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Message-ID: <30028asstr$988308603@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Deja User" <empath69@my-deja.com>
Subject: {ASSM} "Alphabet Game: Hangover"{Dancer}(no-sex)
Date: Thu, 26 Apr 2001 14:10:03 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d


[Emp's Parting Shot: I suppose you could make a claim that the characters almost definitely engaged in 'intimate relations' before the story begins, so I'm still gonna post this one here.:)]

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<1st attachment, "Hangover.txt" begin>

SUBJECT LINE:
{ASSM}"Alphabet Game: Hangover"{Dancer}(no-sex)


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Admonition: This story contains explicit descriptions of 
people engaging in careless and unprotected sexual 
activity.  PLEASE do not emulate these people since they 
are fictional characters existing in a fantasy world where 
sexually transmitted disease and unwanted pregnancy don't 
happen.  You don't live in such a world, so "let's be 
careful out there."

Oh, and minors shouldn't be reading this stuff - if you 
can't place the quote I just made in the last paragraph, 
you probably aren't old enough to be flipping through ASS*. 
Bugger off and watch 'TV Land' instead, so you can bone up 
for little age-testing quizzes like this! :)


Copyright notice: Dancer, the author of this smutty little 
opus, holds all rights of reproduction.  Private copies for 
personal perusal and archives for NON-commercial 
distribution are permitted by her.


Plea for attention: The only reward ASS* authors can expect 
is the joy of sharing their creation with the rest of 
humanity.  But wait - how does that author KNOW if people 
are reading and enjoying his story?  Yep; if you like a 
story posted to alt.sex.stories.*, the fair thing to do is 
email the author and tell them so.  I promise that it'll 
make YOU feel good to send them kudos, after all, Mark 
Twain said, "The best way to cheer yourself up is to try to 
cheer someone else up."  As always you may contact me (and 
my wife Dancer) through my 'legacy' Deja News email 
account:             <empath69@my-deja.com>  
(Wow, I'm not just an author, now I'm an AGENT, too!  ;)


Editor's Note: Here it is - part eight of Dancer's 
'Alphabet Game'; twenty-six hot, little vignettes she 
whipped out in something like a week or two - Lord Malinov 
eat your heart out with that semi-annual 'story-a-day' run 
I remember *way* back in the 20th century! ;) (Is he still 
around?)

And relax - these stories are all self-contained - you 
don't HAVE to read them in order, or read any of the ones 
that might squick you...

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

The Alphabet Game (8/26)
Hangover
Copyright Dancer 2001

"Oooo," Marc moaned as he slitted his eyes against the 
bright sunlight. A marching band drummed through his aching 
skull, reminding him yet again how bad hangovers are. The 
inside of his mouth tasted like a wool sweater and his 
teeth felt fuzzy from the booze. Marc grunted and groaned 
as he rubbed the grit out of his eyes and tried to shift 
his right arm. "Uh oh." He sidled a glance at what was 
pinning his limb. "Fuck," he whispered, praying the woman 
didn't wake.

"We did that already," she grumbled against his armpit. She 
raised her head slightly, tousled brunette hair obscured 
her face until she shoved out of the way.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ. My first woofer," Marc said.

"You were the one howling last night, not me," she retorted 
and rolled to the other side of the bed.

"Spare me the details, honey. I'd prefer not to remember." 
He sat up slowly and massaged the pounding across his 
forehead. "Damn. Feels like the Rockettes are grinding 
their heels into my brain." Marc gingerly got out of bed 
and shuffled his way to the door. "I'm gonna take a shower. 
Get dressed and get out."

"My pleasure." The woman waited until Marc had left before 
testing her body. "Head doesn't hurt too bad. Legs are 
fairly steady. I think I can do this." She crawled off the 
bed to the floor and slithered over to her pile of clothes. 
Using TLC, she slipped her smoky tank top and linen shorts 
on, then lay breathless. Disgusting retching noises came 
from the closed bathroom door and her stomach reeled in 
protest. "Oh shit," she gagged and rushed to the door.

She banged it against the wall and fell to her knees. 
Pushing Marc out of the way, she puked into the toilet 
bowl. Marc grabbed her hair and jerked her away just in 
time as he puked over her head. They took turns praying to 
the porcelin god until their stomachs were emptied and 
cramped. The toilet flushed when he poked the handle down 
and he gave her a dopey stare. "I have never seen a girl 
puke like that."

"It was the pizza," she told him, her voice raspy. The 
couple sat on the cool tiled floor looking at each other. 
The woman managed to gain her footing and said, "We'll have 
to do this again sometime."

Marc brushed a hand along her bare leg. "Sorry about that 
shit earlier."

"'S okay."

"You're not a dog. Can I get your name and number?"

"My number's 465-8881. As for my name," she slapped his 
right biceps. "You already got that."

He squinted at the red and gold letters tattooed in his 
flesh. "Monica. The perfect end to a horrible night."

End part 8
=============

Editor's Postscript: Right!  Here's the real test of 
Dancer's fans - this story says UP-FRONT that it doesn't 
have any actual sex in it, so let's see how many people 
read it...:)

<1st attachment end>


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