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Message-ID: <35445asstr$1014779407@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: nickurfe@yahoo.com (Nicholas Urfe)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 27 Feb 2002 00:30:27 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} cuyahoga.008 [urfe] [new]
Date: Tue, 26 Feb 2002 22:10:07 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

.
                                                  ::

                                            as falls cuyahoga,
                                      so falls cuyahoga falls

                                                  ::

Two figures emerging from tendrils of acerbic stage fog. Faces
obscured by masks, gasmasks, bulbous snouts waggling to either side as
they step mincingly, slow and somehow stately. Big goggles, white,
stretched over white headpieces, rubber shining under the lights.
White rubber dresses secondskinning arms and tits and bellies, shadows
pooled in rubber there stretched drum-taut over navels, long skirts
swooping hobbling-tight brush ankles encased in totteringly platformed
bright white boots. One sleeve runs seamlessly from shoulder down an
arm and over a bulbous hint of interlocked fingers, palms sweating
into palms, and up another arm to end, seamlessly, at another
shoulder. Rubber crinkles at knees, hips, elbows, flanks, necks, fat
white shifting wrinkles bunching under the lights as they step to the
edge of the stage, as far apart as their common arm will allow. They
bow. Everyone is speaking to someone else about some other matter over
the low hum of an empty sound system until drums explode, a clattering
parade beat, a demented martial carnival. That common arm bending
impossibly, the two twirl together, sinuous, suddenly swift, free
hands gloved in white rubber stroking, sliding, swaying. The beat is
immense. Richie Meeuwissen leans back and lights another cigarette. He
isn't exactly smiling.

The hands that sneak around his face to cover his eyes have short,
no-nonsense nails, painted a glittering gold. The lips that smile
beside his ears a similar color. The voice is low, whispering, but
pitched to carry itself just above the drums. Guess.

Sam? No, wait, it's - There are zippers on those rubber dresses.
Zippers crawling up and open from hem to knees, legs bent now, hips
rocking to the beat, the beat, high hard syncopated tocking skirling
and clattering over relentless bassthump beating, beating, rolling out
to arm's length and then back again, heads tossing. Vanessa. Hello.

Vanessa Cuyahoga, shimmering goldstuff, a little backless dress that
flounces somewhere about the middle of her thighs, spike-heeled shoes
held on by tiny golden straps lost against her skin in the dim light.
She sits across from him. What gave it away? she says.

I'm working, he says. She's going to show up any minute, otherwise - I
mean, I'd appreciate it - Blinking, his face changes, subtly. Closes a
little. He shuts his mouth.

Yes? says Vanessa. Leaning across the table to be heard over the
drums.

Funny, he says. Not leaning forward.

Thank you, she says. What?

You paid for tonight.

Why, she says, yes. What on earth gave it away?

One of them kneeling, gasmask nuzzling at the other, the dress
unzipped up to the crotch now, high as it will go. White boots beneath
come up to cup the spreading knees, pale thigh flesh bare and shining.
Gasmasked head thrown back, juddering to the beat. Free hand sliding
on a rubbered ass, free hand clenching a rubbered head. The common arm
sinuously weaving impossible arcs behind them.

The agency told me, Richie starts to say.

I lied to the agency, says Vanessa.

Look, says Richie, I don't need the business, and I don't need the
money -

I'm not doing this to give you money.

Oh.

I gave the agency the money.

I know.

Quite a lot of it. And they'll give you whatever your cut is.

Yes, but -

I'm doing this for a fuck, Richie. I want a fuck. That's why I paid
you. That is how this works, isn't it? Am I unclear on the concept?

No, he says.

Spooned back to front now, common arm wrapping around them both one to
the other. Humping, head back, head cocked around, gasmasks nuzzling
each other, snouts to snouts. Free hand on a white rubbered tit, free
hand tugging slowly zipper up and up, along white rubbered knees,
along parting thighs obscenely pale under the lights to the waist
where rubber ripples and bunches, swaying and pumping to the beat, the
beat.

It's awkward, he says.

Awkward?

Sam, he says. Your sister.

I know who Sam is, she says. What does that have to do with this? With
our transaction? Did she already pay for tonight?

Don't fuck around with me, Vanessa, he says.

So I am unclear on the concept, she says.

Legs entwined now, groin to groin, bucking and humping leaning back
away from each other, snouts up, tits shining, rubber stretching white
and taut, their common arm arcing up and straining. And back. Thighs
between thighs, sliding, grinding. Free hands whitely brushing the
black stage floor, stirring wispy pools of heavy leftover fog.
Bucking, humping. Pumping. The common arm stretching and straightening
as goggles and gasmasks toss convulsively on tossing rubbered heads to
the beat.

You're going to make this difficult for me.

Difficult?

You're trying to. You're playing a game. You and your sister.

And what, says Vanessa, leaning back now, do you know about me and my
sister?

The arm breaks. The drums crash to a thundering stop and in the sudden
shocking silence the arm breaks. Falling back on outstretched rubbered
hands both figures flail a moment, separated. Shaking. Dropping to the
floor, hands upraised, fingers bare and grasping. Palms bare. Rubber
ripped and drooping like some broken flower from bare wrists. Falling.
Rolling.

Come on, says Vanessa. Let's go.

Crawling upright to the edge of the stage, on knees blindly groping.
Bare hands reaching. Nails shining under the lights, obscene.

Why? says Richie. I don't -

The drums crash again, a pounding surf of beat, as fingers brush, skin
touches skin, as hands press together desperately and wrap and pull.

I've seen this show. I'm bored, says Vanessa.

Bare hands suddenly greedy now, needy on rubber, rubbered tits,
rubbered arms, the sides of rubbered heads. Gloved hands, rubbered
hands, hovering, hesitant, useless. Bare hands brushing gasmasks,
goggles. Another crashing surfroll of drums.

Look, says Richie, I'm not, as Vanessa kicks her chair back and stands
up, golden, shimmering.

Drums avalanche again, gongs, metal clashing, drumheads thrumming, as
fingers, bare fingers pry the seals of gasmasks loose, as gasmasks
tumble wobbling from pale cheeks, lips whitely glowing under the
lights.

Vanessa walking around behind him. Lips to Richie's ear. Is this the
sort of treatment your clients come to expect?

Richie grinds his smoking cigarette out in the ashtray. The paper
splits. Unburnt crumbs of tobacco spill.

That first kiss onstage is something hungry and strange, pale-lipped
mouths taking bites from each other as goggles clash soundlessly in
the surmounting din. As bare hands and gloved hands push those goggles
up and off revealing closed unseeing eyes. As tongues lick eyelids,
cheeks and tongues. As zippers hidden in the hollows of throats are
found, white rubber peeling back from more pale skin. As hoods loosen,
shift and flop from heads of artfully artless tangled hanks of
sweat-soaked yellow hair. As shoulders are bared, one then another,
and another shrugging free as mouths bite throats and chests and the
notches of collarbones and fingers and mouths again. As the music
roars to an unbearable crescendo and the first breast, tipped with a
shocking nipple the deep rich red of blood in all that light-struck
haze and pale damp flesh and clean white rubber, as a mouth opens to
lick it, suck it, take it in, as a head falls back, the lights go
suddenly dark, the music stops, dead, there is nothing but a keening
cry of pain or pleasure cutting through the dying echo of those awful
drums, and stray wisps of fog drifting from the stage. Someone begins
to clap, but Richie and Vanessa are gone. His cigarette still smolders
in the ashtray.

Turn here, says Vanessa in the passenger seat. Turn left. Picking at
loose seam on the headrest.

Old Town, says Richie.

Keep going, says Vanessa.

The Jameson? The Empire?

Slow down. And shut up.

Outside Bertolioni's two women laugh. One wears a black leather jacket
and a plaid microkilt and white thigh-high stockings, and the other
who throws back her head and shows her white teeth wears a skintight
bellyshirt crawling with brightly colored Hindu gods like mad tattoos
and a pair of bright pink hotpants, set off against her dark, dark
skin. Vanessa, staring out at them, hand raised, hovering, shakes her
head. Keep going.

What?

Amateurs.

Amateurs?

Head down to Third.

I could, you know, says Richie, spinning the steering wheel, call the
agency if you liked.

I don't want someone from your agency.

What is this about, Vanessa?

Why do you think this is about anything? I want a fuck. My sister
seems to think highly of you -

I knew it. This is about your sister.

Slow down. Slow the fuck down. Is she here?

What? Who?

Sam? Do you see her here anywhere? So why the fuck do you think this
has anything to do with her? What about that one?

What?

Vanessa's rolling down her window. A black woman all lanky legs and
feet in clogs and tits juddering under a terrycloth haltertop with
every heavy step looks sidelong at the car. Looks back over her other
shoulder. You looking? she says, her steps angling closer to them as
they roll slowly along the curb.

Maybe, says Vanessa.

Jesus, says Richie.

Backstage, one of them in her high heels is otherwise naked, standing
before the big pocked mirror splotchy with old grease. She daubs at
the red makeup creamed along one nipple. The other sits on the old
green couch wearing a pair of men's black boxer briefs, her knees
drawn up to her chest. She rubs one bare foot, running a finger
between grubby toes. Her toenails are painted white.

Someone knocks at the door. Royal's coming.

The one at the mirror looks at the one on the couch, who's slipping
her feet into stiletto heels and standing. Thumbs in the waistband,
she pushes the briefs over her hips and lets them fall down her legs,
stepping out of them. She smiles.

Good show tonight, says the big man with the big smile and the big
head of hair. I'm not interrupting, am I? He wears a beige suit with a
black shirt and he opens his arms generously as they come to him, one
to either side, kissing his cheeks. Thanks. You think so? It was
nothing. His hands on the hip of one, the ass of the other. They both
have curling on the left cheeks of their buttocks single roses
tattooed in thick black lines and delicate colors drawn as if they
were growing from the clefts of their asses.

Twenty, says the man behind the inch-thick glass.

Twenty? says Richie. The sign says it's ten bucks a room.

Plus five per guest. I count two guests. Am I wrong? Twenty.

Pay the man, says Vanessa.

What you got to understand, says the lanky-legged woman, is you can't
say that shit on the payphones.

You're the one who's dating, says Richie.

Where would I carry the money in this outfit? says Vanessa.

You say that shit on the payphones, you say anything about the
paperwork, you talk about the terms at all, and there they be, a
minute later, a cop car, cruising. Less.

Just pay the man, says Vanessa, putting her arm around the
lanky-legged woman's shoulders. You can fill out an expense report for
the agency, right? The paperwork.

Don't joke about that shit. They got bugs in all the phones and the
cops listen and listen. I told you it was extra for you and him right?
It's extra. My name's Sugar.

You said, says Richie, as the man behind the inch-thick glass drops a
key on a bright orange plastic numeral seven into the stainless steel
bowl that's set in the counter below the glass, open on either side of
it. Richie reaches in and scoops out the key. You said it was Tamine.

It's Sugar. Because I'm so sweet. It's extra, for the both of you.

No tricks, says the man behind the inch-thick glass. His voice is
muffled by it. His mustache has been badly trimmed. I won't have any
tricks in this hotel.

I am not turning tricks! says the lanky-legged woman, Sugar or Tamine,
planting the heels of her hands on the Formica counter to either side
of that stainless steel bowl. I am not some fucking whore!

Come on, says Richie, pushing open the dented steel door with a glass
window tiny and set up high but smeared nonetheless with old
handprints and inlaid with chickenwire.

It's extra, says Sugar, pushing off from the counter, for the both of
you. Single-room occupancy! She starts to giggle. Guests pay extra!

This, says Vanessa, following, is even funnier than I imagined.

The room is tiny and lit by a single moth-speckled forty-watt bulb
dangling from a chain over the pressboard desk, plastic veneer peeling
up from the edges. A red Gideon lies in the middle of the desk. The
bed is maybe a twin and has an alarming list to the lower right
corner. The blanket is thin and orange and rucks up as Sugar climbs up
on it, wobbling on her knees, one hand reaching back to pluck at her
underwear under her skirt.

Be a gentleman, Richie, says Vanessa. Help the woman. Sugar falls over
on her side, laughing, as Richie approaches. I need, she says, a bump.
You got any? She's fumbled something out of her little black handbag,
a makeshift pipe of some sort, what looks like a film canister on the
end of a pen stem. Her underwear is down around her knees the color of
dark and blood-soaked liver. I'm following my circumspection, but it's
that time of the night, you know what I'm saying? One knee is ugly
with a scar that knits and bunches the flesh in thick snarled ripples.
One clog falls off a foot and thumps to the floor. She scratches
between her tits, under the haltertop. I, um, says Richie.

Oh, for fuck's sake, says Vanessa, pushing past him, kneeling there on
the floor in her shimmering gold, running her gold-tipped hands flat
along Sugar's thighs. Sugar giggles and sucks at the pipe and then
frowns at it, poking it with a finger. I need a bump, she says.
Vanessa is pulling her underwear, simple cotton bikini panties that
had once perhaps been white, down along her calves and off one bare
foot, one clogged foot. Sugar rolls over onto her back. Vanessa lifts
the underwear in both hands to her face, holding the front panel to
her nose. She sniffs, deeply. Smiles.

Well? says Sugar. Someone gonna fuck me, or what? Lifting her hips,
she's trying to shove her skirt over them and not having much luck.
Vanessa looks up at Richie, who says, I, uh. Take off your shirt, says
Vanessa, climbing to her feet. Dropping the underwear to the floor.
She kneels on the edge of the bed her shadow looming over bed and wall
and Sugar and she puts one hand on Sugar's hip, below fraying hem of
her denim miniskirt. You gonna kiss me? says Sugar. I don't like
kissing, but you can kiss me. It'll cost you extra, though. The skirt
riding up as she shifts one leg baring her pussy, purple and a
washed-out beige pink. Hedged by nervous scribbles of dark hair. A
scum of something whitish flakes like dead skin from the inside of one
thigh, and Richie closes his eyes. Jesus, the smell -

Her hand sliding down and up again to Sugar's tented knee, Vanessa
straightens, licking her lips. Sugar says I don't know what it is
about moths, you know? Fluttering like that. Come on, Richie, says
Vanessa. Get that shirt off. Bending down to kiss the scar on Sugar's
knee, to run her tongue along the creased flesh.

What if I, Richie starts to say, and Vanessa looks up. I didn't make
the rules, she says.

But what if I don't, says Richie.

Vanessa puts one foot on the floor and then the other, standing. Even
if you don't do anything, says Sugar, it's still going to cost you.

What if I don't want to, says Richie.

Then we're playing a different game, says Vanessa. Aren't we? Her hand
on his hip. Her hand on the button of his jeans. Her hand unzipping
his fly.

It's still going to cost extra, says Sugar.

Backstage, one of them says, We're thinking of doing a routine to one
of Glenn Branca's pieces. The First, says the other. With that endless
chord. And the drums, says the other.

The big man sitting at one end of the old green couch says I'm not
going to lie, it's a fabulous show. But I don't think we can headline
you. Not yet. I can swing something maybe in LA, an opening gig, make
a splash. But Vegas is at least six months out.

We're kind of set on Vegas, says the one of them nestled in the other
corner of the old green couch. Holding a glass of something tawny, cut
with half-melted ice. The other, leaning back against the first, her
now-bare foot on the couch by the big man's hip, her elbow on the
couch between the other's thighs, leans back against the other's chest
to whisper something in her ear.

I don't doubt you can do it, says the big man. But we gotta lay the
groundwork. You hear what I'm saying?

You're staring, says the one with the glass.

Sorry, says the big man. Grinning a little. It's just - you swear
you're not sisters? I mean, the resemblance. I can't tell you apart.

If she were my sister, says the other one, would I do this?

The big man's eyes light up.

Richie hisses as she snugs the condom at the base of his cock. Go on,
says Vanessa, and he takes one step out of his puddled pants, and
another, kicking them free. I am so fucking late, says Sugar, and Tee
One's gonna smack me. Bitch. Rolling up on one elbow, she grins a
crooked grin. Got it up? she says. Needed some help? I need some help.

Shut up, says Richie, one knee on that thin orange blanket.

That's it, says Vanessa. She's a whore. You paid for her. Fuck her.
You don't have to listen to her.

Shut up, says Richie, again. Sugar grabbing at his shoulder as he
plants his other knee, cock a-bob above her. I could use a bump, says
Sugar, I could really use a bump.

So bump her, Richie, says Vanessa. Fuck the whore. Fuck her silly. Go
on.

Oh, fuck, says Sugar, oh God damn.

Richie's shadow like a stain, something splashed against the wall. It
begins to move. Hitch and jerk, hitch and jerk. Hunh, he says, at the
bottom of each. Hunh. Sugar twisting under him, the pipe, she says,
the pipe, until he plants a hand on her shoulder and holds her still,
grunting. Come on boy, says Sugar. Shut up, says Richie. She lifts one
leg crooked and dark into the air, her foot twisting at the end of it,
toes splayed, bouncing with each thrust. Vanessa stands arms folded
and watches. Fuck her, she says. She's a whore and you're going to
fuck her and forget her and that's it. That's what whores are for.
That's all they're for.

Would you fucking shut up? snarls Richie, jerking upright and half
out. Hey, says Sugar, as he puts a foot on the floor and pulls away.
His condomed cock bouncing as he steps and again. Vanessa's hand
coming up as his hand comes up and he grabs hers and pushes her back
against the wall. She grunts. Her wrist pinned over her head. His
other hand catching her thigh as he steps between her knees. Jesus, he
says.

Don't, she says, don't even take it off, just now, just now, do it.
Now.

That first thrust bangs her back against the wall again and shakes it.
The second jolts her, knocking her jaw open as she lifts one foot a
slender delicate shoe dangling from it and hikes her knee around his
bare hip. The third makes her groan. His teeth are gritted, his mouth
a sneer, fuck, he says, fuck, fuck. She shudders, the hand above her
head hanging limply from his grasp, but her eyes stay fixed, her mouth
remains a grim smile even as her head quivers on her neck from the
next thrust, and the next. Ranh, he says, and hanh, his other hand
catching her thigh and holding it there. Tilting a little with her as
her weight shifts, sliding along the wall and catching, hanh. Fuck.

Sugar sitting upright on the bed, one hand idly scratching her belly
where the waistband of her skirt has ridden up. Not really looking at
them at all. Her other hand crawling across the blanket rumpled and
coming up with the pipe. She turns it over, and over again. Frowning.
I didn't, she says. I forgot. What. What is it? What?

Vanessa one hand clenching Richie's buttock, gold nails digging red
lines into the flesh. He hisses, jerks his hips, grabs her face, his
thumb and middle finger wrapping along her jaw as he shoves her head
back against the wall, wrenching it to one side stop it! And still she
smiles, eyes dark. He lets go, reaches back, grabs her hand and she
lets him slam it against the wall. Hands pinned, feet planted, her
upraised foot now falling as he begins to piston slapping hard against
her hips knees bent thumping the wall, bang, bang, someone on the
other side pounding, thump, a hoarse bellow, cut it the fuck out!
Shit, says Richie, shit oh shit oh shit and Vanessa howls. Jaw open
eyes squeezed shut throat ululating groaning howl as she thumps her
hips against him bouncing between him and the wall hard and stuttering
fast, unh oh! Oh! Oh!

That racket, says Sugar. That goddamn noise.

I'll, um, says the big man, smiling big, his big hair mussed, wiping
two glistening fingers with a handkerchief before he zips up the fly
of his big beige pants, I'll see what I can do.

And the one of them with her head on the other's shoulder smiles.

Vanessa peeling off a twenty off a slim money clip she's fished from
somewhere in that shimmering golden dress. Dropping it fluttering to
the floor by Richie's head.

I, says Sugar, trying and not succeeding to step into her underpants,
I had a baby once.

The fuck? says Richie, rolling over on his side, half-raising himself
from the floor.

A tip, says Vanessa. I can find my way out.

I got the point, says Richie. You don't have to drive it home. Holding
the twenty up to her.

Good, says Vanessa, turning away. Not deigning to look at the twenty
at all.

I had two of them, says Sugar. I forgot that I had two of them.

Sam's told me stuff, you know, says Richie.

Has she, says Vanessa, her hand on the doorknob. Like how we've been
fucking since we were kids?

Like about, says Richie, John.

Vanessa takes her hand off the doorknob but stops its arc there by her
hip before it does whatever it was going to do. No, says Vanessa.

Oh? says Richie.

Vanessa puts her hand back on the doorknob and twists it, deftly.
Pulls the door open. Shakes her head. No, she says.

Jesus, says Richie. Jesus fuck. He looks down, rolls the condom up
along his cock until he can safely pluck its greasy tip bulging with
come.

The funny thing is, says Sugar.

Shut up, says Richie.

The funny thing is, says Sugar, John. They're all named John. Ever
notice how funny that is?

                                                  ::
                                                  
                                            as falls cuyahoga,
                                      so falls cuyahoga falls
                                             an object lesson.008
                                                 
                                                          --n.
                                                  ::
                                                  
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/nickurfe/www/
http://www.ruthiesclub.com/
nickurfe@yahoo.com

This story may be freely circulated by anyone, anytime, anywhere.
Performance extrapolated from a routine by the Porcelain Twinz.

.

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