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Message-ID: <47401asstr$1081725004@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Imagineer <imagin8r47@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Cruel Summer 23 {Imagineer} (MF viol ScFi)
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Date: Sun, 11 Apr 2004 19:10:04 -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/


// 23: Framed


  The half-eaten hot dog in front of him grew cold. Eric looked out the
tiny shop's window, across the L-shaped strip mall to the fabric store
on the other end. He could just make out Angela making herself busy
straightening bolts of fabric up front.

  "Hi, Angela? Know who I am?" No.
  "Hi sweetie. Long time no type." Ugh.
  "My God, you're even more beautiful in person." Lame!
  "We need to talk." Jesus, just shoot her.

  Maybe he should write a note instead. No, then she'd just run. He
wished he could just explain it all in an email, but Eric knew that
they'd cracked his system by now. For all he knew a Company man was
chatting her up every night trying to get a fix on her. Probably
Andrew. Certainly Andrew, if things were still going to plan.

  Eric was conflicted. He longed to now have the clarity that had been
his just six months ago. The brutal clarity that had been his all his
life.

  Steal the jewels. Set up your backstabbing protege. Retire rich.

  That was the plan.

  What's the plan now?

  The plan is fucked.

  Now that he thought about it, it hadn't even been his plan. Ginger
had put it all together. Eric was just the guy who could make it happen.

  He didn't even remember why the hell he'd been thinking about
retirement. He hadn't exactly been the type to sit on a beach sipping a
Corona, not while he was at the top of his game. Why retire?

  Oh, right. The game had gotten dull. Or at least that's how Ginger
put it. And she was pretty convincing when she had some part of her
body wrapped around his dick.

  Eric had an encrypted PDA he used to keep track of every one of his
girls. He kept a dossier on their families, their friends, their
activities, their habits. He took copious notes on what they talked
about, what they did, where and when they did it. Every conversation,
every rendezvous, in explicit detail, with digital images where he
could manage. It was his own personal pussy network, and it'd helped
him with his profession as well as his perversions on more than one
occasion. He had to document fastidiously to keep up the illusion that
he cared deeply about each one of them. No matter what anybody says,
once you've fucked about two hundred teens and twenty-somethings all
over the world, they start to all run together. Which one collected old
Hello Kitty school supplies, and which one acted out pornographic Hello
Kitty fantasies? You can't tell the players without a program.

  But he needed no notes on Ginger. The woman was a phenomenon.

  Like that first time they met over five years ago. Transferred from
another unit after another analyst had died in a car accident, she had
all the guys in the office drooling. But she wasn't about to settle for
an analyst; she was looking for higher-grade meat, and she found it
when Eric came in for debriefing after a mission. This was before Andy,
and Eric's analyst Mindy was a hot little number herself -- whatever
happened to her? -- but she looked like a schoolmarm next to Ginger.
Five years older at 32, wiser, and willing to show a scandalous amount
of leg. Eric had never thought of himself as a leg man before Ginger,
but it was her legs that drew him in. He still vividly remembered the
first time in the conference room; she'd spent the first part of the
meeting playing footsie, then after her presentation she sat next to
him and kept crossing and uncrossing and recrossing her legs, her skirt
inching higher and higher... stocking-band... garter... silk panties...
after the meeting he'd asked her to stay behind for some follow-up, and
two minutes later he had his hands all the way up her skirt and her
breath hot in his ear begging him to fuck her, right there on the
table... how could he refuse?

  Ginger.

  It was Ginger that had laid it all out for him. 

  Ginger who'd come back to Eric after a five-year hiatus, still hot as
a firecracker even at 37, twice the age of Eric's typical field
conquests but experienced in ways they could never be.

  This time it was her tits. No way they were real and still that
firm-looking -- a bra could only do so much, and her choice of
undergarments tended toward whispy lace nothings that presented more
than supported. It was his duty as a field agent to do the undercover
work and closely examine this woman to determine if her threats were
real or augmented. If they weren't real, he never did find the scars,
and his hands and lips and dick didn't much care. The tits were just
the tagline that got you into the theatre, the real show was in the
woman behind them. And she never failed to elicit a standing ovation.
Usually several. He didn't know women could have such incredible muscle
control...

  It was Ginger who'd told him about Andy's awkward attempts to put him
out to pasture -- fucking Eric's boss behind his back, and when that
didn't work, conducting an unsubtle smear campaign with anonymous memos
and tweaked field reports that cast Eric in the worst possible light.

  Ginger who'd suggested he take advantage of any opportunities to
secure his retirement in light of his employer's uncertain future.

  Ginger who'd pointed out the Chinese gemstones were just such an
opportunity.

  Ginger who'd figured out a way he could not only retire, but take her
with him, and fuck his self-serving protege besides.

  The sapphires had landed in his lap. A Chinese official had been
charged with shepherding the mysterious artifacts eastward to a
military R&D centre. He foolishly let his westernized teenage daughter
try them on, hoping to impress her with the wonders of the homeland.
His daughter foolishly showed them to Eric, her American traveling
companion and teacher. Eric smiled at the memory -- she'd always liked
being tied up . . .

  The old Eric's instinct said to just sell them back, pocket a
finder's fee, feed the balance to the Company kitty, ensure the Unit's
(and his own) future, and call it a day.

  But that was boring.

  A little birdy whispered in his ear: *this is your Big Bang.*

  Eric hesitated.

  *The Company's shutting down the Unit at the end of the year.*

  Eric considered.

  *Andrew wouldn't settle for a finder's fee; why should you?*

  Ahh, jealousy. Competition. One-upsmanship. And a big Fuck You
send-off to everyone.

  The old Eric jumped at the chance to screw Andy, to serve up the
little prick on a spit. Get him fired? Amateur Hour. Let him bleed out
a hole in his neck in an alley? A satisfying performance. But leave him
holding the bag on the biggest Company fuckup in a decade? The Oscar
Goes To... Eric.

  With Best Screenplay honors for Ginger.


  Now why didn't he see that one coming?

  Ginger had played him. She'd been playing him against Andy. And Andy
against him.

  Now that he recognized what Ginger had been doing, the game wasn't
dull so much as it was unsettling. Spy games were never a particularly
noble venture, but now it was just a corporate-ladder pissing contest
with the safeties off. Or something. 

  Whatever, Eric didn't want to play anymore. He just knew that
everything was fucked.

  Now that he thought about it, Andy probably didn't even have anything
against him. 

  Damn, Ginger was fucked up. She wasn't happy unless everybody was
fucked and she was on top.

  The first clue was subtle: an hour before he was to meet a Family
representative to negotiate a price for selling back the sapphires,
he'd been talking to Ginger on the phone and she said "goodbye." She
never said goodbye, always "see ya!"

  The second clue was more obvious: he got stopped at Customs. The
Company simply didn't fuckup anything so basic as getting a man home.
It was a message: you've been cut loose. Somebody back home didn't like
him. It took all his experience -- and a little help from a flight
attendant who'd been an old playmate of his on hops between Hong Kong
and Tokyo -- to get back into the States.

  But really, he should have known much earlier. Like when she dumped
him for Andy. Or dumped Andy for him. 

  Easy to say that now. Harder when she's riding you to a fourth mutual
orgasm in one session. Things like that just didn't happen to a
41-year-old man, not without the little blue pill anyway. But she knew
just what buttons to push.

  Like the one marked "schoolgirl." Ironic that Eric had had at least a
dozen real naughty schoolgirls in his bed -- even that one in Bangalore
who except for her darker complexion and black hair was a dead ringer
for Britney Spears in that early video -- but none of them lived up to
the fantasy the way a 37-year-old woman could. Maybe it was the twenty
years of experience with men since actually being a Catholic
schoolgirl, or the way she accessorized the standard uniform with all
the right adult-fantasy touches without trying to be a grown-up in the
process. 


  "The headmaster issued our new uniforms today, and I'm a little
nervous about it. He swore all they did was change suppliers, but I
know our old shoes didn't have heels this high." She stumbled a bit as
she transitioned from little baby steps to full hip-wagging
tit-jiggling strides on her way across the room toward him. "I don't
know if the heels just make my hips sway more or if the skirt really is
shorter, but it seems to move around a lot more than before." She
turned and walked a few steps away from him to demonstrate; he could
see quick glimpses of her sweet little ass in white panties with each
step. "And if I drop something and bend down to pick it up I'm afraid
all the boys will see my new panties!" She backed up a few steps before
bending at the waist over-dramatically to demonstrate. Her skirt,
hardly long enough to cover the swell of her cheeks when she stood up
straight, slid up like a theater curtain to expose most of her perfect
butt. The underwear was hardly Sears standard issue schoolgirl cotton,
being not only of a daringly-brief cut but made of nylon so thin he
could clearly make out her crack -- and with an unlined gusset as sheer
as the seat the girl's hairless puffy lips were lewdly on display. She
spread her feet a few inches apart -- his eyes darted down with the
movement to see the frilly little ankle socks were just as transparent
as the panties -- and slipped one hand between her legs, her middle
finger tracing a lascivious line from between her cheeks to press the
see-through garment against her labia before retreating up to linger
over her clitoris. "I knew it!" she exclaimed in over-the-top mock
surprise. "You can see everything! I'm so ashamed..." She hesitated an
eternal moment before snapping upright and spinning around to face him,
making sure to get her skirt to twirl and lift enough so that he could
see the bikini panties were just as see-through and even more daringly
cut in the front. He heard himself groan as he slumped in his chair to
relieve the pressure in his pants. She continued to lay out the charms
before him. "Headmaster says we always wore little black chokers like
this, but I'm sure last year it was a tie! Then there's the new blouse.
Headmaster said there was a mixup in the ordering and all the blouses
were made two sizes too small and without buttons so we have to tie
them off." Her hands traced the curves down her sides, stopping to push
her breasts together. "And the bras are backordered for weeks, so it's
a good thing they made them out of this really stretchy stuff that --
hey, it's awfully thin. You can't see my boobies through my top, can
you?" She made a show of cupping her tits pretending to cover them. Her
tight nipples are plainly visible. "Well, can you?" She stepped
forward, leaning her knees to either side of his on the edge of the
chair. Her ripe little melons were inches from his face.


  It was easy to see how his vision had been clouded. At the time he'd
even thought it was him seducing her. Andy probably thought that too.

  Now he was hung out to dry, and Andy was set up to kill him, and
Ginger was happy to cash out his retirement fund.

  Of course his professional practices served him where his instincts
didn't. 

  Specifically, Ginger didn't know where the payload was.

  And that gave him the next move.

  The old Eric would have made that move by now. He'd spent enough time
setting it up. 

  The old Eric would have confronted the girl at home, strong-armed her
into coughing up the jewels, then pumped her full of heroine and dumped
her body in an abandoned tenament.

  The old Eric was even better at fixing a situation than he was at
breaking it in the first place.

  But Angela had killed the old Eric. Never mind that the old Eric
habitually used naive teens like a drug; something about Angela had
pierced his armor with a teflon bullet. Their relationship had started
like most others -- a few hours of careful research with privileged
information led to a "chance meeting" in an Internet chat room, he knew
all the right things to say and all the right moves to make, and like
clockwork in thirty days somebody's sweet innocent daughter was
engaging in all kinds of naughty online play. But circumstances had
prevented Eric from converting his latest online plaything into a
real-life groupie fuck-toy. From Hong Kong to Yangon to Dhaka to
Karachi to Milan to Minsk to Prague and back to Yushu and Xining, his
vacation kept getting delayed by urgent Company business. Pick up a
package here, drop it off there, shepherd this or that person out of
this or that country. He was an expert traveler, the consummate Ugly
American.

  So he simply kept the embers burning online. And Angela, like all
girls, improved her game the more she played. Girls like her didn't
decide to become teases -- men begged them to. 

  Come to think of it, he usually did the majority of the typing in
their online romps. (The dictation software really helped, once he'd
gotten it trained.) But she always knew how to interject just the right
comment at just the right time.
   
  "Darn, I knew I should have tied better knots on my bikini bottoms..."
  "Is it a 34B? If it's not I'll just have to go without a bra again..."
  "Ohh, baby, I think you found it. Oh, God, now you *really* found it!"
  "Do you mind if my friend Bambi gives it a squeeze before you come up
to my room? That way I'll have time to get ready for you..."

  But there was something more to Angela... the way she was serious
without taking it seriously... the way she never really lost her
innocence, she just suspended it to please her partner...

  Angela was everything Ginger wasn't. Young, sweet, utterly guileless,
untainted by man-hating ambition. Keeping up with Ginger was draining.
Keeping up with Angela was invigorating.

  Or maybe it was as simple as the fact that he never got to fuck her
for real. The world was full of men who did stupid things for the
promise of new pussy. Men who'd ignore their slut girlfriend for a
preseason NFL game would lay down their lives for a good girl. Heck,
they'd get married to a good girl who held out long enough. Maybe he
was one of those men. Eric had never been so tested before. Simple
scheduling screwups and unstable situations (or had that just been his
boss playing him again?) turned weeks of online-only rendezvous into
months. Ironic that his standard stalling technique was now screwing
with *his* head. Normally he'd keep his girls at arm's length until
they were ready to do anything to make the fantasy real. In Angela's
case, he was the one jonesing. He might have actually developed
feelings for the girl.

  Worse, the disruption in his normal globe-trotting nymph-fucking
routine made him start to question his path in life. How could an
18-year-old girl who'd never left her hometown have something in life
that a 41-year-old international man of mystery lacked? Impossibly, she
did. And it wrecked him.

  The old Eric may not be dead, but he wasn't in the driver's seat.

  The new Eric -- Angela called him Scott -- had the wheel.

  It took two hundred nubile hotties to start to fill the void left
when Ginger dumped him. But it only took one innocent girl to make him
sick at the thought that Ginger had taken him back.

  Angela had infected him. The taste of her naive playful bliss was
there on his lips. After more than twenty years of steeling himself
with cynicism, he longed to succumb to this new drug.

  And so he wrung hands like a silly teenager, agonizing over how to
approach a cute girl.

  Only the stakes here were much higher than a chance at getting to
third base.

  Forces were no doubt converging on him. And Angela. Forces that'd
kill them both. Forces he'd helped set in motion. And all he could do
was sit here picking sourkraut out of his teeth and wonder how to talk
a girl half his age into... into he didn't know what. Give me the
jewels? Pretend we never met? Here's some money, sorry I ruined your
life? Run away with me?

  Whatever he was going to say, he needed to say it soon.


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


  Crack! Crack! Crack!

  Just like that, the hunter became the hunted. Val took off running
down the alley, adrenaline overriding the shock that she'd been shot
at. No, the stinging sensation in her chest and on her shoulder said,
not shot at, SHOT.

  Her hand went to her chest as she ran, somewhat ungainly in her high
heels, fingering the tattered holes in her baby tee. But she felt no
blood, no wound, just a ripped shirt. The sapphires really did stop
bullets!

  "Stop!" Crack! Another shot.

  Jesus, this cop was trying to kill her! Maybe the sapphires did stop
bullets, but they still hurt, and she doubted the sapphires would do
her any good against a lethal injection, which was what she was gonna
get if the cops caught her.

  Fuck. It wasn't like she'd *tried* to kill any of them. Technically,
she hadn't killed anybody. Not that such details would matter once they
put her at the scene. She turned the corner, around the back of the
building.

  And here she was, running like a common criminal. Well, she was a
criminal, if not a common one. But it wasn't like she'd done anything
just now. This guy, this pimp-looking dude, just walked up to her as
she was heading back to her room. Just walked right up to her and threw
her up against the wall.

  "I heard what you did to Ivan, you diamond-flauntin' psycho bitch!"
he'd yelled. Actually, they're sapphires, she'd corrected.

  Val turned the corner, down the alley back toward the front of the
building where the unexpected assault had taken place.

  Val had just kneed him in the groin after letting him break his hand
trying to gut-punch her when the cop car had pulled up. "Freeze, lady!"
the cop screamed out the window, drawing his gun as he got out of the
car. Apparently word had gotten out. Or maybe the cops around here
still pulled heat on everybody right away. Either way she wasn't about
to stand around and get cuffed. So she'd took off running.

  At the corner. A ladder to the roof. Fuck it, let him shoot. Maybe he
won't figure out how pointless it is until I'm gone. Up she went.

  Crack!

  The iron ladder rumbled from below. Fuck, this one's persistent. She
climed as fast as she could, but her feet kept slipping. He was gaining
on her. She was almost at the top . . .

  Valerie felt herself yanked back by her shoulders. The cop had
grabbed the sweater. "Now, [ant] Young lady, [ant], let's get you [ant]
down from there, and... [ant pant]"

  Valerie dipped down and kicked back with her heel; she felt the
stiletto jab the cop's shoulder. "Ow, shit! You BITCH!" he screamed. He
lunged hard up the ladder, shoving her leg away and grabbing the waist
of her low-cut shorts. "Get your *ass* down here NOW!"

  He yanked down just as Val lunged up. She felt the shorts loosen as
the front button popped off and the zipper ran down. The cop yanked
down again as his other hand wrapped around her thigh. Val was *not*
going to go quietly.

  The cop knew he was losing her. He looked up, seeing her taut
buttocks flexing with effort, twin half-moons slowly rising above the
loosening waistband of the thin cotton shorts, flesh framed by a flimsy
black satin thong. He tightened the grip of his other hand on her
thigh, but a thin sheen of perspiration made her leg just slippery
enough to inch slowly upward out of his grasp as they struggled. He
considered letting go of her shorts for the long sweater-coat that was
flapping about his head and shoulders, but knew it would rip off even
more easily than the shorts.

  He was fucked.
  Well, said a small voice inside his head, don't you wish.

  Val put her legs together and shimmied. The shorts flew down her
thighs, pausing at her knees just long enough to rip in two.

  His left hand finally slipped off her leg. He lunged and snared her
ankle, but she was now perched on the edge of the rooftop, the other
leg already over, and she tugged and kicked mightily. Damn these
hookers had strong legs! He refused to let go, even as his hand and her
ankle waved around and jerked to and fro out of his control. Finally
after several seconds, the girl got leverage and kicked him wickedly in
the throat with the sharp toe of her shoe. His hand released her ankle
and went to his throat, gasping for breath as she disappeared from view.

  Even as he coughed and spit he refused to give up. He hauled himself
up the last steps of the ladder and peeked over the top of the wall...

  ...just in time to see her take a running leap off the other side.


  Oh shit, I'm not going to make it...

  Val had run as fast as she could manage on the gravel roof in
stiletto pumps, expecting to jump over the alley to the next building.
But this alley was wider than the one she'd just escaped, and as soon
as she took flight she knew she was going to come up short. Very short.

  As she plunged earthward into the darkness of the unlit alley, she
heard a voice. The pimp who'd attacked her, standing out in the street,
watching her leap and disappear into the shadows.

  "Motherfucker, it's the Angel!"


  He couldn't believe his eyes. He saw the bitch-thief running across
the roof above, close to the edge. His eyes followed her as her long
legs reached for ever-longer strides. The black sweater she'd been
wearing flowed out behind her like Batman's cape, exposing her
half-naked body to the glow of the lights across the street. He was far
enough back that even three stories up he could see she'd lost her
shorts, her naked butt thrusting with each step -- damn she was a
hot-looking bitch! Her tight little half-tee showed the outline of her
champagne-glass tits. He was mesmerized.

  And then she jumped off the building, disappearing in the darkness of
the alley. He heard a loud crash that seemed to echo down the street;
he noticed the cop had popped up on the roof, gun drawn and smoking.

  No, she didn't just jump. She must have *flown*. Like that chick in
the paper.

  "Motherfucker, it's the Angel!"


  Val heard another gunshot just as she crashed into an open overfilled
dumpster. Falling thirty feet, she knew it wasn't just the trash that
broke her fall; she felt a tingling on impact that could only be the
sapphires. Without them she probably would have broken her legs. Or her
neck. Or something. As it was she felt all jangly but unhurt -- like
she did when that car hit her that day.

  Shit, she had to get out of here. She scrambled down off the pile of
garbage, losing her heels in the process. Mustn't leave anything
behind. Val grabbed them up in one hand and took off running down the
alley, the wail of a distant siren pressing her ever faster.


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


  "What seemed nothing more than a lawyer's publicity stunt took a
deadly-serious turn today. Devon Miles and Reginald 'RC' Cornelius, the
alleged QuickMart bandits, were found dead in an East Irving warehouse
today. Just yesterday the pair had been released when charges of armed
robbery were dropped by the district attorney. The violent convenience
store robbery of a few weeks ago remains an open case, with police now
searching in earnest for the mysterious Avenging Angel, a young woman
whom Miles and Cornelius claimed had attacked them at the Oak Valley
QuickMart where they were found unconcious near two shotguns used in
the failed robbery attempt. While few believed the men before, the
circumstances surrounding their death suggests that perhaps their Angel
story was not entirely fabricated.

  "In a related story, three separate murders and two brutal but
non-fatal attacks in the past 48 hours have been reported in the
Twisted Oaks area, the latest occurring just hours ago. Police have not
yet identified the victims, but all were men in their late twenties or
early thirties, and all were suspected of either operating or
patronizing known prostitution rings in the city. Um, we have just
received word from our correspondent Hector De La Guzman that a sixth
man was reportedly attacked late this evening but escaped unharmed when
the attack was interrupted by a police officer. The victim, who prefers
not to be identified, described his attacker as a young woman with dark
hair dressed like an angel, and claims she escaped police arrest by,
and I quote, 'flying off the roof of a building into the night.' Police
at this hour have no comment.

  "And speaking of angels let's turn now to sports, where our own Gabe
Garrison has all the highlights from tonight's Valley Knights game
against the visiting California Angels. Gabe?"

  "Thanks Dixie. Well folks, it was a slaughter of a different kind at
newly rechristened MechaniComm Stadium, known increasingly to fans as
The Tool Box, when the Valley Knights took the field against the
division-leading California Angels this evening. Knights ace Paul
Masson took the mound but found that even selling wine before its time
couldn't help him as Angels hitters racked up six runs in the first two
innings, including a homer by the Angel's *pitcher* who picked up a bat
when the Angels' DH was found drunk in a local bar and couldn't play."


  Ricky resumed flipping channels. TV News sucked. He really should
stop watching it. Maybe The Simpsons were on somewhere.

  As he flipped aimlessly he considered the meaning of the story. All
that violence sure didn't sound like Sapphire. Yeah, she beat up the
jocks but she was forced into it to protect Jimmy. And him. And she
stopped that robbery, but it was the two guys that had the guns and
shot the place up. Or so he'd been told. Or maybe just assumed.

  Really, he only know Sapphire by reputation and through Angela. And
he didn't really even know Angela. He'd thought he did, but then she
seemed to turn all slutty... maybe Sapphire too was darker than he'd
thought. Maybe she was just some kind of man-hater looking for any
little reason to kick ass -- and worse.

  No, that didn't fit. Angela might be... confused, but she wasn't such
a bad person, and she wouldn't hang out with anyone hateful enough to
go around killing people, even bad people. That wasn't a superheroine's
way.

  Something else was going on with his heroine. Maybe she'd been
attacked and had to defend herself, or maybe it wasn't her and she was
just trying to stop someone else and didn't quite get there in time.

  Ricky thought about calling Angela. No, it was almost 11:30pm. And
his dad would probably be home any minute -- and even if he wasn't,
Ricky wouldn't put it past his dad to check up on Ricky with a phone
call printout -- after all, there was a patrol car driving by the house
at regular intervals now, surely no coincidence -- and at this point
Ricky'd just rather not have to explain anything or argue or even talk
to his dad.

  Maybe tomorrow. No, he was supposed to go to the comic book
convention. Maybe the next day. He could tell his dad he was going to
the library and stop by Angela's for a quick update. No, he shouldn't.
She probably hated him anyway. But maybe he could talk to her mom. Stop
by the diner or something. Yeah. Just ask how she's doing. Angela, that
is -- Ricky didn't think Angela's mom would know anything about
Sapphire. And he was only curious about Sapphire because she was a
friend of Angela's and had helped him and Jimmy out. Well, okay, he
wanted to meet her and maybe show her his art to see what she thought,
but that was understandable wasn't it? Though if she was somehow evil
like the news was implying maybe that wasn't such a good idea.

  Come on, Ricky, you're rambling. Put this energy to good use.

  So Ricky picked up his pencil and began to sketch. Two women, locked
in combat. Sapphire against... against...

  The pencil darted to the corner of the page and lettered neatly,
"Sapphire vs The Black Widow."

   


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