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Message-ID: <47399asstr$1081721406@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Imagineer <imagin8r47@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Cruel Summer 21 {Imagineer} (MF viol FF nc caution ScFi)
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Date: Sun, 11 Apr 2004 18:10:06 -0400
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Cruel Summer

copyright 2001-2004 by Imagineer.

comments to 
imagineer 47: yahoo green eggs com ham
but without the green eggs or ham

http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Imagineer/www/


// 21: Doubled


  "Nina? Try 53rd and Commerce."
  Valerie left the bar. Fifty-third and Commerce was just a few blocks
away.

  At 54th, Valerie began looking ahead for a cardboard box. Nina's game
was always the shill for three card monte. Though Valerie wondered who
would run a game of monte in this neighborhood... especially after
dark...

  No box, but there was a girl on the corner. The girl looked up the
street in Valerie's direction; it was Nina all right. Valerie's heart
beat a little faster.

  Nina was the kind of girl who looked trashy no matter what she wore;
when she actually dressed trashy she blazed like neon.

  Tonight she was Las Vegas.

  The cheap part.

  Pageboy haircut, bleached platinum blonde. Heavy makeup. Purple
demicup lace bra under a cropped black leather jacket. Glittery purple
lame' miniskirt. Garter straps visible below the hem holding up black
fishnet stockings. Classic black patent hooker pumps.

  Fishnet stockings. Nina had never liked fishnet in any measure and
used to razz Valerie about the bits found in her wardrobe. "Only 80s
hair metal, 90s faux-goth, vegas showgirls, and hookers wear fishnet,"
Nina had chided, "which kind of loser are you?" Valerie never bought
fishnet again.

  Valerie remembered back when she'd first found herself on the street,
taken in on a particularly cold night by an old streetwalker who
explained the fishnet phenomenon among "professional girls."

  Bare legs were just too hard to keep clean and smooth: the harshness
of headlights always amplified the tiniest blemish, smudge, or bruise.
Professionals liked fishnets because they didn't run so easily, and
they still camouflaged imperfections well enough to hook a john that
was afraid of dirty girls.

  At least Nina wasn't one of the dirty girls -- whores so low they
didn't even bother to clean up anymore. Though standing on this corner
Nina was only a few steps removed.

  Nina had an intricate web of rules about who she would fuck for what.
Valerie was pretty sure this broke a couple of them. For herself,
Valerie tried to keep things simple: if it wasn't just to get off, it
wasn't good.

  And with that in mind, Valerie slowed her approach. Nina might not be
anxious to see Val, especially on these terms. Better to meet her on
more neutral ground.

  A car slowed and veered toward the curb where Nina stood. Val watched
the transaction, studied Nina's body language. Negotiations complete,
Nina swung the door open and slithered into the passenger seat.

  Valerie watched the car drive off down the boulevard. She was
surprised when after just two blocks it turned left. Of course, an old
motel. Probably specializing in hourly and weekly rates. Valerie loped
up the street as quickly as she could in her high-heeled sandals. She
could follow Nina home, wait a while, and then "stop by." It was the
respectful thing to do.


  Harry Shavers had seen the blonde one before, but she was too
over-the-top. He'd gone around the block hoping against the odds that
something better would come along. Something a little sweeter.

  And yowza! There she was.

  A tall brunette made taller by high-heeled sandals that gave her walk
that innocent teasie bounce, wrapped in a powder-blue minidress that
looked like it was a gentle breeze away from sliding right off her.
Harry turned in for the kill.


  As Valerie crossed a side street a car turned in front of her. Shit,
I've gotta pay more attention to my surroundings, Val cursed herself.
The window rolled down. "Hey, I was wondering if you could tell me
where I could find a good time."

  Val resented the implication, even if she should know better given
what she was wearing on this hot August night. "Fuck off, I'm no
whore!" She kicked at the car, momentarily forgetting that she was not
wearing her usual steel-toed combat boots; the gems in her belt sparked
briefly at the contact, bearing the brunt of the blow and denting the
car door.

  "Hey! Watch it! This car costs a lot of money, missy!" The driver got
out and started to walk around, meeting Valerie at the front of the
car. "You better not have scratched my car!" He used his body to block
her passing, trying to steer her back to the passenger side.

  "You better get outta my way, or I'll follow you home and tell your
wife how we met."

  The man withered and she moved on.

  Across from the motel was a 24-hour donut shop. "Gimme an OJ," Val
said, pulling the $20 she'd lifted off Andrew. Fucking ATMs, she
cursed. Nobody carries any cash anymore. It's almost not worth picking
somebody's pocket.


  Nina lived only two blocks away from the motel. Nice commute, Val
smirked. It was a seedy apartment building, with central covered
hallways that acted like wind tunnels. Nina'd had three customers
before calling it a night; it was almost 4am. Valerie was starting to
feel the chill as the heat of the previous day finally petered out, but
still she hesitated. Truth was this would be awkward no matter how she
phrased it. She hadn't left Nina on the best terms. "Call me if you
ever figure it out," were her last words. Not exactly the most caring
and supportive thing to say to a girl who landed in Oak Valley after
her supposedly-progressive upper-middle-class liberal father had caught
her with another girl and disowned her.

  And now Nina had gone from club-hopping and teasing cash out of horny
young men to turning tricks. Maybe she wouldn't have fallen so far if
Val were still around. Val couldn't help but feel a little guilty. Well
maybe now they could help each other out.

  After stewing for almost ten minutes, Val finally screwed up enough
courage to cross the street and make her way to Nina's apartment. On
the street the air was still, but in the building corridor the combined
output of a dozen A/C units running full-blast all night created an
artificial breeze that tossed Val's lightweight dress around over her
body.

  She paused at the door of Nina's apartment. Good, the lights were
still on. She heard yelling. At first she thought it was coming from
one of the other units, but then she heard a crash, like someone had
thrown and broken something large. It was definitely coming from Nina's
place...

  She put her ear to the door.

  "Nobody works this neighborhood unless they workin' fer me, you dig?"
a man's stout voice bellowed.

  Another crash. Nina was in trouble. Val tried the doorknob. It was
unlocked. She opened the door quietly, hoping to size up the situation.
Her hand nervously went to the locked-on choker to make sure her
sapphires were still present; they bolstered her courage.

  Only one man, and Nina. But the man was a massive mountain of flesh,
made bigger by the confines of the apartment and the bright green
leather suit he wore. And he was yelling, a continuous verbal barrage,
beating Nina down with the power of his voice. Valerie's concentration
tuned it out.

  There was no question the pimp had seen her working the street
earlier that night; if it was about competition he could have chased
her off then. Instead he let her work, only to barge in now and stake
his claim as if she were one of his girls. According to him, she owed
him for not smacking her off his corner in the first place.

  It reminded Valerie of what Officer Rubio had done to her five years
ago. The way he'd set her up and used her.

  The broad-shouldered pimp towered over the girl. Just as the
crimelord had done back then. 

  Nina cowered in the corner, shaking, mortal fear in her eyes. Just as
Valerie had done back then.

  Rage boiled up inside Valerie. This was not going to happen.
  Not again. 
  Not to Nina.

  Nina was hers.

  "Get off her, you Fat FUCK!"

  The big man spun around, various parts of his body accelerating and
decelerating at different rates. He quickly sized Valerie up. Just
another whore to be put in her place.

  "One at a time, bitch," he spat. His meaty hand reached out and gave
her a shove in the chest, knocking her back on her ass. The move was so
slow and deliberate it failed to trigger a reflex response. It took the
wind out of Val's sails for a moment as she tried to comprehend how
such a gentle movement could feel so violent.

  The meat mountain dismissed Val, turning its attention back to Nina.
"Now where were we..." a zipper opened. A sweaty hand fished out a meat
popsicle. "I think you were about to try out for a position on my team."

  Valerie wasn't used to getting the brush-off. With two quick steps
she was airborne.

  And then Valerie found herself sitting on the fattie's shoulders,
ankles hooked, heels pressing his solar plexus, fists drumming
syncopation against head, face, shoulders, back.

  He found himself off-balance, careeing aound the room, the pair of
them outdoing the proverbial bull in a china shop. Coffee table
collapsed in splinters. Chair knocked over. Picture frames angled for
the floor. End table sent flying, answering machine coughing up its
tape on impact with the wall.

  The fat bastard was moving about plenty quick now, his arms flailing
furiously trying to smack off his attacker. Valerie hung on,
fingernails of one hand digging into the man's chin, the other hand
alternately grabbing at green coat sleeve and flying about overhead
like a rodeo bullrider. The beast bellowed angrily, his animal fury
mostly drowning out the crashing sounds of furniture obstacles and
knickknack missiles.

  When he realized he couldn't shake or pull her off, he staggered
backwards toward the wall. Val prepared for the impact.

  Smash!  Valerie felt a tingle all over her backside; the sapphires
around her neck pulsed brightly.  All the remaining picture frames
dislodged and crashed to the floor. Shards of broken glass cut into the
backside of her thin dress and rained down to the carpet. Her legs
relaxed a bit, but she was unshaken.

  Still on him? Harder... He staggered forward three steps, his huge
fleshy chest heaving with effort. Valerie flexed, squeezing his melon
head in her thigh vice. The pimp made a surprised gurgling sound before
resuming his beastly yelling. The pair held still in the center of the
room for an instant, like a chopped tree balancing its last moment
before falling. Valerie's stomach felt like it dropped right out of her
when gravity began to hold sway over the contentious couple.

  The pimp's trunklike legs began backpedaling, the huge body gaining
backwards momentum and belaying a fall to the floor. Valerie felt the
man's dough-flesh quiver with each pounding step. The tempo increased
with each foot-plant, 1. . .  2. .  3... 4.. 5.Wham!

  Fatman remained leaned into the wall. Valerie went limp for but an
instant. Sheetrock dust wafted down over her. Her thighs squeezed
again, so tight she thought the bulbous shaved skull between her legs
could pop like a giant pimple. The big lug staggered forward, then
thrust hard back into the wall again. The unfocused gems around
Valerie's neck pulsed under the strain of the human wrecking ball's
weight, pinning the slender girl against the shattered remains of
sheetrock held up by leathery old wallpaper. Valerie felt her hip crush
against the wall stud; she winced at the momentary discomfort before
she felt and heard it give way. The sapphire forcefield struggled to
keep the pimp from crushing her, fast bleeding energy and feeding more
and more back through the tired girl's body.

  Meathook hands pawed at her knees. Valerie heard glass cracking and
wood splintering beneath her; he was going to slam her again. She could
take it! Through the fatigue of the long night she felt energized by
adrenaline, motivated by her sapphires. Ignorant of the gems'
limitations and far-from-recharged state, their unbalanced and
unfocused energy coursed through her, setting her nervous system
aflutter and short-circuiting her pleasure centers. Val mistook the
feeling as a sign of strength. She felt supercharged -- she could go at
this all night! 

  She felt his feet tangle themselves up in broken picture frames
underneath them. Sausage-fingers relaxed their grip on her calves. She
felt herself tipping forward. Her ankles unlocked as the green-suited
sequoia twisted and fell, her feet pointed forward to land squarely,
momentum carrying her forward with a 180-degree twist to collapse/sit
on the ratty old couch. The thunder of the pimp's impact subsided.
Valerie looked down at the floor in the direction from which she'd
come. The pimp remained motionless at her feet, stretched out like some
moss-covered log, head tilted forty-five degrees off his neck to rest
an ear in the greasy shag carpet. His chest heaved. His flesh quivered.
His rod twitched.

  Valerie looked at Nina huddling in the corner. "Are you all right?"
She stood up, feet straddling the big man's prone form. She took but
one step when she felt something grip her ankle, holding it fast as if
it were cast in cement. Valerie's body spilled forward, falling right
on top of the green-swaddled mound of man, her chin at his feet. 

  The pimp looked down lecherously as his paws yanked up on both ankles
-- this bitch wasn't wearing any panties.

  Valerie felt the still-in-it pimp yank both ankles back to drive her
prone, then shove her forward, her pelvis sliding down off his belly
and over his erect prick. She pushed herself up to sit on him,
desperately trying to free her legs from his grasp. He let go one ankle
to grab at the back of her dress, wrenching her backwards. She was
kneeled on him, torso stretched in a backwards lean. The pimp squirmed
left a bit to pin her leg between his squishy hip and the base of the
couch. His other hand wouldn't let go of her ankle, even as she tried
to wiggle it free. Her attempts to escape his grasp only ground her
pelvis against his package, sending a too-pleasant electric charge
shooting straight from her clit to her brain. She fought off the
feeling, raining blows down on his legs -- but between the thick
leather suit and the layer of fat they had little impact. 

  "Wrap yourself around this, bitch." Valerie felt his big hands slide
up her thighs under her dress; with one hand on each hip he lifted and
pointed her effortlessly -- she felt like a doll in his meaty grip --
then settled her down onto his fat cock. The surprise penetration made
Valerie gasp; her muscles involuntarily relaxed for a moment, the
sapphires throbbing light in time with their useless discharge. Her
moment of weakness helped him plant more deeply. Val's rage was
whitewashed with pleasure. It had only been hours since she had a good
fucking but somehow she needed it now all the more. Maybe it was the
adrenaline, the thrill of physical confrontation, the fight for her
ex-lover's virtue. The flickering fading gemstones urged her to make
love not war... 

  "That's right... missy... this is... the only way you... can be
fucking with me... in my... neighborhood... " the pimp said between
frantic gasps for air. He thrusted violently skyward, bouncing Valerie
up and down on his shaft.

  Valerie failed to notice the shortening quickening breaths her stud
took, or the pained expression overtaking his face. Her eyes were
closed, her back to her impaler, bucking and jostling furiously, intent
on just one thing...

  The pimp stiffened. His right hand let go of Val's ankle to clutch
his chest. He wheezed desperately for air, his eyeballs bulged. His
pelvis stopped thrusting. 

  Val felt him soften inside her, then his whole body relaxed. Fuck,
she was so close! Why couldn't a man last long enough?!? Val gyrated a
few more seconds, angry that he quit early, frustrated at her
unsatisfied fever. Finally she stopped, sliding down his thighs, his
shrunken member shlopping out of her.


  The display was unlike anything Nina had ever seen; she was frozen in
fear and confusion.

  "Oh shit. Valerie, he's not breathing."

  Valerie rolled off and looked back at her used-up stud. Sure enough,
his chest was still. Oh, fuck!

  Valerie squealed in horror as she scrambled up away from him,
straightening out her clothes in a sudden fit of horror-induced modesty.

  "You killed him."
  "He died of a heart attack," Val defended. "Look at him, he must
weigh three-fifty."

  Okay, Val, get a grip. Slow, deep breaths.

  Instinctively, she checked his pockets. Left pocket: car keys,
switchblade, blister pack of pills. Right pocket: fat bundle of cash.
Mostly twenties, with several hundreds in the middle. Felt like about
two grand. Val peeled off most of the twenties and one of the hundreds
and held them out to Nina. Nina's eyes stared past the offering, a
distant look giving way to a dull haze. Her body curled up more tightly.

  Valerie kneeled next to Nina. "Oh, my little Nina, I'm so sorry this
happened." She broke Nina's fetal curl by pulling her into a soothing
embrace. Nina relaxed and began to sob quietly. Valerie caressed the
poor girl's arm, a soft touch meant to relax the tortured girl.

  But Valerie's sapphire-charged libido would not be denied. 
  The feel of her former lover's skin was more than she could stand;
her hand trembled with excitement. Her stroking of Nina's arm became
more urgent. She'd been so close when the pimp gave out; she needed to
come. She needed her Nina to help her. 

  Nina, her prize. 
  Her conquest. 

  Consumed with erotic emotion, Val's hand cupped Nina's and slid it up
Val's thigh. Nina stiffened, but Valerie's focus would not be deterred.
Nina's middle finger was forced between Val's lips and plunged into her
sopping-wet pussy. Nina pulled away in horror, but Val gripped more
tightly, pressing Nina's palm down hard and thrusting her pelvis up to
meet it, grinding her clit against the base of Nina's fingers. Still
overrevved from the incomplete drilling she'd just received, this one
touch pushed the depleted sapphire girl over the edge. Her body
shuddered and shook, pent-up sexual energy finally unleashed. As Val's
grip faded, Nina scrambled away, her mind screaming at the cumulative
horror of the events just climaxed. 

  Valerie's eyes lolled lazily, her climax subsiding into gentle
quivering, her orgasm-addled mind just beginning to come back into
focus. Shame quickly cooled the fire within. At the moment when her
Nina needed her the most, all Valerie could do was indulge her own
hormone-driven fantasy and use the girl as a handy sex toy.

  Nina was in shock. "I... I think you'd better go."
  "Nina..." Valerie reached out a gentle hand in apology. Nina recoiled
in fear and revulsion.
  "You'd better go *now*." Nina picked up the phone.

  Her dress little more than a filmy network of split rags barely
clinging to her slim frame, Valerie staggered out of the apartment as
fast as her wobbly legs would carry her.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


  Eight AM. The impossibly-bright blue-white light of an arc-welder
caught Valerie's eye. "Custom Metal Sculptures" read the ornate sign
over the door. A bona-fide artist's loft.


  A meaty hand, peppered with sweaty grit, put the clear blue orb down
on the table. "Why don't you take it to a jeweler?"
  "Because then my daddy will find out," Valerie said, taking a moment
to twirl a lock of hair around her finger. She let the welder build his
own story around that. "So will you do it?"

  The artist's eyes looked her up and down again; Valerie felt a little
self-conscious standing there in a black cocktail minidress she'd
swiped from a clothesline. She tugged at the hem; her locket-belt
rustled and jingled with her movement.

  The artist finally responded. "I don't know what kinda clasp I can
work up. It'd be easier if I could take a piece outta your belt."

  "I don't want a clasp. I want you to put it on me permanent."


------------------------------------------------------------------------


  Noel Aquino sat in his police-issue Mercury, wolfing down a hot dog.
He told himself he was here scouting for leads in the Avenging Angel
case, but that was a poor excuse for being in the parking lot of a
fabric store. The fabric store. Where Angela worked. What kind of
teenage girl worked in a fabric store? One who didn't want to work in
fast food. One with designer-label tastes on a paper-pattern budget. Or
one who couldn't find clothing risque enough for her seductress ways at
the mall.

  What was he supposed to do? Ramirez had practically pushed him into
this, taking away his best case and giving him one that couldn't be
worked. There was nothing to follow up on the Avenging Angel case,
which left only Angela. Young Angela. Sexy Angela.

  When he wasn't staking her out here he was following her to the mall.
It was the only place besides work she'd been since... well, since he'd
kicked her out of his house. She'd been to the mall twice in the last
week. But it wasn't the social trolling or aimless browsing that he
expected; she went straight to the lingerie department at Lacy's both
times and spent the better part of an hour picking out panties. (Noel
had a hard time maintaining cover at an observable distance; a man
could only pretend to be considering a negligee for his wife for so
long before the natives got restless.) She bought at least a half-dozen
pairs each trip. And the saleswoman recognized Angela immediately,
which seemed to embarass her. Apparently the girl collected panties. Or
maybe she had a thing about not wearing them twice. 

  Whatever it was, Angela never touched the racks of cotton and basic
nylon briefs. Noel remembered likening the experience to watching a
segment on the Playboy channel, spying on the object of his obsession
as she picked through the racks and the piles, holding up pair after
pair, immediately discarding anything that had the least hint of
utility or practicality. Lacey, sheer, silky, insubstantial whisps of
fabric, dainty bows and ruffles and spaghetti ties -- everything a man
fantasized his dream girl would wear, nothing a man actually found
drip-drying by the dozen in the bathroom. With each pair Angela
selected, Noel mentally pictured her wearing nothing else and writhing
about on his son's bed -- or on his own bed. Teasing him as she slowly
tossed this way and that, reveling in the feel of her own slender
fingers caressing her skin, pausing to slip fingers under a strap here
or a seam there, innocently and yet erotically "adjusting" the fit of a
flimsy garment that suggested naivete and wickedness all at once . . .

  Noel stopped himself when he realized his hand was rhythmically
gripping the tent at the front of his pants. Damn that girl!

  At least he wasn't following her home. Well, he hadn't in the last
few days, anyway. Still, he was here every day. Sometimes doing
paperwork, sometimes pretending to read files, sometimes on an all-day
lunch break. Some days Angela rode her bike to work, some days she
drove her mom's car. Some days she didn't come to work at all; her
schedule seemed irregular, though she put in a lot of hours over the
week. Typical of an obsession. 

  But whenever she went out, she was always dressed to show off her hot
little body. Yesterday it was hot pink shortie overalls and pigtails,
the day before it was a billowy summer dress he could practically see
through from across the parking lot, the day before that a bright
orange halter minidress. And always heels. If only she didn't look so
much like his departed wife when she was younger...

  A car pulled up next to his. He looked up; a squad car. He rolled
down the window. "Aquino," the uniformed officer greeted him, "what are
you doing down here?"
  "Just catching a little lunch and reviewing some case files."
  "Didn't I see you here yesterday?"
  "Probably. Hot dogs over there are the best around," he covered,
pointing to the tiny hot dog shop at the end of the tired old strip
mall.
  "Really?" The officer looked puzzled. "I heard Murphy got sick eatin'
there one time."
  "New management or something," Noel covered again. "Go try one for
yourself."
  "Nah, I already had lunch. Maybe tomorrow. You goin' in later?"
  "Yeah, gotta give my daily report to Ramirez on the 'big case,'" he
enthused sarcastically.
  "How's that goin'?"
  "It's not. Where's it gonna go? It's the World News Weekly, for
cryin' out loud. Frankly, I'm still trying to find the connection."
  "Man, sucks to be you. Hey, you hear about Kermit?"
  Noel struggled with the name for a moment. Kermit was the
behind-the-back nickname for Kershawn Mitchell, a local pimp. Kermit
was huge and had an affinity for green suits. It was generally
acknowledged that he encouraged the nickname as an excuse to beat on
people who used it. "Assault again?"
  "Nah, dude croaked." The uniformed officer cracked a smile, waiting
for Aquino to acknowledge the joke before continuing. "Rubio says
Kermit was in negotiations with a new girl and had a heart attack."
  "Wow." Noel darkened at the mention of the other detective's name. It
reminded him that he was missing out on 'real' work. Noel was certain
the aggressive Rubio would be grabbing every case he could while Noel
was 'dedicated' to the Avenging Angel.
  "Yeah, dude's peter was still hangin' out when they got there, at
first they thought it was just another roll of fat; Rubio grabbed it by
mistake when he went to roll the guy over. Maybe makin' detective isn't
such a great thing after all."
  "Thanks for the encouragement. Now get outta here before somebody
opens a donut shop."


------------------------------------------------------------------------


  Valerie sipped at the hot black vile liquid. She needed to stay
awake, and the donut shop didn't have Pepsi. She could save twenty
bucks if she waited until after 2pm to check in, and although she was
momentarily flush with cash, she didn't want to start spending stupid.
That was the kind of thing that TJ and Spence did.

  Besides, she needed to find out if the cops were going to make
anything of that pimp's death. And to get a read of the street
regulars. She didn't want to get jacked.

  Hood. Junkie. Single mom. The labels suggested themselves as she saw
each person on the street. Valerie's vision was adjusting to the
neighborhood quickly. It wasn't much different than her own, but with a
higher concentration of locals going nowhere. Unlike the street Val had
called home for a year, few people here were passing through on the way
to somewhere else.

  College dope-head picking up a reefer refill. Drunk bum nursing his
near-empty bottle and hoping his neighbors didn't notice the full
bottle in his pocket. Septegenarian lifer shuffling her twice-weekly
bag of groceries home. Lonely kid trying to look tough. Tough kids
deciding whether or not to kick the lonely kid's ass. Pimp on patrol in
his hooptie. Chica chumming for a new boyfriend on her way to her job
at a nail parlor. Laid-off husband cruising the Regal back and forth
"looking for a job." Hooker hopeful for a wayward white-collar worker
in need of a lunch fix. Police officer on the way back to the station,
yawning off his nap. Lost salesman in a tough month trolling further
than usual for a cheaper-than-usual BJ.

  Valerie idly flicked the bills in her pocket. What a way to make a
quick buck. If only she could find a few more pimps...

  Actually, finding a pimp wasn't hard at all in this part of town if
you knew how to look -- and how to look. And she did.

  Her hand left her pocket to trace along her new necklace, hidden from
view by a scarf. Eight stones encircling her long graceful neck like a
loose choker -- five fakes in blue glass and three real sapphires,
locked in place by industrial-looking sharp rakes of polished stainless
steel. No, not real sapphires, something else. Something... useful.

  A devilish grin grew on Val's face. "Oh, that's ironically delicious
in so many ways," she said to herself. "I may have just found my
calling."


   


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