your clothes and lie back on the table," she said. I laid 
back among the forms and paper on the table for applicants to fill 
out contact forms, negotiate signing bonuses, betray employers 
bankrolling their trip here. A sturdy wood foldable table, which is 
another thing tech money can buy. I was nervous -- what if someone 
interested in defecting to a database wrapper company came by, ducked 
behind the curtain-- but I was already hard again, unsatisfied from 
last night's aborted tries, and she straddled me on top, hand back, 
guiding me into her, and it was glorious. Hema must have been 
prepped, because she was slick and wet, but she was tight around me, 
and I could feel her clamping down as I came all the way up into her. 
She exhaled sharply, and as she moved up, I took a breast to mouth, 
catching the nipple as it slid up from my chin and biting it. The 
dizzy sensation from my cock spread across my skin as she came down 
again, tensing inside, and I gasped in pleasure. She smiled, 
stopping. 

"No," I said. She went on downwards, the heat and the wetness filling 
my senses, and I closed my eyes, my back arching beneath me. I felt 
nothing but the hot, wet, dizziness, and it went on and on until she 
stopped again, wiggling, my head sliding along her soft labia. 

"You still with me?" 

"Yes." 

"Do you remember what you're going to do?" 

"I don't remember who I am," I said. 

"That's good enough," Hema said, and moved her hips back down, 
forcing a fast entry. She kissed me hard, and we started to move 
together, shaking the table, and I shouted out as I came inside her, 
the warmth and slickness draining from my limbs to my shoulders and 
chest and out, leaving only dizziness and goosbumps in their wake. 
She came off me and I looked at her, blank, and she was standing next 
to the table, her thighs slick, looking at my stiff erection, still 
twitching with my sharp inhalations. 

She took my slick erection in a hard grip and pumped once, coming off 
to run her palm along my aching head, then back to working it, her 
hand almost painful, but it was so sexy, her hand fast on my dick, 
lubricated by her juice and my semen, and the dizziness built quickly 
and I came again after only a minute, pushing semen everywhere -- 
some guy's resume I'd swept off, database company slick brochures -- 
and she slowed at last, waiting until finally there was nothing to be 
squeezed out. 

"I think job satisfaction is a big part of anyone's life," Hema said. 
"I don't think you've been getting enough of that." She produced some 
paper towels, tore a couple for me to clean myself, wiped herself 
immodestly, and started to put her clothes back on. "I wish I had 
more time, Denny, because there's a lot more I could do for you, I 
think. My card's in your pants." 

I stepped out of the demo. The foot traffic was oblivious, but there 
were people on both sides, hawking their companies' health insurance 
plans, giving me a serious look-see. I fled, my breath still ragged, 
and found a bar. 

There was a woman next to me at the bar I tried to ignore. The 
bartender tried to ignore me. 

"Hi, I'm Suzi," she said, extending a soft hand to me. She was 
beautiful, glowing brown eyes. She had a white T-shirt with a giant 
semicolon on it. 

"What does your company do, develop punctuation?" 

She laughed. "I don't know, really, I just work there. You're pretty 
cute. And you're pretty built. Do you play sports?" 

"Yes, I play basketball and football, and now that Tiger Woods has 
blazed a trial, golf." 

"Seriously." 

"I play badminton. Game of finesse. No, I'm serious." 

Suzi didn't seem sure if I was putting her on or not. "So anyway, you 
want to go skip back to your room, have some fun?" 

I looked her up and down. She seemed... worn, like a year-old car 
with two hundred thousand miles on it. The body'll look good, sure... 
I knew women like that from the suburb where I grew up, beautiful 
girls with that same long hair, who would do anything possible on the 
hood of a Camaro, be insatiable sex kittens, give blowjobs daily and 
talk about how much they loved to do it, and then, once married, lost 
their libido and found fifty pounds. 

"No," I said, "not with you, no." 

She made a soft spitting sound with her lips and turned away. I went 
to find another place to drink. 

Some internet company had two great booths -- they'd hired booth 
candy to lure men in to one, geared to money and status and guns, the 
other to more Oprah tastes (which didn't register on me, as 
intended). What did register was the models' enormous, implanted 
chests in company-logo cutoff shirts. I began a slow orbit. 

The head recruiter picked me out of the crowd, called me by name, and 
tried to haggle me into a job, becoming more and more aggressive, his 
offers to my mind ludicrous and impossible, until he gave me a pass 
card and told me to head upstairs in the hotel to a room number. I 
started to walk away and the models were gone. 

There was no way. I was a good recruiter, maybe even a great one, but 
was this what a three-year luck streak got you? Was luck really a 
marketable job skill? How much was it worth? 

Apparently. The room was tiny, a double, but the models looked even 
better naked, their trained-into-hourglass hips, their heavy, 
impossibly round breasts, and they both walked towards the door as I 
entered. I considered asking them what this kind of service cost, but 
instead got down into some lotion, rubbing those sweet, fake breasts 
down, and then on the bed pumping my dick between their soft, warm, 
firm breasts as they tweaked their own nipples and moaned a little. I 
was spent and had the advantage of endurance, so I started to get 
silly -- I had them both lean over the bed next to each other and 
spent a couple minutes screwing one from behind and then taking the 
other, both of them wet and easy, until I realized it was too much 
trouble moving from one to the other and let it go in the one I was 
one, then moved back onto the bed, a tangle of limbs as I laid on 
one, the other feeding me a nipple, and I came weakly, withdrew 
sheepishly. It hurt to come out, I was tender and chafed. The models 
both looked at me, unsure their job was done. 

"I'm sorry, that's all you get," I said. "It's been a really long day 
for me. But thanks, maybe I'll see you again this week." 

"Maybe," one said, with well-acted sincerity. Like fake breasts, you 
sort of pretend you believe these things. 



I retreated to my hotel room and fell asleep. Rachel woke me only an 
hour later, having been unable to find me on the floor. She woke me 
by kicking me in the temple. 

"I've got this amazing idea," she said, punching me in the chest to 
get me up. 

"Let me take a flying guess," I said. "You want to hire me, and --" 

"We should run a recruiting company. Now, think if it -- if you could 
hire guaranteed good people, how much would you pay? Now, I'm really 
good, trust me, but you're impossibly good -- we can make millions!" 

"Can this wait? I'm really tired out." 

"No! We need to announce here, it'll be great! The race is won by the 
swiftest, you know the proverb." 

"I don't think that's--" 

"Well, screw me then, Denny, it doesn't matter what the proverb is. 
Let's do it." 

I rolled over onto my sore, chafed dick, pillow around my head. 

"Later," I said. "Let me rest first." 

================================================================== 


 "Rachel's day" 
 Aquillae <Aquillae@excite.com> 

At six forty-five the alarm went off.  At six forty-six the snooze 
button was pressed.  At six fifty-one the alarm went off again.  At 
six fifty-two the snooze button was slapped.  At six fifty-seven the 
alarm went off again. At six fifty-seven the clock was hit with a 
Styrofoam brick.  The alarm clock shrugged off the assault and 
continued to perform its duty in life -to aggravate. 

At seven o'clock Mrs. Patty Preston entered her daughter's room.  
"Come on. Time to get up, Miss sleepy eyes."  It was the customary 
greeting she had used with her daughter since the third grade when 
Rachel first began to show a disinterest in getting up early for 
school. 

Rachel lifted her head slowly up from the pillow, gazed around at her 
mother in her morning dress and curlers, blinked a few times, then 
plopped her head back down on the pillow were she was certain it 
belonged. 

"Come now, Rachel."  her mother sat on the bed and shook Rachel's 
shoulder, "You don't want to be late for school, do you?" 

Rachel mumbled a reply into the pillow. 

Mrs. Preston, a veteran mother with four children already graduated 
from high school, knew what she had to do to force the issue.  
Without saying a word, she quietly stood up, walked to the foot of 
the bed, and took hold of the covers.  In a quick movement that would 
have made a matador envious she pulled the blankets off the bed. 

"Mother!" Rachel screamed as she leapt forward for the blankets to 
cover her naked body. 

Her mission accomplished, Mrs. Preston tossed the blankets back to 
her daughter.  As she walked to the door she commented, "If you hurry 
your oatmeal may still be hot."  In the hallway she glanced back to 
make sure Rachel hadn't gone back to bed. 

Rachel sat on her bed with the blankets pulled up over her shoulders. 

Mrs. Preston smiled.  "Well, that will teach you to lay in bed too 
long." 

*---------* 

At quarter to eight Rachel pulled into the student parking lot.  She 
drove over to the last isle in the lot, traditionally reserved for 
the seniors. Bypassing several open slots, she came at last to the 
parking spot she had used since the beginning of the school year. 

Parked in her spot was a cherry red camero. 

Furious at the intrusion into her private reserved spot Rachel pulled 
her car into the open space next to the infringing vehicle.  A 
malicious thought passed across her mind as she prepared to open the 
door.  She knew a little dent as payment for the intrusion would be 
mean, but the deciding force that halted her from swinging the door 
open hard was the realization that given her recent luck she would 
probably be caught by some freshman doing it. 

As she reached to open the door, a thick mop of blonde curls fell in 
through the open window. 

"Hey, girl!" Cindy Adams greeted her classmate with a pop of her gum. 

"Hey, yourself." Rachel grabbed her books and purse and exited her 
car. "Listen Cindy, I'm sorry about poaching your spot.  But some 
jockstrap took mine." 

"Sure.  No sweat."  The two walked toward the side doors, "I got a 
ride with Kevin." 

"You actually got him to drive all the way up the mountain to pick 
you up?" 

"Who said anything about him coming to my house to pick me up this 
morning?" Cindy smiled as she opened the door. 

Rachel grabbed her by the shoulder to stop her.  "No.  No way.  You 
didn't. Did you?  God, you did!" 

Cindy's sweet innocent smile was Rachel's only reply. 

*---------* 

"What's that you're doing?" 

"Studying." Rachel replied. 

"Looks more like cheating." 

"And how would you know, Miss A-plus?" Rachel punctuated the sentence 
by sticking her tongue out at Amy Lynn, the senior class nerdette. 

Rachel ignored the girl and went back to writing down the vocabulary 
words for Mr. Henderson's English class. 

"Okay, give me the next one." 

"Let's see.  Verbose.  Adjective.  Means wordy." Cindy read off the 
word and definition as she also marked her hand with the words. 

"Next." 

"Okay, ah." 

"Come on.  We're running out of time.  Lunch period's almost over."  
Rachel was getting desperate.  With only fifteen minutes left the two 
would be cheaters had managed to copy down just seven of the twenty-
five vocabulary words that were going to be on the test.  "Next 
word!" 

"Rictus.  Noun." 

"What's the definition?" 

Cindy scrunched her forehead as she re-read the definition.  She read 
it again.  But it still didn't make any sense to her. 

"The expanse of the open mouth."  Amy Lynn remarked. 

The two girls looked up at her. 

"You know, Rachel.  Like when you're trying to stuff Richard's dick 
down your throat."  Pleased with her remark, Amy Lynn turned and 
skipped away. 

"That little bitch." Rachel finally found her thoughts after the 
surprise of hearing Amy Lynn say the word dick. 

"Forget about her.  Write."  Cindy urged. 

*---------* 

At just after six Rachel arrived home tied and exhausted.  Two solid 
hours of badminton.  What was she thinking?  Her arms were sore.  
Every muscle in her body ached.  All she wanted now was a long hot 
bath, a cold drink, and her pillow. 

Walking through the kitchen, she made a stop at the refrigerator for 
the cold drink.  She grabbed the bottle of Dr. Pepper and poured 
herself a glass.  As she was putting the bottle back, she noticed the 
Styrofoam container on the second shelf.  She pulled it out and 
opened it.  It was her brother's left over Chinese take-out from last 
night.  She picked through it, but wasn't really interested in it.  
She had lost most of her appetite running around with a chili dog in 
her stomach. 

She placed the container back in the refrigerator and closed the 
door. 

As she turned to make her way toward the steps, she saw the one 
remaining fortune cookie on the window sill.  She grabbed it, and 
headed upstairs. 

Soaking in the warm bubbly water, Rachel opened the cookie and read 
the proverb.  She laughed. 

Reaching over the side of the tub, she lifted the towel and picked up 
her luffa.  She settled back down into the warmth of the bathtub.  
With her left foot she turned the hot water on just a little more.  
She brought the luffa into the tub and slowly began to slide it down 
between her thighs. 

*---------* 

Wrapped in her bathrobe, Rachel sat huddled in her chair in front of 
her computer reading the days emails.  There were a few jokes from 
Billy.  A long letter from her email pal in Canada.  And one from 
Cindy with an urgent marker next to it. 

She opened Cindy's letter and read it.  It was a detailed account of 
what had happened the night before at Kevin's house. 

Quickly Rachel opened a message to reply to Cindy's, and quickly 
began to type.  She paused for a few moments to think of something to 
write next. 

"A semicolon really doesn't fit there, dear." 

"Mother!"  Rachel covered the screen with her right arm. 

"I'm just trying to help."  Mrs. Preston dropped the clothes on the 
bed and walked out of the room. 


Aquillae 
"A satisfied virgin is a virgin no more." 
Mr.Lucus 'Are You Being Served' 


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