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Message-ID: <37973asstr$1029935404@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "S Jacobin" <jacobin_11111794@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Taking the Flyer (mf) repost, write club
Date: Wed, 21 Aug 2002 09:10:04 -0400
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Taking the Flyer
Jacobin
jacobin_11111794@hotmail.com


Boring Stuff

Standard disclaimers regarding sexually explicit material apply. The good 
reader is reminded in particular that works of fiction often neglect 
real-world risks and consequences which should be taken into consideration 
in any re-creation or work-inspired acts.

Important note on the origin of this story: this was written in three hours 
with no prep work as part of the "Write Club" duels. Unlike most other 
duels, this had three writers in it. I won, though the decision was under 
some dispute, as the other two (as I remember it) missed the deadlines or 
didn't meet criteria for valid entries. As a point of reference, an average 
Jacobin story requires about six months of work. Kat Fighter, at about 45p, 
took 2 years, making this approximately a billion kajillion times more 
efficent, though in my opinion not as well-suited to reposting years later.

Feedback appreciated at jacobin_11111794@hotmail.com

You can find my other stories at http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/jacobin/www

This work is copyright (c) by the author. You may download and keep copies 
for your personal use as long as the author's byline, disclaimer, e-mail 
address, and these four paragraphs remain on the copies. Posting to 
newsgroups or on websites (with the specific exception of www.asstr-mirror.org) is 
not permitted unless you have my express written or email consent, and then 
only as long as no money is charged for access and the author's byline, 
disclaimer, e-mail address, and these four paragraphs remain on the story. 
Please respect my work as much as I've tried to respect the reader.



--


I never meant to go bad. I just hung out with the wrong people. I went to 
college with my friends, who all became computer science majors, took the 
same crappy tech support jobs with them to pay tuition, booze, and drugs, 
and followed them in to Microsoft, where my sociology degree somehow landed 
me a job as an HR recruiter, while my friends drank from the firehose of 
stock options, Bill Gates feeding a sea of gaping programmer rictus with 
dangling T-shirts and merchandise at the annual meetings as I wondered where 
my parents had gone wrong.

Which is how I got to be on a flight to San Francisco, first class, bored 
and tired, on my third beer, trying to shake up a conversation with the 
beautiful woman next to me. Because I didn't care anymore: normally I'd give 
her the polite nod, and go about my way. But this woman was a beautiful fair 
blonde wisp with long straight hair, dressed in what appeared to be a silk 
dress, slick off her shoulders to her little breasts, and I wasn't going to 
see her again and didn't care anyway. Nothing I'd been doing had worked in 
months, I was bored with work, and decided, then, that I was going to do 
things differently and see what it got me.

I stole her newspaper. It was the San Jose Examiner, the Silicon Valley 
paper of record, which she must have had to seek out at Seatac. She stared 
at me.

"You stole my paper," she said, turning to me. She had bright green eyes 
that flashed, a cute upturned nose. Her eyebrows were low and angry.

"I didn't steal it," I said. "I'm embracing it and will return it to you 
later with new proprietary extensions."

She sighed. "You're a Microsoft boy, aren't you?"

"A man, yes. I'm Denny, likeable black man." I offered her my hand. "What 
sends you to San Francisco?"

She stared at my hand. "I have a conference to go to."

I held my hand there, between seats. "Hey yeah? Me too. I'm going to the big 
San Jose IT Hiring Conference."

She blinked. "You damn well are not."

I turned my hand up. "I swear," I said. I put it back out to shake. She 
shook, her hand cold in mine. "So," I said, "you want to go to dinner, we 
get into town? I'm sure there's someplace to eat somewhere."

"No."

"Why not?"

"I just don't want to."

"You have a guy?"

"No, I just don't want to."

"Look, you don't know me, you're never going to see me again, just tell me 
why. Otherwise I'm going to bug you the rest of this flight, and I'm feeling 
really immature." I poked her. "Tell me." I poked her again. "Tell me."

"I don't date black men," she said at last. Across the aisle, someone looked 
at us.

"Mind your own damn business," I said. "Why not?"

"Never appealed to me."

"I'm actually sort of mixed, racially, if that makes you feel any better. 
You don't find me appealing?"

She smiled, and I reeled in shock. "A little, in a childish sort of way."

"Hey, you ever had sex in the bathroom?"

"No," she said. "I like to keep my functions separate."

"You don't ever feel the need? Don't ever want to do something crass, like 
walk up there with me, get in, struggle around, have some awkward, 
unsatisfying sex, and then come out, almost daring someone to say 
something?"

She chewed on this. "You've got me. But the answer to your question is no."

"What about some rubbing under the trays?" I leered, trying to work the 
eyebrows.

She laughed. "No."

"How about dinner, then?"

"Fine, just shut up," she said. "Stop talking."

"I'm Denny, likeable black man," I said, extending my hand. "What kind of 
food do you like?"

"I'm Rachel, baffled white girl," she replied, shaking again. Her hand was 
still cold. "I like sushi."



I bribed my way into a packed sushi bar, our luggage stashed in the trunk of 
my rental car (the Lincoln Town Car, choice of quality mobsters everywhere, 
acquired by bribing the Hertz rental clerk repeatedly), and I talked to 
Rachel about the challenges of picking out ideal candidates to join a 
massive, evil, wildly successful IT company. It turned out she knew me by 
reputation from two friends who'd moved south after leaving the Empire. I 
turned on her, asked random entertaining questions about her life hopping 
from belly-up or belly-uping startups in the Valley, and lo, at the end of 
the dinner, we went out for drinks and after drinks we were heckling some 
terrible comedian in some hole, and then she was kissing me in the brick 
alley two streets off, one hand on my crotch, rubbing, the other around my 
shoulders. I looked around, worried we were going to get the beatings of a 
lifetime, but she seemed not to care, stripping my jeans down with the fine 
boxer-briefs. I felt the cold night air on my sweaty erection, and looked at 
her to see where this had come from. She was looking down, her blonde hair 
draping down, her fair hand on my light brown shaft, and under the alcohol 
haze, I could feel her soft touch moving back and forth, dragging 
electricity with it.

Rachel knew how hard to touch, hard enough that I could feel she was 
serious, know where the hand was. It was already the best sex I'd had in 
months.

"You don't have to --" I started.

"Oh, shut up," she replied. "That good?"

"That's great."

She kept her head close as she went on. "We've been pretty honest with each 
other, Denny, so I'll be blunt -- I thought black people were supposed to be 
hung."

I scanned the alley again. "Oh, we are. But you just have to get us real 
excited. Takes a while for all the blood to get down there."

Rachel worked on my erection a little harder, a little faster, keeping it 
from curving up towards my belly. She looked up at me, smiling.

"Is that so?"

I nodded. She put her lips to the head of my prick and drew down softly, and 
I moaned. She drew off, and then back, and I ran my hands through her hair, 
feeling her hand on my shaft, keeping slow time with her hot, wet mouth. I 
could feel the quick tingling building in my back; I would not be long for 
this world.

There was someone to my left. He was huge, black, and built like an 
ice-cream cone, huge shouldered, and wore a uniform.

"The hell are you doing?" he asked, in the cop voice you get issued at 
academy along with baton and badge. Rachel froze, as if the cop only reacted 
to movement, like a raptor.

"Hang on just a second," I said, pushing my slick head past Rachel's lips 
gently. I shuddered and came, then shortly again, and stopped, breathing 
hard. I stepped back, gently stuffed my erection into my shorts and went all 
the way down to pull my jeans back up. Rachel stood slowly, turning away 
from the cop as she swallowed, making sure her hair fell across her face to 
keep her profile obscured.

"Nothing," I said. "I've been drinking, you see, and I was going to urinate 
here, in public, but I couldn't work my belt, because it's complicated, when 
you've been drinking, and my girlfriend Rachel here was helping me undo my 
pants and so I admit it, you can go ahead and cite me for urinating in 
public, I'm sorry I did it, but I'll pay my dues."

The cop looked at me, at Rachel. "Do you have ID, ma'am?"

Rachel fished a white card out of a pocket and handed it to him. He looked 
at it for only a moment and handed it back. "It's really not worth my time 
to write you up for public urination," he said. He cracked a smile and 
almost started to laugh. His smile disappeared. "Now get on out of here."

Rachel started to talk in the elevator to my expensive, bribery-upgraded 
hotel suite (seriously, folks, if you can't just bill these things, find the 
lowest-paid employee who can upgrade you and slip them twenty as an opening 
bid and work from there).

"I always wanted to do something like that, just really sexy and in control. 
I almost took you up on the plane."

"On the bathroom?" I said. "You're kidding."

"Nope," she said. "You're a real charmer, in a weird sort of adolescent 
sense."

Rachel took off the dress before the door had even closed, pulling it over 
her head. What had I started? She walked to the bed, where she flopped down 
on her back, eyes closed.

"Your turn," she said. "What do you want to do that's really dirty?"

I paused. "I've always wanted to have anal sex," I said. "Never have."

"Got a condom?"

I did. Rachel put it on, bantering as she went. "I used to have this 
boyfriend, he was into straight sex but for some reason he always wanted to 
come in my ass." She shrugged, done. "Ah, I don't know. People are weird."

She bent over the bed, leaning a little so she was lined up for a nice, easy 
entry. It didn't work -- nothing opened, I was loathe to push on past that 
unwilling barrier, and after some aligning and instruction, I gave up and 
started all over, sitting on the bed, with her on my lap, kissing her 
softly, touching her hair, until finally she rose a little, came in a 
little, and settled down into my second quality sexual experience in months. 
I paid all attention to her then, grazing my hands along her chest softly, 
circling the soft rise of her breasts, keeping one hand at the small of her 
back so she was well aligned for both sliding and rubbing, and slowly she 
responded, keeping just on the entry and near-exit, rubbing forward against 
my stomach as she went. She bit my neck, hard, and cried out softly as she 
trembled in my arms, coming again and again, squirming and grinding, and 
then sighed, pushed off, and laid back on the bed, naked and shining in 
sweat, head on pillow.

"Are you hiring?" Rachel said, her chest rising and falling. A tear ran off 
one eye, and she destroyed it with a backhand wipe.

"As long as there is a market undominated, yes," I said. "I don't know if 
I'm going to keep doing it, though."

"What? You're funny, even if you're sort of being weird on a lark, and..." 
she seemed to be considering saying anything. "Look, here's the scoop. I'm 
thin, so I get the first look, but I don't have tits -- I mean seriously, 
they don't sell bras my size that aren't padded, Denny -- so it's like I'm 
cute and not sexy. My dates have been so awkward. I've felt good tonight, 
even when we couldn't get something working. You're a born recruiter."

I looked at Rachel lying on the soft, fluffy, wet comforter for a long 
minute.

"Now sleep in the wet spot, and we'll head out tomorrow."


I showered alone in the morning. You want to know what a posh hotel this 
was? No washcloth in the shower: they had a luffa for my bathing needs, 
scratchy, organic, and painful. Part of the New Cruelty. I used a washcloth.

Rachel was making coffee as I came out.

"You want to go get breakfast?" I asked, mopping my close crop of hair with 
a towel. She gave me the look again. I approached the bed, tossed the

"I was just thinking that you never finished last night," she said. "I was 
thinking that'd be a good start."

"Beats oatmeal," I said. "But we have to get to the keynote, or we'll miss 
check-in and I'll have to come up with excuses about what that expense money 
bought."

Rachel sighed. "Well, let's meet up again later. We're not done yet." She 
walked to the bathroom to shower, and I dug some clothes out of my carry on.



The IT Hiring Conference is like an exhibition, except that no one really 
cares about the booths, or the companies. And while it's supposedly there to 
get us to go to seminars and training, what it's really about is sending 
your best HR recruiters to recruit other companies' HR people, who are there 
for the same reason. It's cutthroat networking with unreasonable signing 
bonuses.

I met a sweet young woman from India named Hema at the booth for some 
database company . She was a foot shorter than me and flashed a killer smile 
as she shook my hand.

"Denny? I heard about you from Jessie, she used to work with you. I heard 
you never made a bad hire." She was still smiling but it was thin, as if she 
didn't really believe the rumor but had a plan if it was true.

"Nope," I said, looking at her. "I don't get fooled."

"That's a valuable talent. We could use a person like you," she said. 
"Jessie told me I should see if you're interested in leaving."

I laughed. "I'm not fooled," I said.

Hema looked me up and down, chewing over her plan again. Their display space 
was short and shallow, especially compared to the space they'd rented and 
tented. If this had been a software expo, I would have figured that was 
where the post-NDA demos were.

"It's just not worth it to leave," I said. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be 
rude."

"Come back," she said. "I'll show you what we're working on." She ducked 
behind the curtain, and I followed. It was a bunch of demos, running some 
sort of database thing I didn't understand. I stared at it, and then looked 
at the woman, who was unbuttoning her shirt.

"Denny," she said. "I will have sex with you right now and all I want in 
return..." she dropped her shirt. She had lovely breasts, hand-sized. "... I 
want you to consider leaving. Seriously consider it. If you don't come work 
with me, okay, but while you're down here, think about a new job." She 
stepped out of her khaki slacks.

"Uh, okay," I stammered, stupidly.

"Take off your clothes and lie back on the table," she said. I laid back 
among the forms and paper on the table for applicants to fill out contact 
forms, negotiate signing bonuses, betray employers bankrolling their trip 
here. A sturdy wood foldable table, which is another thing tech money can 
buy. I was nervous -- what if someone interested in defecting to a database 
wrapper company came by, ducked behind the curtain-- but I was already hard 
again, unsatisfied from last night's aborted tries, and she straddled me on 
top, hand back, guiding me into her, and it was glorious. Hema must have 
been prepped, because she was slick and wet, but she was tight around me, 
and I could feel her clamping down as I came all the way up into her. She 
exhaled sharply, and as she moved up, I took a breast to mouth, catching the 
nipple as it slid up from my chin and biting it. The dizzy sensation from my 
cock spread across my skin as she came down again, tensing inside, and I 
gasped in pleasure. She smiled, stopping.

"No," I said. She went on downwards, the heat and the wetness filling my 
senses, and I closed my eyes, my back arching beneath me. I felt nothing but 
the hot, wet, dizziness, and it went on and on until she stopped again, 
wiggling, my head sliding along her soft labia.

"You still with me?"

"Yes."

"Do you remember what you're going to do?"

"I don't remember who I am," I said.

"That's good enough," Hema said, and moved her hips back down, forcing a 
fast entry. She kissed me hard, and we started to move together, shaking the 
table, and I shouted out as I came inside her, the warmth and slickness 
draining from my limbs to my shoulders and chest and out, leaving only 
dizziness and goosbumps in their wake. She came off me and I looked at her, 
blank, and she was standing next to the table, her thighs slick, looking at 
my stiff erection, still twitching with my sharp inhalations.

She took my slick erection in a hard grip and pumped once, coming off to run 
her palm along my aching head, then back to working it, her hand almost 
painful, but it was so sexy, her hand fast on my dick, lubricated by her 
juice and my semen, and the dizziness built quickly and I came again after 
only a minute, pushing semen everywhere -- some guy's resume I'd swept off, 
database company slick brochures -- and she slowed at last, waiting until 
finally there was nothing to be squeezed out.

"I think job satisfaction is a big part of anyone's life," Hema said. "I 
don't think you've been getting enough of that." She produced some paper 
towels, tore a couple for me to clean myself, wiped herself immodestly, and 
started to put her clothes back on. "I wish I had more time, Denny, because 
there's a lot more I could do for you, I think. My card's in your pants."

I stepped out of the demo. The foot traffic was oblivious, but there were 
people on both sides, hawking their companies' health insurance plans, 
giving me a serious look-see. I fled, my breath still ragged, and found a 
bar.

There was a woman next to me at the bar I tried to ignore. The bartender 
tried to ignore me.

"Hi, I'm Suzi," she said, extending a soft hand to me. She was beautiful, 
glowing brown eyes. She had a white T-shirt with a giant semicolon on it.

"What does your company do, develop punctuation?"

She laughed. "I don't know, really, I just work there. You're pretty cute. 
And you're pretty built. Do you play sports?"

"Yes, I play basketball and football, and now that Tiger Woods has blazed a 
trial, golf."

"Seriously."

"I play badminton. Game of finesse. No, I'm serious."

Suzi didn't seem sure if I was putting her on or not. "So anyway, you want 
to go skip back to your room, have some fun?"

I looked her up and down. She seemed... worn, like a year-old car with two 
hundred thousand miles on it. The body'll look good, sure... I knew women 
like that from the suburb where I grew up, beautiful girls with that same 
long hair, who would do anything possible on the hood of a Camaro, be 
insatiable sex kittens, give blowjobs daily and talk about how much they 
loved to do it, and then, once married, lost their libido and found fifty 
pounds.

"No," I said, "not with you, no."

She made a soft spitting sound with her lips and turned away. I went to find 
another place to drink.

Some internet company had two great booths -- they'd hired booth candy to 
lure men in to one, geared to money and status and guns, the other to more 
Oprah tastes (which didn't register on me, as intended). What did register 
was the models' enormous, implanted chests in company-logo cutoff shirts. I 
began a slow orbit.

The head recruiter picked me out of the crowd, called me by name, and tried 
to haggle me into a job, becoming more and more aggressive, his offers to my 
mind ludicrous and impossible, until he gave me a pass card and told me to 
head upstairs in the hotel to a room number. I started to walk away and the 
models were gone.

There was no way. I was a good recruiter, maybe even a great one, but was 
this what a three-year luck streak got you? Was luck really a marketable job 
skill? How much was it worth?

Apparently. The room was tiny, a double, but the models looked even better 
naked, their trained-into-hourglass hips, their heavy, impossibly round 
breasts, and they both walked towards the door as I entered. I considered 
asking them what this kind of service cost, but instead got down into some 
lotion, rubbing those sweet, fake breasts down, and then on the bed pumping 
my dick between their soft, warm, firm breasts as they tweaked their own 
nipples and moaned a little. I was spent and had the advantage of endurance, 
so I started to get silly -- I had them both lean over the bed next to each 
other and spent a couple minutes screwing one from behind and then taking 
the other, both of them wet and easy, until I realized it was too much 
trouble moving from one to the other and let it go in the one I was one, 
then moved back onto the bed, a tangle of limbs as I laid on one, the other 
feeding me a nipple, and I came weakly, withdrew sheepishly. It hurt to come 
out, I was tender and chafed. The models both looked at me, unsure their job 
was done.

"I'm sorry, that's all you get," I said. "It's been a really long day for 
me. But thanks, maybe I'll see you again this week."

"Maybe," one said, with well-acted sincerity. Like fake breasts, you sort of 
pretend you believe these things.



I retreated to my hotel room and fell asleep. Rachel woke me only an hour 
later, having been unable to find me on the floor. She woke me by kicking me 
in the temple.

"I've got this amazing idea," she said, punching me in the chest to get me 
up.

"Let me take a flying guess," I said. "You want to hire me, and --"

"We should run a recruiting company. Now, think if it -- if you could hire 
guaranteed good people, how much would you pay? Now, I'm really good, trust 
me, but you're impossibly good -- we can make millions!"

"Can this wait? I'm really tired out."

"No! We need to announce here, it'll be great! The race is won by the 
swiftest, you know the proverb."

"I don't think that's--"

"Well, screw me then, Denny, it doesn't matter what the proverb is. Let's do 
it."

I rolled over onto my sore, chafed dick, pillow around my head.

"Later," I said. "Let me rest first."


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