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Message-ID: <43250asstr$1057522227@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: DrSpin <drspin@newsguy.com>
Subject: {ASSM} {ASSD} The Long Drink of Water (MF rom more-or-less) ~ by DrSpin (NEW to ASSM)
Date: Sun,  6 Jul 2003 16:10:27 -0400
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The Long Drink Of Water (MF, rom more or less)
by Neil Anthony aka DrSpin

---------------------------------------------------------
* This story is published here by kind permission of Ruthie's 
Club, where it appeared illustrated by Hugo Sergio Castro 
under an exclusivity period for six months. Ruthie's Club 
(http://www.ruthiesclub.com) carries about 70 more of my new 
stories. 

* The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers 
and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to:
neilanthony@austarnet.com.au

* 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.
---------------------------------------------------------

It's an over-used excuse for poor behaviour: I had a lot on my 
mind.

The company accountant had shot himself two days earlier in a 
fit of guilt over missing money, sales figures were down for 
the third successive quarter, Roslyn was pretty much hating me 
that month, and that ominous not-quite-right noise had started 
up again in the car on the way over. I was booked for an 
uncomfortable police interview next morning, and that night I 
would, assuredly, be sleeping in the spare room again. 

As I said, I had a lot on my mind -- too much to be able to 
play the social butterfly at a sponsorship function. I think I 
should be forgiven for drinking one too many glasses of 
champagne. Terrible stuff, champagne. I don't think anybody 
actually likes the stuff. You drink it because it's one of 
those things you're supposed to do on special occasions. There 
is no beverage that corrodes common sense faster than 
champagne. One glass too many, and you're silly.

"Good heavens," I said to the woman I had been left standing 
with. "What big breasts you have."

It was one of those observations that fall out of your mouth 
involuntarily when you have a lot on your mind and you've had 
one glass too many of champagne. You think it, you say it, and 
then you deal with the consequences.

She did have big breasts. That's not what I meant, however. I 
meant it was surprising that her breasts were so big when they 
didn't look nearly so big when she was in the basketball 
uniform we were all so accustomed to seeing her wearing. Today 
she was wearing a little black dress, and there were big, 
pillowy cushions of breasts and an eye-catching deep cleavage.

I looked up from her breasts and into her eyes. I had to 
travel quite a way to get there. She was much, much taller 
than I was.

Great eyes. Big, wide apart, dark blue, and all the nicer 
because they were smiling at me.

"Er, look," I said hastily. "That's not quite what I meant."

"I know what you meant," she said. "When I'm on the boards I 
have to strap them up tight to stop them bouncing around. They 
can hurt when they bounce, you know?" She laughed. "No, I 
guess you don't."

You can begin to understand why I got into such a mess. I 
mean, she was so charming. She rescues a guy from disastrous 
foot-in-mouth and she doesn't even know him. She didn't have 
an obligation. My company was only a minor sponsor, and I 
wasn't even the company boss.

And, of course, she was a genuine star, too. Michelle Monckton, 
6ft4in of long streak, MVP for the Satellites this year and 
last, a dynamic shooter of baskets and a player of the highest 
echelon. I'd only just met her at this sponsor's function, but 
because I'd seen her play so often, I felt like I'd known her 
for years. Michelle, Michelle. Michelle the Monster. She's a 
freak. Do it for us, Michelle. Take us to the play-offs.

My goodness, she was big. Yes, she looked like a long drink of 
water on the television, sure enough. But, standing next to 
her when she was wearing a little black dress, she sure was 
one hell of a woman. I'm your average-sized kind of man, but 
she overshadowed me all over. Even her hands, carrying her 
champagne glass, were bigger than mine. And those breasts and 
that cleavage. Like a swimming pool on a hot day, it made you 
want to jump right in.

"I've had too much to drink," I said. "Not much too much, but 
just enough."

"Good for you," she said. "I've had too little."

"Are we sponsors that boring?"

"Generically, yes," she said. "Not that I'm ungrateful, you 
understand."

"I can't stop looking at your breasts."

"So I noticed."

"Maybe it's because they're at eye level."

She shimmied her shoulders slightly and her breasts visibly 
shook and trembled like moulded jellies on a flat plate. "Are 
you a fan, Stephen?"

How did she know my name? No, wait...I was wearing a lapel 
badge. "I am now," I said. "What colour bra are you wearing?"

"Black, of course. Are you married, Stephen?"

"More or less," I admitted. "This month, less."

"Good," she said. "Rule One: only flirt with married men."

"Why is that, Michelle?"

"My competitive nature, I guess. I like to beat up on other 
women."

I looked up into her eyes again. They were still smiling at 
me. "You remind me of a dog I had when I was a kid," she said. 
"It had such worried eyes."

"I have a lot on my mind," I said.

"God, I loved that dog."

"What was its name? Did you hug it to your chest?"

"Droopy," she said. "Yeah, I did."

I looked into her cleavage. "Woof," I said.

"This party is all finished," she said. "Let's go, Droopy."

It seemed to be up to me, so I took her outside to my car. 
Looking with awe at her long, long legs as she sat beside me, 
I turned the ignition key. The engine coughed, sighed, and 
died.

"One of those days," I said sadly. "You could depend on that 
happening."

"My car," Michelle said, flashing her legs and opening the 
door. "You're not getting away that easily."

Her car was a laid-back, low-slung, bullet-like thing, dark 
green with a white flash. Satellite colours. Getting into it 
was like climbing into an Olympic Winter Games bobsled, and I 
watched with awe as she carefully eased her long body into a 
seat pushed back to its extreme. Her dress rode up under the 
stress, and my breath stopped as her black panties flashed 
into view momentarily. She got her body settled, pushed the 
dress back into order, I strapped myself in, and we took off 
with a lurching snarl.

"Sorry about this piece of macho machinery," she said. "I know 
it's extravagant, but it was given to me and I have to use 
it."

I nodded. "Damn sponsors."

My natural pessimism was starting to come under optimistic 
stress. I was forced to concede there was a slim possibility I 
might be headed for a liaison with a famous basketball star. 
At least I didn't have to worry about where we were going. It was 
her call now.

Hang on. I certainly did have something to worry about. Quite 
apart from the standard performance factor, and I had not been 
allowed near Roslyn for at least six weeks, there was the 
celebrity thing. How do you fuck a celebrity? Why would you 
want to? Was it going to be splashed all over the pages of a 
hundred cheap magazines? [Bastard deputy manager shags our 
Michelle! Scoop pix! Sleazy husband cheats with hoop star! 
He's awful but I love him, says court skyscraper!]

I started to sweat. It was going to be like fucking under the 
eyes of timekeepers, referees, a crammed press box, prime time 
TV. [Jackson's been benched, Bob. He can't cut it out there. 
He looks out of shape to me. Look at him, sucking in those big 
ones.]

"What are you so worried about?" Michelle was looking at me 
intently as we waited for a traffic light.

"Nothing," I lied automatically. A man never wants to lose 
face. "What could I possibly be worried about?"

Personal fouls. Jump shots and rebounds. Slow motion replays. 
Jesus. Post-game analysis with a panel of experts and revered 
stars from yesteryear. [He never stopped trying, Bob, but it 
was a clear mismatch. Jackson was way out of his depth 
tonight.]

"I could just take you home," she said gently.

Home. Another night of leftovers and cold shoulder. And in the 
morning, the scrape of a tired razor on stubborn bristle, and 
then the hard eyes of a police officer. [But, Mr. Jackson, 
wasn't he under your personal jurisdiction? Shouldn't you have 
known about these financial irregularities?]

"I'd sooner have my toenails torn off with pliers," I said.

She laughed softly. "So be it," she said. "Misfits, both of 
us."

Misfits? Man, I was just me, but Michelle was a star.

She sensed my skepticism. "You think it's easy being this tall 
in a world of excellent hostesses, wonderful mothers, and 
sweet-thing cheerleaders?"

I guessed not.

"Most men are intimidated," she added. "What about you, 
Stephen? Do I intimidate you?"

"Only just a tiny bit, Michelle. A smidgeon, perhaps."

"You're cute, Droopy," she said. "You make me want to smile."

She zoomed into an underground car park and we took an 
elevator way, way up to a high level. "A lot of the Satellite 
people have condos here," she said. "We get a good deal."

A good deal, indeed. It was a spacious, open-plan apartment 
with impressive views over the city. Not greatly lived in, 
however.

"I see that you live alone," I said, unable to keep a trace of 
envy from my voice.

"Mostly," she said. "There was a guy for a while, but I got 
tired of him. Before that was another guy for a while, but he 
got tired of me."

"I guess you're on the road a lot," I said.

"That, too."

In an awkward silence I looked at her long legs and pushed-up 
breasts. She had short hair, sensible for her occupation. She 
was too big to be pretty. That word didn't go with the 
territory.

"I might have behaved today like I pick up men a lot, but I 
don't," she said. "But you seemed so sad, and I was feeling 
lonely."

"I guess men don't hit on you much," I said.

"Hardly ever, and even then only crazy fans." She shrugged and 
looked away. "Michelle the Monster. Have you heard them call 
me that?"

"No," I lied. [Man, if Michelle the Monster sat on your face 
you'd be eating Big Whopper triple furburger. What a way to 
die!]

She flopped on a couch and kicked off her shoes. "Sorry," she 
said. "Suddenly I seem to have forgotten the game plan."

"Was there a game plan?"

"Droopy, you were going to get ravaged when you got one foot 
inside the door."

"And now?"

"I've lost confidence."

"If I had any myself I'd lend it to you," I said.
   
"We're a fine pair," she said.

I looked around the room. "I was expecting memorabilia and 
trophies galore."

"Hah." She got up from the couch, walked over to a side room, 
and flung open the door. "You want to check this out?"

It was a junk room of her basketball history. There was no 
order to anything. Trophies on pedestals were toppled over on 
the floor, framed photos were stacked against the wall, 
ribbons and medals lay in careless piles. I picked up a photo at 
random. It showed a skinny-legged ostrich girl towering 
gawkily over adults at an awards ceremony.   

"Me at fourteen," she said, peering over my shoulder.

"Wow," I said. "What big breasts you had."
 
"Is that all you ever see?"

I turned and put my hands lightly on her waist. "You promised 
to hug me to your chest," I said.

"I guess I almost did promise that," she said, pulling me in to 
her body.

She wrapped her long arms around my back and squeezed. "Hardly 
fair," I gasped, short of lung power. "You have a personal 
trainer and I don't even jog." [Coroner slams dunk star for 
bizarre sex death. I just hugged him, sobs Michelle the 
Monster. He cracked like an egg!]

My face was tucked into her neck. It was an odd, helpless sort 
of position, throwing me into childhood flashbacks about 
bigger women giving comfort. Mother, Aunt Hazel, and Granny 
Wilson. Also Mrs. Hetherington next door that time I cut my 
foot open.
 
Blood surged powerfully to my extremities. I had lusted after 
Mrs. Hetherington since I scarcely knew what the word meant. 
She had big, deep breasts and she always smelled like jasmine.

Michelle Monckton had big, soft breasts and she smelled like 
something, but it wasn't jasmine. Perfumes smelled like brand 
names these days, not flowers.

She giggled. "Are you humping my leg? That's just what Droopy 
used to do. He was a horny old dog, that one."

I stopped doing it. Damn. Her legs were so high off the 
ground. "We could do this lying down," I suggested.

"Good idea," she said, disengaging. She took my hand and led 
me to the bedroom.

A huge window beside the bed put the city on a sympathetic 
canvas. The afterglow of the just-gone sun turned austere 
buildings pale pink. "If we leave the lights off we don't need 
to draw the curtains," Michelle said. 

I heard the hidden message. Please don't look at my big, 
clumsy body in the harsh glare of the light. Give me mysteries 
and shadows, slopes and valleys. Please, God, make me more 
like the woman in the magazine.

On the bed we kissed, cuddled, and groped in preliminaries as 
the gloom took over. Outside, through the glass, the city was 
all winking windows from office and apartment blocks, and 
round-the-clock multi-national towers that never went dark. 
Gradually we shrugged off clothes, and I buried my face in her 
pillowy breasts. Outside, out there, the city dealt with 
problems and issues. Inside, on the bed, it was slow progress 
but cosy and nice.

The problem and the issue with Michelle was her height, and 
there had never been any getting away from that. To pretend 
otherwise was like saying it didn't matter how deep the water 
was if you could swim. I found a new truth, however. Michelle 
horizontal was no taller than I was.

When her breathing became shallow and urgent and she told me 
with impatient fluttering of her hands that she was more than 
ready, I pushed into her eagerly. I forgot about issues and 
problems. The static crackle of doubt went away. I desired her 
intensely, and the blind man took over.

I've heard it said fucking is so fundamental that personality 
plays no part. I don't believe that. I brought to fucking 
Michelle my years of failures, disappointments, and 
frustrations, and she brought to fucking me her barely-
veneered loneliness, fears, and insecurities. We each sought 
solace and we found it. By a fluke of circumstance, I did not 
hurt her and she did not hurt me. Instead, we found 
instinctive trust and a rare compatibility.

It was outrageous it was so good the first time. After, on my 
back and calmer, I laughed. She propped her head on a hand and 
looked at me, and then she laughed as well. How silly that we 
should be laughing. How perfectly silly it was.

"I'm married to a cow," I said, laughing, and she laughed with 
me.

"I hate my job," I said, laughing, and still she laughed.

"I love you, Michelle Monckton," I said, laughing.

She stopped laughing instantly and rolled away from me. I let 
her be, turned away from me. I looked out the window and 
watched lightning flickering faintly at the extreme horizon.

"I swear I think it's true," I said quietly.

She said nothing, and later we fucked again, and it was great 
all over again, and then we made bits and pieces of dinner in 
her kitchen, and then we had a shower together before we went 
back to bed, and I never went home.

It's been six days. Sooner or later, I'll have to switch on my 
cell phone and tell them all to go to hell. Next week Michelle 
starts pre-season training. We both have decisions to make.

It's all so good that she can call me Droopy and I can call 
her Michelle the Monster and we both laugh, easily. Yesterday 
I tested the myth and got her to sit on my face. Turned out 
she'd heard the story. Some cruel bastard had told her. But 
when she sat on my face, she laughed so much she fell off and 
banged her forehead on the bed head.

No pain. With Michelle and me, there's no pain. Neither of us 
is used to that. Maybe it'll work out.

ENDS 

Edited by Ruthie and Selena Jardine.

Neil Anthony/DrSpin can be contacted at 
neilanthony@austarnet.com.au
      

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