index

Message-ID: <32143asstr$998521801@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: DrSpin <drspin@newsguy.com>
Subject: {ASSM} *NEW* Ace Dyson story - The Brat And The Rat - by DrSpin
Date: Wed, 22 Aug 2001 19:10:01 -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

The Brat And The Rat (MF, adventure)
(A New Ace Dyson Story)
by Neil Anthony (DrSpin)
August 2001

-----------------------------------------------------------
* The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers and 
is invariably motivated to respond. Write to: 
Neil@RuthiesClub.com
-----------------------------------------------------------
Standard Disclaimer: 
I write and you read, if you care to. That's all there is to 
it. If you are offended, and I would be surprised to hear it, 
you should not have been here in the first place.
-----------------------------------------------------------
* Edited expertly by Ruthie.
-----------------------------------------------------------

She was in her demountable unit taking a shower. After only 
two days with her, I knew she took long, long showers. Forty 
people, including me, stood around the film set scratching 
themselves, yawning, waiting. Once more she was holding up 
production. Once more the accountants reached for their blood 
pressure pills. But at least, for twenty minutes or so, I had 
peace.

A piercing scream of terror. Oh, fuck. Inside the caravan, the 
noisome brat was screaming the place down. I made it in three 
fast strides, yanked the door open, and burst in. She was 
half-covered in a clutched towel. One wet breast was exposed. 
She pointed in horror at the tiny window.

I scrambled outside. Balanced precariously on three stacked 
packing cases was a short, stumpy man with lank hair. He was 
trying desperately to climb down, and as I closed in on him 
the boxes slipped and he crashed awkwardly to the ground.

He was just a little bloke, and I picked him up in a neck 
choke-hold and held him high in the air. "Got you, you dirty 
little pervert," I said triumphantly.

"Hi, Ace," he said in a strangled but calm voice. "Long time 
no see."

Fuck. Emil the Rat. I dropped him to the ground, and he sat up 
and looked at me cheerfully. Of all the sly, sick, sleazy 
bastards in this world, Emil the Rat was creme de la creme.

I hadn't seen him or heard of him for many years, but once 
upon a time he had opened my eyes to the seamy side of life. I 
hadn't known that life was so mean and disillusioning until it 
was pointed out to me in Shanghai by Emil the Rat.

"Nice tits," he said, sniggering, his glass eye glittering in 
the sunlight. "Didja see 'em?"

* * *

Pacific Rimfire International had made an awful lot of money 
investing in blockbuster movies. The risks were high but the 
rewards, often, were sensational.

Blockbuster movies needed blockbuster movie stars, and the 
brat was hotter than the planet Venus. Just nineteen, she was 
exactly the polyglot actress today's Net-connected global 
village wanted to see on the big screen. She wasn't Caucasian, 
she wasn't Asian, she wasn't African. Or Indian, Polynesian, 
Eskimo, Arabic, Slavic. She wasn't white, or black, or yellow. 
She wasn't even brown. Fuck knew what she was. But she sure 
was pretty, she sure was a star, and she sure was the biggest 
pain in the arse I'd ever met.

Why me? Excellent question. That's exactly what I asked the 
Colonel when she told me I was going to be the brat's minder 
until the movie was finished. The little darling was 
convinced, apparently, that somebody was trying to poison her. 
She'd had an attack of belly bugs in Katmandu and was certain 
it was a work of malice. But she loathed and detested security 
guards. Said they were all sleazebags. Said she was backing 
out of the movie at the halfway stage. PRI, seventeen million 
dollars already spent and a lot more committed, panicked. They 
showed her photos of thirty PRI able-bodied and trusted 
employees from around the world. Pick one, they said, to be 
your minder. She picked me.

The Colonel saw the humorous side of it. She laughed, head 
back and all her teeth displayed, and only stopped with some 
difficulty. She had tried to countermand it, but the brat was 
immovable. I had a nice, open face, apparently. The brat 
thought I could be trusted.

"What's so funny?" I growled.

"She hates men," the Colonel said, smiling sunnily.

I grimaced. "No, please. I can't stand it."

"She hates women too."

"What does she like? Penguins?"

"She likes pizza," the Colonel said. "Or at least, she did, 
until somebody poisoned the pineapple slices on the Hawaiian 
Supreme. She likes pineapple, too."

"Ma'am, I'd be pleased if you stopped grinning at me. This is 
not funny at all."

She stopped grinning. "You're right, Dyson. Actually, it's all 
deadly serious. There's a lot of money at stake, and your 
orders are clear and direct. In ascending order of importance, 
keep the tiresome creature happy, keep her safe, and keep her 
working."

* * *

Temple Road was an orphan. Her parentage was unknown. She was 
a dump job in a cardboard carton at the Catholic orphanage 
back gate on Temple Road in Hong Kong. That's how she got her 
name.

She arrived as a week-old baby and spent her childhood there. 
She left when she was seventeen, and by then she was fluent in 
English, French, Italian, Spanish, Mandarin, and of course, 
local Cantonese, which I'm reliably informed is the world's 
best language for cursing and swearing.

She let Emil the Rat have it in spades. The air blistered with 
Cantonese profanity. I couldn't understand what she was 
saying, but there was no doubt about the content. The Rat 
could understand, though. His lineage was Russian, and he also 
spoke many languages. Years ago he'd been an interpreter for 
me in Shanghai, his place of birth. But that's another story. 
He was officially Chinese, but the only way you'd ever know it 
was by his passport.

I'd dragged him into the caravan so she could see how small, 
warped, and insignificant he was. Now dressed in a tee-shirt 
and tiny little ragged-edged shorts, she rained invective.

I looked at Emil and noted it wasn't hurting him one bit. He 
wasn't even listening. He was looking at her crotch with a 
beady eye. He said something to her, briefly, when she paused 
to take a breath. She stopped, blinked, spun in a blur of 
motion, and kicked him fair in the balls with the ferocity of 
a charging tiger. The force of the blow propelled him 
backwards through the air, and he hit the door of the caravan 
and fell to the floor. I bent over and looked at him closely. 
He was unconscious, fortunately. No man should contemplate 
such pain.

"Well, Emil will remember that," I said. "If he lives, that 
is."

"You know this piece of worthless gutter trash?"

"Strangely enough, yes. He's an orphan, just like you."

A cry of anguish came from the brat. She crouched beside the 
crumpled body. "Now look what you made me do, you big clumsy 
jerk," she hissed at me furiously. "Can't you do anything 
right? Get an ambulance. Take him to hospital. Get him a 
private room. Get him the best doctor."

There was no pleasing Temple Road.

* * *

The blockbuster movie had a blockbusting martial arts flavour. 
That's why they needed Temple Road. The biggest martial arts 
star of the new millennium, she looked like a ballet dancer -- 
but with training and timing, she could kick like a mule. No 
real strength at all. At five feet one inch, she was so slight 
she looked like she'd blow away in a stiff breeze. But she had 
grace, fluidity, style, lightning reflex, and the attitude of 
an alley cat who walked by itself.

The film was being shot at several exotic locations spanning 
Asia and the Pacific. By the time I signed on in Hong Kong, 
the cavalcade had been to swollen rivers in southern China, 
snow-capped mountains in Katmandu, glitzy nightclubs in Tokyo, 
and a small jungled island in the Philippines. The film was 
back in Hong Kong to do all the fight scenes, and for the 
wrap.

I was shown to her suite on the top floor of a huge 
harbourside hotel in Kowloon, and ushered into the room. 
Temple Road was shouting angrily at three men. They all had 
scripts open, and the three guys were scribbling furiously, 
making the changes she was demanding for the next day's shoot. 
She stopped in mid-sentence and looked up at me.

"Mr. Dyson," announced the polite Chinese guy who brought me 
up the elevator.

Temple jumped up from her chair, ran five fast paces in her 
bare feet, and sprang at me like a cat. Instinctively, I put 
out my arms in a cradle and caught her. She locked her arms 
around my neck and smiled at me.

Huh? This was the problem child of the movies? She was tiny, 
as light as a feather, and quite exquisitely gorgeous.

"Yay," she said happily. "Dyson, my hero. You're here at 
last."

"Call me Ace," I said, charmed to the soles of my feet.

"Yay," she said. "Now I can eat pizza again."

She wriggled and I put her down carefully. She seemed so 
fragile, and she was worth such an obscene amount of money. 
She walked away, back to her script conference. "Order me 
three pizzas, Ace," she said over her shoulder. "Now."

"Three?" I queried. Seemed like a lot for such a little 
sheila.

She stopped and turned back to me. "You'll be eating half. As 
of now, you're my food taster."

"What happened to your other food tasters?"

"Haven't had one. I was waiting for you."

"Okay," I shrugged.

"Want to know why I picked you, Ace?"

"It did puzzle me."

"Because you looked like an amiable moron who'd shrug his 
shoulders and say okay."

I shrugged my shoulders. "Okay."

"I hate your accent," she said, not laughing. "Try not to say 
much."

Okay. I could do that. I moved into the next room and rang 
down for three pizzas, all different. So she was a brat after 
all. The stories were right.

Temple Road had Asian heritage, certainly. It was in the shape 
of her eyes and her body, but only just a touch. Her eyes were 
rounded rather than slanted, and they were grey rather than 
brown, and her hair was brown rather than black. I guessed she 
was best described as Eurasian, but somehow that didn't really 
fit. She could be many races, if she wanted to be.

I watched her through the archway. I was going to be doing a 
lot of watching her. That, and taking a lot of orders and 
eating a lot of shit sandwiches. I shrugged -- and made a 
mental note not to shrug any more if I could help it. It was a 
job. I had to get through it for a few weeks.

The pizzas arrived and I carried them in and placed them on 
the low table where they were working. Temple immediately 
opened the top box.

"What's this crap?" she demanded of me. "I have pizza with a 
thin crust." She held up a slice to show me. "This is thick." 
I bent to look, and she slapped it right into my face.

Counting silently to ten, I walked to the bathroom and washed 
off the pizza junk. I looked at my face in the mirror. Could I 
continue to do this? I came from an egalitarian country, and 
nobody had ever treated me this way. But it was a job I'd been 
given to do. For a while longer, I would try.

The scriptwriters were leaving when I returned. "It's not so 
bad," the brat said to me, smiling and sunny. "The other two 
boxes have thin crusts."

She pointed me to a vacant chair beside the table and pointed 
cautiously into the open pizza box. "Here," she said. "Eat 
that bit, that bit, and that bit."

She watched me intently as I munched pizza. "How long will you 
wait to see if I fall down frothing at the mouth?" I asked.

"Five minutes," she said, checking her watch.

"What if it's a slow-acting poison?"

"It'll get you first, and that will give me time to get 
medical help."

"Maybe not," I said. "I have a much bigger body weight. You 
could be stone cold dead before I got a rumble in the tummy."

"Maybe I just like to be difficult," she said.

"Maybe," I agreed.

She grinned at me. "Maybe I'll start eating my pizza now."

"Mad if you don't. It's good."

She attacked the stuff like a piranha. After devouring nine 
slices, she sat back, put her feet up on the low table, and 
patted her stomach. "The reason I love pizza," she said, "is 
because it is opposite to everything I grew up with. Never 
again in my life will I eat rice, and never again will I have 
stewed meat or boiled fish with three veg."

Her feet were bare, and the little light dress she was wearing 
slipped back and showed a lot of lithe leg. "Let's get one 
thing clear right from the start," she said, noting where I 
was looking. "You have no chance of getting into my pants."

She raised the dress higher up her legs. "You'll be close by 
at all times, and you'll get to see a lot of me. All of me, I 
guess, because I have to take my clothes off in this movie at 
least one more time. It's in the contract." She sighed. "It's 
always in the contract."

The brat pointed a finger at me. "But listen good, Ace Dyson. 
Don't get yourself worked up about possibilities, because 
nothing will happen. I won't be falling for whatever charms 
you think you might have. All I care about is me."

I said nothing, and looked at the flashing glimpses of her 
pants under the raised skirt. I didn't doubt her, though.

"Not many know this," she said, "but I'm a virgin, and I plan 
to stay that way. I had to fight like hell to keep it when I 
lived at the orphanage." She smiled grimly. "No big old cock 
has ever been up Temple Road. There's been a bunch of fingers 
and a few other things, but no man has got it up there and I 
very much doubt he ever will."

For the first time, I began to feel some sympathy. "The 
inmates gave you a hard time?"

"The boys weren't so bad," she said. "A little bit of fooling 
around kept them mostly in line. But the only way I could keep 
the priests off me was with some serious wanking and, when it 
got really tough, the occasional blow job."

"Dear God," I said. "Didn't the nuns protect you?"

"Some were okay. Some were just as bad."

"Tell me, Temple? How much will you make from this movie?"

"In round figures, seven million American dollars."

"Not enough to put the past behind you?"

She looked at me with hard eyes. "Not yet," she said. "Not by 
a long shot."

The hotel suite had five rooms and I slept in one of them, 
door open at her request. She was a light sleeper, she said, 
and she might call for me. But she didn't, and I rose blearily 
to the alarm at five to wake her. She was required on the set 
at six-thirty.

I banged on the door and poked my head into her room. "Go 
away," she said, and put her head under the pillow. Keep her 
working, my instructions said. I went in and shook her lightly 
on the back.

"All right, all right," she snapped, and bounded out of bed 
like a gazelle. "Order up some breakfast -- just juice, toast 
and green tea." She bumped past me grumpily. "And don't look 
at me like that."

Right. She was wearing very brief pants and a little singlet 
that fitted nicely around her small but delightfully appealing 
breasts and through which her nipples poked aggressively. 
Right, disengage eyeballs, get breakfast. It arrived not long 
after she finished her shower, and she sat at the table in a 
black push-up bra and black pants. "Eat, but don't talk," she 
said. "I'm not at my most cheerful in the mornings, and 
anyway, I still hate your accent."

She dressed in a loose black pants suit and we went down to 
meet the waiting driver. Outside the hotel doors about ten or 
twelve girls rushed forward. "Temple, Temple," they screamed, 
hands outstretched, clutching pens. She ignored them but one 
stepped in front, dropping to her knees, eyes shining with 
adoration.

"Get the fuck out of my way," the brat said to her viciously, 
"or I'll kick your cunt into next week."

The fan scuttled away, and we climbed into the black Merc, 
Temple in the back and me in the front next to the driver. I 
turned to her as we got under way. "You always treat your fans 
like that?"

"Always," she said. "They love it."

"Always girls?"

"Mostly." She laughed mirthlessly. "They want to be just like 
me. And if you were doing your job properly she wouldn't have 
got so close."

We arrived at the set and obsequious people were everywhere. 
Somebody looped an ID card around my neck and gave me a chair. 
I sat in the huge warehouse and watched Temple Road go through 
her paces. They were all fight scenes, carefully 
choreographed, and she was poetry in motion.

I barely spoke to her all day. She worked like a demon, and 
when we got back to the hotel after dark, she went straight to 
bed. Didn't even want a pizza.

The next day it was more of the same. I kept away the fans 
with a forbidding arm. At the warehouse there were more fight 
scenes with different combatants and tropical backdrops. All 
went relatively smoothly, with only one Temple tantrum every 
other hour, until Emil the Rat stuck his face in her window.

* * *

At Temple's insistence, I called at the private hospital while 
she finished filming for the day to check on The Rat's 
progress. I found him fully dressed, sitting in the reception 
area. He could go home, the hospital said. The hospital 
insisted he go, in fact, because he had molested two nurses, 
one of them so severely she had taken up the bed The Rat had 
vacated. Police had been informed and charges were expected to 
be laid.

"What do they expect?" he confided to me. "I woke up in bed 
and found a couple of chicks washing my private parts. Anyway, 
everybody knows all nurses are nymphos."

Emil the Rat, orphan of murdered White Russian parents, street 
urchin, black marketeer, brothel owner, had fallen on hard 
times. He'd run a lucrative business importing careless 
teenage Russian runaways into decadent Shanghai, but he had 
been busted in a new Chinese anti-crime wave and expelled from 
the city of his birth. He'd wandered to Hong Kong but found 
nobody there liked or wanted to do whoring business with 
stunted and ugly Russians. Hong Kong has always been one of 
the most unsympathetic and prejudiced cities on earth.

What was he doing on the film lot? Delivering pizzas, of 
course. The king of pimps, leader of innocent damsels to their 
doom, was eating humble pie. He was definitely in need of a 
fairy godmother.

Temple climbed into the Merc and all over Emil. "Poor man," 
she said, holding both his hands. "Has Ace apologised to you 
for what he did? Can you forgive him?"

The Rat was nothing if not cunning. He skimmed over his life 
between the Shanghai orphanage and Hong Kong as though it was 
a mere lacklustre twelve months. Playing hunches, he told her 
stories of child abuse and misfortune that had her nodding her 
head in sympathy. Back in the hotel suite, they shared pizza 
and tales of woe. He told her, straight-faced, that he had 
been orphaned by uncaring parents because he'd been born with 
an eye defect. I knew how he'd lost his eye. It had happened 
less than ten years ago, and he only had himself to blame for 
it. But that's another story.

Temple, however, could not be skeptical about orphans. "This 
man is my brother," she said to me. "I know my duty."

I took her aside. "This man is not what you think," I said 
carefully. "On the great day of judgement, he'll be on the 
first one-way trip to the eternal hot springs of damnation. In 
fact he'll be sitting in the first four rows of the bus."

She stabbed a finger into my chest. "Is your mother alive and 
well?"

"Yes, thanks."

"Then thank your lucky stars. We orphans have to look after 
ourselves."

Emil the Rat was put on the brat's personal staff at a salary 
of $1000 per day. He became primary food taster, secondary 
minder, back-up driver, lapdog, and some sort of vague and 
undefined spiritual adviser.

Great. The furry little one-eyed hunchback whore-monger could 
do no wrong, and good bloke Ace, only being paid his weekly 
Pacific Rimfire salary, could do no right. "But," said Temple 
to me meaningfully, "you're still my bodyguard. You're the one 
with the gun."

"Dear lady," I said, "I can tell you without regret I have no 
such thing."

"You have no gun?"

"No, but you can bet your sweet tits Emil does."

"Oh well," she said. "As long as one of you has one."

At my absolute dogged insistence, Emil was installed in his 
own separate room across the hall. I was sure, I said, that if 
he was in her suite she'd be invaded in her bed before the 
first night was half over.

* * *

Temple had a day off from the set, and she wanted to do 
nothing more than laze around in her room. That suited me 
well, because I had a lunch appointment with a lawyer.

Anne Abernathy was a staff legal adviser for Pacific Rimfire 
Hong Kong. She was a tall, feisty redhead with shrewd, droll, 
and heavy-lidded eyes. I liked her at first sight.

I'd asked for legal help to sort out Emil's hospital 
indiscretions, and she'd already fixed it. This was Hong Kong. 
Anything could be fixed. Money healed all wounds, and cash did 
it miraculously.

She spoke with a strong Scottish burr, and that's one of the 
sexiest accents on the planet. Business over in a flash, we 
settled in to a nice lunch and snippets of choice Pacific 
Rimfire gossip.

"You know, Ace," she said, after a while, "I've had dealings 
with you before. There was a certain incident in China a few 
months ago involving a mayor's daughter and potential charges 
of lewd and indecent behaviour. The file came to me for 
action."

"Oh dear," I said regretfully. "And I thought I was presenting 
myself so nicely to you."

"Nice, that's for sure," she said. "Nice and notorious, that 
is." She leaned forward across the table. "I had to trade a 
weekend off to free up this afternoon."

Notoriety has its benefits. I picked up her left hand. "Anne, 
dear, perhaps it's timely to remind you that you're married."

"I don't need reminding," she said. "What that ring tells me 
is that I only have three hours to spare."

"Damn," I said, meaning it. "The brat's at home today, which 
means my room is unavailable."

"I'll fix the bill and book another," she said. "But first, we 
haggle. I'm a lawyer, I like to know where I stand, and above 
all I love a good, hot haggle."

"Haggle? Over what? Discretion? Count on it. You don't need to 
make a deal for that."

She raised one eyebrow provocatively. "A deal is like sex, and 
that's what's on the table," she said. "Ace, let's haggle."

"Anne, you can have whatever deal you like."

"Oh, come on," she said impatiently. "You could at least try." 
She drummed her fingers on the table. "I'll open," she said. 
"Missionary position is out. I can get that at home any time."

Right. Now I understood. Blahdfucken lawyers. "Agreed," I 
said. "But you only get one run on top."

She swooped. "I want three performances minimum."

"Two in three hours, guaranteed," I said. "Any more we'll call 
bonus country."

She sat back in her chair. "I'm interested in the bonuses. But 
I want to enhance the prospects, so I'm declaring oral out."

"Agreed," I said. "For me, that is. But I'll throw in an oral 
for you if I can score a knee-trembler."

"Agreed," she said, too quickly.

"You didn't let me finish," I said. "The time and place of the 
knee-trembler is my call, and it won't be in the hotel room."

"You'll take a rain-check on it?" she asked.

"Certainly."

"So let's review," she said. "Minimum two performances, 
bonuses possible, missionary disqualified, oral for me, 
impulse knee-trembler for you on account. Is that your 
understanding?"

"A point of clarification?" I asked.

"Yes?"

"Two performances. You choose one, I the other, any bonuses 
we'll deal with on the fly."

"Who chooses first?"

"You do, of course."

She thrust out her hand. "That's a deal."

I shook on it. "Satisfied?"

She shot me a fast look of raw lust. "Not yet," she said, "but 
I'm so hot you could fry an egg on me."

* * *

Anne Abernathy was hot, and you ought not let a lady go off 
the boil. I whisked her into the elevator, put out my hand to 
stop a nice old couple from Smalltown, USA, from joining us, 
punched the button, pressed her against the shiny stainless 
steel wall, ran my hand under her dress and up her leg, and 
gave her a Dyson Special want-you-right-now-this-very-second 
opening gambit kiss.

Notoriety has its advantages and disadvantages. On the one 
hand, you carry a reputation that heats up the atmosphere. On 
the other, you carry a reputation that only gets you so far 
before you have to prove it's not bullshit and propaganda. 
Anticipation is a huge turn-on. Performance under critical 
review, though, is no man's comfortable companion. There's 
only one way to tackle it -- don't be predictable. And never 
stop to ask or explain. Don't give them thinking time. You 
gotta keep 'em guessing.

Out of the elevator, into the corridor at a long-paced fast 
walk, dragging her by the hand. Door, key, open, pull her 
inside, shut the door, push her against it, give her another 
special. Drag her into the room, scorching look, hands going 
straight to buttons and zips. Off, off, it all comes off, and 
quickly.

Stop. While the blood races and the body functions, the brain 
observes and takes notes. She has a small mouth you don't 
notice until you kiss it, and small, even teeth. She likes to 
use her tongue. Matching underwear, white with a pattern of 
tiny green dots that turn out to be dollar symbols when I get 
a closer look. Maybe she planned this in advance, and dressed 
for it. Maybe dressed for it late -- a quick dash home before 
lunch.

Flattish breasts, white skin, pink nipples. Her body seems 
long but her legs not so. She's a little chunky in the thigh. 
Soft stomach. An indoor office type, head bent over papers, 
working long hours, shoes off under the desk. No gymnasium or 
outdoor feel about her muscles, but she's not out of shape. 
How old? Never asked. Maybe 28, maybe 30. Soft pubic hair, 
untrimmed, but not a lot of it, and so soft, really soft, non-
wiry. She looks and feels like a wife, a married woman, set in 
her style and her ways, comfortable enough with herself 
without being over- confident. And getting right into it. One 
illicit afternoon. An adventure, a thrill. Something to 
remember, with a secret smile, on dull days when things aren't 
going right, when somebody acts like you aren't attractive, or 
treats you like you're dull and boring. And while I'm 
observing, taking notes, committing to memory, so is she. 
Wonder what she's thinking? No. Quick. Move. Don't let her 
think too much.

Tongue flicking, finding the way. There's none the same. Maybe 
the differences are small, but they're still different. Some 
odour, not strong. Something else, too. Talcum powder? Maybe 
she really did flash home before lunch. Whoa, the taste is 
sharp. Very sharp. I'll know this one again blind-folded. 
She's well on the way down the slippery slope, though. She's 
been hot since the deal at the lunch table. Blahdfucken 
lawyers.

She's got her hand in my hair, tugging. Ouch. Yes, yes, I 
know, dear. I know where it is. I'm getting a bird's eye view. 
She's very demanding. There you go, dear. Right on the button. 
How's that? More? You want more? There you go.

Little squeaking high-pitched bird-like noises. Not much 
thrashing about. Sometimes they buck like wild beasts. Not 
this one, though. Squeaky gate noises, then a shudder, a long 
sigh, and an inwards collapse, an implosion.

I lifted my head and looked up the length of her. Her eyes 
were closed. The fringe of her hair on her forehead looked 
damp. Project Anne Abernathy, Stage 1 completed.

* * *

Late in the day, bone weary, muscles aching in the back of my 
thighs but reputation intact, I let myself quietly into Temple 
Road's suite and hoped I could sneak a short nap.

I poked my head cautiously into the main room. Temple was 
sitting on the couch in her sleepwear, those little cotton 
briefs and that skimpy singlet. Beside her sat Emil the Rat. 
His trousers were around his ankles, his head was back and his 
eyes closed, and Temple was wanking his stiff dick steadily 
and efficiently.

She looked up and saw me. She smiled and waved at me with her 
free hand. She kept on wanking Emil with the other.

I pulled back, turned, and went into the bathroom to take a 
hot shower. Don't think about it, I told myself. Let it be. 
Just don't think about it.

The stinging hot shower rained on my head and I thought 
instead about Anne Abernathy, by now arriving home for a night 
indoors with her husband. How would she handle herself? What 
would she say? Just another routine day? You'd never guess, 
darling, but today I got fucked four times in different 
positions, plus I got licked out, plus I still owe the guy a 
knee-trembler. Who? Oh, nobody you'd know, dear. What shall we 
have for dinner?

Then I realised she wouldn't have a problem. She'd lie with 
consummate and practiced skill and aplomb. Blahdfucken 
lawyers.

The door opened. "Leave it running," Temple said on the other 
side of the shower curtain. "I need to wash this stuff off."

Stuff? No, don't think about it. I stepped out and she handed 
me a towel. While I was drying myself she stripped off her 
singlet and pants and hopped neatly into the shower.

She didn't draw the curtain, and I watched her openly and 
admiringly. She had small but perfect breasts, uptilted, 
smooth and firm, precisely balanced one against the other.

"You know," I said to her, "for a little slip of a thing, you 
sure do have a stunning figure."

She continued washing with the bar of soap. "I get a one 
million dollar bonus if I appear naked in a movie," she said.

Impressive. "So I'm getting it for nothing. That's a bargain."

"Anybody who goes to the movies can get it for ten bucks," she 
said. "The world can see me naked. No big deal, big boy. 
You've saved yourself ten lousy bucks."

"Does Emil get to see you naked too?"

She turned off the shower and took a towel. "No way. He can't 
handle it when I'm in my undies." She dried her trimmed pubic 
hair. "You were shocked," she said. "I saw it on your face. He 
got a little drunk and a little over-heated. I fixed him like 
I fixed all the orphan boys, and now he's gone to sleep it 
off."

"Temple, you don't need to fix him. He doesn't need or deserve 
to be fixed."

She wrapped the towel around her waist, matching mine. "I 
don't need your warnings and I know what he is," she said, 
looking up at me. "You don't understand me at all. I wanked 
him off because he needed it. But I don't give a shit about 
it. Means nothing to me. I'd do you too if you needed it, but 
you don't. You don't need anything at all from me, and that's 
why I like having you around. Where were you all afternoon, 
anyway?"

"Getting some of what I needed."

She studied my face. "Men are so full of shit," she said. "But 
you're a smooth one, Ace, I'll give you that."

I left her because her beautiful bare breasts were too close 
to my hands. I went to bed. I needed sleep.

* * *

In the dark, much later, I had sudden company. "Don't take 
fright," Temple said, sliding into the bed. "Even tough girls 
sometimes like a cuddle in the night." She pushed at me. "Roll 
over and go back to sleep."

I turned away from her, and she huddled against my back and 
draped an arm over me. She wriggled and fitted herself to my 
contours, and I could tell she was wearing her uniform pants 
and singlet. I drifted into sleep.

In the dark, later, I became slowly aware that I was on my 
back, that she was lying half across me, that a soft breast 
was pushed into my stomach, that a hard nipple was scraping 
across my skin, and that a warm crotch was sliding sneakily 
and surreptitiously on my thigh. A very warm crotch. Damply 
humid.

It had been going on for a while, and it was only when I 
struggled awake enough that I realised it. She said something 
in Cantonese, so it had to be a profanity, and stopped 
sliding. She knew from the change in my breathing that I'd 
woken.

"You should have stayed asleep," she growled, her head on my 
chest. "I was having a pleasant hump on your leg. It was 
nice."

"Be my guest," I said. "I'll just lie here and think about 
home and mother's cooking."

She rolled away, on her back, next to me. "It's not the same 
if you know it's happening," she said sulkily. "Now you'll 
think I want you to fuck me."

I sat up and switched on the bed lamp. "No, I believed you the 
first time. Mind you, I don't think you know what you want, 
Temple, but you are way, way too complicated for me."

"Or fucked up," she added.

"Or fucked up," I agreed.

I turned back the sheets. Her top and pants lay beside her in 
the bed. She stretched out and spread her legs. "Maybe it's 
time," she said challengingly. "Go ahead. I won't stop you."

"Not exactly the most enthusiastic invitation I've had," I 
said. "No, Temple. Not me, babe. And if you'll take my advice, 
keep it until you're good and ready to give it. But if you're 
in the mood, I have a tongue that knows what it's doing."

She rolled fast and sat on my chest. "Now that's exactly the 
right answer at the right time." She looked down at me with a 
mock leer and inched forward up my chest. "Eat me, big boy. 
Give me your best shot."

Not like that. Face-sitting may have some attraction for those 
who like to control or be controlled, but efficient it ain't. 
You can barely move your neck. I put my hands around Temple's 
tiny waist, flipped her over, and buried my face in her damp 
snatch. For the second time in a few hours, I sampled the 
unique personal flavour of a woman's vagina. Comparisons were 
inevitable.

Suddenly I laughed. Couldn't help it. I lifted my head. 
"Temple, you taste like coffee."

She giggled. "Cappuccino?"

"No -- strong and bitter."

She sighed. "Flatterer."

Temple Road was a small girl through and through. I hoped, for 
her sake, she didn't ever fall in love with a basketball pro 
and want to have his babies. Her clitoris took some finding, 
but it was there all along in the right place, even if it 
didn't come looking for attention. She squeezed out a short, 
controlled orgasm without making a sound, face screwed up, 
abdomen tight and tense under the flat of my hand. I thought 
maybe she was only having a preliminary, and I kept at it, but 
she twisted away from me.

"No more," she said, her face flat on the pillow, voice oddly 
hostile and resentful. "Too sensitive. It hurts."

I lay beside her, pulled the sheets over us and clicked off 
the lamp. She reached her hand down my body and clasped my 
erection. "I should fix this big old thing," she said.

I took her hand away. "I'm not in need," I said. "And I'm no 
orphan boy." Besides, Anne Abernathy had drained the tank bone 
dry, and the big old thing was only standing up in reflex.

The alarm woke us at five. I turned on the light and she 
raised her head, looked at me blearily, and groaned. "Time to 
go to work," I said apologetically.

"Ace Dyson, you're a disgrace," she said. "A decent minder 
would have kicked me out of his bed last night and told me to 
behave myself."

Yeah. I didn't have an answer to that. She was probably right.

* * *

That day was nude fighting day for Temple Road, martial arts 
film star. They cleared the set of all but the bare minimum of 
necessary people, but there still must have been thirty or so 
around her. She shed her clothes with apparent ease, standing 
naked and arguing ferociously in Cantonese with the fight 
choreographers. I was there, in the background. So was The 
Rat. He sucked in his breath and whistled silently. I think -- 
I didn't look -- he did things to himself while standing 
behind a cabinet.

Temple jumped wet and slippery out of a shower and dealt 
forcefully with an intruder. She fought her way out of a 
particularly nasty-looking rape scenario. She fled, clothes 
ripped and bare breasts swaying, from a dozen attackers. And 
she had simulated loving sex with an Englishman who was 
obviously gay in real life. They looked at each other with 
some distaste when the wrap was called, as though they had 
been forced to eat scorpions.

She was very tired at the end of the day, but it was nearly 
over. A few outside building shots remained to be done, one of 
them that night. The event had been publicised, and a huge 
crowd had gathered to watch film stars run out of buildings, 
chase each other down footpaths, shoot dummy pistols, and jump 
into cars with screeching tyres.

The crowd, roped off, went ooh and aah. I could see Temple was 
exhausted, but she soldiered on until she couldn't. She sat 
down on the guttering and put her head in her hands. The 
director spoke sharply to her through his megaphone. She gave 
him the finger, and the crowd went ooh and aah again.

"Come on," I said to The Rat. "I think, for a change, we might 
be useful. Our little girl needs some help."

We cut through the set towards her, ID cards flapping. At that 
moment, from the right, a weird-looking girl appeared. She was 
dressed all in black, her hair was multi-coloured and spiked, 
her face heavily stained and slashed with dark make-up, and 
she advanced steadily with mission and purpose. Both arms were 
raised, she had a pistol in her hands, and she was aiming it 
right at Temple Road.

There were actors with guns everywhere, but I knew with 
terrible sudden instinct the girl was for real. And I was too 
far away.

Running, dragging The Rat with me, I moved towards an 
interception point. The girl stopped and sighted down the 
barrel of the handgun. Temple raised her head and saw the 
danger. She sat on the kerb, too tired to begin to move.

I was close enough to see the girl's finger tighten on the 
trigger. I wasn't going to reach her in time.

What does a basically decent, fair-minded bloke do when the 
chips are down and a lady's life is on the line? Well, there 
was only one thing I could do.

I gave Emil The Rat a mighty shove and hurled him into the 
line of fire.

* * *

It was a sensational story, captured on film and flashed 
around the world. On every TV news bulletin, countless 
millions watched the heroic hunchback fling himself fearlessly 
in front of the assassin's gun to save the petite movie star 
he loved, worshipped, and adored like a beloved sister.

The fucker didn't even die. The girl got off one shot before I 
hit her with a perfect diving scrum-half's Rugby tackle, too 
low to the ground for the cameras to catch. The shot whacked 
The Rat side-on. It ripped through his rib cage and made a 
terrible mess, but he was out of any danger 
before the night was through.

He was made, though. Emil The Rat, survivor of the Shanghai 
streets, knew when to seize the moment. He even got to grope 
the nurses, if feebly, and not only did nobody say a word in 
protest, the nurses were honoured to have been felt up by a 
genuine hero.

Ignoring my spluttering reservations, Temple announced she was 
officially adopting Emil as her brother. No more salary for 
The Rat. He was now part of the family fortune.

The movie wrapped and I paid a final visit to Emil in his 
hospital bed. The room was festooned with flowers sent in by 
the truckload by the brat's fanatical fans. I bent down close 
to his ear and told him quietly that if he ever took advantage 
of his new sister, I would appear like magic and 
rip out his black heart. Then I left. Couldn't face the 
flowers any longer.

Temple was waiting in the black Merc downstairs. I was heading 
for the airport and she wanted to wave goodbye. The hospital 
elevators were slow and full of patients, so I took the 
stairs. One floor down a party of well-dressed busy people 
crossed my path. They all carried briefcases and they were 
chattering about taking bedside evidence from a patient.

I reached out and grabbed one of them by the elbow. "Mrs. 
Abernathy," I said. "Do you have a moment?"

I love it when you catch them out. Nobody could have looked 
more flustered and guilty. "Er, yes," she said, scrambling, 
recovering. She signalled to the waiting group of guys in 
suits. "Go ahead," she said. "I'll be with you shortly."

We waited for them to get into the elevator. Then she turned 
to me. "Jesus, Ace," she hissed, furious. "One of those men 
was my husband."

"Fuck him," I said. "You owe me."

Her sexy, heavy-lidded eyes opened very wide. "Jesus, man, not 
now."

"Now," I said. "I'm on my way to the airport."

"Impossible," she said.

"Not," I said, opening the nearest door and finding a long 
linen closet. I pulled her inside and gave her the Dyson 
Special.

"Jesus, Ace, there are people waiting for me," she said when I 
drew back. But her hands and fingers were at my belt.

"Me too," I said, my hand running up her leg and finding her 
panties. "Let's haggle. I say fifteen minutes."

"No way," she said, dragging down my trousers, and already her 
face had changed. She lusted after a deal. "Five minutes, not 
a second longer."

"Ten," I said, pulling down her pants.

"Seven," she said.

"Spot on," I said, bending, guiding, and finding her so wet, 
so ready, so soon. I pushed up and into her, not taking it 
slowly or gently. "It's a deal."

Ten minutes later (one minute to dress and two to rush down 
the stairs) we walked briskly out of the hospital doors. She 
went to a silver Merc and I went to the black one and climbed 
into the back seat.

"Who was that?" asked Temple Road curiously. She had a nose 
for things slightly out of place.

"My lawyer," I said. "There was an outstanding issue, but it's 
been fixed."

"You fixed her? Or she fixed you?"

"Temple, as a minder I'm a disgrace. You said so yourself. 
Just get me on the plane and I'll get out of your way."

She linked her arm through mine. "I picked the right man for 
the job," she said. "But I still hate your accent."

ENDS
-----------------------------------------------------------
* These future Ace Dyson stories will appear at 
http://www.ruthiesclub.com

-	Ladies Love Larrikins
-	Bad Lady In Buenos Aires
-	Russian Radiance
-	Downhill Slopes
-	The Gypsy's Armpit
-----------------------------------------------------------
* The author welcomes (and gets blood transfusions from) 
comments and opinions from readers and is invariably motivated 
to respond. Write to: Neil@RuthiesClub.com
-----------------------------------------------------------

* also at neil@ruthiesclub.com

-- 
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.         |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+