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From: Carlos Malenkov <cmalenkov@linuxwaves.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Bizop (MF cons anal)
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Date: Fri, 14 May 2004 07:10:02 -0400
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BIZOP
by Carlos Malenkov <cmalenkov@linuxwaves.com>
Word Count: 2174
Copyright (c) 2004 by Carlos Malenkov
Posting and archive rights granted to ASSM. All other rights reserved.



     Make big bucks off lonely women! Our system earns you
     thousands each month by DOING WHAT COMES NATURALLY.
     Write for details. Bizop, Inc., P.O. Box 87343.

It sounded good. Damn good. The brochure Jerry got in the mail was
full of testimonials. The only problem was the money. The program cost
$350. That was more than he made in a month, even before deductions.

He had been in town only a year. Turning twenty just as the mad and
glorious sixties were ending, he had hopped a westward-bound Greyhound
and somehow ended up in LA.

Six months later he had scraped together enough. He mailed out a money
order for $350. This had damn well better be worth it. Here he was,
broke, working at a minimum wage job, inexperienced sexually, and having
the gall to think he could make money off women.

An envelope arrived in the mail. The return address read Bizop, Inc.
Inside were a couple of paragraphs on a single mimeographed sheet.

*That* was the entire program. He was to place the following classified
ad in the personals section of any newspaper of his choice, and hope
for the best.

     Never experienced the ULTIMATE? It's not too late.
     Specialist in bringing sensual release to older women.
     If you are over 50 and lonely, write for details.
     (Contact info here.)

This had better work. He didn't even know how he'd manage next month's
rent if no money came in. Not to mention that the cupboard was bare.

He waited. No inquiries from needy women came in the mail. What did come
in the mail was an eviction threat from his landlady. He'd had to ask
his boss for an advance in order to buy food.

He woke up one morning knowing that it was all a pile of crap. His hopes
and dreams, his whole life -- all of it was crap. He had sent away several
hundred dollars to a swindler, only to learn about a scheme to swindle
others. A crock of shit.

He was getting ready to leave for work when there was a knock on the door.
Oh shit! This couldn't be good news. It wasn't. It was Mrs. Morpheus,
the landlady. She was a graying widow in her late forties who was
usually pleasant enough to deal with, except when it came to matters of
money. Money, as in overdue rent.

"Sorry, but I can't talk now. I'll be late for work -- "

"You might as well sit down, young man. Your job won't do you much good
if you're not paying the rent. I'm sorry, but matters have gotten to
the point that . . . "

"But, I can't -- "

"You can't pay. You don't have the money. How many times have I heard
that story from my renters? Rentals are what I live on. They're what
puts food on my table. If I extended charity to everyone falling behind
on his rent, I'd soon be out on the street myself."

"Please, give me a break, lady."

"You're a nice boy, Jerry, but I'm sorry, I just can't extend you any
more credit. If you don't have the back rent by tomorrow morning, we'll
have to start thinking about other alternatives."

At work his boss absolutely refused to give him another advance on his
pay. "You're a good worker, Jerry, but you've pulled this stunt once
too often. You just can't bring your personal problems to your place of
employment. Now, how far along are you with that Metcalfe file?"

Jerry had trouble falling asleep that night. He finally drifted off in
the early morning hours.

And awoke choking. Smoke! The building was burning!

Quick! What's the quickest way out? Jump through the window, with the
possibility of being sliced up and breaking his bones? Wait! Where's
the smoke coming from? Through the floorboards. The fire is downstairs!

Check the hall. He felt the door to the hallway. No heat. Cautiously,
he opened it a crack. No heat and not much smoke.

He staggered into the hall and there was a body lying there. No, it was
moving. Coughing. Still alive! It was Mrs. Morpheus. Probably about to
knock on his door with an eviction notice when the fire intervened.

She didn't appear to be seriously injured. Jerry took her hand and helped
her up. "Can you walk? We've got to get up to the roof. Downstairs
everything's on fire."

At the end of the hall there was a narrow flight of stairs leading
upward. In all his months of living in the building, Jerry had never
climbed all the way up to the roof, three stories higher. "A hell of
a time to go exploring," he muttered as his landlady preceded him up,
stumbling and clutching the wooden banister. He supported her from behind
to keep her from falling, and near the top she toppled backwards onto
him and they both collapsed in a heap on the steps. She grabbed him
in a clumsy embrace and began weeping uncontrollably, and his hands
inadvertently slid down to her waist and below. What a nice round ass
she had, a distant part of his mind noticed.

"The roof. We've got to get up there!" Jerry shouted at her. The door
at the top landing was locked, and Mrs. Morpheus fumbled in her handbag
for the key.

"Got to warn the rest of my tenants!" she wailed.

Jerry peered over the parapet down at the ground. "No need. Looks like
they all got out in good time. Seems like they're having a party down
there. They're passing around bottles of beer and what -- dancing?"

"Worthless bums, every one of them." Mrs. Morpheus shook her head
in disgust.

There were sirens in the distance.



"I don't know how to thank you, Jerry."

"Well, Mrs. Morpheus -- "

"Just call me Katy. It's my name." She smiled warmly. "Would you like
any dessert?"

"No, uh, Katy. That pot roast did it for me." He pushed his chair
back and suppressed a belch. "You really know how to treat a man."

"I know how to treat a *special* man." Her eyes glinted. "My husband used
to say that a man who could function in a crisis was worth his weight
in gold. And by the way, it still feels warm where your hand touched me
down there . . . "

He blushed. "Uh, that wasn't intentional, Mrs. . . . Katy. I was just
trying to help you -- "

"Please don't apologize, Jerry. What happened during the fire forged a
bond between us and, well, it's been so difficult for me since Herbert
died . . . " She leaned over him and kissed him on the forehead. He
blushed again.

"Jerry, it's not just loneliness speaking. I've had certain feelings for
you since you moved into my building. Why do you think I carried you so
long when you were behind on the rent?"

Her face glowed. He had seen that look before -- on women in love or
besmitten. In love with someone else . . . it had never been directed
at him before. Did he really want to go further with this? Well, why not?
Katy, and fortune it appeared, has smiled on him.


She was snoring softly. The alarm clock on the nightstand read 3:40.

Jerry congratulated himself. He had done just fine, he reckoned. He'd
put it into her twice tonight, and he'd be ready for another go in the
morning if she was in the mood. Quite a handful, she was. Lustier than
a chubby middle-aged dame had any right to be.

Whew! The second time she had wanted to be on top. He'd figured he owed
it to her after what had happened earlier. They had been in such a rush
to have at each other that he had just pulled her skirt down, bent her
forward over the arm of the sofa, and taken her, doggy style. No fancy
stuff or preliminaries, just insert and pump. Fortunately, she'd already
been wet. Really hot for him, she must have been.

On top, yeah. She had squatted down over his groin and and straddled
him. Man, the look on her face as she bounced up and down on him! A
hot potato for an old lady. Then she had leaned forward, and forward,
and lay down flat on him. All 200 pounds of her -- soft and yielding and
burning -- and she had smothered him with her longing as her pussy kept
squeezing and . . .

He was getting horny again thinking about it. He lay curled behind
her, spoon position, with his cock nestled between her plump buttocks
and rising. He wondered if . . . if she'd let him do her in the back
passage. Yeah, that was the ticket. Kinky sex was a dead certain way
to bind a woman to you. It could be something special that just the two
of you share. But how to ask her? "Katy, darling, I want to fuck you in
the ass." Yeah, sure.

It turned out that he didn't have to ask. As dawn's early light seeped in
between the blinds of the bedroom window, Katy darling took his cock into
her mouth until he was rock-hard and panting. She asked him in return
to lick her clit a little, and he was glad to oblige. Then she got a
little jar of Vaseline out of the bottom drawer in the nightstand and
greased him up with it. She bent forward and reached back to spread her
hind cheeks. "Yes," she said. "I *know* what you want. I want it, too."



"Quit your job," she said.

They were having breakfast, and Jerry almost choked on a forkful of
hash browns.

"Huh?"

"A man of your abilities," she smiled and shook her head, "shouldn't be
wasting his time filing papers. I have something better in mind for you."

Katy wanted him to supervise the cleanup and repair job on the
fire-damaged building. Insurance would cover most of the costs, and as
for the rest, well, the money was available. And following that, Jerry
would be take over as building manager. "And if you show any talents at
that, well, it happens I own a few more properties and . . . "

It was the fulfillment of his dreams -- a steady income, free room and
board, and as a fringe benefit . . . a passionate lover. And that was
only the beginning.



Five years later Jerry owned two apartment houses outright and a piece
of an office complex on the Miracle Mile. His net worth was in the
neighborhood of a half million.

He had long since married Katy, over the opposition of family and friends,
and still more or less loved her, though he despised her two grown sons.
Sure, his wife was old enough to be his mother, but so what? The sex was
pretty good and he didn't have to put up with the crap that a spoiled,
whining woman his own age would have subjected him to. That Katy was
beyond child-bearing age just meant he didn't have to worry about getting
her pregnant.

Of course, it didn't last. He got involved in a deal which would have
brought in fifty million if it had worked out. It didn't, and instead
Jerry wound up in bankruptcy court. Katy could have bailed him out with
her personal money, but as it happened she had caught him having an affair
with his secretary and was in the process of divorcing him. Everything
had turned to shit overnight.

Jerry was resilient, if nothing else. His last employer took him back,
and with a fifty-cent an hour raise, too. "In spite of your personal
problems, you were the best clerk-typist I ever had," he told Jerry.

Slowly, Jerry pulled himself back up. He paid off some of his old debts,
and even managed to save a little money. He married another widow, not
a wealthy one this time, but an even-tempered and forgiving woman. He
settled down to a safe, predictable, and unexciting life and laid aside
his youthful dreams and ambitions.

Nowadays Jerry dotes on his two grandchildren and goes on Sunday drives
with his wife. He's the steady and reliable gray-haired old fellow
everyone in the neighborhood turns to when they have a problem. Little
do they know . . .

. . . that Jerry is once again wealthy. He made his fortune on the
Internet like so many others. None of that dot-com foolishness for him,
though. Jerry found a steady and reliable business that brings him and
his loving family a steady and reliable income.

Jerry is a spammer. In his basement, a bank of servers sends out 200 million
e-mails a day making enticing promises.

     Make big bucks off lonely women! Our system earns you
     thousands each month by DOING WHAT COMES NATURALLY.
     For details, e-mail bigbucks@bizop.com.

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