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From: "Russell Hoisington" <hoisingr@hushmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} A*F*T*S {Hoisington} (Mf f-solo pett nosex humor)
Lines: 489
Date: Thu,  6 May 2004 04:10:02 -0400
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                             A*F*T*S
                      Edweird Lytwer-Bulton
             (Sometimes knows as Russell Hoisington)

   ************************************************************

This is an erotic fantasy.  The characters and the situation are
purely imaginary, and this story is NOT intended to be a guide
for actual behavior.  Any similarities between this story and
actual people, or actual events that you should be ashamed of,
are purely coincidental.  If it is illegal in your part of the
world to access and read erotic fiction, or if you are underage,
or if you don't like sex stories, then stop now.

This story is copyright 2004 by Russell Hoisington.  Please do
not remove the author information or make any changes to this
story.  You may post freely to non-commercial (free) sites, or in
the "free" area of commercial sites.  That does NOT mean that
they are in the public domain, nor does it mean that I give
permission for you to use them in spam advertising.  I reserve
the right to determine what is "spam advertising" by MY
definition, not yours or anyone else's.

Thank you for your consideration.

By the way:
If this is not the worst story I've ever written, it's not from
lack of effort on my part.  I wrote it as an exercise in bad
similes, metaphors, and other big grammatical words most people
don't learn in High School English, just in case the ASSM Bulwer-Lytton
Festival came to fruition.  It didn't, but I decided to
inflict it upon you anyway.  If you aren't familiar with Edward
Bulwer-Lytton and his (in)famous novel "Paul Clifford," or at
least with Snoopy's attempt to be an author in "Peanuts," then
the first paragraph (and everything after it) will have little
meaning for you.  People looking for a "stroker" will be joining
you at the exit.

My sincerest thanks to Billy Forrest, DB_Story, Denny Wheeler,
the Dirty Old Man in North Carolina, and Uncle Sky, without whose
help this story might accidentally have been in far better taste.

   ************************************************************

BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!

     It was a bright and shiny day; my wood-frame house shook
like a stressed-out crack junkie in the pangs of withdrawal as I
stumbled from between the rumpled sheets of my comfortably
lukewarm waterbed, grabbed freshly laundered jockey shorts from
the clean-laundry basket, and, staggering with drowsiness, got
them properly oriented the second time I pulled them on, before
finally reaching for my comfortably shabby, knee-length, plaid,
flannel robe, the one I normally wore only inside the house out
of sight of the general public because it had more variegated
stains defiling it than has a whorehouse mattress, but I had no
other choice since it was the only robe handy, and I had to get
to the front door before the pounding sent the neutral beige
Sears Best Easy Living interior latex paint on the gypsum board
walls fluttering to the floor in small chips, like a bland snow
storm of mediocrity.

BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!

     Grumbling like a frustrated spinster with bad false teeth I
jerked open the front door and beheld the entire defensive line
of the Broncos on steroids--to include the developmental squad. 
I blinked and they coalesced into one beefy, red-faced man
sporting shoulders as wide as the flight deck of the *Nimitz.* 
It was the incredible Hulk's bigger and far meaner brother. 
Menace swirled around him as thick as electrons about a uranium
atom.  He was drawing back either a small Celebes ox with a bad
complexion or a well-battered fist.

     "HEY!" I said, jumping backward and slipping on one or two
dropped sports sections of the "Rocky Mountain News," but
managing to remain as upright as a Baptist preacher thinks he
is--and in the path of imminent danger.

     Okay, so "HEY!" wasn't a grandiloquent speech, and you'd
expect better from a famous author.  Or from an infamous one (I
always get those two words mixed up).  I didn't have time to
reinvent Hamlet's soliloquy, okay?  Let's see how inventive YOU
are when you're life's about to go the way of buggy whips,
Edsels, and eight-track tape players.  But he lowered the fist to
his side, though he kept it clenched tighter than Great Grandpa
Macleod squeezing a buffalo nickel when the collection plate
passed.

     The man--I reasonably assumed from the narrow, ratty beard
that crawled around its jaw line like an unpressed caterpillar,
the Schwarzeneggeresque physique, and the seventeen tattoos on
each of its upper arms that it was male--was a gall-swollen
redwood growing out of my front porch.  Try to imagine a redwood
topped by leaves the color of recently tarnished brass and
possessing a face like a rabid buffalo with its balls caught in a
bear trap and you'll be close.  "Your name Hoistigon?" he
snarled, displaying half-dissolved sugar cubes in a cup of cold
French roast Folger's as his concept of teeth.

     "No."  I decided I would show the fearsome brute no fear,
even though he was tougher than a Welsh spelling bee.  He
obviously was the type of thug who, even as an adult, roasted
ants in the noonday sun with an eight-inch magnifying glass just
to watch them explode.  But I instinctively knew that he would
respect someone standing up to him.  Okay, I was silently and
fervently praying to every major and minor deity I could name
that he would show me that respect because I knew that slamming
and locking the door would offer me as much protection as a
starched kleenex in a Tokyo tsunami.

     I crossed my arms across my chest to hold my robe closed,
and to pin my heart between my ribs lest it burst forth like the
*Alien*.  I hoped he wouldn't realize that a wet, yellow patch
now stained my formerly-clean, white, cotton underwear the way
gangbang semen stained the virtue of a Catholic girls' school
Honor Student.

     He blinked.  Slowly.  Like someone who routinely has to
blink via conscious thought.  A primitive frown of puzzlement
sprang to life on his blood-red face and slowly evolved into
abject confusion.  "I thought this was the Hoistigon place," he
rumbled, and I suddenly knew how Roman marble statues tumbling in
the drum of a runaway cement truck with a defective power
take-off would sound.

     "The Hoistigons live about three counties over that-a-way." 
I started to point, but I was afraid my quaking hand would imply
that I was either terrified or offering to jack him off.  Neither
indication promised less than a trip to the emergency room--more
likely to the city morgue--for me.  I nodded vaguely past the
escarpment that was his left shoulder, and I wasn't surprised
when he twisted to look. With the shifting of his weight the
boards of the porch groaned like oarsmen on a slave galley
learning the Captain wanted to go water skiing.  "My name's
Hoisington."

     He turned slowly back to me, as inexorably as a continental
glacier scraping Canada off the map.  "Close enough."

     I was afraid it would be.  The man was as pissy as a
twelfth-hour diaper and certainly no more pleasant.  Keeping my
courage from scattering like children at recess took more effort
than was required to lift the turret from a tank, or to hurl a
space shuttle into orbit, or to keep a priest off an altar boy. 
"And what brings you here, Mister...?"

     "Collucci.  I'm looking for my daughter, Nykki."  He gave me
the kind of look most frequently used by policemen when a man
wearing a mask and holding a gun and a overstuffed bag runs out
of a bank and into their midst.  "You just get out of bed?"

     I stroked my unshaven chin with a thumb-and-forefinger pinch
and looked down past a recent pizza sauce stain on my robe to
bare legs and feet scarred by multiple accidents while playing
mumbletypeg as a teenager.  My breath was worse than an armadillo
that had lost a game of chicken with a Peterbuilt outside Del Rio
in August.  Although I'm over six feet tall, he could easily look
down at my tangled hair that was indistinguishable from a nest
built of cheap grey yarn by a schizophrenic rat in a government
drug research lab.  Clearly I was in a battle of wits and had the
superior weaponry with my intellectual howitzer versus his BB
gun.  But was I sufficiently awake to aim?

     "As a matter of fact, I did."  That was Plan A: confuse him
with facts until I was coherent enough to think of Plan B.

     One bloodshot eye, its sclera displaying a map of the
interstate system in red, closed a little more and began
twitching erratically, as if telegraphing his alleged thoughts in
Chinese Morse code.  "Whadda ya doin' in bed this time of day?"

     I shrugged and tried to pinch off another dribble of urine
through conscious effort while maintaining a face as calm as the
corpse I could easily become.  "I work nights.  I have to sleep
sometime."

     The twitching became a flutter, not unlike the wings of a
hyperactive butterfly with its feet caught in an Okefenokee swamp
sundew.  Suspicion dripped from his voice with the annoying
predictability of a leaking faucet at three in the morning.  "On
a Saturday?"

     I subtracted another five points from my already low
estimate of his IQ.  "Last night was Friday.  I got off work
three hours ago.  Why are you looking for your daughter here?"

     As if he had finally made the Friday-Saturday connection he
grunted, a drawn-out occasion accompanied by malodorous breath
still saturated with last night's garlic and beer.  "I figure
she's been foolin' around lately.  You know--by the way she'd
been actin'.  All moonstruck eyes 'n' giggles?  I found where she
hid her diary under her mattress.  It says she's been doin' some
guy named Hoistigon."

     "Oh, well, then that's not me.  They live about three
counties over that-a-way," I said with a directional nod and an
unsuccessfully restricted milliliter of urine.

     He turned like a sorghum molasses tornado in a Siberian
winter to look over his right shoulder and then twisted back, one
Jimmy Dean Sausage thumb emerging from a fist the size of a 1996
four-door Buick Century to point over his left.  "You said they
lived over that-a-way."

     ULP!  "Until you told me about your daughter I thought you
meant the southern branch of their family.  Couldn't be them,
though.  They're Celibate Baptists.  Haven't had a single stroke
of sex for over three generations."

     "Oh," he said with a slow, contemplative nod of his head. 
Clearly each of his thoughts, small though they were, threatened
to overflow the banks of the mental stream in his cranium like
the Han River in monsoon season, so I subtracted five more
points. "Billy seen her coming up your sidewalk."

     I was as clueless as an Amish bride on her wedding
night--unless Billy Forrest had traveled seven thousand miles
just to give that message to Collucci as revenge for my
mentioning his name in the author's comments, which wasn't all
that unlikely.  "Billy?"

     "Yeah."   To him that was self-explanatory.  It couldn't
have been more final if it were a speeding ticket in West Point,
Kentucky on Easter Sunday.

     I just wanted to return to bed with my teeth in my mouth
instead of my hand and my blood in my veins instead of on the
porch.  And to get away from Mount Vesuvius Collucci before he
erupted on Pompeii Hoisington.  "Mr. Collucci, is you daughter an
intelligent girl?"

     His head nodded like that of an arthritic bobble-head doll
in the rear window of a '64 Chrysler with bad shocks crossing
railroad tracks.  "Smart as a whip."

     I have many startling and wonderful talents.  Controlling my
tongue is not among them.  "Takes after her mother, eh?"

     He frowned and leaned down to fisheye me with that reddened
interstate map. The stale beer and garlic was joined by a faint
whiff of Old Spice, a combination that promised death as certain
as the combination of a smart bomb's whistle and a laser
designator's glowing spot on your chest.  "You sayin' Renee's
been fuckin' around, too?"

     For an instant I thought I had dodged a calamity, but
reality suddenly slapped me in the face like Ginger McFall when
she caught me looking down her blouse in tenth grade.  "No, I....
Uh, what does she look like?" 

     He looked even more confused, which as an accomplishment
ranks at least even with the Red Sox winning the World Series. 
"Renee?"

     Minus another five points.  "No, your daughter."

     From the look on his dinnerplate face you'd have thought I'd
asked him to explain the Theory of Relativity in Swahili.  "Why?"

     "I have an idea."  In truth I had only its shipping invoice. 
With any luck it would arrive while I still had thirty-two teeth
in my mouth.

     "Hmmm."  While he blinked with the speed of a snail on
tranquilizers and pondered that, my cerebral UPS van delivered. 
I pressed the wrinkles out of the details while he said, "Nykki's
seventeen, 'bout five and a quarter.  Got real bright red hair
and green eyes.  Been kinda skinny-like, but she's startin'
t'fill out like Renee."

     I nodded slowly, pursed my lips in feigned thought, and
looked left and right.  I leaned forward to whisper so he would
know I wanted to avoid being overheard by those guys in trench
coats overhead in their black stealth helicopters.  "I think I
understand what's going on here."

     He clouded up like the skies of hurricane Isabel and
thundered,  "What's goin' on here is I'm gonna beat your ass into
a pulp if you're humpin' my daughter."

     The wet yellow stain grew a little larger.  We were
dangerously close to having a brown stain enjoin it in a
territorial dispute.

     He sniffed like a Lewellyn setter seeking a covey of quail
in sagebrush.  "You pissin' in your pants?"

     "I can't.  I'm not wearing pants."  I spared another nod to
indicate the side of the porch.  "One of the neighbors' cats uses
those petunias as a litter box."

     The head slowly turned to look at the hanging basket.  His
face couldn't have looked more awestruck if the top five NASCAR
drivers had walked up and addressed him by name.  "He gets all
the way up there?  Somebody oughta put him on stupid pet tricks." 
He hummed in alleged thought, sounding like a dying model
airplane engine.  "Wonder how much they pay for that?"

     Another five points.  "Look, I'm a psychologist," I said as
he oozed back to me.

     His face again darkened like the Seattle skies in the rainy
season.  "What kinda psychologist works nights?"

     I added back those last five points.  Apparently someone did
live inside that intellectual tenement.  "I treat work-related
stress problems in overnight-delivery loading crews at the
airport."

     His brassy eyebrows slowly rose into twin arches resembling
nothing so much as a hamburger chain's patina-stained sign. 
"Oh!" he said in almost reverent tones.

     He bought that?  Maybe I was hasty restoring those points. 
"Mister Collucci, I think you have two distinct problems here."

     I swear the man grew fangs that would have given a smilodon
canine envy.  "You fuckin' both my daughter AND my wife?"

     "NO!  Your daughter...."

     His fist slowly drew back like a battering ram at the gates
of a besieged castle.  I had no doubt it could do at least as
much damage to me.  "So you ARE doin' Nykki!"

     "THATSNOTWHATISAID!" I screeched, felt my control weaken,
and wondered how much more my underwear could hold before the
urine started dripping.  The fist paused, cocked and ready to
fire, held back by a hair-trigger with the sensitivity of a
hemorrhoid infected with jock itch.  Keeping my voice as steady
as a jackhammer on overdrive I said, "Your DAUGHTER has two
problems: a schoolgirl crush and AFTS."

     Acronyms:  your friend indeed when you're in need.  The
Sisyphean task of birthing a thought appropriated all of his
mental processes, including the ones necessary to keep his fist
aloft and cocked. Eventually that thought, like Athena, sprang to
fully-formed life in the desolate, rocky cavern of his head and
announced its birth with a resounding, "Huh?"

     "Her description sounds like somebody I've seen around here
a few times.  Look:  your daughter obviously has developed a
schoolgirl crush on me for some reason.  Maybe I remind her of
someone she can't have, a movie star, or a rock performer
perhaps, or maybe there's some feature of mine she fixated on.  I
mean, who knows why women do anything, right?"  Obviously one
Mister Collucci didn't understand women any more than he
understood differential calculus, celestial mechanics, or two
plus two without using your fingers.  "Anyway, for some strange
reason she's fixated on me.  With me so far?"

     "Ummm..."  I waited for his cogwheel train of thought to
climb Pike's Peak to the station.  "Yeah?"

     "Excellent!  I knew a man of your vast intellectual
depletion would understand.  Now: she's fixated on me for some
reason, but she can't do anything about it.  I suspect she hangs
around here hoping to catch a glimpse of me, and that's why Billy
saw her coming up my sidewalk.  Maybe she was going to peep in
one of the windows."  I lifted one hand from my crossed arms
enough to snap my fingers but not enough to display my
mostly-yellow with white jockeys.  "I'll bet she's the one who
scared the cat out of the petunias on Thursday of last week."

     The storm clouds darkened further, and his eyes crackled
lightning while he again lifted the battered Buick for a
high-speed drive into the bridge abutment of my charming face. 
"Then why's her diary say she's doin' you?"

     "Aha!  That's the AFTS: affectionate feelings transferral
syndrome, a concept probed in Erie depth by Sigmoid Fraud and the
subject of two broken treatises concerning Cherry Kay and Sue and
without the usual Apache reservations, but let's not dwell on
those Indian details because it's your daughter who has the
problem."

     If he had been attempting to assemble a thought, that drivel
should have scattered the parts and shredded the instruction
manual as effectively as a four-year-old on Christmas morning.

     "She's found somebody else who has whatever trait attracted
her to me, and she's having sex with him.  But IN HER MIND, she's
pretending it's me.  Then when she writes about it in her diary,
she says that it's me for two reasons.  One, she's protecting
him, but primarily she's pretending that it's me to bolster her
AFTS fantasy."

     He waited three breaths and then said, "You said there was
two reasons."

     Minus another five.  We were rapidly approaching negative
numbers here.  "That WAS two."

     A spark of understanding slowly grew visible in the darkness
of his eyes.  I wondered if it would die of loneliness.  Perhaps,
but the Buick unclenched and lowered.

     "In her diary she said somethin' about your eyes."  He
leaned down again and peered into each one, again blessing me
with the sacrament of garlic, stale beer, and Old Spice and a
ritual frown.  "They are kinda weird colored."

     "There you go!  No doubt she's found someone with the same
color eyes, and she's having sex with him, but writing in her
diary that he's me."

     The calm eye of the hurricane passed.  Cumulonimbus clouds
reappeared, but not to rain blows upon my parade.  He snarled and
thundered, "Billy!  THAT'S where I seen them eyes before."  He
turned and stomped away, the one-bys of the porch threatening to
break as they sank and heaved and popped loose more green chips
of Sears Exterior Weatherbeater paint.  He paused on the creaking
wooden steps to look back at me and growl,  "Thanks.  Sorry to
disturb you."

     "That's okay," I said, hoping I was speaking normally
instead of squeaking like an asthmatic hamster sucking helium. 
"Glad I could help."  I closed and locked the door, fully aware
that he could just come through the wall if he changed his mind. 
But maybe the lock would keep out the transient riff-raff.  I
heaved a deep sigh out of my path and returned to the bedroom.

     While I removed my robe and wet underwear I watched a
slender middle finger slowly stroking the hot, wet slit dividing
a bush that resembled steel wool in the jet of a propane torch,
only redder and much, much hotter.  Her diddle-dew made it
glisten like nose hair after a sneeze.  An undeniable surge of
desire went through me like a dose of Milk of Magnesia with a
prune juice chaser.

     "I thought I'd warm it up for you," she said with her own
desire rampant in the mosh pit of her emerald eyes.  "What was
that about."

     Even though she had just awakened, she looked as snappy as a
wet towel in a boy's locker room, and I felt the boom of my
sexual derrick slowly extend.  I crawled in beside her and
stroked my hand up one firm, smooth thigh as luxurious as the
finest French velvet, stopping at the top to displace her
oscillating finger with my own trembling digit.  I plunged it
into her, causing her to groan like the hull of a diesel sub at a
hundred fathoms, and found her wet with her own secretions and my
two-hour-old semen.  She needed a fresh injection of Hoisington
Happy-Juice, and Doctor Russ was the only one in a three county
radius who could fill that prescription.

     As my erection hardened like the heart of an under-quota tax
collector, I tongued her ear and whispered,  "Your father said
you need to find a new hiding place for your diary.  You want to
scoot over this way a little more so we don't wake up your
mother?"

Copyright Russell Hoisington 2004

     ************************************************************

     Those of us who write the stories you like to read have
received and continue to receive a lot of support from ASSTR (The
Alt Sex Stories Text Repository). The major service they provide
is archiving our stories to make them available to you, the
readers.  This is a non-profit organization and is staffed by
volunteers. The operation is costly and the only income they have
is from donations. I ask that you consider making a donation if
you have enjoyed my stories.  Your donation will help insure they
remain available for all to read at no cost. You can find out
about donating at this link:

               http://www.asstr-mirror.org/donations.html

Russell Hoisington
State of Confusion
May 2004

Stories archived at
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Hoisington/www
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Hoisington/
http://www.storiesonline.net



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