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Message-ID: <36783asstr$1023995407@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: DrSpin <drspin@newsguy.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Ladies Love Larrikins (Ace Dyson - NEW) (M/F+) ~ by DrSpin
Date: Thu, 13 Jun 2002 15:10:07 -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

Ladies Love Larrikins (M/F+)
(An Ace Dyson Story)
by Neil Anthony/DrSpin

---------------------------------------------------------
* This story is published here by kind permission of Ruthie's 
Club, where it appeared illustrated by Lloyd W. Meek under an 
exclusivity period for six months. Ruthie's Club 
(http://www.ruthiesclub.com) carries about 40 more of my new 
stories, including 14 new Ace Dyson adventures. 

* The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers 
and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to:
drspin@newsguy.com or neil@ruthiesclub.com

* DrSpin's Standard Disclaimer: 
I write and you read, if you care to. That's all there is 
to it. Any reader who is offended should not have been here 
in the first place.
---------------------------------------------------------

I was seized by a desperately stupid idea while giving a woman 
I knew not well at all a knee-trembler against the wall of her 
garage on a night cool and breezy enough to feel a brisk chill 
on my bare buttocks.

I really ought to get married, I said to myself. Maybe then 
women would stop taking advantage of me just because I was 
single, hetero, clean, healthy, uncomplicated, and passably 
good looking, depending on the vagaries of taste.

You'd think a bloke in such a situation would have his mind on 
the job instead of pondering the pluses and minuses of the 
married state. But, pressing affairs aside, it was time to 
take stock. I was weary of being so blatantly used.

It all started with an unusual plea for assistance. Dee worked 
over in Publications. Nice lady. Glasses. I say that because 
it was the first thing you noticed about her. On some women 
glasses look sexy. The right sort of spectacles can make the 
right sort of eyes look just right, and Dee had the whole 
package. She looked at me with her clear blue eyes made all 
the clearer through those big round glasses. 

"Ace," she said, "I need your help."

Thanks to my mother, I'm one of the few men remaining on earth 
who instantly springs to his feet to give his seat to a lady, 
and I agreed to help without a second thought.

She had come into my office offering to buy me a decent cup of 
coffee. She was wearing a smart white linen suit and an 
expression of ill-ease. Soon I was sitting warily at an 
outdoor table at a cafe down the road with a woman I knew only 
through work. But I suspected I would know her rather better 
before too long. When a woman offers to buy a man a cup of 
coffee, she wants something, and it's guaranteed to be 
something complicated. 

"I've been playing a silly game with my husband," Dee said, 
blinking at me nervously, "and it has gone way out of 
control."

"Ah," I said, suspicions confirmed. What was she talking 
about? Why me?

"He told me about a girl at his work who was putting the moves 
on him. So I confessed there was a guy at my work doing the 
same to me."

"Sort of, like, anything you can do I can do better?"

"Exactly. I knew you'd understand, Ace."

"So who's the guy?"

"Well, it's you, actually."

"Ah," I said, cursing inwardly. "There is no guy."

"There can be," she said, looking at me anxiously. "If you'll 
help me out, that is."

"Damn," I said sadly. "Dee, is my reputation that bad?"

"Ace, you're a legend, even if only half the office stories 
are true. That one about you in New Zealand. My word!"

I winced. "Look, Dee," I said quickly, "if you just want to 
use my name in your game and you're looking for permission, 
then go ahead with my blessing. Unless, that is, you have a 
particularly aggressive husband."

She wrinkled her nose. Cute. "I'm afraid it's not that simple"

"Ah," I said. "So you're saying we two have already been up to 
monkey business? What have we done?"

"Well, you keep telling me how you'd like to bang me up 
against the wall of the photocopy room. And just yesterday you 
tried."

"I did? How well did I do?"

Her spectacles flashed. "I said you kissed me. I said your 
hands were all over me. But I thought I heard somebody and I 
twisted away and escaped. I told Jerry last night I almost 
wished I'd stayed."

"And what did good old Jerry say to that?"

"Well, he wants you to come to dinner on Saturday night."

"What? Why? Jesus, Dee. Dinner, fuxsake? He'll shoot my face 
off with a sawn-off shotgun."

"No, he won't," she said. "Because he's bringing Jilly, the 
little girl from his office."

"Ah," I said. "Jilly is real?"

"Oh yes. You and I are further advanced than Jerry and Jilly, 
but she's definitely interested."

"Let me get this straight. You are asking me to dinner to 
pretend to your husband that I'm trying to get into your 
pants?"

"Exactly," she said, beaming at me. "I knew you'd understand."

Like hell I did. And why can't I learn to say no? No sensible 
man would agree to such nonsense. It couldn't fail to be 
trouble. I wanted to say no, but she looked so earnest and 
fretful behind those big round glasses that I just couldn't do 
it.

I'd been so good. For two whole weeks I'd been in not one bit 
of trouble. Punctual at work, all paperwork done on time, 
polite at staff meetings, didn't get in the Colonel's way, 
paid all the bills, ate healthy food, drank lots of clean 
water, walked the neighbour's dog. I'd only had two dates with 
terribly nice ladies and all they'd had from me was dinner and 
a fond goodnight kiss. Jesus, I'd even been to the gym at 
lunchtimes. I was feeling just so damned good about myself. 

I never fooled myself that I was approaching sainthood, 
though. I knew it was never going to last. 

I dressed on Saturday night like a man with a legendary 
reputation. That means I wore my vintage brown leather jacket, 
suitably fuck-you-right-in-the-face and casually carefree, and 
knocked on the door of an unassuming suburban house. It opened 
to reveal, I guessed, Jerry Womack. He gave every appearance 
of being delighted to see me.

"You must be Ace," he said, pumping my hand vigorously. "By 
God, I've certainly heard a lot about you."

Jilly was there and she had big tits. I say that because it 
was the first thing you noticed about her. Woman, young, maybe 
not yet 21 even, curly hair, small body, big tits. Wouldn't 
make it through the front door of a model agency, but if Jilly 
was offering I could see why Jerry would be interested.

Dee was there and she didn't have big tits. But she had great 
eyes, and relief showed clear in them when she saw me. That, 
and a suggestion of panic. 

"Ace," she said, brushing me lightly on the cheek with her 
lips. "Nice after-shave."

Nice line, too, because I wasn't wearing after-shave. Don't, 
in fact. Show me a man who wears after-shave and I'll see 
somebody with something to hide. Might change my mind if I 
start to smell like a wet Labrador when I get older, but I 
doubt it.

Good old Jerry was wearing after-shave. I could smell it from 
four paces away. Not that he looked like the sort of guy who 
had something to hide, but he was trying hard to look as 
though he did. Nearly bald, heavy moustache. And, 
mysteriously, as happy as a pig in shit.

He seemed genuinely pleased to meet me, and all through dinner 
he appeared to take it as a personal compliment that I would 
want to bang his wife up against the wall of the photocopy 
room. He was thinking somebody clearly had excellent taste - 
me, him, or Dee.

About Jilly. You'd think yourself lucky if you were stranded 
with her on a desert island - but only for the first two 
hours. After that her voice would be hurting your spine, and 
you'd be looking for a needle and twine to sew up her mouth. 
Man, that girl was stupid. She was too stupid to know the 
rules of the game. She didn't even know there was a game. She 
assumed I was her blind date, the male guest invited to fill 
the empty chair. And she was thinking she could have done 
worse. I could tell by the way she pushed her chest out and 
asked me attentive questions.

Poor old Jerry. He was powerfully attractive and an erotic 
target when he was the boss at work, but at home he was just a 
bald guy who laughed too much and too loudly.

Me? I did my job. I flirted with Dee charmingly and roguishly, 
and her magnified sky-blue eyes danced with the pleasure of 
it. On one side there was Dee, laughing and showing her small 
white teeth, and on the other side was Jilly, laying hands on 
my arm and hip, seeking attention. Jerry ought to have been 
concerned, but he seemed not to be.

Way too early to be normal, Jerry announced it was time for 
Jilly to go home, and that he would drive her. She looked a 
bit startled, even disappointed, but she collected her things 
dutifully. "Stay for a while and keep Dee company," he said to 
me. He didn't wink, but he looked like he was thinking about 
it.

"Thanks, Ace," Dee said, as soon as the car was out of the 
garage. "You've been terrific."

"Just what the hell is going on here?" I asked.

She shrugged. "I think we're just proving to each other that 
we're desirable to others. It's certainly rejuvenated our sex 
life."

"What does he expect we're doing, you and I, right here and 
now? Will he ask?"

"Oh yes," she said. "And I promised I wouldn't lie." She came 
over, sat sideways on my lap, took off her glasses and laid 
them on the arm of the couch. "You'd better kiss me, Ace, 
because that's the first thing he'll ask."

I kissed her. She wound her arms around my neck and kissed me 
back. Nice. She fitted to me very well. Tension drained away 
from her back and shoulders as I held her. She relaxed and 
kissed.

She drew back suddenly, guiltily. "Damn," she said. "You're a 
good kisser."

"You're not all that lazy yourself," I said, drawing her back 
in.

After a while she pulled away again. "Damn," she said, 
climbing off my lap. "If I don't stop now I never will."

"Does old Jerry want you to stop?"

"I'm not going to lie to him," she said. "But I won't be 
giving him a detailed account. I'll just refuse to talk about 
it."

"What will he do then?"

She giggled. "He'll go crazy wondering what happened. He'll 
check if I'm still wearing pants." She giggled again. "Maybe 
I'll take them off after you go and stuff them behind a pillow 
on the couch."

"Or maybe I should take them off right now," I said helpfully. 
"Then you can tell him truthfully that's what happened."

"That's an excellent idea." She peered at me uncertainly, and 
I realised her vision was poor without her glasses. "So what 
do I do?"

"Stay right where you are," I told her, "and take the hem of 
your skirt in each hand and raise it to your waist."

She did. She was wearing a black skirt, black thigh-high 
stockings and, incongruously, white pants. Her legs were slim, 
nearly thin, and her pelvis narrow and bony. I leaned forward 
from the couch, carefully hooked two fingers of each hand into 
the waistband of her pants and slowly, gently, eased them down 
her legs. She had black pubic hair, spread wide but thin. 
Looking up from my position, I could see her pink slit 
clearly, even in the soft light.

"Damn," she said. "Either there's a draught in this room or 
you're breathing hard."

I leaned forward and trailed my lips through her pubic hair. 
She jumped backwards, startled, and let the skirt drop. 
"Jesus, Ace," she said in alarm. "What are you trying to do? 
Screw me?"

"It had occurred to me," I admitted.

"Well, forget it. This is pretend, Ace."

"Yes, we're pretending," I said, stuffing her pants down 
behind the pillow on the couch. "I remember now." I picked up 
my leather jacket. "Job done, Dee. I'll just get out of your 
way before Jerry gets home."

She caught up to me out in the garden, on the way to the gate. 
"Ace," she said, with her face up close. She hadn't put on her 
glasses. "You were really great. Thanks." She leaned in and 
kissed me. And stayed kissing. Her arms went around my neck.

"Damn," she said, pulling her mouth away but not her arms. 
"You are such a good kisser." She tilted her head, wanting 
more, and I obliged.

I slipped both hands under her skirt, cupping her bare 
buttocks, pulling her into me. She was making little noises 
down in her throat, and grinding at me with her pelvis. 
Without breaking contact, she started propelling me off the 
path and into a darker zone. My back made contact with a wall, 
and her hands came down from my neck and scrabbled with my 
belt buckle.

I spun her around so her back was to the garage wall and 
pulled my mouth away. "Dee? What are you going to tell Jerry?"

"I'll tell him you fucked me," she said breathlessly, pulling 
down my trousers. "That's what he really wants to hear, 
anyway."
 
She grabbed me with her hands and guided me to the target. A 
little bend of the knees, up, and in there.

"Damn," she sighed, wriggling and settling on me. "That's such 
a perfect fit."

Right. Thin, bony, but sexy. Greedy, even, in the way she 
moved. Her earlier reluctance had all gone away. I took her 
hands and pinned them to the wall of the garage on either side 
of her head. She lifted one leg and I burrowed into her. Knee-
tremblers -- I love 'em. So direct and dirty. When push comes 
to shove, there's nothing like a knee-trembler.

Push, shove, little murmurs and sighs from her, gritting of 
teeth from me. It was building up to be fast and furious. A 
crack-like rip-snorter, an adrenaline rush to blow your head 
off.

Off to the right, a car motor. Lights sweeping around fast 
like a prison searchlight. The car was in the driveway, 
heading for the garage, and we were spotlit, trapped in white 
glare, going at it like rabbits.

No time to think. Suddenly the car, engine roaring, was 
veering off course, off the driveway and through the rose 
bushes, smashing and lurching its way towards us at high 
speed. I scrambled to get out of the way, but my trousers were 
around my ankles, and I sprawled backwards, falling, trying to 
catch my balance.

The car struck me on the upper arm, near the shoulder, and I 
was flying through the air. I crash-landed on the concrete 
path and collided with a big shrub pot. Shit, I thought to 
myself. I'm hurt.

I've broken things playing Rugby, so I know what it feels 
like. Things were definitely broken. They hurt like shit. I 
lay scrunched up in a ball, bits of me broken. The shock 
started to kick in and I started losing track of things.

I was aware of events intermittently. People bending over me. 
Jerry, face showing great concern, babbling at me. "Christ, 
Ace, I'm sorry," he said. "I lost control of the car and 
stepped on the wrong pedal."

A woman. Not Dee. An older woman. "For God's sake," she was 
saying. "Pull the poor man's pants up."

White shirts. Badges. People who seemed to know what they were 
doing. A stretcher. An ambulance. More people bending over. 
Moving, travelling in the back of a well-lit van. An 
injection. Peace.

* * * 

I dreamed I got married. Lots of people, an avuncular 
minister, and a bride in white wearing a veil. I kept trying 
to see who she was, but all I could see through the thick veil 
was a nose and a mouth.

My eyes snapped open, and I was looking at very close range at 
a nose and a mouth. She pulled her face back. "The kraken 
wakes," she said, without a lot of sympathy, and I recognised 
the voice and the New Zealand accent instantly. Dr. Allison 
King, elusive mother of my child, and an ice-veined heart-
breaker.

I blinked, and she came back into view. So blonde, so arctic, 
so gorgeous. "Don't panic," she said. "You'll live."

"Allison," I said, croaky, foggy, uncertain, confused. "Did we 
get married?"

She laughed cynically. "In your dreams, Ace. That's the 
pethidrine talking. Don't worry. Take your time." 

I was in a bed, bandaged, strapped up all over the place. It 
was a hospital room, no doubt. Shit. Yes, Jerry's car. I'd 
been hit and hurt. But there was no pain. I saw a drip feeder 
running into my forearm.

"Allison," I said again, feeling warm, safe, sentimental. God, 
she was beautiful. "You came to see me."

"I came to supervise your treatment, Ace," she said, "and at 
my highest private fee, too. Your boss is paying me lawyer's 
rates by the hour. I think she cares for you more than she 
lets on."

Treatment. The word took hold in my mind. "How am I? What's 
wrong with me."

"You were banged up pretty badly," she said. "Broken 
collarbone, three broken ribs, fractured wrist bone. But 
that's all. You were lucky. You'll mend just fine. Not much I 
can do for you, really."

"You can get into this bed and keep me company," I said. 

"Not a chance, buster," she said. "Nobody else, either. That's 
an order. It's the last thing you need right now."

"As if I would," I said, offended. "There's only ever been 
you."

"I read the accident report, Ace. I know how you got here." 
She shook her head gently. "Another Dyson disaster with a 
woman."

I winced. "Does the Colonel know about her?"

"Of course."

Shit. "How long will I be here?"

"A couple of days. But you'll be off work for a month."

Shit. "Allison, I think I'm in trouble."

She laughed. "You'll survive. You always do. It's your 
greatest talent."

* * * 

Dripped and doped, I slept until wakened. Dee, big blue eyes 
anxious behind the glasses, was peering at me.

"Sorry, Ace," she said immediately she saw I was awake. "That 
was all my fault."

True, but there was no value in blaming her. "You weren't 
driving the car," I said.

"Jerry's outside," she said. "Can I bring him in?"

"Why? Does he want to break my other wrist?"

"No no," she said hastily. "He didn't mean to do it. He wants 
to apologise."

"I remember, Dee. He stepped on the wrong pedal."

She nodded. "It was an accident."

"Did he see what we were doing?"

"Oh yes." Her spectacles flashed and her eyes gleamed. "It 
drove him crazy."

"I noticed," I said gingerly.

"No no. Afterwards. He couldn't get enough of me."

"Well, I'm glad it worked out for you, Dee."

"Jerry says I can . . .er, see you . . . any time I like. In 
fact he'd like to be there too."

I closed my eyes.

"Ace, are you in pain?"

"Yes," I lied. "I have to sleep now."

When I opened my eyes she was gone.

* * * 

I woke to find the Colonel with me. "Dyson, what am I going to 
do with you?" she asked.

"I'd sack me," I said. "But I'm hoping you won't."

Her red fingernails drummed on the rail of the hospital bed. 
"I've marked you down for six weeks' recreation leave," she 
said. "Don't think for a moment about claiming sick leave."

"Sounds fair," I said. "Thanks for Dr. King."

Her mouth turned up in a wry smile. "Consider it part of the 
punishment," she said.

"An acute observation, ma'am."

"Despite her ways, I think she cares for you more than you 
might think." She looked at me curiously. "Just what is it 
about you, Dyson? Damned if I can work it out. What have you 
got?"

"Injuries," I said. "That gets to the doctors every time."

"I'm talking to the wrong person." She headed for the door and 
stopped. "I'll be asking that stupid Mrs. Womack, don't 
worry."

Don't sack her, I wanted to say. But she was gone.

* * * 

I woke to find a hand under the bedclothes groping my 
genitals. I lifted my head and saw Sarah Tuimara kneeling 
beside the bed.

"Hello, shithead," she said, hand grasping my soft dick. "We 
meet again."

"Good God," I said, stunned. "It's the Maori Blowjob Beauty 
Queen."

"Robbo sent me," she said. "He heard you were laid up and he 
said it was better to send me than a get-well card and a bunch 
of grapes."

"But you hate me."

She shrugged. "What's the difference?"

"Right," I agreed. "The Miss New Zealand judges. I remember."

She produced a cell phone, punched some numbers and handed it 
to me. "Is that you, Ace?" It was Senator Robertson.

"Yeah, Robbo. I got your message. At least, I think it's 
coming."

"Be nice to Sarah, Ace. She likes you more than you realise."

"Sure, Robbo. See you on the outside."

I handed the phone back. My dick was getting hard. "Richo was 
saying how much you fancied me," I said to Sarah.

"Yeah, right," she said, flipping back the sheet. "You and a 
hundred others. Amazing how much love and affection you can 
pack into one girl."

She slid her mouth over my fattening dick. Mother of God, she 
was good. The best. Her long, heavy, black hair draped over my 
abdomen as she applied herself. As she had a few months ago in 
our first encounter, she started humming, tunelessly but 
loudly, and I could hear it and feel it. The vibrations 
travelled right down into my balls. The hair, the humming, the 
tongue, the velvet wetness of her mouth. Oh fuck. It was good.

She lifted her head, licked her thick lips, and looked at me 
with heavy-lidded eyes. "Tell me, sweetie, where does it 
hurt?"

I touched my ribs gingerly. "Here," I said. "Be careful."

She bent her head and swallowed me again. It didn't take long. 
It was coming like an eruption. I squirmed and started 
shooting into her warm and welcoming mouth.

She shot out a hand and dug her fingers hard into my bandaged 
ribs. Oh shit. I nearly fainted from the pain. Writhing, I 
continued to shoot in spasms into her mouth and down her 
throat. Then it was over, and she drew back her clutching 
hand.

Sarah Tuimara, beauty queen and devil woman, got to her feet 
and folded the sheets over my body. She smiled. "There is no 
pleasure without pain, Ace Dyson. I taught you that lesson 
once before."

"Go back to Robbo," I gasped. "You deserve each other."

She headed for the door. "So long, shithead," she said.

* * * 

I was awake when Allison King and Colonel Webster arrived. I 
watched them warily. Either could be bad news. Together the 
risk was doubled.

"Good news, Ace," said Dr. King. "The drip can come out and 
you can go home today. Do you have anyone to look after you?"

"Actually," the Colonel said to her, "I was hoping the size of 
your fee meant you would have him at your place."

"Absolutely no way," Allison said. "I have very good reasons 
for not having him anywhere near my place, and he knows it. 
Not negotiable. What about your place?"

"You're joking," the Colonel said. "My niece is here from 
California for another visit, and I'm not going through that 
again."

"Oh well," Allison said. "He's fit and strong. I'll visit his 
place once a day to check on him. He just needs rest, a few 
pain-killers, and time to heal."

"Right," the Colonel said. "I'll arrange for somebody to cook 
and clean. Agreed?"

"Right," Allison said, and they left.

It came to me that I hadn't said a word.

* * * 

Allison drove me home and settled me in, checking the 
dressings and laying me out a row of pill bottles with 
instructions. I took the pills and fell asleep.

In the morning I felt much better. I struggled with a shower 
spray, managed a shave, and emerged a thinner and heavily 
bandaged and bound version of my former self. I mooched around 
the apartment in a robe, feeling like a bludger.

The key turned in the door and the Colonel entered. "I cut a 
spare key," she said. "You won't mind."

"Feel free," I said. "As you've said before, you own me body 
and soul."

She looked at me sharply. "I'm here to brief your 
houseperson," she said. "Should be here at any moment."

And she was. Minutes later we were looking at a small, slim 
but quite exquisite young Filipino woman named, she said, 
Maria.

"Get out of here," the Colonel said to her.

Maria looked at her blankly. "Sorry?"

"Go straight back to the agency and tell them I want somebody 
more mature," the Colonel said. "You are not suitable."

The woman nodded nervously and scurried out.

"She looked suitable enough to me," I said.

"No doubt," said the Colonel. "And all of 23." She checked her 
watch. "I have to be at a meeting. I'll phone the agency to 
make sure the next woman is of appropriate age and 
experience."

"An aged battle-axe, you mean."

She turned at the door and smiled grimly. "That will do very 
well."

I was pottering about the apartment, considering going back to 
bed, when there was a knock at the door. It was Dee.

"Just a quick sympathy visit to see if you're okay," she said. 
"Jerry's waiting down in the car."

"Ah yes," I said. "The death-mobile. How is good old Jerry?"

"Don't be silly," she said. "What are you doing up? Come on, 
back to bed with you."

I allowed myself to be bustled into the bedroom. "Have you 
talked to the boss yet?"

"Yes. It was strange. I was expecting a rocket but all she 
talked about was you."

"Strange? What did she say?"

"Hush now. Let's get this gown off you and get you into bed."

"Dee, I'm not wearing anything under it."

"Ace, I'm a married woman. What am I going to do? Faint?"

She tucked me into bed and straightened the sheets. Then she 
thrust something under my pillow.

"What's that?" I asked.

"My pants. I took them off in the elevator."

"Don't tell me. Jerry will check when you get back to the 
car."

She beamed at me. "He'll go crazy."

"Dee, you've become so randy."

She laughed. "It's great. Never knew I had it in me." She 
looked at me speculatively. "We did leave something unfinished 
the other night."

"But I'm injured."

"The bottom half works okay, doesn't it?" She lifted her dress 
to expose her sex. "Mine does. It's been getting a real 
workout."

"What about Jerry down there in the car?"

"Bugger Jerry. The longer he waits, the more excited he'll 
get. And he expects me to do it anyway."

"Dee, I'm under doctor's orders."

"Let's go to an independent judge," she said, dropping her 
dress. "If he's up, we're on." 

She reached under the sheets, testing. "Aha," she said. "Guess 
what?"

I made her take off all her clothes. She was hesitant, 
complaining she had no tits. They were small and flat, but 
nice and girlish in that skinny, randy woman way. She 
straddled me and carefully lowered herself, making sure she 
kept her hands away from my heavily strapped ribs. I could 
still feel Sarah Tuimara's fingernails. 

Dee took it nice and slow, as any decent person would when 
fucking an invalid. She clamped her eyes shut and concentrated 
on the sensations, sliding and gliding with selfish intent.

"You're so good, Ace," she murmured.

I sure was, considering I was doing nothing but watch her. I 
had one hand held above my head, because it eased the pressure 
on the ribs. The collarbone and wrist were held in a sling, 
and flopped clumsily on my chest. I couldn't help her out 
anyway. Luckily she seemed to need nothing but a stiff dick, 
and that I could supply. Maybe, I thought, I could help her 
along with a bit of applied dirty talk.

"How many times have you screwed around on Jerry, Dee?"

"You're the first," she gurgled, lifting and dropping. 

"I won't be the last."

"No? What makes you say that?"

"Because Jerry's a classic wife watcher. He gets his rocks off 
watching you with other men. It makes him proud. It makes him 
happy."

Her eyes opened, and she slowed her pace and looked at me with 
considerable interest. "You want to let him watch us?"

"No," I said firmly. "But play your cards right, and you'll 
get to fuck anybody you want - with Jerry's enthusiastic 
approval. Does that appeal to you?"

"Ooh," she said, rolling her eyes. "Right now, tremendously. 
But when I'm doing the ironing, probably not."

"Every Saturday night," I said. "Dinner, then the guest fucks 
you senseless while your husband watches. You can have that, 
Dee."

"Ooh," she said, losing herself.

"Or three men at once. He'll like that even better."

"Ooh." She was writhing and squirming.

"You'll be bent over the couch, bum in the air, while three 
guys line up for you. And all the time Jerry will watch with a 
shit-eating grin on his face."

"Ooh." She arched herself backwards. "Yes, yes. I want that." 
Her voice rose to a high-pitched shout. "I want it!"

I watched her climb back down. Her head lolled for a moment. 
Then she straightened and favoured me with a small, hard 
smile. "Ace Dyson," she said accusingly. "You are turning me 
into a slut."

* * * 

"Mr. Dyson?" The voice was husky. The accent was flat and 
nasal, straight out of Sydney's sprawling western suburbs. I 
opened my eyes and saw an enormous young woman standing beside 
my bed.

"Who are you?"

"Fatima," she said. "The home-help from the agency."

Fatima? Not so much fat, but built like an Olympic hammer 
thrower. Dusky-skinned, heavy black hair sprouting wild curls, 
eyes the colour of burnt sugar, hands like catcher's mitts. 
Wow. There was more woman-power here than you'd find 
collectively on a peak hour commuter ferry. She stood well 
over six feet tall.

"You're supposed to be at least fifty years old," I said.

"That's my mum," said Fatima. "She's the real home help, but 
she's sick, so she sent me instead. I'm only twenty-two."

"You're not really a home help?"

"I'm an artiste," she said. "But I need the bucks."

"An artiste?"

"A belly dancer."

Jesus. This was not likely to please my employer. "Look, 
Fatima," I advised, "let's keep that between you and me. Can 
you cook and clean?"

"Puh-leeze," she said, drawling it out. "I'm a Lebanese girl 
in a family of nine. I've been doing it since I was five years 
old."

"Belly dancer, huh? I hear that's very popular, but I know 
little about it."

"Fatima is unique," she said confidently. "Mr. Dyson, I'll 
give you a demo if I can keep the job."

"Call me Ace," I said. "The job is yours. One thing. How did 
you get in?"

She flourished a key. "The angry American lady gave it to my 
mum."

I dozed while Fatima busied herself around the apartment, 
cleaning, washing, cooking up a storm. In a couple of hours 
she was back at my bedside.

"Okey dokey, handsome," she said with brimming good cheer. "I 
made you a batch of Lebanese food and put it in containers. 
All you have to do is heat it up. Yummy. Beautiful."

"Where did you get the ingredients?"

"The American spy lady gave heaps of money to my mum. I 
shopped on the way here." She cocked her head at me. "So 
what's the deal, Ace? She your sugar mummy or something? 
You're good looking enough to be a toy boy, that's for sure. 
She beat you up or something?"

I shuddered. "Stop it." Past visions of the Colonel's lethal 
hands came rushing to me. "You'll give me nightmares."

She shrugged her hefty shoulders. "Whatever. You want your 
demo now? I have a tape with me but not my costume. I can do 
it in my undies if you like."

"Fatima, I can't wait."

"I'll go set up out there and call you when I'm ready. Can you 
make it on your own?"

"Everything works fine below the waist," I assured her.

She reached down and pinched my cheek. "You're cheeky and 
you're cute," she said, grinning. She had a huge gap between 
her two front teeth. "I can see why you're a toy boy."

In a few minutes the strangled strains of Middle Eastern music 
assaulted my ears. "Oi," Fatima shouted from the living room. 
"Showtime."

I wandered out in my robe and sat on the couch, deliberately 
not looking at her. Then I looked. Holy Moses. My jaw nearly 
hit my kneecap.

Her hips were undulating but she wasn't yet dancing because 
she was waiting for me. She was colossal. I hadn't realised 
how awesomely big she was until she had her clothes off. Well, 
mostly off. She was wearing a white bra you could have used as 
a slingshot on a medieval warship. It had a seriously heavy 
duty backstrap and cups like parachutes. And white pants 
bulging at the crotch from a dense thicket of wiry black pubic 
hair that refused to be contained by mere cloth. Strands poked 
out profusely from the sides. Some even showed over the top. 
Her thighs were massive, her hips impossibly broad, and her 
chest thunderous. And yet she was undeniably feminine. Her 
waist pinched in miraculously, and her stomach, though soft 
and rounded, gave no hint of weight or sag. Fatima had a 
stupendous hourglass figure. She was all woman, but 
mountainously so.

She smiled at my stunned face, swaying her hips. "Fatima is 
unique," she said smugly. "Now I will dance for you."

She took off like a B52, slow to start, building up power, 
then launching with shattering raw energy into flight. I sat 
transfixed as she rolled her stomach and pelvis with 
controlled vigour. Her arms waved hypnotically at me. Her huge 
breasts swayed ominously, threatening to break loose like wild 
animals and crush me in a stampede of death. The music was 
alien dervish mad and Fatima was shaking her body like a sumo 
wrestler. Belly dancing was invented to awaken the jaded 
libidos of fat old sheikhs, and I could see why. 

A crescendo was reached and passed, and the music was quieter. 
She danced now with her arms only. "Belly dancing makes me 
hot," she said. "Inside and out."

I know an invitation when I hear one, and this one could not 
be refused. My curiosity knew no bounds. "Go with the flow, 
Fatima," I urged. "I'm bloody spellbound."

She reached behind and unclasped her bra. She whipped it away 
and dashed it to the floor, precisely in time with a clash of 
cymbals on the music system. Then she advanced on me, swaying 
her hips. I took the cue, reached out and tugged her pants 
down to her ankles. She stepped out and stepped back, grinning 
at me breezily with her gapped teeth.

All the beasts were now out of the pen. Six foot two inches of 
naked, dusky-skinned, giant-framed, hairy woman shook her body 
in front of me. She had enough pubic hair to stuff a cushion. 
Add the long black tufts in her armpits and you could plump 
out a decent pillow. Her breasts were as round as soccer 
balls, and of similar size, with nipples like olives. It was 
like looking at a woman in Cinemascope while sitting in the 
front row of the theatre. I'd never seen anything like it.

Suddenly she stopped dancing. She planted her feet wide apart 
and stared at me. Then she turned around, walked four paces to 
the dining table, put a cheek flat on the surface, and poked 
out her backside at me.

"Fuck me, toy boy," she called out from under her arms. "I'm 
on fire."

I jumped to my feet too quickly, and winced from the pain in 
my ribs. But the lure was stronger than any passing 
discomfort, and I was on her in a flash, opening my robe and 
lining up her hairy vagina.

"Not there," she said sharply, reaching around with a big hand 
and grabbing my dick. "I'm a virgin."

"A virgin?" It seemed impossible. She was an Olympian sex 
monument and a professional belly dancer. 

"I'm Lebanese," she said. "If I'm not a virgin I can't get 
married. Do it in the other place."

It was not normally one of my favoured things. Always seemed 
to me like fucking a blown-up balloon. I definitely preferred 
to go in by the front door. 

She sensed my hesitation. "Do it, Ace. All the guys love it, I 
promise you."

Misgivings continued to mount, but there she was, massive 
buttocks right there in front of me. Oh well. I aimed, 
positioned, and pushed in. Oops, forgot the lubricant. But it 
happened smoothly and easily anyway. She seemed to know what 
she was about, and I could tell, even without her advice, that 
it wasn't virgin country. It had been explored, surveyed, and 
charted extensively.

Getting in there was the easy part. Doing something about it 
was something else. Thrusting, I discovered, involved the 
stomach muscles and brought the ribs into play. Plus, being 
one-armed, I couldn't get my balance properly.

In pain, I leaned over and rested against her big, hot body. 
Hey, that was all right. There was plenty to lean against, the 
balance was fine, and I could stab at her using only my hips 
and buttocks. It worked.

But she wouldn't stay still, and she was slippery with sweat. 
She made rumbling noises and pushed back at me, and she had an 
arm thrust between her legs as she diddled her clit. The 
mountain shook and trembled, and I hooked my good arm around 
her body and hung on tight.

It was more interesting than erotic. I speared her as best I 
could in the difficult circumstances, and she quaked and 
moaned, but I knew that was less to do with me and more to do 
with her own handiwork. I clung to her as she manipulated her 
way to a heaving, shuddering climax.

"Good," she said, panting, her head flat against the table. 
"Good for you, toy boy?"

I withdrew cautiously and considerately. "Never had anything 
like it," I said carefully.

"Yes," she said smugly. "Fatima is unique."

* * * 

Sleep. The pills made it happen so easily. I woke to find 
Allison King sitting on the bed. She nodded approval as I 
blinked at her wearily.

"Plenty of rest," she said. "That's what you need, and you'll 
be right as rain in no time. Now, let's check these bandages."

She pulled back the sheets and frowned at me. She had a severe 
frown. She never left me in any doubt. "What on earth have you 
been doing?" she asked.

"Nothing," I said, as guiltily as a hungry boy caught raiding 
the biscuit barrel.

"If I didn't know you couldn't, I'd say you'd been running 
marathons. Look at this."

I peered at where she was pointing. The rib bandages were 
stained and discoloured. Damn, that belly dancer was so oily. 
I'd had a quick spray shower, but only the bottom half of my 
body had been cleaned up.

"How did you break into my apartment?" I asked, trying to 
throw her off track.

She produced a key. "Your boss gave it to me."

"She keeps doing that," I said. "People walk in and out like 
it's a public rest-room."

Allison looked at me with deep suspicion. "Ace Dyson," she 
said, "have you been doing what I expressly ordered you not to 
do? Have you been chasing pussy?"

"No," I said with grateful sincerity. And it was true. Pussy 
had been chasing me, and that's not the same thing at all.

"Good," she said. "When it's time, I'll let you know." She 
trailed a hand lightly across my stomach. "I'm the doctor. I 
know what's best for you and I know better than anybody how to 
look after you."

Hope soared. "I'll treat you to home-cooked Lebanese food."

She raised an eyebrow. "That's a deal," she said. "I love that 
stuff. Since when do you do Lebanese?"

"I've been getting lessons," I said.

* * * 

I was nibbling on Fatima's excellent sweet cakes when I heard 
the key in the door. What now? The boss? I swept the crumbs 
from the front of my robe.

She came towards me with all the confidence that being young, 
gorgeous, and Californian can give to a girl. Ah, so lovely, 
so adorable. Elli, the Colonel's 17-year-old niece, mine for 
one exhilarating and carefree night. Before I knew how old she 
was. Correction. Before I knew how young.

"Hello, beautiful," I said, suffused with sentimentality.

"Hello, fuckface," she said, swinging her carry bag viciously 
and slamming it into my ribs.

I went down like a fighter plane out of avgas - a brick 
falling from a great height.

After some moments the fog cleared and I could see Elli 
bending down beside me. "Sorry, Ace, sorry," she said, deep 
concern on her face. "I forgot you were injured. I should have 
hit you someplace else."

I groaned and sat up. "Why hit me at all?"

"Because you gave up on me without even a fight," she said. 
"You're the only man who ever dumped me, and I can't forget 
it."

"Had to," I said, still getting my breath back. "You know 
that. Your aunt would have had me castrated, embalmed, 
stuffed, and mounted." I looked at her warily. "And she still 
will if she finds out you're here. Where did you get a key to 
my door?"

"She's got about ten of your keys in a labelled box, so I took 
one." She sat down on the carpet beside me. "I don't know why 
you're so scared of her. She's a pussycat."

"Christ, the bloody woman owns me, right down to the shortest 
pubic hair."

Elli pulled out a cell phone from her carry bag. "Maybe I'll 
call her right now and tell her I'm here." She grinned at me, 
enjoying my considerable alarm. "I'll tell her to pick me up 
in two hours."

"Thereby signing my death warrant," I said. "You want to do 
that to me?"

"You hurt me, Ace. I was over the moon about you, and you 
squashed me like a bug."

"Elli, you were too young. You're still too young."

"What if I wasn't Aunt Ruth's niece?"

"Still too young."

She had a cunning look in her eyes. "What if I took off all my 
clothes and said fuck me, fuck me. Would you?"

God, she was a honey. "In a flash," I said honestly. 
"Principle was never my strong suit."

She laughed and stood up. "That's good to know," she said. 
"Maybe I'll hold you to it on my next vacation."

She headed for the door. "See you, Ace."

"See you, beautiful," I said, watching her tight butt move in 
her jeans. She was a honey. Certain death to Mrs. Dyson's 
elder son, but a honey. 

* * * 

A night and a whole day passed without visitors. Rested, 
feeling much better, I was watching a basketball game on TV 
when there was a knock at the door. A short woman, big tits. I 
knew her. It came to me after a second or two. Jerry's Jilly. 
She looked upset.

"Bastard," she announced, stalking past me into the room. Who, 
me?

"He sacked me," she said. Ah, Jerry. "Dumped me and sacked me. 
Bastard."

I stood politely, wondering what this had to do with me.

I must have had a query on my face. "He says he has an 
exciting new thing going with you and Dee," she said. "There's 
no room for me. He says I'm superfluous." She scowled. "I 
looked it up in the dictionary. It means I'm dumped."

"Jilly," I said. "Jerry has nothing whatsoever going with me. 
He might think he does, but believe me he doesn't."

She looked at me skeptically. "I knew there was something 
kinky going on that night at dinner. I thought there might 
have been a foursome planned. Frankly, I wouldn't have 
minded."

"It's all a game between Jerry and Dee," I said. "I'm just an 
innocent bystander."

She laughed harshly. "Oh sure. I heard what you did. Jerry 
can't stop talking about it. Bastard." She looked me up and 
down. "At least Dee got laid. Doesn't seem to want to happen 
to me."

"Jilly, you're well out of it. They are a strange pair. Old 
Jerry gets all his kicks through Dee. You might have found he 
wasn't up to much on his own."

"Maybe you're right," she said. "That night in the car was 
over before it started. He got my bra off and had a quick 
grope, but he couldn't wait to get back to see what Dee was 
doing with you. Kept looking at his watch. Practically threw 
me out on the footpath."

"We've both been used and abused," I said sympathetically. 
"It's an intricate marriage game, and I want no part of it. 
You should pick yourself up and get on with your life."

"Good advice," she said, studying me. "You know, I was hoping 
we might have got together the other night. Soon as I saw you 
I knew you were just my type."

"Type?"

"Yeah. The type of guy who makes a girl want to take her 
knickers off. Why do they call you Ace?"

"Long story, Jilly."

"I'll just bet it is."

Jesus. How many hints was she going to keep throwing out? I 
couldn't just keep standing there like a block of wood. I was 
starting to feel embarrassed for her. Jilly was here to get 
laid. For all sorts of reasons, maybe, and some of them not 
directly related to me, but she wasn't being subtle about her 
intentions. What was a fair-minded sportsman to do?

"You'll have to be gentle with me," I said. "I'm 
recuperating."

Her breasts were as good as they promised - round, young, 
firm, and big. Beside me on the couch, dress pulled down to 
the waist, bra on the floor, she looked pleased as my only 
good hand wandered over them. She knew her assets. 

My robe was untied and open, and her hand stroked my stiff 
dick fondly, almost vaguely. She had the dreamy look of a 
woman about to get laid.

A key grated in the lock, the door opened, and two big women 
came marching in the room. "You," shouted the older one 
angrily, pointing at me with a stiff, accusing finger. "You 
fuck my daughter."

"I didn't," I responded automatically, my hand frozen on 
Jilly's tits. Jilly had snatched her hand away from my dick, 
which remained upstanding in the night air.

I took stock rapidly. Fatima stood unhappily in her mother's 
firm grasp of her elbow. The old woman continued to point a 
fat finger at me. "She no more virgin," she said menacingly. 
"I know. I check." She nodded grimly, and then spat 
contemptuously on the carpet.

"No," I said. "Not me. Back door job only. Ask her."

"Mum, it wasn't him," Fatima said resignedly. She looked at me 
sorrowfully. "Sorry, toy boy. I panicked. I thought it might 
be less trouble for me."

Movement off to the side. Dee and Jerry came through the open 
door. "Jilly!" shouted Jerry in astonishment, slamming the 
door shut. "You interfering slut!"

She had been trying to pull her dress up, and his words hit 
her like a wet fish. She jumped to her feet, dress flying, 
tits swaying, ran over and socked him on the side of the head. 
"You bastard," she hissed as he fell to the floor, clutching 
his face.

Meanwhile Dee had arrived at the couch. She sat down and 
looked at my still stiff dick. "Nice to see you again, Ace," 
she said, spectacles flashing.

"It was Benny Reda," Fatima confessed. "Just after lunch 
today. I couldn't wait any longer."

"A nice Lebanese boy," her mother noted, suddenly much less 
angry. "From good family. You will marry him next week. It 
will be fixed."

Jilly was sitting on floor, tits hanging out, sobbing into her 
hands.

Jerry was looking at his face in the mirror.

Dee was stuffing her pants into the pocket of my robe. "I took 
them off downstairs while Jerry was parking the car," she 
whispered into my ear. "He'll go crazy."

The door opened and the Colonel walked in, pocketing her key. 
She looked up and saw the crowd. She stopped dead. For some 
reason everybody stopped what they were doing and looked at 
her apprehensively.

"The nasty American woman from the CIA," Fatima's mother said 
to her daughter softly, but everybody heard.

"Oh shit," Dee muttered, sweeping the robe over my erect 
penis. But the Colonel had already seen.

"You are fired," the Colonel said briskly to Fatima's mother. 
Astonishingly, the woman burst into tears. 

"Whoever you are, you're fired too," the Colonel said to 
Fatima, who was already crying in sympathy.

She turned to Dee. "Mrs. Womack, you're fired."

She looked at Jilly on the floor. "You're fired too."

"But I'm already fired," Jilly wailed.

The Colonel waved her hand impatiently. "That's what I said."

She swung around and fixed Jerry with a steely glare. "Mr. 
Womack, I presume?" He nodded nervously. "Get out of here, and 
take your silly wife with you."

There was a general scramble out the door. The Colonel looked 
at me, arms crossed, red fingernails drumming on her upper 
arm.

"Thanks for that, ma'am," I said. "It was getting crowded in 
here."

She continued drumming her fingers.

"It wasn't as bad as it looked," I said. "Just a lot of 
confusion and misunderstanding."

She drummed her fingers some more.

Perspiring, I pulled a handkerchief out of my pocket and wiped 
my forehead. Damn. It wasn't a handkerchief. Dee's pants were 
shockingly bright pink. 

Suddenly the Colonel started laughing. She laughed, and 
laughed, and laughed. She had to sit down because she was 
laughing so hard.

I watched her in consternation. Was I sacked? Surely. It had 
to be coming.

"No," she said, reading my face. "You're not. And neither is 
Dee Womack. It won't hurt her to get a fright, though. But the 
cleaning lady is definitely gone. Who was the giantess with 
her?"

"Her daughter, the belly dancer."

"You didn't," the Colonel said. "Tell me you didn't."

"Not exactly, ma'am."

She rocked with laughter again. "Oh dear," she said, dabbing 
at her eyes with a tissue. "Look here, Dyson, you'd better 
come back to work, I think. You get into too much trouble on 
your own."

"You'll have to fix it with Dr. King."

"You just leave her to me," the Colonel said.

* * * 

The Colonel spoke to Dr. King. More accurately, Allison spoke 
to the Colonel. I know, because I was listening on the 
extension.

"Yes, he can go back to work," said Allison, idly scratching 
her blonde pubic hair. "I've just given him a proper going 
over, and he's in better shape than I thought."

I watched Allison through the doorway. God, she was beautiful. 
Blonde hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, naked body slim 
and pale all over. She looked like an elegant fashion model 
waiting to don designer clothes. Was it her face I saw behind 
the bridal veil? Not likely. 

"Fine," the Colonel said. "Tell him to report to me on Monday. 
I have a delicate task for him." She paused. "Allison, tell 
me. Just what's he got? Why do so many women like him?"

"We know he cheats," Allison said. "And he's arrogant, smart-
mouthed, lazy, conniving, and opportunistic. But we forgive 
him because he is an irreverent, agreeable rogue. And as you 
know yourself, dear Ruth, all we ladies love larrikins."

"Do we, Allison?"

"Sometimes, Ruth." She blew an ironic kiss at me. "When we're 
in the right mood." 

ENDS

Edited by Ruthie and Nat

* DrSpin/Neil Anthony is at http://www.ruthiesclub.com

* also at neil@ruthiesclub.com and at http://www.ruthiesclub.com

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