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Message-ID: <39289asstr$1037272202@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: jimmy@jimmy-hat.com (Jimmy Hat)
Subject: {ASSM} Hands on a Hardbody 1/3 (MF oral MFF anal)  
Date: Thu, 14 Nov 2002 06:10:02 -0500
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This work contains graphic depictions of sex acts.
Please do not continue if this makes you uncomfortable,
or violates laws in your part of the world.

This story is Copyright 2002 by Jimmy Hat (jimmy@jimmy-hat.com)
----------------------------------------------------------------------

HANDS ON A HARDBODY

Floodlights illuminated the car lot. Some visitors wandered the
rows of new and used autos and trucks, but most folk huddled in a
circle around the peculiar sight of three people standing
motionless with one hand against a new silver pickup, as if the
trio were in a trance or somehow attached to the vehicle. The
crowd maintained an eerie silence, murmuring comments, shuffling
back and forth, moving sometimes to get another view, but always
careful to move quietly. They behaved deferentially to the
strange spectacle before them. 

Two new visitors showed no such reverence. In dark, conservative
clothes more formal than the relaxed clothing of the foot traffic
in the lot, a man and woman moved to the inner circle of the
spectators. Quickly they inspected the scene before moving to a
cameraman that the rest of the crowd ignored. Words were
exchanged and he pointed to a small RV nearby. The pair went
there next, leaving behind the truck and the three people
touching it. 

At the RV they knocked and announced themselves. A middle-aged
man in a knit polo shirt, the bulge of his stomach straining to
pull the shirt out from his blue jeans, exited the camper. "Oh,
thank God you're here. I'm Alex Misky." He extended his hand. 

"Agent Gerald Maytag," the man said as he shook hands. Maytag
wore short brown hair brushed neatly, the hint of a suntan on his
clean shaven face. He stood six foot, trim, and though not a
physically imposing presence he gave the impression of command. 

"Agent Heather Stanton," the woman introduced herself. She looked
somewhat younger with a pale complexion, dark hair worn up in a
bun, and arresting blue eyes. She was shorter than the man but
high heels made up some of the difference. 

Misky nodded. "Like I said on the phone this here is a tricky
kind of situation." 

"I don't know that there's anything tricky about it," Maytag
said. "You told us you had information for us about the I-Spy
case, but that you would only give it to us here." The I-Spy case
involved some illegal spy cam video being shipped across state
lines. Maytag and Stanton's investigation had gone cold until
Alex Misky called them earlier that day. 

"That's right," Misky said. "I do have information for you, but I
need a favor from you first." 

"Mr. Misky," Stanton began, "the FBI is doing you a favor by
sending us here as you requested. Normally we don't fly on short
notice just for a tip. Now you want us to run some kind of errand
as well?" 

"Trust me," Misky said. "This isn't just a tip. I'm gonna give
you the I-Spy guy in a neat little package. I can't wait for
someone to take him out." Alex Misky ran Hardbody Haven, producer
of T&A videos and softcore porn. I-Spy represented a real threat
- much the same material, only with the added element of hidden
surveillance, and missing the element of paying the models. 

Maytag and Stanton knew all that. "Sounds like we're already
doing you a favor," she said. 

"Why wouldn't you have just given us this information before?"
Maytag asked. 

Misky shrugged. "Bad precedent, having the FBI shut somebody
down. Maybe next time somebody decides my videos should be off
the market." 

"Now you're willing to help in exchange for a favor?" Maytag
pressed. 

"Let's just say I feel like being a good citizen now," Misky
said. Or that getting two favors was worth getting in bed with
the Feds. He left that unsaid. 

"All right," Maytag said. "We're listening." 

Misky took a deep breath. "You ever hear of 'Hands on a
Hardbody'?" 

"Sounds like one of your videos," Stanton said. 

"I thought so, too," he said. He sounded almost flattered. "But
it's a contest. You get a bunch of people together with a car and
let them all get a hand on it. The car is the hardbody. If you
take your hand off the car, you're out of the contest. Last one
touching it wins. 

"Anyway, I liked the idea. We run contests on the Web site for
members all the time. I thought we could do something like that
with a Hardbody Haven twist. So I called up some auto dealers and
radio stations until I found one that went for the idea." 

"What's the twist?" Maytag asked. 

"We opened up the contest only to members of the Haven Web site.
The twist is in addition to getting the car, the winner gets to
have sex with two Hardbody Haven girls." 

"Cute," Stanton said. 

Misky smiled appreciatively. "We really think alike," he said.
"Great idea, right? The site gets exposure, the guys get a
helluva lot to go for, I get all kinds of video out of it, and I
don't even pay for the car. The radio station and the dealership
took care of that end. Got about a thousand new members from this
deal." 

"It seems you had it all planned perfectly," Maytag said. "What's
the problem?" he asked, intrigued. 

A dejected look overcame Misky's face. "We got a ringer out
there." 

"What?" Stanton asked. 

"A ringer," Misky repeated. "A regular pro. This guy just goes
around to these events in shopping malls and used car lots or
wherever, and does this all the time. His name is Neil Klein,
he's the thin one with the mop of black curls on his head. He's
damn good, too. He can go days. Wins the cars and sells them for
money." 

"Did he sneak into the contest?" Maytag asked. 

"Kind of," Misky said. "He joined up on the site all right, he
just figured out a way to stuff our online ballot box. I almost
fired our Web guy over this, but he's a smart kid and he'll learn
from this mistake. So technically it's fair. No contract
violation." 

"Are you worried about him not performing at the end?" Stanton
asked. 

"No, I think he loves that idea. The guy is a skinny little
freak. Still lives with his parents, I heard. This is probably
the best chance he'll ever get for this kind of sex. That's not
the real problem." 

"Then what is the real problem?" Maytag asked. 

"He's too damn good!" Misky yelled. "I thought this would take
twenty four hours, at the most. Instead, I'm paying a cameraman
and two models to sit around just to be ready for the big
moment." 

"You can't send them home and film the guy later?" Stanton asked. 

"No," Misky said. "The dealer and the radio station want the
girls here. They've been on the flatbed of the truck dancing,
taking pictures with spectators, doing the wet T-shirt thing,
whatever. They're on break now but we'll be back in full swing
when the radio morning show starts tomorrow and again for the
drive-home crew. I'm renting this camper, spending money on food,
and unbelievable amounts of sunscreen. I gotta have my head
examined for bringing a redhead out here for this stunt. 

"It has been two days, and he's not even near his record. We lost
a lot of others quickly, but I can't count on the others dropping
out so soon now. He seems to make them better. They're starting
to pick up his technique. If he goes, they'll drop like dominoes,
I'm sure of it. Otherwise, this thing could go days. And the
dealer and radio station don't care because their costs are
fixed. In fact, the longer this goes, the better for them." 

"Precisely the opposite of your expenses and objectives," Maytag
said. 

"Exactly," Misky agreed. 

"So what do you want from us?" Stanton asked. 

"Get him out of this contest. Check his records, arrest him for
something. Shoot the bastard for all I care. Just get him out,
and in return I'll give you the I-Spy case on a platter." 

* * * 

Neil Klein pressed his palm flat on the fender and smiled. This
was going to be the sweetest one yet. Better than the minivan at
the Mall of America, better than the $40,000 SUV in Virginia.
Better even than the Mustang and he actually drove that thing
around for a year. Of course that was a banner year, when the
whole idea of these contests spread out but before people knew
what they were doing. That year was almost six figures. He easily
snuck in contests then, too. 

Now, dealers made it impossible for anyone but locals to get in.
They were also starting to trade names of pros. No one wanted to
be taken by the Klein-man, anymore. It was getting to be real
work to avoid doing regular work. 

Expenses were bad now, too. Jeff was looking for more money, the
moron. He would still be wiping cars dry at the Sergeant Sparkle
car wash if not for Neil. Running around in olive drab combat
fatigues and white gloves like the horse's ass, working all day
with Nicaraguans, Nigerians and fuck all else from whatever
diseased illiterate countries they came from. All Jeff had to do
was take care of the K-man. Rub his feet, prepare his special
health shakes, wake him up from naps during the breaks. Didn't
exactly take a degree and wasn't worth even the 20% share. No way
was that dickwad pinching Neil for any more. 

That was for later. For now, Neil needed Jeff to do his job like
a good boy. He spotted Jeff in the crowd and signaled to him:
shake at the break. He watched as his brain dead assistant ran
off. 

That break would be in an hour. For now, Neil just loved being in
the zone, losing his mind in the monotony of it all. As much as
he liked looking at those trailer trash sluts in their bikinis,
practically flashing their junk in those dental floss suits, it
was better when they weren't around. He could lose himself and
let time melt. 

He wore his black Terminator outfit, complete with the wrap
around shades. It was a complete psych-out for these fucking
losers to see the K-Man ready to blow them away. His black cap
had the words "Hands Up!" embroidered in silver letters. Amazing
how something simple like that actually triggered people to lift
both palms around day three or four. Jack-offs. Neil Klein was
the master of this game, and there was no way these masturbating
porn hounds were going to beat him this time around. Not with
those cum dumpsters waiting at the end of the rainbow. Their
asses would soon belong to Neil, just like the truck they rode in
on. 

* * * 

"That's him," Misky pointed out Klein from a safe distance. They
watched as he flashed a hand in the air, the one not flat against
the truck. A young man acknowledged with an OK sign and ran off. 

"What was that about?" Stanton asked. 

"Oh, that," Misky replied. "Seems the twerp has an assistant.
That was what tipped me off in the first place. A couple of other
guys brought buddies, but no one was as organized as those two.
His name is Jeff Streeter. He talked to me at first, but then
Neil gave him a gag order, now he won't even look at me
straight." 

"What does Streeter do?" Maytag asked. 

"As far as I can tell he's like a corner man. Gives him water,
rubs him down, wakes him up if he takes a nap during break." 

"How often are breaks?" Stanton asked. 

"One fifteen minute break every four hours. There's one coming up
at 10:00." 

Maytag watched his partner. He knew that look. "What are you
thinking, Stanton?" 

"I'm thinking I want to talk to Jeff," she said. "Maytag, you
find out what you can about this guy and I'll call you or meet
you back at the RV." 

"Anything I can do?" Misky asked. "If not I need to get to my
hotel room. Girls won't let me stay in the RV with them." 

Stanton pulled a hairpin from behind her head and shook out her
long dark hair. "Just go to the hotel and sit tight. We'll handle
this from here." 

* * * 

Jeff started the engine of the car. He plugged the blender into
the power adapter lodged in the outlet for the cigarette lighter.
After dropping the first few vegetables in and turning the
blender on, he looked up absentmindedly. He saw a silhouette a
woman in a skirt and heels, long hair flowing behind her,
approaching him. A long shadow preceded her, as she was backlit
by the lights of the car lot. He stepped out of the car and
noticed that the shadow followed a direct line to his feet. She
was walking directly toward him. 

She kept getting closer, and Jeff could see she was pretty, too.
He wondered what she was doing over here away from the crowd, and
then she was standing right in front of him. He froze. This
wasn't part of the standard contest routine. 

"Nice blender," she said. 

Jeff had forgotten all about it. He raced to it and turned it off
before burning out the small motor. 

"You're Jeff Streeter, right?" she asked. 

"Yes," he said, confused. She really was a babe. How did she know
who he was. And why did she want to talk to him? 

"I'm Heather Stanton," she said, extending her hand. She wanted
Jeff to touch her? This was getting just bizarre. He shook her
hand automatically, without thinking. She kept talking. "I was
hoping I could ask you some questions about Neil." 

"Oh," Jeff said. That explained it. It was Neil she was
interested in. Figured. "What do you want to know?" 

"What it is you do for him, how he does so well at these things." 

Jeff appraised her again. "Did Ling send you?" Ling was another
pro, new to the scene with one win to his credit, but not
head-to-head with Neil. The ranks were thin, but the competition
fierce. Neil would not want Jeff to speak with an opponent. 

"No, I don't know any Ling. Mr. Misky told me about you." 

"Oh," Jeff said again. 

"Don't worry, I'm not with the contest." 

"Like a reporter," Jeff offered. 

"An investigator," Stanton corrected him slightly. 

"So what do you want to know?" 

"Like I said, how you help Neil win." 

"I wouldn't say I help Neil win," Jeff said. "I help him not fall
out early. It's all Neil really, the guy is a machine. Smart,
too. He knows how to get in people's heads." 

"But you must be a big help for him to want you around," Stanton
said. 

"I do what I can." 

"Like make him margaritas?" Stanton pointed to the blender. 

"No," Jeff laughed. "Alcohol is the last thing he needs. That's
the start of a power shake - a good mix of carbos and protein,
and of course water for hydration." 

"Do you cook food, too?" 

"I can't cook and we have no equipment for that. But maybe I'll
run and get him something if he asks." 

"Anything else?" 

"I wake him up if he takes a quick nap. Plus he gets tired so
I'll give him a rubdown or massage his feet." 

"Really?" Stanton said with genuine surprise. "That's some
dedication. Neil must sing your praises." 

Jeff snickered again. 

"You mean he doesn't appreciate that kind of effort?" Stanton
asked. 

"No, he appreciates it," Jeff said quickly. "I'm sure he does.
It's just that the contest is stressful. It takes a lot out of
him and he's under stress during the breaks." 

"Ah," Stanton said. "So he can be short with you, sometimes." 

"Sometimes. Plus he's a perfectionist. Probably why he wins,
right?" 

"Right," Stanton agreed. "Still it must be stressful on you, too.
I mean, you must get tired." 

"Sure, but I can sleep hours at a time. Neil only gets fifteen
minutes." 

"And Neil doesn't get a bed," Stanton conceded. 

"I don't get a bed either. I sleep here in the car. We can't
afford a hotel room." 

"But you earn money this way, and Neil pays you," Stanton argued. 

"I get a share of the money, sure." 

"I see." 

"It's not bad. Practically the same as what I got at the car
wash, plus I get to travel and see the country. I get a lot of
free time between contests, too in case I want to work odd jobs." 

"I guess 50% isn't bad at all for all the work," Stanton said.
She guessed there was no way Neil gave Jeff half the proceeds. 

"Oh, I don't get that much! It's fair though, Neil does all the
work." 

"Looks to me like Neil stands around and you do all the work to
keep him going. You're easily worth half. I mean. look at you,
you're exhausted. When was the last time you slept?" 

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