index


Message-ID: <31817asstr$996984604@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Adrbrown@aol.com
MIME-Version: 1.0
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="US-ASCII"
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit
Subject: {ASSM} Story: "Becky and Me," (2/2) MF cons
Date: Sun,  5 Aug 2001 00:10:04 -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

BECKY & ME (Part 2/2)

I must have been standing there with my mouth hanging open,
'cause Becky chided me, "Are you just going to stand there, kid? 
Or shall we go?"

I excused myself, dashed to the bathroom, jammed a maxipad into
my panties, did a quick check of my outfit (a skirt caught in a
girl's panties is not exactly high fashion), then joined Becky. 
I began to wonder whether a single napkin would be enough to get
me through lunch.  I was wet already and hadn't even seen Jim
yet.

I floated all through lunch at Charley's.  I couldn't tell you
what food was served if my life depended on it.  I just couldn't
keep my eyes off of Jim; Becky had turned him into that Greek god
of "Jean & Jim."  It was lucky for us that Jim sat across the
table from me; it would have been embarrassing for all concerned
if I could have gotten my hands on him.  Somebody would have
called the cops.

Probably I was drooling when we finally got to the office.  I had
Jim in tow and announced that the graduation ceremony would be in
the exercise room.  Becky had obviously anticipated my eagerness,
for "the chair" was already set up.  Seeing that preparations had
already been made, I slowed up as we all stripped down and
decided to see what Becky had in mind.  Her little speech was
actually quite short, but for a girl as horny as I was, it seemed
to stretch on for hours.  She said that Jim was our first
student.  And said that he had set standards that others would be
hard pressed to meet.  (Boy!  I could agree with that!)  She also
said that from now on his course of training would be known as
"the long course," and that a number of short courses were being
set up on the basis of what we'd learned while training Jim.

Then it was on to what I was waiting for; Becky asked Jim if he
wished to demonstrate any of the skills he had mastered.  God, I
was sopping wet as he turned in my direction.  He gave me one of
those smiles that melts me to the core, but he picked up Becky
and, in a single motion,  placed her in "the chair."  

I was both surprised and disappointed ... 'cause he hadn't chosen
me to be first.  It wasn't fair!  Becky had had Jim all to
herself for the past two weeks.  I knew it was a selfish way to
see things, but I couldn't help but think that he hadn't missed
me at all.  It also wasn't very businesslike for me to think that
way; Jim was just a client after all.

He worked over Becky like a pro.  Ate her out and gave her a
little "o."  Sooner than I expected, Jim was helping her out of
"the chair."  Then, he turned to me with that
melt-Amy-to-the-core smile of his and it was my turn in "the
chair."  I was slightly surprised when Becky and Jim strapped
down my ankles--that hadn't happened to Becky; but then Jim
started kissing me and...  Well, I sort of forgot about
everything else.

After the warm up, Frenching me, and a little finger fuck, he
began to go south with the mouth.  When he got there, he treated
my tits divinely, but he was stalling.  I took his head in my
hands and tried to force him to get with the program.  But Becky
intervened; she pulled my hands off his head, held them, and
whispered in my ear, "Mustn't rush things.  Let the artist do his
work."

Now I understood.  A little torture for little Amy.  Teasing,
before the main event.

But I really didn't understand how much teasing.  I'd swear Jim
had gotten within an inch of where it counts, when he stopped and
took my right foot in his hand.  I bucked up when he started
nibbling on my big toe.

"Patience, Amy!" Becky urged, then fastened the lap belt across
my belly button.  As she cinched it down, Becky says I swore like
a sailor.  I guess I went wild at that, 'cause the next thing I
knew, they had strapped my arms and thighs down.  Spread eagle,
fully exposed to anything that Jim wanted to do to me, and fully
aware of his intentions.

He kissed, licked, nibbled and sucked on both feet, ankles, legs,
knees and thighs, as he oh so slowly proceeded toward the lunch
box.  It was pure torture.  He was giving me little "o"s now and
then, but never the big one.  I was beginning to hate myself for
teaching him how to make a woman wait.  Becky says it was a
darned good thing we had sound proofed the exercise room;
otherwise they could have heard me clear to New Orleans.

After Jim got to my "Y," the only thing I remember was that he
did everything but flip the bean.  It seemed like hours before he
took pity and flicked it.  Kaboom!  Everything you've ever heard. 
Fireworks, shooting stars, cascading rainbows, a Disney electric
light parade, laser light shows, all the screen savers in the
world going off at once--the works.  A thousand amp flow blew all
my hundred amp fuses!

("Cascading rainbows."  I really like that one.  That's what
Adrienne says it's like for her when she goes over.  Becky's been
to Disneyworld, so that's where the electric light parade came
from.)

When I woke up, I was no longer strapped into "the chair," but
flat on my back (as I later found out) on a futon.  I was getting
tender caresses from two sets of hands and I think Becky said,
"It looks like she's good for the second course."

I wanted to protest, but Jim's immediate attention to the back of
my right knee changed my mind.  This time he quickly brought me
up and I was begging, "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me."

"Why not?" was his reply.  After he sat me up, he grasped me
under the arms, picked me up, and then stood up himself.  I could
feel his hot cock poking me in the small of my back as I looked
around to see where he would put me down to fuck my brains out. 
But no, he lifted me higher.  He slowly ran that cock head of his
down, then back up the crack in my ass--again and again--before
he stopped it at my bung hole.  I tensed as he held me there,
wondering whether he would bugger me.  Jim had taken me many
times up the poop chute, but this time it would really hurt; he
hadn't lubed my asshole or even loosened me up.  Given the size
of Jim's cock, I really needed to be loosened up--four fingers. 
However, after several seconds, he slipped it between my legs. 
With marvelous muscle control, he put his cock head at the mouth
of my pussy.  Much relieved about where he wanted to put that
splendid tool of his, I quickly reached down to hold my pussy
lips open as he slowly lowered me on to it.  All you gals out
there can imagine the fabulous feeling of having that cock of his
between my thighs and moving up into me, even though I was tight. 
Paradise!

At first, however, I was a little scared--not so much that I'd
get hurt if Jim dropped me, but that ninety-five pounds of Amy
Grant would be a sure-fire pecker-wrecker.  I shouldn't have
worried; he easily supported my weight as I squirmed and screwed
myself down onto his shaft.  It was clear we had trained Jim
quite well about paying attention to and taking care of the woman
he was fucking since he very carefully let me stretch my pussy. 
Not that I have anything against Tom, but it had been more than
two weeks...  I glanced at the digital clock...  sixteen days,
five hours, and thirty-seven minutes since I had been stretched
that much.

At first I paid no mind to what Becky was doing, but then I saw
she'd moved a full-length mirror in front of me.  I'd been so
busy with getting myself down onto Jim's cock and enjoying all
those sensations, I hadn't bothered to imagine what it looked
like.  I was a bit dreamy already and at times you get the most
fantastically wonderful ideas when you're getting fucked right by
a good man.  So at first I saw myself as a squirming little pink
fish, flopping around on the end of Jim's wondrous spear.  But
since I had never seen a pink fish and certainly didn't wish to
escape my fate, I then thought of myself as a suckling pig being
skewered on a man-meat spit for roasting.  And God!  Was I
looking forward to being roasted!  From inside out.

Suddenly I noticed why Becky had placed the mirror there.  My
usually flat and taut belly had a slight straight-line bulge that
rose as I settled further down on Jim's cock.  A little squirming
and the line of the bulge would move from side to side.   I
giggled; I could actually see how far Jim was into me!  It was
fascinating to watch the bulge rise toward my belly button.  Now
I'm somewhat proud of it; it's an "inny" that can, if I suck in
my gut, hold a shot of scotch (or whatever) for the customer to
drink, if he (or she) is into that sort of thing.

Anyway, as I was slowly stretching out my pussy, my belly button
began to change from inny to outy.  Maybe I should have worried,
but I was too far into being fucked; so I kept on screwing myself
down on his magnificent cock and merely watched to see whether my
belly button held or if his cock would punch through.  A couple
more wiggles and the tip of the bulge was now above the belly
button; no damage had been done.  I stared at the mirror.  And I
tried to remember those charts of human physiology that I'd
stared at Thursday afternoons at university while my professor
had me bent over his favorite dissecting table in the biology
lab.  I was curious: how much further could Jim get his cock into
me?  I was pretty sure he couldn't get it into my throat, but
other than that, I wasn't sure.  Another weird thought.  When his
cock reached my ribs, would it go under or over?  That would look
wild, to watch the bulge of his cock run up between or under my
tits.  I almost laughed: that would be a real titty fuck.  Just
then I noticed his bush, soaked as it was with my juices, was
beginning to tickle my butt and inner thighs.  I was almost
bottomed out.  My tits were safe--at least for now.

Jim held me there for a few moments as I enjoyed the lip-smacking
good feeling of being crammed completely full of cock.  I stared
at the mirror and that straight-line bulge that reached from my
bush almost to my breast bone.  A little wiggle and it pointed at
one tit; another wiggle and it was pointing at the other.   As I
was wiggling back and forth, I wondered what had been pushed
aside as he had entered me.  I giggled again; my tummy was
somewhere in there.  I wondered if the action it was about to get
would make me sick.  Another giggle; maybe I'd get a chance to
see what it was I'd eaten at Charley's.

In a way, I looked a bit silly.  Just waiting to be fucked, I
looked like a rag doll, held by Jim's two big paws and impaled on
his cock, with my feet dangling at least six inches off the
floor.  In any case, it was obvious that I would have to take
care of my clit and tits.  But as I grabbed my nipples to get the
show on the road, Becky stepped up, quickly slipped a cuff on
each wrist, snapped them together, and fastened them to a hook I
had not seen.  As she took the downpull and hoisted my hands
clear of my body, she grinned and said, "No hands, Amy!  That'd
be cheating."

Before I had a chance to worry about not being able to touch
myself, Becky was back, getting me into a support bra and
explaining, "We don't want to wreck your boobs, Amy, but you're
in for the ride of your life."

Then Jim began to lift me up, very slowly.  In the mirror, I
could see my pussy lips being pulled out by that wonderful cock
of his.  Another fantastic thought: would he pull my insides out
if he pulled all the way out?  It would be messy trying to stuff
everything back in there.  But so what?  My pussy didn't want to
let him go.  Then it was down again; my pussy lips being pushed
inside, the bulge in my belly rising to and past my belly button.

Slowly at first, but then with gradually increasing speed, he
pistoned me up and down his shaft.  I was in heaven; he had it
perfect.  He was hitting my G-spot on both the up and down
strokes.  I don't know how long that went on; I sort of lost
track of time with all the little "o"s he was giving me.  Then,
as he was hitting his stride--a gallop I would say, I began to
get little hiccups, or so it seemed.  I couldn't believe it, but
I started giggling again.  It was rather funny, not just the
giggling, but the hiccups while getting fucked.  Then it came to
me: Jim's balls were slapping my thighs each time I hiccuped. 
That meant I hiccuped each time he bottomed me out.  My best
guess was that his cock was punching my diaphragm and, thus, the
hiccups.  Between all the little "o"s, the giggles, the hiccups
and, when my eyes could focus, watching my tits slamming up and
down (and giving thanks to Becky for the bra she'd put them in),
I wasn't really there.

Then Becky began to tease me with her peacock feather.  I don't
know how she did it, shooting at a moving target, so to speak. 
Flitting around inside my thighs, the back of my knees, down to
my instep, then back up, nicking my belly button, the underside
of my arms, to each and every erogenous zone she could find. 
Made me squirm in ways I wouldn't have volunteered to while being
pumped up and down that steel shaft crammed up my cunt.  But it
was never enough to put me over.  Then she began to focus on my
"Y," always around, but avoiding my clit.  Finally ... finally,
she relented, flipped the bean and put my lights out in another
amazing blaze of glory.

Afterwards, when I came to, it took some time to clear the
cobwebs.  What a wild, wonderful ride!  The best I'd ever had. 
Then I gradually recognized a slow, very familiar rhythm to my
right.  There, on another futon, Jim was plowing Becky's furrow,
gently, tenderly.  I propped myself up on my elbow to watch.  It
was very beautiful: he was truly making love to her.  Quietly,
slowly, she tensed, clasping him tightly, as they came together. 
After she had relaxed, he gave her several minutes of the sort of
attention a woman needs in coming down.

When they noticed me, I asked and Becky told me she called what
Jim had done to me a "free-standing reverse cowgirl."  I urged
Jim to do Becky that way.  I mean, all she had gotten was a
quiet, little fuck.  But she begged off, saying, "Where do you
think Jim learned to do that, Amy?  And how many times to be able
to do you right the very first time?  Besides, even though you
wanted a good hard fuck today, Jim just gave me what I really
needed.  He's very good at sensing that."

Then she added, softly stroking his manhood, "More than that, we
have to take very good care of this national treasure."

As Jim helped both of us to our feet, Becky said to me, "I'll let
you decide, but I'd say that Jim passed his finals today."

Well, dear readers, that was the end of the graduation ceremony. 
And, as you can see, Jim Dawson is living, breathing testimony to
the effectiveness of the long course of training by Grant &
Richmond, Personal Services, Ltd.  Thank you!  Shorter courses
are available to both guys and gals to assist in various
techniques, both those mentioned and many others.  Inquiries are
welcome.


Now, as for Jean, let's be honest.  At the time we first met her,
she was Jean Peters and even more sexually naive than Jim had
been.  I can't believe that Jim claimed she had spent ten years
on the street as a slut; she was a three-way virgin.  Honest! 
Now remember, she's not quite human and somebody or another they
call "the source" programs and reprograms her brain for some very
special skills.  This is the one part of Jim's story I can assure
you is true.  Well, wherever "the source" lives and breathes,
they don't do sex like we do it here, ... if they do it at all.

At first, I couldn't believe Jean's condition could cause any
sort of trouble.  I mean, in my own life, I had found it quite
easy to correct the condition when I was similarly afflicted. 
However, there was a problem they had found by the time Becky and
me were called in to help.  That is, Jean is a very quick study
and, in a few cases, it appears that she imprints, rather than
learns.  Whether that extended to sex, nobody knew.  And since
sex is a rather important aspect of life, they weren't willing to
take any chances.

Once this was explained to Becky and me, we realized how
important this personal service contract was.  First, we were
flattered that Jim had been so satisfied with his course that he
wished to have us teach his fiance .  Second, there was a real
life deadline for getting Jean trained.  They had set the wedding
date and everyone agreed it would be best if Jean were fully
ready to take advantage of the honeymoon.  Finally, if we pulled
this one off, there were plenty of folks in Jean and Jim's circle
of friends who might be impressed enough with the job we did to
sign up for some of our services.  (Can't ever ignore the chance
to gain a greater market share, you know.)

Oh, yes.  Jean did imprint.  It's sort of cute, too.  She says my
mantra (Jean taught me that word) of
"fuck-me-fuck-me-fuck-me-fuck-me" when she's getting drilled and
"eat-me-eat-me-eat-me-eat-me" when somebody's going south with
the mouth.  Anyway, 'cause she is such a quick study, she was
fully prepped for the honeymoon.  And 'cause she imprinted, she
took the best of Becky and me to Hawaii for Jim to fuck and, as
Jim told me, she quickly improved on us.  What a change in that
couple from when we first met them!  I guess that's why we were
invited to the wedding.


The wedding ceremony was really beautiful.  Got all squishy and
teary-eyed.  It sort of tugged on the heartstrings.  I wondered
if I'd ever make that long walk down the aisle.  And, for a
moment, I felt bummed that Fred and me had not worked out.  But
then, when I thought of the bank account I was building, all that
silliness went away.  When I have my bank roll, I'll be able to
marry the man I want.  With that thought in mind, I sat back and
enjoyed the rest of the wedding.

After the ceremony was over, while the bride and groom were
leaving for the airport, Sandy Dawson pulled Becky and me to the
side and asked whether we could stick around for a party.  She
said it would be an all-nighter; with a grin, she said she would
make it worth our while.  At that phrase, our faces lit up like
Christmas trees.  It looked like we just might be moving up the
social ladder.  We quickly checked our PDAs for e-mail to see
that no appointments had been made for us while we were at the
wedding, then blocked out the rest of the afternoon and evening
for "personal time."

After the caterers and all the other guests had left, Sandy
filled us in on the details.  It seems that the freshman class at
her high school had been dissed an awful lot for being a bunch of
goody two-shoes.  As a result, most of the class had decided to
correct that situation, come up to speed, and have a group grope. 
Sandy had volunteered the Dawson home as the site of the orgy. 
Some of her classmates had been a bit uncertain, being shy and/or
inexperienced in group sex.  We were surprised that she had
promised to provide a pair of sex therapists--Becky and me--to
assist those kids over their inhibitions.  We reminded Sandy that
we weren't licensed sex therapists.  As close as we came was sex
surrogates.

Sandy grinned, "Sex therapists, sex surrogates.  What's the
difference?  You're going to teach a bunch of kids how to fuck in
front of other folks and not be embarrassed!"

With that settled, Becky and me went over the preparations Sandy
had made for the party.  She was a pretty smart chick, had found
the check-list for swinging on the Net, and had laid things out
pretty well, including the house rules.  So, over the next two
hours,  we helped her transform a house that had just seen a
wedding reception into a proper orgy pad before any of her
classmates arrived.  Red lights only in the play rooms; anything
breakable out.  Plenty of rubbers, tubes of lube, and a waste
basket wherever it looked like a girl could get herself fucked.

Now as for the party itself, I've tried all sorts of ways to
describe it, and I agree with Adrienne, it gets rather boring
trying to give a suck-by-fuck account of a group grope.  So let
me just hit the highlights.

Becky and me had changed into street clothes; after all we
weren't the main attraction, we were both enforcers of house
rules and facilitators for the kids.  I was very glad that they
honestly observed the rules.  Some were fairly obvious: no booze,
no pills, no Mary Jane; no fuck, no suck without a rubber; no
lunch without a dental dam; one load per rubber; change your
partner, change your rubber; no rubbers on the floor; anything
that's gone in the back door goes nowhere else before it's
cleaned and disinfected.  Others were practical, given the level
of inexperience we were dealing with, especially for the girls,
e.g., no restraints, no two- or three-on-one.  Nevertheless, they
kept us fairly busy, asking for instruction and helpful hints.  I
must say I was a bit surprised by the fact that with a few of the
couples we had to give such basic scoop as the right way to get
Tab A into Slot B without damaging Slot B (other than the one
cherry that got popped).  Nevertheless, no matter how basic the
question, it never got boring, seeing how willing our students
were to learn.

Despite their enthusiasm, most of the girls were worn out by one
in the morning.  (Becky and me took it upon ourselves to step in
when a girl looked bone tired and needed rest).  Sandy Callaway
was the last girl standing, actually last girl on her hands and
knees, taking it one-after-another doggy style, when even she
pooped out.  But, true to form, most of the guys were still able
to go.  You know what I'm talking about.  A guy's sex drive peaks
as a teenager and then goes down hill; a girl's sex drive starts
low and builds until, at least, menopause.  Anyway, we had a
group of horny teen-age males there at the Callaway place.

All through the evening, Becky and me had noticed these young
studs' endurance and that their enthusiasm hadn't seemed to wane. 
Now we have nothing against older men; after all, they're able to
pay for our more exotic services.  But all too often, it's one
bang and they're gone.  Here, however, it seemed we had the
chance not only to give more lessons, but also to get fucked
right out of our socks.  So we took a poll of the girls to see if
they minded that we were changing the rules, stripped down to our
working uniform, and announced we would provide a free workshop
on multiples.

We got the guys to move two mattresses to the middle of the
living room, while the girls gathered up the remaining condoms
and lube and put a few of the waste baskets within easy reach. 
After we had gotten everybody comfortably seated where they could
see, we gave a few minutes of practical instruction, basically on
the psychological and physical difficulties of putting together a
sandwich and making a girl watertight and various methods that
were intended to so please her that she'd look forward to doing
it again.  And then the guys were into it--actually into Becky
and me.

It was great good fun, even though at times we had to halt the
business at hand and adjust a guy's position or technique.  And
they were eager to learn all we could teach them.  I don't know
why, but for me a guy's enthusiasm can get me over a lot of
inexperience, as long as he's willing to learn.  What really
turns me off is the guy who is God's gift to womankind, knows it
all, and leaves me with sore tits and a chaffed pussy at the end
of the evening.  Those guys get nothing for free!

By three in the morning, Becky and me had sore tits, pussies, and
assholes, but were still willing to go.  However, there were no
guys left standing, and I mean that quite literally.  So as the
party broke up, we helped the girls pour their guys into their
cars for the ride home, all the while wondering what sort of
explanations might have to be given when they got them home.

We had thought that the profuse thanks we received from the girls
as they said good-bye was for the hands-on learning early in the
evening and the two hours we had spelled them from the guys
towards the end.  But while we were showering, Sandy told us that
most likely it was for our gang-bang demo.  We hadn't noticed
it--for most of those two hours I had been too busy to notice
anything, but the girls had been intensely interested in the
show.  Moreover, Sandy had video taped those last two hours and
almost every girl wanted a copy "for instructional purposes." 
Would you believe it?

Not wishing to miss a business opportunity, after we viewed the
video (Sandy is a darned good camera person), we knocked
twenty-five percent off Sandy's bill in exchange for the original
of the tape, agreed to provide a copy for each of the girls at
the party (three copies for Sandy), gained distribution rights
for any additional copies, and agreed to pay five percent
royalties to Sandy for her camera work.  We also gave Sandy a
right to an independent audit of our books regarding the
gang-bang tape.  (BTW, it's now available on DVD.  Inquire at
Grant and Richmond, Personal Services, Ltd.)


Two weeks after that memorable evening, a very well dressed
couple walked into our offices.  That in itself was surprising:
at that time most of our inquiries came by phone.  (Please note
that today we also have fax and e-mail capability for your
convenience.)  Therefore, when Tara informed us of the visitors,
both of us were willing to meet the prospective clients.  After
introductions and some small talk, the gentleman, let's call him
Mr. Jones, asked, "I understand you attended the wedding of Jim
and Jean Dawson."

Suddenly I got uncomfortable, but Becky coolly answered, "Yes."

"And I believe you were there for the party that Sandy Dawson
threw that night."

I don't know how Becky did it, it seemed to me that she had ice
water flowing in her veins.  Once again, she answered, "Yes."

"My son tells me ..."

I didn't hear the remainder of his statement.  I had turned to
Mrs. Jones and blurted out, "The boys looked like they were
eighteen."

That was a big fat lie and--in thinking back on it--it was a
stupid lie.  But I was scared about doing time at Dwight for
statutory rape.  Mrs. Jones seemed surprised, not immediately
understanding my concern.  Then she patted my arm and said, "Oh,
no, my dear.  That's not why we're here.  You two treated Billy
very well."

Then I heard Mr. Jones' question.

"A group of couples hereabouts have thought about a private
little swinging club.  But to be frank, Ms. Richmond, most of us
are self-conscious about it and, even though we have found some
information on the Net, don't know the practical problems of how
to actually organize a party.  Even more to the point, I believe
that some of our reluctance is because some of us aren't at all
confident about performing with someone other than our mates.

"Our son said that you and Ms. Grant were very professional and
helpful in giving him and his friends instruction in ... you know
... things like that.  So, we decided to ask if you would
consider being our club's advisors."


Now, Adrienne says I owe it to all you folks who have struggled
along this far to clean up the loose ends.  So here goes. 
Regarding Mr. & Mrs. Jones and the swingers club: we did take a
contract on advising the group and, based on its success, Grant
and Richmond, Personal Services, Ltd., developed a short course
on swinging, primarily to break new club members into the scene. 
Moreover, some of the club members have enrolled in other of our
numerous short courses.  Regarding Tom of the European trip: no,
I didn't queer it by wearing him out.  In fact, he's taken two of
the short courses with us and is currently enrolled in a third. 
Further, he has me on long-term contract to be his traveling
companion whenever he has a business trip, provided I have
seventy-two hours notice.  As for Billy Jones and his friends,
they've been by and we declined; however, we did agree that when
the last of the boys turns eighteen, we'll have a class reunion
and they can have at us again.  And, Fred, ...  Oh, yes, Fred. 
My downstate boyfriend.

Now, there's a sad story.  As long as Fred was stuffing me,
nobody was kissing and telling.  But Fred, like me, he's not the
brightest bulb in the string.  He didn't understand the prenupt
that Mabel had him sign, so when Jenny Haskell up and tired of
Fred and blabbed all over the county, Mabel went to court, got a
divorce AND the farm.  Nice settlement.  Oh yes, Mabel sold the
farm to the coal company.  Fred's still on the land--as a tenant
farmer--'til the coal company decides to strip it.  What Fred
will do then, I haven't the foggiest.

And so, that's it.  Just remember my advice: in this land of
plenty, a girl must spread her legs and grab any opportunity that
cums her way!



*****************************************************************
FIRST POSTSCRIPT: Becky just read this over and said that since I
had been so open and honest in telling all you folks my biography
that she would, too.  So if you want to hear Becky's story, make
an appointment with her at Grant & Richmond, Personal Services,
Ltd.  She'll tell one of three versions of her life as part of
the Little Bo Peep DeLuxe package.  For those of you who have
lost our menu, tell Tara that you have a lost sheep that needs to
be found.  I'm sorry, that's just for the guys.  For you gals,
it's part of Becky's Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt, special package
(ask Tara to schedule you for Egyptian research).  Thanks.  We,
at Grant & Richmond, look forward to serving all your needs. 
You'll find us in the Yellow Pages.

****************************************************************
SECOND POSTSCRIPT: Okay, you grammar beagles, you just hold back
from jumping all over our editor, Ms. Adrienne Brown.  She and me
have had some disagreements over this text.  I agreed that she
could correct my spelling (although some of these words don't
look like the way I learned them).  But I put my foot down on
some of my expressions.  Ms. Brown tried to tell me about case
for pronouns, parallel construction, agreement in number,
dangling propositions, and other such stuff that flunked me out
of Greenville College.  But I held to my guns.  If you readers of
ASSM are to believe that this is Amy Grant's story, you need to
read me the way I speak.  So I don't want to hear that anybody is
dissing Ms. Brown.  Thank you!

Oh, yes.  For you students in Ms. Brown's classes--and you know
who you are, this story is certainly no indication of the level
of composition Ms. Brown demands of her students.  The only
reason she sweated bullets over this story was as a favor to
Morgan.

When we learned that "Jean & Jim" had cut into our new contracts,
we wanted Morgan to write up our story to set the record
straight, but he declined.  Something about professional ethics
and a loyalty to Jim Dawson.  We can understand that.  So he
suggested that we contact Ms. Brown and she graciously heard us
out and agreed to help us get our story out.

*****************************************************************
THIRD POSTSCRIPT: Jim, ol' fuckbuddy, if you're reading this
while you and Jean are in the Bahamas, I'm sorry for messing up
your "third honeymoon."  You have to know that this is nothing
personal, just business.  As you told us, a business person
cannot afford to be sentimental and has to cut losses.  I know
you'll never speak to me again, but I want to let you know that
I'll miss our Thursday afternoon workouts when you used to come
over to give me the free-standing reverse cowgirl for old times
sake.

*****************************************************************
Comments and constructive criticism are sincerely welcome.
*****************************************************************
"Becky & Me."  Copyright (c) 2001 by Adrienne Brown. 
<adrbrown@aol.com>
All rights reserved.  No part may be reproduced or transmitted in
any form  or by any electronic means, including photocopying,
recording or by any information and retrieval system, without the
written permission of the author.
*****************************************************************

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html>  Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Archive: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository |
|<http://www.asstr-mirror.org>, an entity supported entirely by donations.         |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+