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Message-ID: <35767asstr$1016349003@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: nickurfe@yahoo.com (Nicholas Urfe)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 17 Mar 2002 02:02:35 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} giggling 2:3 [urfe] [new]
Date: Sun, 17 Mar 2002 02:10:03 -0500
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                                                  ::

                                                  Giggling
                                                       2 of 3

                                                  ::

The double-headed dong is the color of grape Kool-Aid and has bubbles
trapped inside it like seltzer water. About six inches of it have
disappeared inside Deedee. Honey kneels beside her, her fist wrapped
around it, watching the bobbing head on the other end as she pounds it
into Deedee, her fist slapping against Deedee's groin with every
thrust. Deedee's grunting and making her come face. Honey leans over
Deedee's hips and licks the head of the dong and then takes it in her
mouth. Deedee's still bucking her hips, but slower now, so Honey can
blow the dong and lube it up a little with some spit. Deedee's hand
reaches up and cups the back of Honey's head.

Hey, Terry's saying. You wanna do spoon or scissors?

Did we get a spit take? says Roy.

Yeah, we got a spit take. Spoon or scissors?

Let's get more spit. I don't give a fuck. Give me another spit take.

Honey doesn't roll her eyes as she lifts her head up off the dong and
lets her mouth fill up with spit. She dribbles it off her lower lip
onto the tip.

Yeah, Roy's saying. Yeah.

Honey rubs her thumb along it. It's pretty much ready. Deedee
scootches back in the pool chair a little, lifting one leg. Looks like
it's going to be a scissors. Which is fine. Honey gets to her feet and
straddles the pool chair, crouching over Deedee, who's holding the
dong steady for her. Everything's bright. Sunlight and movie light
bounce off water and sweat and lube and suntan oil. Honey braces
herself with one hand and reaches down with the other to spread
herself, hooking the head of the dong with her forefinger and guiding
it home as she slowly sinks down. Trying not to think about how goofy
this must look. Trying not to think about Terry zoomed in tight,
watching the purple dong slide into her, getting it all on tape. She
barely feels it, she's so slick with lube and concentrating on trying
not to fall over and maybe even look a little bit sexy while she's
doing it. Not that Terry or his camera can see anything but Deedee's
cunt and her cunt and the purple dong like a fat gummi worm stretched
between them. But hey. It's the thought that counts. Right?

So they kiss and they fuck for a minute or two. Honey's trying to
figure out if she's worked with Deedee before. She's pretty sure she
hasn't. She saw one of her tapes once--that tattoo's pretty
unmistakable, it's a nice piece of branding, really. She liked it.
Deedee's good at making it all look like something fun, spontaneous,
hey, let's fuck on camera, it'll be a blast.

But even though Honey's pretty sure she's never worked with Deedee
before, there's something familiar about her. It's not the body, the
body's pretty much standard issue Southern California porn star: flat
stomach round ass long legs jacked boobs like perfectly formed patties
of ground beef wrapped in smooth plastic the color of burnt butter.
It's the ineffable stuff: the way she moves. The way her mouth opens
when they kiss. The way her weight shifts, and one slick hand trails
up Honey's spine and then back down again, to grab her ass. It's all
of it full of deja vu, and it's making Honey vaguely horny in spite of
the lube and the sun and the camera and the lights and Roy. It's all
professional, mind--fucking Deedee is like dancing in a Broadway
chorus line, where everybody knows what everybody else is doing and
there's almost no need to think about any of it, leg here hand there
kiss lick thrust and pump! Not at all like holding Barbie in the
bathroom, turning her around on unsteady feet, tripping over discarded
shorts and underwear tangled about one ankle. Not like pulling her
back against you and wrapping your arms around her and feeling her
clammy ass against your cunt and fingering her until she comes,
shuddering. Not like not knowing what to do or what to say next, and
just watching her without saying anything at all as she pulls up her
shorts, not looking at you. Opens the door. Leaves.

Fucking Deedee is not awkward.

Until it's suddenly darker, and cooler--it's still bright and hot, but
not so much. Like half the white-hot sun went out at the flick of a
switch. For one absurd moment Honey thinks it's somehow her fault. The
lights. The lights just died. Goddammit, Roy's saying. Don't move,
Terry's saying. Don't move, girls. Hang on, says Linus. You fucking
idiots, says Roy. Don't move? says Deedee, annoyed.

Don't move, says Linus. I've almost--

Don't fucking move? says Honey.

Yeah, just--we're not done, we just need to get the lights back on and
we can get back to it.

Can we at least... Deedee's shifting a little under her, their skin
chafing now, no longer lubricated by motion. Strange how this sort of
thing is actually comfortable when you're moving, but stopped
dead--legs stretch, muscles protest. Fuck not moving. They just won't
get up. Won't take the dong out. Honey shifts her weight from her knee
to her other foot, puts out her hand. Deedee's resting the weight of
her upraised leg on Honey's thigh. Roy and Linus are arguing. Just
break the fucking thing up and start something else. No, no, we don't
have enough coverage, the scene will suck and you'll yell at me, why
didn't we get more? I'm yelling at you now, you little fuckup. Honey
sighs. Deedee rolls her eyes.

Hey, says Honey. This is weird, but, I mean--have we ever worked
together before? I mean, it's totally embarrassing if I forgot, but...

No, that's cool, says Deedee. It was before the tattoo. And I wasn't
Deedee Lick then.

Yeah?

Yeah. It was on, uh, one of the Girls' Club shoots. The one with the
big orgy on the soccer field? I was one of the goalies? We did a 69
under the net, and then a strap-on with Heidi and whatshername, Lexi
Day?

Because, says Honey, who vaguely remembers the soccer orgy and who's
never liked working with Heidi, the thing is, she says, I'm horrible
with names and faces, but I never forget a body. So. The dong is
starting to feel not entirely pleasant inside her: it's slowly
becoming a dull, persistent ache, like a pulled muscle in a really
weird place, filling her up, doing nothing at all for the vague need,
the unexpected horny hum in the back of her brain.

My third flick, says Deedee, looking away. We gonna get this show back
on the road? she says. In a minute, I swear, Christ, how the fuck much
is this costing me? Deedee grins. It was so cool, she says. I got to
work with the famous Honey Ryder.

Honey rolls her eyes like she's supposed to, shucks. And then you got
the tattoo? she says. She doesn't touch it, even though she sort of
wants to. Lying naked one on top of the other, a double-headed dong
stretched from one cunt to the other--touching the tattoo would be an
imposition. An unwarranted advance.

I met Cece dancing at the Cosmos, and we were gonna be the Lick
Sisters. It was spooky: we looked so much like each other we could be
twins. We got matching tattoos, except on different sides. Like a
mirror. We were gonna clean up.

But?

She found God a week later.

I've seen a couple of your tapes.

Well, Lunchbox got nominated for a couple of AVNs.

Yeah. Yeah. Best anal, video, right?

Yeah.

Cool. I mean, I like what you do. You've got a way of enjoying
yourself on camera--it's rare, you know?

Thanks, says Deedee, flatly.

Christ, thinks Honey. Could that have been any more condescending? I
mean, she says, I like working with you. That's all. Christ, this is
getting ridiculous, she says, looking up at Linus and Terry, jiggling
cables and plugs. Can I get up already or what? she yells.

Just a minute, almost got it, need you there to focus the lights,
we'll have this in a jiffy, stop your fucking whining.

What Deedee says then is almost buried by all that and Honey almost
misses it and wishes she had, or wishes at least she'd stopped herself
before saying the reflexive What?

I said, you looked like you were enjoying yourself. In there.

Because now Honey can't ignore it.

You mean with Barbie?

Scottie's fluffer? That's her name?

I know. It was weird, I just... And suddenly Honey wishes this
conversation would stop dead. Go some other direction. Because all of
a sudden she's asking herself, why did you do that? Why did you let
that girl do that? What were you thinking? And none of them are
questions Deedee would ever ask, any more than Honey would touch her
tattoo, but still, the very fact that the questions exist turns her
stomach, dashes something icy along her nerves, a cold front that
collides with the warm aching itch around the goddamn dong still
shoved up her twat, and between the two of them there's suddenly a
storm inside her that has nothing to do with oiled skin and swimming
pools and one half of the Lick Sisters and a double-headed dong the
color of grape Kool-Aid.

Hang on, Honey says. She stands up. The dong slides out of her with a
slithering sucking wet plop. She feels--empty. Moved. Numb. I gotta
go-- she starts to say.

What the fuck?

I gotta go piss, she says. You keep me here any longer you're gonna
end up paying extra for a goddamn golden shower.

You have any idea what this is going to cost? How far behind schedule
we are?

Maybe if you sprung for decent equipment in the first place, she says,
thumping Roy on his pink silk shirt, you wouldn't lose so much trying
to jerry-rig this shit when it breaks down.

You want I should maybe send Scottie's girl in to let you know when
we're ready for your high and mighty ass?

Shut the fuck up, Roy, she says, trying to sound more tired than
anything else, which isn't hard to do.

Walking away, back to the house, she feels more naked than she is. She
feels eyes crawling on the back of her scalp like immaterial bugs. She
feels like her ears are twice their normal size. She's listening for
anything, a whispered remark, a chuckle, a laugh. She hears the clank
of tools. The breeze. Water lapping in the pool. Whatcha reading? asks
Terry, trying to make conversation with a naked porn star while Linus
ratchets away at the lights.

A book, says Deedee, bored.

What's it about?

Whores, she says, and rolls over on her side.

    ::

Hey.

Oh, uh. Hey.

Honey, wrapped up in her white robe, sits on the carpet next to
Barbie, leaning back against the couch. Honey's drinking water.
Barbie's got a bottle of one of those Seagram's malt coolers that she
ostentatiously does not try to hide.

Now what? So. About your uncle? Look, about what happened in the
bathroom? You know, I'm not that kind of girl?

Honey's still trying to think of something to say and trying not to
look like she's trying to think of anything at all when Barbie says,
You done?

With Deedee? Yeah. Finally. I've got one more giggle to do, though.
With Dixie Bangs, if she ever shows up.

A giggle?

Yeah. You know. A lesbo fuck scene.

Oh. Why is it called a giggle?

Cause it's girl-girl. Get it?

Oh. So. We were, uh, giggling, back there, then, huh?

Sure, says Honey, even as she's thinking, no, no, not at all.

What does Barbie look like? She looks young, yes, but how? Still a
little pudgy in her face and arms, her neck and belly and thighs with
traces of leftover baby fat. Her hair is thick and dyed an
artificially rich auburn with dark roots and comes down to about her
shoulders and is lank and damp with the heat and a little greasy, her
eyes are big and brown when you can actually look into them, her mouth
is wide and if she ever really smiled it would be big and guileless
and light up the room. Her nose is not as small and cute and pert as
it could be, and she'll probably end up getting it chopped about the
same time she has someone slide bags of silicon into her tits, which
are just big enough to do fine on their own, though they'll start to
sag when gravity finally catches up to her. But she won't listen to
anybody who tells her otherwise. She'll chop and stuff and tuck.
She'll do abdominal crunches at the gym where she'll pay the trainer
with money from her first couple of flicks. One of Dick Hardin's
endless Gonzo Jailbait tapes, or maybe a magazine spread for Home From
School or Just Come of Age. Penny loafers or mary janes instead of
dirty white canvas Keds, white ankle socks like she's got on now, a
schoolgirl kilt and a black thong instead of tight cut-offs and white
cotton underwear with flowers, a white blouse unbuttoned enough to
show off the bad girl black bra, instead of a baby tee with a faded
silkscreen of some seventies movie star. Lip gloss. A cigarette,
maybe. They'd definitely play up her sullen bad girl vibe. Sunglasses.
Dick pretending to pick her up on the street, following her around
with a handheld hi-8, hey, girl, you wanna make a movie? Gee, mister,
I don't know. I've never. It's so big. Can I lick it? Oh. Oh. They'd
eat her up for about six months or so, and if she doesn't blow it all
on stupid shit and unemployed musicians, she'll be doing okay. She'll
get a tattoo on the small of her back if she doesn't have one already,
either something Chinese or something Celtic, and she'll buy a new VW
bug to match the color of her new latex minidress. She'll burn through
a disposable Bic or two a day shaving everywhere because waxing's too
inconvenient and maybe she'll kid herself that all-natural shaving
creams with aloe and herbal extracts are better for her pores. She'll
practice sitting upright with her back arched, her legs folded just
so, her hair bleached blond now and spilling back over her shoulders,
she'll work on her lustful pout, her lip lick, her come face. She'll
stop drinking those sickly sweet alco-pops and start drinking water
and juice blends, and if she ever takes up smoking she'll spend years
on the verge of quitting because there's nothing else to do with your
time while they fiddle with lights and cameras and big dopey slabby
men, their bland, lifeless faces gone red from too much Viagra. She'll
marry her agent and they'll forget to have sex, and she'll come up
with some stunt to set herself off from the pack, like never fucking
men on camera, and somewhere along the way all the fat will melt out
of her face, eroding away from her cheekbones and chin but leaving her
eyes somehow smaller, hidden in a mask of eyeshadow and mascara, and
her smile will be buffed and polished into something slick and
gleaming and professional.

She'll have to come up with a better name, though. Barbie just won't
cut it.

It's hot, says Barbie, draining her Seagram's.

I wish to God I had a cigarette, says Honey.

You could bum one.

Honey blinks. No, she says. No, I quit. Honest.

Oh.

You actually want to break into this business, don't you.

Yeah.

You shouldn't drink that stuff. Not on the set. Never fuck on film
while you're drunk.

Shyeah, says Barbie, with just enough adolescent snottiness that
something inside Honey makes a decision and she doesn't stop to worry
about whether it's right or even sane. She stands up, suddenly. Come
on, she says.

Where? says Barbie.

You serious about breaking into porn?

I said I was.

Then come with me. Someplace a little less open. And bring your
cigarettes.

                                                  ::
                                                  
                                                  Giggling
                                                       2 of 3
                                                          --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.
Originally published at Ruthie's Club. Thanks to Ruthie for editing,
Garv for illustrating, and MichaelD for Reseda.

.

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