index


Message-ID: <47667asstr$1083399013@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Carlos Malenkov <cmalenkov@linuxwaves.com>
Reply-To: cmalenkov@linuxwaves.com
MIME-Version: 1.0
Subject: {ASSM} Manhattan Nights  (MF cons)
Lines: 303
Date: Sat,  1 May 2004 04:10:13 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

MANHATTAN NIGHTS
by Carlos Malenkov <cmalenkov@linuxwaves.com>
word count: 2175
Copyright 2002
Posting and archiving rights granted to ASSM. All other rights reserved.



LeRoy Zoltan, that's my name. A monarch by both monikers, twice-over.
Manhattan, Kansas wasn't quite big enough for the likes of royalty,
so the day I graduated high school I said "Hi, ho" to the old folks,
crammed a couple of changes of clothes into a backpack and hit Route 24
with my pride intact and my thumb in the air.

Rode into Manhattan, New York, on a royal chariot, a Greyhound bus to be
exact, with all of $50 in my pocket. Port Authority Terminal has got to
be one of the most depressing shitholes on this ball of mud. Row upon row
of dented, flaking gray-painted steel lockers, travelers and transients
with backpacks and suitcases rubbing the sleep out of their eyes, pimps
and hustlers, and miscellaneous whackos muttering to themselves about
the end of the world, with only an occasional scared-looking cop walking
by. Up and outta that place. Up the cement staircase to the street. It was
only a short stroll to Times Square, the imperial asshole of the world.

I had a Plan. I'm nothing, if not resourceful. The store sign read
"Novelties and Souvenirs." Told the clerk I wanted a custom imprinted
t-shirt. Invested $25 of my stash and got a form-fitting shirt reading:
"1001 Variations." It showed off my pecs real good.

Ambled uptown into rich folks' country. Upper East Side. The Casbah
itself. The accumulated wisdom of half a dozen TV shows said that singles
bars were a good place to score lonely women. I made my grand entrance
into Rudy's Rutabaga, strutted my stuff, and grabbed a vacant chair. I was
a sharp-looking dude and it didn't take long to hit the jackpot. Sherry
Zahd, her name was, account exec for the Forty Weaves textile design
firm, jet-setter, woman of the world. A real princess. An older gal,
maybe twice my age, but good looking. She would do. Took me home in a
taxi. What a ride. Those New York cabbies drive like they were in the
bumper cars at Whingding Amusement Park.

Eagleton Courts. Luxury condo. Doorman. Marble lobby. Old-fashioned
brass cage elevator. I had a place to lay my head for the night. Not
quite a palace, but close enough.

Silk hangings and velvet and jewels and cut-glass perfume atomizers.
Waterford crystal and musk-scented talc. She claimed me as soon as
we walked into her quarters. Grabbed my ass and stuck her tongue into
my mouth.



Day 1:

Good old missionary position last night, with a little pussy licking to
sweeten things up. We only did it once, seeing as I was worn out from
riding the bus. Sherry was understanding.

She woke me at 6:00 a.m. sharp, fed me a peppery green onion omelet and
hashbrowns breakfast, then dropped me off with a kiss on the cheek a
couple of blocks away.

"Have to entertain a client at the shop all day. Come back after dark if
you can stand it, stud. The doorman will let you in; we have a special
arrangement. Show this horny old gal another way to do it tonight."

I spent a few hours just strolling around the neighborhood. Had a bite
at a Greek joint. Discovered the joys of souvlaki. When I dug into my
pocket to pay, I saw I was back up to fifty bucks. Sherry had a classy
way of expressing her appreciation.

Plenty of time to go looking for a job, and I didn't have the funds to
even think of a place of my own. Anyhow, I had a warm bed and a warm bod
waiting for me.



Day 2:

She was on top last night. Rode me hard, pumping up and down while I
attended to her clit. Leaned over forward toward my face so I could
suck her nipples. I was good for three rounds of that. Good food and
good rest do marvels for a man.

Then she told me what the deal was. "1001 variations, eh? We'll see about
that. As long as you perform, you have a bed and breakfast. If you ever
repeat yourself, lover, it's the end. I'll toss you out on your royal
ass so hard you'll bounce. Understood?"

Understood. I'm on my best behavior. Gotta do a different number every
night or I'm out on the street. The cold, cold street. Might as well be
the executioner's axe.

Out walking the streets again. Gotta find a job. Sherry gave me another
twenty-five, and that'll keep me eating for the day, but not much more
than that. As soon as I can scrounge up work, I'll start putting gelt
aside toward an apartment. Meanwhile, I have a place to sleep as long
as I can keep amusing that crazy broad with inventive ways of connecting.



Day 5:

Doggie position. Sherry has a plush, bouncy ass. Nice for me to rebound
from. Three rounds again, and she came each time (G-spot magic). I'm
getting a little worn out. My dick is sore. Friction burns. And why does
she have to keep playing that damned repetitious Rimsky-Korsakov tune
in the background, though? Sheh-harem something or other.

Got a job finally. I'm a bicycle messenger. Seven bucks per delivery,
plus tips. If I hustle, I can make seventy or eighty a day. Not too
shabby for a Kansas shitkicker with pretentions.



Day 34:

Head-to-toe. Did the 69, then, with a little help from her hand, inserted
into her just like that. She had pillows under her ass, and still had
to arch her back some.  Locked my legs around her waist. Interesting
friction, completely different from missionary position. Sucked on her
toes with groins interlocked. She came twice. I wrenched my back.

Couldn't even swing my leg over my bike. No work, no pay. Sat on a bench
in Washington Square most of the day, then hustled $5 at the chess tables.
I knew my time in the chess club after school would come in handy some day.



Day 35:

Flat on my back last night. Luckily we hadn't yet tried doing it so
she straddles me, but faces my toes. I got to hold on to her ass cheeks
as she bounced up and down. Nice view. Bent my dick at a weird angle,
but didn't snap it off. It felt pretty good.

Another day of staggering around and park bench sitting.



Day 38:

Modified spoon position. Nice for cuddling, not too much strain.

Missed work again today. Went to a clinic to get cortisone shots for my
back. Doc asked what the hell I was doing -- trying to bend myself into
a pretzel maybe. He said I was lucky I hadn't damaged my spine. Gotta
lay off those exotic positions for a while.



Day 56:

Did her ass for the first time last night. She loved it. Looks like
her butthole is booked up for the next month, so maybe I can give my
imagination a rest.

My back feels better and I was back on the bike delivering the goods.



Day 73:

Modified butterfly. Stretch those legs, baby.

Dammit. You wouldn't believe how expensive apartments are in this
friggin town. $1800 a month for a small dump in a halfway decent
neighborhood. What passes for halfway decent here would be a lowdown
slum back in the Manhattan I came from. Not to mention that I could pay
two Kansas mortgages for that money. Maybe even three. Ain't no way I
can swing that kind of rent on what I take home. Back to Sherry's place
for the night.



Day 109:

She brought home a harness and strap-on dildo. "Turnabout is fair play,"
said she, and I was running low on ideas. Lots of patience, lube, and
pushing got her into me. It was a bit of a stretch, but it's better than
sleeping on a park bench, I suppose. My ass was sore afterwards.

I learned something today. Old hands at the rental game in this town,
what they do is read the obituaries. When someone dies, you hustle down
and look up the apartment manager or super where the deceased used to
live. Hand over what they call "key money," usually a coupla thousand
or so, and you "inherit" the apartment.



Day 112:

She did me again last night. My ass was bleeding and I got diarrhea.

Showed up at a tenement in Alphabet City where this old dude had just
croaked.  Was gonna ask about the apartment, but this family -- mom
and pop and four kids beat me to it, for all the good it did them. The
building manager blew them off with some lame excuse. I found out it
didn't matter anyhow. Seems when a rent-controlled tenant dies in a
lot of these places, the building board of directors decides what to
do with it. When they can, they co-op it. Sell the apartment for a few
hundred thou. Ain't no way in hell they're gonna rent it.



Day 181:

It's my six month anniversary in the Big Town, and I still have a
home. Scoured the bookstores for every sex manual ever printed. Looked
at every porn site on the Net. How many different ways can two
bodies interlock? It seems there are 217 basic positions for vaginal
intercourse, and about 150 of these are usable for anal sex. There are
maybe 50 different ways a woman can fuck a man with a dildo. If I use
my ingenuity, I ought to be able to hold out for a good long time.



Day 215:

The woman I'd been meeting over lunch invited me home. I like her. I like
her a lot. But how could I explain my delicate situation to her? Can't take
the risk of messing up my bed and board.



Day 395:

The "position of the wife of Indra" required quite a bit of contortion
of Sherry's part. Folding up her thighs and twisting into a knot. Her
turn to have sore muscles. The book calls this the 'highest congress.' I
wonder what our local Congress person would think of that.

That just about does it for the "Kama Sutra."



Day 603:

"The Fish Exposes Its Gills" from an ancient Chinese Taoist sex manual.
Disappointing. We doubled over in laughter at the thought of a flashing
fish. Doubling over our bodies to actually achieve it was much less
fun. She complained about pussy fatigue. Maybe she'll give me a break
tomorrow night.



Day 946:

We did it in the sling again last night. The eyebolts are starting
to pull loose from the ceiling. No matter, suspension has long since
exhausted its attractions.

We've just about used up every position and variation in the literature,
and I'm fresh out of ideas. Looks like I'll be sleeping under a bridge
in a a few more days unless inspiration strikes. I've got $350 stashed
away, and that'll just about buy a salami sandwich in this town.



Day 992:

It had to happen. The outfit I do deliveries for, Bicycle Bums, scheduled
me to drop off a package at Sherry's firm. Her boss's boss, the branch
manager, called me into her office. Nice looking dame, maybe a few years
older than Sherry.

"I've been hearing good things about you, LeRoy. You're quite resourceful
and have a good head on your shoulders. We can use people like that at
the shop. I have an interesting proposition for you."

Actually, it was a job offer. I would start immediately as a junior
clerk in Accounts, Sherry's department, but with opportunities for
advancement. And, oh yes, I found out that Sherry had been promoted
and would be shipped out to the firm's London office in a matter of
days. Sherry hadn't seen fit to share the good news with me, and I had
to find it out from from her employer. What was going on here? Intrigues,
maybe?



Day 1001:

Sherry's gone. I saw her off at the airport. Kiss on the cheek for old
times' sake. Bon voyage.

Here I am still in her condo apartment. All I've got to do is pay the
monthly maintenance, and even that's no hardship since the firm will
subsidize most of it. The branch manager, Ms. Alibaba, is helping me out
in various ways in return for "special services," and that only a couple
of times a week. What a relief that her appetites are more reasonable
than Sherry's. Looks like I can catch up on some much needed sleep. Not
to mention that my imagination will get a rest.


---

All that took place 20 years ago, and I'm a different man now. I've
started my own textile design shop and haven't had to worry about money
for quite a while.

Now I have a different set of problems. I'm just one more jaded wealthy
middle-aged man in a city full of jaded wealthy middle-aged men, and I'm
lonely. I haunt the singles bars looking for bright-eyed young ladies
to warm my bed and tell me stories to fill the empty nights.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ------ send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com>|
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderators: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|ASSM Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org>   Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org> |
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}|
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+