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Message-ID: <31022asstr$993237002@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "alancmcd" <alancmcd@lineone.net>
Subject: {ASSM} As Things Are (1/1) mf, mag, fdom
Date: Fri, 22 Jun 2001 15:10:02 -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

This one started as an attempt to deliberately write a story of less
than 2,000 words. It didn't work. It only just didn't work. But it
didn't work. Ah, well...

Usual stuff for me. A supernatural angle. Steer clear if you don't like
that sort of thing. But it's a gentle angle - no horror.

Plenty of sex though, so ADULTS ONLY please.

As usual, comments are very welcome indeed on alancmcd@lineone.net.

Have a good day, and let's be careful out there....

"Those days are over;
You don't have to sell your body to the night."
THE POLICE - Roxanne

AS THINGS ARE
By Alan C. McDonald

First time ever for me. First time ever. Just the circumstances, you
know. Away from home. A one off. Feeling lonely. Yadda-yadda-yadda.

She'd heard it all before, and too many times. Here I am in New York,
never been to New York, had to get a girl. Well, any guy would
understand that. Any guy would do the same thing. Same sad, pathetic,
lying toerag yadda-yadda-yadda. The only difference between this guy and
a hundred others was that he was her first Brit, but that was a big "so
what?" He, though, seemed to be pretty excited about fucking his first
American.

One problem - he had a trait which she'd always expected to find in a
Brit guy, on the few occasions she'd ever thought about it. He was
boring, with a capital BOR.

She played his conversation as background and concentrated on trying to
make him come. Get it over. Priorities. Give him what he's paid for,
then leave the tedious bastard to his room bar and multi-channel TV.

She was having to do pretty much all the work. Half-and-half here was
going to turn out three-quarters and a quarter, because she'd used up
most of the time that she'd mentally allocated him in getting him hard.
"You sure you wanted a black woman?", she'd asked him at one point,
breaking off some pretty skillful but unproductive friction sucking, and
he'd nodded vigorously.

At least when it had finally stood up, it had stood up proud enough to
be saluted, and it had turned out big enough to work with. At that
point, unsubtly and quickly, she'd peeled off her shorts, had climbed up
above him, and had impaled herself. Then, with cool professionalism,
she'd worked on him. Tricks of the trade. Style and substance, knowledge
and variety. Best efforts, in short. She was still doing so. And he was
still talking. Yap yap yap. Yadda-yadda-yadda.

"Bet you know all about guys like me", he was saying. "Bet you've got me
pegged, as you Americans say." His hands were working on her breasts,
the fingers stubby and a little callused. Occasionally, he tweaked her
nipples, often too hard. Once, she had to warn him, but after that she
put up with it in the interests of those priorities she'd identified.

"It ain't hard", she replied, changing pace, starting to slide forward
and back now rather than up and down, grinding him. His suddenly raised
thighs told her that he maybe liked that.

"I know all about you too", he told her, almost an offhand remark. "So
we're even."

"You know jack shit about me", she told him firmly. Intrusions like that
had to be cut back before they had chance to grow.

"I know more than you think", he disputed. "I might surprise you."

"Don't even try", she recommended, fighting the sneer which she knew he
would read as putting him down too far and would probably mean that she
had to work that little bit harder.

"First of all", he said, ignoring the advice, "your name isn't Davina."

She was actually offended that he might think her stupid enough to be
impressed by that. "Well, shock me again, Sherlock", she mocked him.

"Your name's Katie", he told her. "Your real name is Katie." And then,
as though rewarding himself, he pushed up into her, lifting her,
impaling her. In startled immobility, she let him.

"Now how in the world...", she began.

"You have two children", he interrupted. "Both girls. You do this job
mainly with them in mind. Not because they'd starve otherwise, because
you've got a fair bit salted away. No, for the future. College and such.
Because the idea of like mother, like daughters is out of the question
for you. You want a different sort of life for them."

With every fact, he drove his cock up and deep, firmly, with a force she
would normally have restrained out of concern that the condom might
stretch and burst.

"For just over four years, you worked at the local K-mart", he stated,
with the ease and confidence of a man reciting a memorised speech.
"That's where you first had offers. Sex for money. And you took some of
them up. Then you met.... Just a minute, bear with me, let the name
come. Yes. Then you met Clarence Stanton."

"Clarence was a real bad man", she said quietly, the memory close to
being as frightening as the life she'd lived back then. "But he can't
have sent you. He's been dead past four years. Some meaner
motherfucker's boot went and dropped against his head."

The Englishman had stopped moving. He was presumably confident of her
thrall. But he was wrong. And the height of his confidence, she decided,
was the moment to reclaim initiative, to ignore the inexplicable. The
X-Files could go hang, she resolved, because money was money, and escape
was escape.

She knew that she could make him come. He'd pushed himself to the edge,
and he was trying to lie low for a while. But even if he could read
minds, which she wasn't exactly giving in on, she was the one in the
room who could read bodies. Those little twitches against her pubic bone
told enough of the story, and the increasing stiffness of the rod was as
good as getting the author's name.

She started to fuck him again. Using the rhythm he'd started with her,
because he clearly liked it. And, she was right, as she expected to be,
as she always was. Just as salt absorbs water, she thought, Katie drains
a man when she wants to.

He understood her intention. "No, don't", he pleaded, his hands going to
her hips, trying vainly to slow her, failing, because she needed only
the slightest movement, and that was a movement which no kind of grip
could suppress. "Katie, don't."

"Davina to you, friend", she told him coolly, and she tightened her cunt
to grip the base of him, to suck the stuff out of him, moving up, just a
little, then firmly down, the drowning stroke, giving the cock no time
to breathe, giving its owner too much pleasure to contain.

He yelped in protest. "I want... I want...."

"Yeah, right", she said, easy, dismissive, with a note of pride because
she had felt his back stretch and his cock flex within her.

With a cry of mingled pleasure and frustration, the Englishman came. She
recognised the long series of throbs in the thing she held trapped
between her legs, recognised the tautening of the sheath as semen pumped
into its well.

She gave him as little time as possible before rolling clear of him. She
was on her feet before he'd even come back down to the real world,
before he'd opened his eyes. When he did open them, she retrieved her
handbag from the floor and extracted a tissue, which she handed to him.
She didn't ask whether he knew what to do with it. It was already
obvious that, contrary to his claims, he'd done this many times before.
Whether giving girls the heeby-jeebies always went along with the game
for him was not an area she wanted her mind to visit right then.

"I need to clean up", she told him.

He was still shellshocked. Her assumption of dominance for a second time
had clearly startled him, and he still seemed flummoxed by it. "Sorry",
he managed. "I don't...."

Business was done now. She had been paid up front. She had carried out
the task for which she had been paid. Politeness was a waste of energy.
"I need to use the bathroom", she enunciated, as though getting a
message through to a two year old child.

He waved a hand in a general direction. "Sure", he agreed. "Yes, sure."

*****

The bathroom was a splendid suite, offering the sort of luxury which
Katie was well used to visiting without option to linger. As she cleaned
herself up, she battened down her curiosity, lived with the confusion.
Magic, after all, was never very far from her soul. When she saw the
jacket hanging on the door, though, a spear of interest stabbed into
her. "Who are you really, you English bastard?", she wondered aloud.

With light fingered skill, she searched the pockets for some sort of
identification, and she found a stack of business cards. She removed
one, read it and learned that Ruston Grady was her customer's name. Not
Peter at all, as he had claimed. Well, what a big surprise that was!

The job title confused her. Queen's Counsel. Did that mean that he was
someone who advised the British Queen? She shrugged. Whatever it meant,
it didn't give her any clues. On an impulse, she pushed the card into
her purse and then continued her search.

In another pocket, she found a small plastic bag, which contained
something very odd. After long study, she concluded that she was looking
at the severed foot of a bird, perhaps a chicken. She returned the
package with a shudder. But now she had a hint, if only that, as to the
source of Grady's knowledge.

She left the bathroom to find him fully alert again, and dressed to the
waist.

"I'd like to see you again", he said without preamble.

"Sorry", she told him brusquely. "No."

"No?" He clearly hadn't expected a refusal.

"What part don't you understand?", she responded icily, and turned
towards the door with a curt, "Goodbye, then."

As she reached for the doorhandle, she heard him say, "There are other
things I could tell you, you know. Not about your past, or your present.
I could tell you things about your future."

She stopped, alarm bells ringing. She turned to face him. "You don't
have the right", she said.

"It's a gift I have", he blustered on. "Something I've always been able
to do. Let me just tell you one thing. You don't have to do this job. I
can tell you what your other qualities are. What your other options are.
I can find you other options myself. Just give me a couple of days of
your time."

Suddenly, he looked extremely vulnerable. A man run to seed in a hotel
room beyond his means. She felt pity. "Enchantment's in my bones", she
told him. "It's in my history. No good ever comes of it. I don't know
what you want from me. I don't know what you think I'm the right girl
for. But I'm not the right girl. You'll have to look again."

He didn't reply. He didn't deny her conclusions. She nodded curtly at
him, then left the room.

He called her again from the corridor just outside his room, and she
acknowledged him briefly, holding the elevator open with the heel of her
hand. "Think about it", he requested. "That's not asking too much, is
it? Think about what I could change for you."

"Oh, I'll think about it", she assured him, then stepped into the
carriage. Her sense of relief when she heard the whoosh of doors closing
and sensed downward motion was, she knew, out of proportion to her
experience, because she knew that she had never been in immediate
physical danger. But the relief was there, nonetheless, and it was huge.

*****

She kept her promise. She thought about it. During the time it took for
the lift to hit ground level, and for her to walk past the po-faced
reception guy and out onto the street. She thought mainly about
Clarence, remembering that he'd made some promises too, in the
beginning, and believing that it was probably easier for a clever man,
like the Englishman, to lie fluently than for a stupid man like
Clarence. And she considered the fact of her current independence, safe
in agency work, mistress of all that she needed to be mistress of. It
ain't broke, she realised. It ain't great, but it ain't broke. And if it
ain't broke...

Once she was free of the hotel, the sun hit her like a hammer blow. She
took out the business card again, tried to read it, but the paper was
white and the print was embossed. Her eyes only registered glare.

With a moue of disdain, she threw her only line of contact with Ruston
Grady into the nearest waste bin. She kept the seven hundred dollars
which she had also extracted from the wallet, because not to have done
so would have been plain rude.

"I can find you other options", he had told her.

No, Mr. Grant, she thought. Don't bother.

She would stick with the job she had just for the moment. On days like
today, it seemed just fine.

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