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Subject: {ASSM} Story: "Becky and Me," (1/2) MF cons
Date: Sun,  5 Aug 2001 00:10:03 -0400
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Hi,

Following Stasya's lead, the following is a story that received no response 
after being posted on ASSM.  One peripheral question:  Did I code it 
correctly?  Should something else have been coded to give readers a better 
idea of the contents?

  --  Adrienne


*****************************************************************
The following is a work of fiction regarding sexual
relationships.  If you feel that it is illegal, immoral, or
otherwise improper for you to read this, then DON'T READ IT. 
*****************************************************************

Adrienne Brown Est. word count: 11,300
e-mail:  adrbrown@aol.com


BECKY & ME
(c)   2001 as told to Adrienne Brown.  All rights reserved.


Hi folks.  My name is Amy Grant, and I'm telling you this story
for Becky Richmond and me.  You see, we're small business women
and need to straighten out a blooper that some of you readers
picked up from a story published earlier here on ASSM.  I know
it's unusual for such a reply to be posted, but Jim Dawson used
our real names in his story.  And it's cut into business at Grant
& Richmond, Personal Services, Ltd.

Maybe we ought to get this all sorted out before you get
confused.  I refer to the story Jim Dawson told to Morgan, the
one titled "The Callaways: Jean & Jim."  I have no idea how much
total hokum that story contains, but when it comes to the parts
referring to Jim and Jean, on the one hand, and Becky and me, on
the other hand, there's quite a bit of bunkum there.

Now I don't blame Morgan for the bum scoop that you folks have
gotten.  In fact, Ms. Brown, Adrienne--the lovely lady who has
edited our story into something that hangs together and makes a
lot more sense than what we started with--knows Morgan and tells
me he wouldn't knowingly diss any human, living or dead.  So
don't blame Morgan.  It's all Jim Dawson's fault.  Him and his
fantastic male fantasies!


First things first, Becky and me want to reassure you all that
after Jim Dawson got done fucking us, we walked away, under our
own power, and we were not physically injured, much less scarred,
even temporarily.  Heck, each of us was able to, and did, service
a gentleman friend the very next evening.  (Adrienne has asked
that we tone down the swear words; some of you readers might be
touchy on that account.  And we certainly don't wish to turn off
any potential customers of ours.)

At Grant & Richmond, Personal Services, Ltd., it has been our
policy not to seek publicity, rather to rely on word of mouth
testimony of satisfied customers.  So when "Jean & Jim" was first
published, we planned to ignore it, despite the fact that both of
us were identified by our real names!  But events conspired
against that approach.  ("Conspired."  Now that's a word that
Adrienne suggested.  Sounds neat, doesn't it?)

In fact, the next Monday, when Rachel, our book keeper, showed up
for work she asked, "Ms. Grant, Ms. Richmond, do either of you
know Jim Dawson of Callaway Industries?"

Of course, we knew; but since Rachel only keeps our books and
isn't a pro, we both said, "No!"

"He's a VP out there, Chief Information Officer.  I was just
wondering.  There's a story that I spotted on the Internet over
the weekend and the author linked both your names to Jean and Jim
Dawson.  I mean, so many of the details work out, it's spooky."

Becky should have let it lie, but she asked, "Like what details,
Rachel?"

"Well, for one thing, Ms. Richmond, the author, somebody named
Morgan, uses many of the folks at Callaway Industries--you know,
just up the road here in Northbrook--as the characters in his
story.  I did a little snooping in the public library yesterday
and found that every one this Morgan fellow named as employees of
Callaway Industries is--or was--on their payroll.  More than
that, he knows that Jack Callaway's wife, Kate, was a TV
journalist in New York with by-lines under the name of Kate
Cornwall.  All that is in the story--"

I interrupted Rachel, "How come you call Mrs. Callaway 'Kate'?"

"Kate won't let anybody call her 'Mrs. Callaway' to her face. 
...  Afternoons I work for a private money manager who knows
Kate.  Last summer, she had me drive her out to the Callaway
estate and introduced me around.  Not only to Kate, but also to
Jean Dawson and their girls, Sandy and Susan.  All of them are in
this story.  All of them!  Now that's spooky!"

She paused just a moment.  "Another thing.  Whoever that Morgan
is who wrote that story seemed to know his way around that place. 
I mean, how many three hundred acre estates are there up in
Deerfield?  And how many of those have not one, but two nearly
identical sprawling ranch-style homes built around an eight-lane
Olympic size swimming pool?  Would you believe it?  The
Dawsons--Jean and Jim--live in that second home!  And each of
those homes have built-in climate control systems, very unusual.

"So, when I saw you and Ms. Richmond named...  I mean, saw your
names in the story, I just wondered."

"Well, it's possible that we may have met Mr. ...  What was his
name again?"

"Dawson, Ms. Grant, Jim Dawson."

"Yes, Mr. Dawson.  Now as I said, it's just possible that one or
the other of us may have met Mr. Dawson.  After all, in personal
services, we meet a large number of people.  Who knows?  A couple
of them might even work for Callaway Industries."

Rachel gave us the strange look that crosses her face whenever
one of us mentions "personal services."  (I'm sure she knows what
we do for a living, but we've never talked about it).  I headed
off any more questions.  "Rachel, do you think either Becky or me
would like that story?  Can you tell us where we can find it?"

Rachel blushed ever so slightly and then plunged ahead and told
us about ASSM, which, of course, we knew about already (_but not
that our dear sweet Rachel read it!_).  We thanked her, let her
get to work, and thought no more about the story.  Until last
week.  That was when Rachel, going over our bookings, informed us
that although business volume and new inquiries were still at the
seasonal rate, conversion of inquiries into personal contracts
had dropped off drastically.  We went over the records with her
and found that the drop off began with the posting of "Jean &
Jim."  Two in the first week, none since then.

Actually, it was Tara, our receptionist, who made the link.  She
told us that oh so often in the past three weeks, when folks
called, they asked, "Misses Grant and Richmond?  Are they Amy
Grant and Becky Richmond of 'Jean & Jim'?"

I went back to my office and sent an e-mail message to
Morgan--you know, the fellow who had written up Jim Dawson's
story--and asked him where else the story had been posted.  He
very kindly answered and said that it had appeared only on ASSM.

That bit of news just blew me away.  I mean, Jim Dawson's story
had appeared _once_ on ASSM and then we have a big drop-off in
new contracts!  Both Becky and me lurk the news group, but we
never guessed that so many folks here in Northern Illinois who
might want to use our services were faithful readers of ASSM. 
Once again, I want to assure all you folks who have steered clear
of Grant & Richmond, Personal Services, Ltd., 'cause of what you
read in "Jean & Jim," we are both physically fit and capable of
any services you may require.  And most certainly our bodaciously
shapely bods bear no scars.  For those of you who are still
dubious--worried about body make-up and such, we will let you
gentlemen (or ladies) scrub us down for no added charge.

*****************************************************************


Okay, now, the rest of this story is mine.  Becky and me disagree
on this.  She just wants to let sleeping dogs lie.  But me,
especially since Jim featured me in one of his "God's gift to
womankind" episodes ("episode," that's another word that Adrienne
suggested), I want to set the record straight.  After all, to
read that story of his, he taught me all I know in bed.  Ha! 
That's a hoot.

Now he got some of the story straight.  For example, I'm only
five-one, built like a brick shithouse, and cute as a button--if
I must say so myself.  Charley did card me, 'cause I do look so
much younger than my age (you guys out there, please note that
barkeeps still card me to this day).  I'm a farm girl who came
from Southern Illinois, where every week you go to Sunday School,
Church, and Midweek Prayer service.  Also, I had a boyfriend,
Fred Wilson, whose father bought a farm just outside of town and
kicked off while I was going to teacher's college, leaving Fred a
well-to-do young farmer.  Furthermore, before I met Jim Dawson, I
had been teaching school in a nearby town.  And, finally, I was a
pussy virgin when I walked into that singles bar.  But boy, did
he ever get all the other details wrong!

Take, for example, my looks.  That man, Jim Dawson, has a
king-sized fantasy that just doesn't quit about blue-eyed
blondes.  I mean, remember Jim's description of Merrilee Adams? 
"She had dark hair, lovely gray eyes and a slim figure."  God,
did he sell her short!  Merrilee's a babe.  Or as Becky says, a
stone fox.  Me?  I guess I should be flattered since Jim
describes me as a blue-eyed blonde.  Actually, I have light brown
hair, reaching half way to my waist, and hazel eyes.

As for my virginity, as I said above, I was a pussy virgin.  Some
of you may have heard that farm girls take it up the ass.  Well,
I sure did.  By eighth grade, I was tired of stirring the honey
pot to get off.  I had roaring female hormones and the poop chute
is the safest place to get fucked and not get pregnant.  Now
don't get the idea I was the town tramp.  That's not true.  I
saved my asshole for guys I really liked (or who would really
make it worth my while, if you know what I mean).  But by the
time we graduated high school, I had blown nearly every boy in
the class and had eaten a couple of the girls.  So much for Jim
teaching me everything I know in bed.

Also, according to Jim, I was dumped by my boyfriend, Fred.  It's
true that he married the banker's daughter, but that was strictly
business; the marriage was collateral on the loans he needed for
the farm.  Fred and I still saw each other; I sucked his cock and
he stuffed my ass every Saturday night while Mabel thought he was
out "bowling with the boys."

Another thing Jim flubbed was that, besides Sunday School,
Church, and Midweek Prayer, I also sang in the Church Choir.  And
that's how, sadly,  I came to leave home.  One Thursday night
after choir practice, the preacher's wife came into the sanctuary
where the Reverend had me bent over the Communion Table,
cornholing me, shouting, "Glory be to God."  It was such a shame
I hadn't been the quietest fuck in town; I sort of liked my cut
of the collection plate.

Now, there are things in that story that are all my fault--my
college record and where I taught.  Jim told Morgan that I got my
degree from Greenville College.  That's not quite true.  What I
told Jim was that after I graduated from Taylorville High School
I went to Greenville to study English.  I sort of left out the
fact that I flunked out in the first semester at Greenville.  I
actually got my degree from a public university.  Which one?  I'm
not telling.  I actually liked some of my professors and don't
want them to get in trouble.

Since I'm not the brightest bulb in the string of lights, you
must have figured out by now how I got the teacher's credential. 
At first, I didn't know which instructors would give me a "C" for
what I had to offer, so it took me five years to get through
school.  You see, I had to monkey with my schedule in order to
get all my required courses from helpful professors.  A couple of
rim jobs each and I got nice letters of recommendation in my
file.  And a few counseling sessions (blow, buttfuck, and rim
job) with the Placement Director and he got me interviews with
the Directors of Personnel for school districts which would be
able to use a teacher with my particular qualifications.

Now, I'm really sorry about the Deerfield High School part of the
story.  I told Jim that whopper.  I mean, how could a dumb bunny
like me get hired in such a good school district?  Where did I
teach?  Again, I'm not telling.  Some of those folks still look
me up from time to time.  In any event, I didn't last beyond the
first year as a high school teacher.

It was just my luck that here in Northern Illinois, parents even
in the poorest schools check to see whether or not the kiddies
are learning anything and many parents do have a clue about what
should be taught.  I don't know what I was thinking of, but come
Spring of my first and only (probationary) year, I was desperate
to hold onto my job.  And so, I offered to blow the whole darned
School Board.  I should have checked first; but coming from
downstate--where men are men, I wasn't aware of the need to be
careful.  As it turned out, one of the board members was light in
the loafers, so my offer wasn't exactly what he was looking for. 
In fact, he was so pissed, he wanted my scalp then and there.

He turned the District's legal beagle loose and told her to nail
my hide to the wall and those of "any other personnel culpable in
the hiring and retention of such an obviously unsuitable
individual."  Lucky for me, those words were slipped into the
revised letter of appointment, 'cause when it turned out that I
had been servicing all the male members of the school faculty and
staff, the Board was persuaded to sweep it under the rug and to
allow me to quietly finish out my contract.  Well, as quietly as
the legal beagle would allow as I munched her beaver for the rest
of the year.  It was all on the house; I was thankful as heck
that after one interview with me she had the presence of mind to
get that change made in her letter of appointment.


Now as to Jim and the girls at the singles bar, let me correct
that little tale of his.  The reason Charley's was jampacked with
good-looking chicks was 'cause a few of the Chicago Bears had
visited the place.  And that was 'cause Charley has a rep for
serving very good food at very good prices.  As far as I could
tell, Jim had heard all about the chicks and had dropped in to
see if he could pick up some of the leavings.  As you know,
chicks attract a lot of bottom feeders.

Me?  I was there hunting cock.  I was semi-pro at the time and
figured that I could do a guy so much better than all the
amateurs in the place and that any guy making as much as a pro
football player would show his appreciation in a way I could
appreciate.

And that's where I met Becky.  She, too, was semi-pro and hunting
cock, just like me.  As soon as we saw each other, we knew that
as working girls we were competitors.  But, believe it or not,
instead of trying to scratch each other's eyes out, we hit it
off.  Right from the start.  I think it was something about our
height.  You see, Becky is five-two, just an inch taller than me,
and has had many of the same experiences as I have had in this
business.  So we had lots to talk about.

Neither of us ever scored with a Bear, but some of the bottom
feeders were well-heeled and grateful for our attentions.  In my
case, those old coots could fantasize they were screwing a
teeny-bopper, but without any fear of a charge of statutory rape. 
Since they made it worth our while, Becky and me kept on dropping
in at Charley's.  And we began to think about going into business
together.

Now, we had noticed "Jim Smith," especially his BMW, did a little
checking, and found out that he was actually Jim Dawson, a senior
V.P. at Callaway Industries.  But since he didn't flash a roll,
we weren't interested.  That is, until the night that Merrilee
Adams came into the bar.  Now there is one fine lady.  Smart as a
tack, a stone fox, and focused.  Once she sets her mind to a
task, she'll stick with it 'til it's done.

That night Merrilee had set her mind on Jim Dawson.  At the time
he was so lovesick over Jean Peters he couldn't keep his mind on
his job and was leaving all hiring to Kelly McGuire.  Merrilee
had been getting nowhere with Kelly.  It seems that Kelly wanted
some, in fact a lot of muff munching to set up an interview, but
Merrilee wasn't into that scene.  So she decided to go to the top
and sleep her way into an interview.

Morgan's story has it all wrong.  Merrilee knew her target.  She
didn't fall for that "Jim Smith" crap.  She's too smart a lady
not to do her homework.  She even carried a color photo of Jim.

At the time, Becky and me knew none of this.  So we were
surprised to see this babe set her sights on nerdnik Jim Dawson. 
As for the story he tells, I must say that, like most any man,
Jim was totally clueless.  Merrilee baited her hooks, trolled for
him and allowed him to take the lure.  Then she jerked ever so
gently to set the hook, reeled him in, and took him off to bed.

We weren't the only girls who noticed.  And we weren't the only
girls who took a second look at Jim.  There was a lot of talk
that night about the pay and fringies that a senior V.P. at
Callaway Industries would be pulling down.  As a result, over the
next few nights, Jim scored with four more girls.  But after
those girls got back, compared notes and spread the word, Jim was
back to wall flower status.  Amateurs demand performance and big
bucks can't make up for a bedroom dud.

Anyway, while Jim was moping around the bar, Becky and me were
finishing up our basic plans for getting Grant & Richmond,
Personal Services, Ltd., started.  By nine, we had agreed on the
outline of our business and had even chosen a lawyer friend of
ours to draw up the papers.  A bottle of Jim Beam to celebrate
and we turned to scope out the other folks at Charley's.  Jim was
obviously bummed and working on his liquid pain killer, so we
kept watching him that night.  The poor slob just didn't
understand why, after five straight scores, none of the girls
would give him the time of day.  I don't know what it was,
perhaps the bourbon we were nursing, but 'round about ten we
decided he needed a mercy fuck.  So we flipped for it and I lost.

Unlike the pick-up story he fed you in "Jean & Jim," I walked
over to his table, asked him if he had a date, and sat down. 
Since I would be giving it away for free, no bargaining was
necessary.  So as I pulled up my chair, I reached under the table
and gave him a stroke for good luck.  Although he was already
pretty well stewed, he ordered drinks for both of us.

Now that's another thing I should warn you about.  You have to
watch Charley.  Although he was pouring from a bottle with the
Cardhu label on it, I'd swear it was the bar scotch.  Might even
have been some home-brewed rot gut.  But Jim was in no condition
to detect that.  And as Charley says, "Why waste the good stuff
on a drunk?"

After Jim finished his drink, I asked him if he would like to get
better acquainted at my place and we were off.  He almost queered
it for himself on the way over, babbling on about how grateful he
was for my kindness.  But I had made a bargain with Becky and I
never welch on my promises.  That was particularly on my mind
since we had just agreed on the concept of Grant & Richmond,
Personal Services, Ltd.

Anyway, I took him straight to the bedroom--couldn't see any
reason to prolong my agony with nerdnik Jim.  Besides, from the
tent in his pants, it was evident he was ready to go.  However,
it soon became apparent that he had never buttfucked a girl and,
it seemed to me, wasn't in any condition to learn how.  I don't
know why, maybe I have a charity gene myself, but I decided to
let him take my cherry that night.  My pussy wasn't getting any
younger and I was curious about what a man could do to that place
Becky called the G-spot.  So, as Jim claims, he did pop my cherry
that night, but you can be sure he got nowhere near my G-spot. 
In fact, he got off like a shot, on the same thrust that took my
pussy's virginity, and passed out.  I was pissed: he'd gotten my
cherry; I'd gotten blood on the sheets, a mighty sore pussy,
queen-sized frustrations, and a drunk asleep in my bed.  So I
finished myself off, fished a C-note out of his wallet for all
the trouble, and got up to make the coffee he'd need to get
himself back home.

Oh yes, I skipped over it, but Jim did fuck Merrilee Adams and
did put her in the hospital.  But it didn't quite happen the way
Jim tells it.  Sometimes I wonder whether he was even there.  I
mean, in his story, Jim says that Merrilee wore a Wonder Bra; but
I know she only buys bras by Olga.  So let's get past all the
b.s. Jim gave you of a high class pick-up, small talk, and
foreplay--it should be obvious by now that Jim was not that
suave--and cut straight to her bedroom and the fucking.

Merrilee was determined to get that interview, so she followed
his suggestion and rolled onto her back in the good ol'
missionary position.  At the time, Jim thought that foreplay
consisted of telling the girl he wanted her.  Besides that, he
knew nothing about a woman's clit or, for that matter, any other
erogenous zone.  So after several minutes of having him pump her
pussy, Merrilee was becoming more and more frustrated and not at
all sure he'd even get himself off.

So she told him she had a better idea, smoothly rolled him onto
his back, and took the position on top.  Things now were going
AOK, according to Merrilee, and she was nearly there, when Jim
exploded.  She wasn't expecting it, and so when he bucked up
underneath her, she went flying, doing a forward somersault over
the side of the bed, cracking her tail bone on the end table
beside her bed.  That's how Jim Dawson put Merrilee Adams in the
hospital.  Oh yes, you should know that Jim has never been a zero
as a human.  He gave her the job and even had the company pay for
her hospital care.

I wish I could tell you about Becky's first time with Jim--it's a
hoot, but she's my business partner and it's her story.  If it
will ever be told, she'll have to tell it herself.  Let me just
say that it wasn't a one-night stand for either of us with Jim. 
In those days, he was so constantly in need of a good fuck that
he preferred to pay for it than do without.


By now, you must wonder why Jim was so desperate.  After all,
according to "Jean & Jim," he had been getting it all from Jean
from the day they first met.  Okay, okay.  You're way ahead of me
on that.  It's fairly obvious, isn't it?

Not all of that story is exaggerated.  Specifically, Jean had
worked on his social graces.  For example, under her influence,
he ditched that baseball cap and the nerd bucket.  Good thing,
too.  I mean, neither Becky or me would have given him a mercy
fuck if he had showed up at the bar dressed like that.  But as
for his physical fitness and sexual prowess, that credit should
go to Grant & Richmond, Personal Services, Ltd.  Thank you!

How Jim became one of our first clients is an interesting story. 
About a week after he started paying for it, Becky and me had a
serious chat about him.  I guess we were getting a soft spot for
the big lug.  Possibly 'cause at six-four he was much bigger than
either of us and we could imagine that under all the flab could
be a darned nice bod.  In any event, we worried that as out of
shape as he was, Jim might kick off.  I mean, at that time, he
usually passed out after banging either of us just once.

Becky and me agreed that since it looked like he was sort of
stuck on us--and paid darned well, it was in our interest to get
him physically fit so the cash flow wouldn't come to a sudden
halt some night.  Further, if we could get him healthy enough, he
might be up for some of our more expensive services.  Since Becky
had been a P.E. major, we offered Jim a twenty-four week training
program to make him--we hoped--an ace Romeo.  We sort of split up
the job--Becky for physical fitness, me for the sex.

Now Jim's training was one of the things that make this job all
worthwhile.  Becky got him into shape so quickly that after four
weeks, he didn't pass out after banging either one of us.  A
couple of weeks later, he had enough endurance to take fuck
training from one of us and then, after we had restored his
manhood, to learn how to pleasure a woman while she is on top
(the best way to break in a virgin, by the way).  By eight weeks,
he could do both of us before he was finished; of course, we had
to bring the dead soldier back to life between fuckings.  From
there on, he was beginning to shape up into the Greek god he
claimed to have been from the beginning.

Since he had no stamina when he began, I started Jim out with the
less strenuous, but very necessary foreplay skills--kissing,
feeling, and fingering.  Then it was on to munching.  For most
any man, it takes some serious, repeated training to make it
second nature for him to ask his woman what pleases her.  Once
past that male thing, Jim was a quick study and in short order
could chow down at my "Y" with the best of our clients.

As for fucking, we started with the much dissed missionary
position and pointed out the many things a man usually misses in
doing a woman that way.  Then on to all the low-stress mods on
missionary, then spooning, doggie, and so on.  About half way
through, once we thought we all could trust each other enough,
Becky and me sat down with Jim and discussed whether or not he
wanted to learn some more non-vanilla things, like light bondage,
how to receive deep throat, and how to buttfuck a girl.  (He
did--all three.)  And we also turned to the more athletic
positions, like the wheelbarrow and the wall-banger.  In another
month we'd just about done everything in _Joy of Sex_ and _More
Joy of Sex_ and I'd special ordered the _Kama Sutra_ from
Amazon.com.  (Got a real education there myself.)  Jim was a
great sport about that, seeing that Becky and me were learning,
too.

At sixteen weeks, we had another conference.  I asked Jim if he
knew what the phrase "faking it" meant.  Then I told him that, as
pros, Becky and me had become expert at that and, since we hadn't
wanted to bum him out at the start, had done plenty of it. 
Lately, however, he'd been getting much, much better and we were
faking it only when he had done everything we'd asked him to do,
but it hadn't worked out.  I guess I said we'd been giving him an
"A" for effort.  Now we told him we wanted to change the rules;
in order to make him even more alert to a woman's needs, no more
faking it.  He wouldn't be our john any longer, he'd be our
lover--he'd have to please us.  After all, that was why he was
taking the course.

Anyway, about twenty weeks into the twenty-four week course of
instruction, I worried that we had run out of positions that were
physically realistic.  Then, all of a sudden, Grant & Richmond
received its first inquiry for a "traveling companion" for a
businessman.  It was to be a bit more than two weeks in
Europe--the last two weeks of Jim's training, acting as a
personal assistant by day and bedmate at night.  Becky encouraged
me to accept; the contract would open a new area of service for
Grant & Richmond.  She said she had plenty yet to do to get Jim
in tip-top physical shape and certainly would have no trouble
doing review and refresher work in bed.

Now I had a good two weeks in Europe.  Tom, the guy I was
traveling with, was very nice to me and fun both in and out of
bed, but he was happy doing me in just a couple of positions and
didn't have the equipment nor anywhere near the stamina Jim had
developed.  Also I had to be easy with him--not tire him
out--'cause of all the meetings on his schedule.  Then, the last
Saturday, after all was said and done, we had a very fine dinner
in our hotel suite and relaxed with a fine port wine.

Finally, Tom nodded toward the bedroom as he always did.  But
instead of rising, I remarked that all we had to do was fly back
home the next day, the only thing on his schedule was to be out
at Heathrow by ten forty-five. With his nod, I continued, "Tom,
if you don't mind, I'd like to try something."

After a pause, he asked, "And what would that be?" 

"Please excuse my French, but I'd like to see if I can fuck your
brains out."

"What???"  He couldn't believe what he'd heard.

"I'd like to try to fuck you blind.  To put your lights out. ... 
I think I can."

He looked doubtful.  With a grin, I added, "If you don't let me
try, we'll never know. ...  And who knows?  You just might have
some fun."

To that, he grinned and answered, "Little Amy wants to fuck my
brains out? Well, we'll just see who puts whose lights out."

To make a long story short, despite his most heroic effort, Tom
was gone almost as soon as I had expected.  While he was out, I
blew life into his tool again, then backed up onto it and waited
for him to come around again.  It was so comfortable to have a
warm piece of man inside of me that I dozed off, only to wake up
with him giving me the old in-and-out.  And so it went, until the
early hours of Sunday morning, when he begged me to stop.

Later that day, I was worried 'cause Tom slept almost all the way
home on the plane, waking up only to eat and piss.  I was able to
get him to fuck me once more before we landed, but he was pretty
well done in and managed no better than a "thank you kindly" kiss
as we parted.

Monday morning, I was moping around my pad.  Becky had left a
phone message that I wasn't needed in the office 'til afternoon. 
Moreover, she said she'd be by about eleven to take me out to
lunch.  Regardless, I was bummed.  I'd missed the last two weeks
of Jim's training and I'd likely queered the first travelling
companion contract for Grant & Richmond by showing off... rather,
for showing up the client.

Promptly at eleven, Becky knocked on the door.  She ignored my
sour puss and was grinning from ear to ear as she announced, "Jim
asked if he could tag along on this hen party."

God!  I know I lit up like a Christmas tree.  But Becky had more. 
"And after lunch, I thought we'd go to the office for a little
graduation ceremony."

That turned my burners on high.  I knew immediately what she had
in mind.  A couple of months before we had briefly speculated on
a "graduation ceremony" for Jim (some suck, some fuck, some
munch), but we hadn't talked about it since.  In fact, I had
forgotten all about it, ... until I was in Europe with Tom.

(End Part 1/2)

-- 
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reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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