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From: Carlos Malenkov <cmalenkov@linuxwaves.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Moonstruck (mF MF Mf anal inc ped)
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Date: Tue, 29 Jun 2004 18:10:02 -0400
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MOONSTRUCK
by Carlos Malenkov (writing as Kien Reti)
Word Count: 3744
Copyright (c) 2004 by Carlos Malenkov
Posting and archive rights granted to ASSM. All other rights reserved.


The passing car took him completely by surprise. He turned and looked
-- and caught a flash of naked buttocks sticking out the window on the
passenger side. He had just been mooned. And how.

The image of that bare ass haunted Fred for years. He had been only 12,
just beginning to become aware of the strange mysteries of the opposite
sex. Girls were, well, different. They were annoying, but somehow
soft and enticing, too. He'd supposed he'd get around to finding their
companionship pleasurable one of these days and maybe even think about
dating and whatever comes afterwards. But the glimpse of that naked ass
had completely destroyed the orderly progression of his childhood.

He had to find that woman -- the woman whose bare ass it was. He *had* to.
He had fixated on her, and especially on her ass. That *ass*. It occupied
his thoughts day and night. Those lush naked curves. That mysterious
cleavage. The sparse fringe of hair, the faint blush of red in the crack,
the puckered little hole. Had he really seen those details or was it
the product of an overheated imagination and wishful thinking? That ass
was the last thing he saw when he shut his eyes at night and the first
thing in his thoughts when he awoke.

It was a dark blue '59 Mercury, the car was. That much he was sure of.
As for the rest . . .

When he was 16, he was in the audience when a hypnotist demonstrated
his craft. Fred, of course, leaped up when Dr. Anubis asked for a
volunteer. After performing various silly stunts and making a complete
fool of himself, he awoke out of the trance. After the show, Fred asked
the good doctor for a minor favor. If he could only be induced, under
hypnosis, to remember the license number of a certain car he had caught
an all too brief glimpse of a few years back . . .

MUN37--. So, now he had a partial plate number and a fragmentary
description of the car. What next?

Mr. Herzog was an old friend of the family. A kindly older gentleman
he was, and Fred got along with him famously. He used to make wooden
pull-toys in his basement workshop for Fred in bygone years. Fred still
thought of him as a sort of uncle. Mr. Herzog was a retired cop. He
could possibly help.

"Well now, Fred, I do have some acquaintances in the Motor Vehicles
Department, and they just might be willing to get me a list of all cars
with that particular plate prefix. . . . But what would you do with
the information?"

Fred blushed at the thought of telling Mr. Herzog the truth, the *naked*
truth -- that he was obsessed with a woman whose ass had haunted him for
years. But there was no alternative. He began talking.

Mr. Herzog laughed. "Of course, I understand. Back when I was your age I
had an eye for the ladies, too. And when I think back on all the crazy
things I did for love, or lust, or just out of plain curiosity . . . I
do have some misgivings, but yes, I'll help. Of course, you won't do
anything foolish -- like stalking the woman -- will you?"

Stalking? That never would have occurred to Fred. He only wanted to know
who she was, so he could fill in the details in his mental image of her
and give his fevered daydreams more substance.

"I promise," he said.

Tracking down the mystery ass-woman wasn't all that difficult. There
were only a handful of possible matches and it was easy enough to sift
through them. It narrowed down to a single possibility.

Marilyn Wickelow was a young lawyer, a corporate attorney in her family's
firm. She had been admitted to the bar only a year ago. Back when the moon
rose for Fred, she had still been an undergrad at Highsmith University. An
uninhibited undergrad. The '59 Merc was still registered in her name.

Marilyn had a checkered background. She had a history of getting a
bit "rowdy" when under the influence of various drugs. Recreational
drugs. Illegal drugs. She had been cited for creating a public nuisance
several times and once for possession of an illicit substance. She
had even allegedly posed for pornographic photos and there were other,
even darker allegations. There had been no convictions, though, and that
explained why she could practice law. Of course, her family background
helped, too. It seems that her father was the third richest man in the
country. A multi-multi-billionaire.

Fred couldn't believe it. He had been mooned by an heiress, no less.
A debutante. A woman far above his social class. And still he couldn't
keep her ass out of his thoughts. He was a high school junior with a
big problem.

Fred's classmates were busily pairing off with their opposite-sex
counterparts and doing all the interesting things that boys and girls of
that age do with each other. Dating, dancing, making out, and . . . Fred
wanted no part of it. Teenage girls held absolutely no charms for him.
They were so *young*, so inexperienced. And their skinny little asses
couldn't possibly compare with . . . Marilyn's.

Money. Maybe money was the answer. It was the only way to be taken
seriously in the adult world. With money many things became possible.
Changing other people's perceptions of you. Traveling in different social
circles. Infiltrating a mega-corporation's legal department . . .

Fred already had a part-time job after school. It earned him the noble
sum of a buck and a quarter an hour. That wasn't bad by contemporary
standards in this Year of Our Lord 1964, but it wouldn't bring him much
closer to his goal.

His goal. Exactly what *was* his goal? He'd promised Mr. Herzog he
wouldn't stalk Marilyn, and he truly had no intention of doing anything
of the sort. He just wanted her to like him. No, more than just *like*
him. He wanted her to *want* him, to desire him, to lust after him,
to lose her head over him, to be so hot for his bod that she'd jump out
of her panties to have at him. He wanted her, all of her, her body and
her mind and her soul, too.

This was crazy. He had absolutely no chance of succeeding. Here he was in
the lobby of the Wickelow Building, walking toward the reception desk. He
hadn't the slightest idea of how he was going to bring it off.

"State your business, please." The man in a company uniform was staring
at him with cold indifference. This was the first hurdle.

"I need to see Marilyn Wickelow on a critically important matter. She's
in the Legal Affairs division."

"You of course have an appointment," the guard said.

"No, but . . ."

"I'm sorry, sir, but company policy forbids -- "

"Well, then give her this." Fred thrust a sealed manila envelope through
the opening in the grille. PERSONAL AND URGENT the label on the envelope
read.

This was his final hope. She *had* to open the envelope and see . . . and
see the picture inside. It was a picture of him, a black-and-white photo.
A rear view of him bent over, bent over and naked, with his naked ass
facing the camera lens. Using a Polaroid camera with a self-timer, Fred
had figured out how to shoot the moon, literally, and if fate cooperated,
how to get the moonshot into Marilyn's hands.


No mail today, either. Fifteen hard-earned dollars it had cost Fred to
rent the postal box. Well, he couldn't have put his home address on the
note he'd clipped to the photo, the photo of his bare behind. A PO box
gave him a measure of anonymity. Not that it would help much if Marilyn
brought the police into it. Or if she sicced the company watchdogs on
him. And, of course, if she didn't respond, it was all for nothing.

The note. He had agonized over the note for days.

   "You exposed yourself to me four years ago. I was a young boy
    at the time, and the sight of your naked bottom in that car window
    shattered me. It destroyed my youth. Now I'm incapable of normal
    relationships with the opposite sex. You OWE me, and it's payback
    time."

Sure, it was emotional blackmail. But if it worked, and it *had* to work,
he could deal with the consequences later.

A week later the letter came. Inside was a single item -- a ticket to
the opera. Fred *hated* opera, but he didn't think he should miss this
particular performance.


The fat lady was singing. She had a magnificent voice, but Fred couldn't
understand a word of it. "That closes the second act of Salambbo,"
Marilyn whispered to him. She ought to know, considering that she was
rich and cultured. And she was something of a fat lady herself.

Afterward, sitting and chatting at the table in the restaurant, Marilyn
laughed about what she called her youthful indiscretions. Yes, she might
have done some things she'd later have cause to regret, but the power of
money was amazing, wasn't it? Now she got to the point and offered Fred
five thousand in cash for any pain and inconvenience that a certain
episode might have caused him. Of course, he'd have to sign papers,
but . . .

"Marilyn. That's really not what all this is about. I'm not here to shake
you down, and your money won't heal my wounds. What I want from you is,
I guess, *you*. The sight of your bare flesh, well, I think it made me
. . . fall in love with you."

"I was afraid it might be something like that, kiddo." She pulled
a hand through her long flaxen hair, then looked across at him and
smiled. "You're a right handsome guy, all right, but . . . no. It would
never work. Aside from the age difference -- and you *are* legally still
a minor -- I seem to be already spoken for. And I'm afraid my boyfriend
might be a wee bit jealous. Hmm. Let me think on it."

Later in the evening they were sitting in a parked car outside Fred's
home.

"I'll be in touch," she said. "Meanwhile," she paused, "here's something
to remember me by." She pulled his hand around behind her and down,
then under her skirt. The feel of her smooth butt cheek lingered on his
fingers as he stumbled from the car.


In fact, she didn't get back to Fred. He found out why a few months later.
It was on the Six O'Clock News. Marilyn, it turned out, was a very
interesting and a very dangerous person. She and a companion had . . .

     BUTCHERED THEIR WAY ACROSS SIX STATES!

     HIGH SOCIETY THRILL KILLERS!

     WEALTHY FEMALE LAWYER'S MURDER SPREE!

     "SHE MADE ME DO IT," BOYFRIEND CLAIMS!

Getting a seat at the trial was impossible. Not that it much mattered,
since the outcome was a foregone conclusion. Marilyn's boyfriend testified
against her and got off with a life sentence. She wasn't nearly as lucky.


Fred was older and wiser, not to mention quite a bit more cynical. He
was a junior at the state college, majoring in criminal justice
administration, and was on his third girlfriend in as many months. Alice
was even-tempered, affectionate, and most important of all, had a
nice ass.

It had been a rough couple of years before Fred had managed to banish
Marilyn (and her *ass*) out of his mind. Things had finally fallen into
place and he pretty much had the rest of his life mapped out. Finish
school, get married, and settle into a law enforcement career, though
not necessarily in that order. Disruptions in his neat, well-planned
life were the last thing he needed.

The envelope in his mailbox had a State Penitentiary return address.
"You have been approved as a correspondent for inmate M. Wickelow,"
it read. What? Marilyn wanted to him to write to her? In her cell at
the State Penitentiary?

"No friggin' way I'm getting involved with that broad again," Fred
muttered.

"Oh, go on," Alice chuckled. "She's part of the dead past, and by now you
should have gotten over her. Besides, you have *my* ass to obsess about
now, not to mention cuddle up close to when we spend the night together."

"Well, I suppose I could use her as the topic for a research paper in
my Capital Punishment seminar. No problem about making a top grade on
something like that."


    Dear Marilyn,

    I really don't know where to start. It's been years since, well,
    since that night at the opera, and I've mostly gotten over my juvenile
    fixation on you-know-what. Lately I've been studying hard and trying
    to live a normal life.

    Yes, I'm willing to write and offer what emotional support I can. If
    you'd like to talk about the things you've done, with a view toward
    getting them off your chest or whatever, well, I suppose I'm available.


    Fred


Months passed and no letter back from Marilyn. Fred didn't even much
much think about it, since he had been getting his fill of Alice's ass,
and after that went sour, Janetta's. Finally, he did get a letter, but
it wasn't quite what he was expecting.

    Gardner, Bates, Boysen, and Cox Associates
    Attorneys at Law

    Mr. Frederick Holstein:

    Permission has been obtained for your visitation to our client,
    Miss Marilyn Wickelow at the following date and time . . .

Visitation? He was supposed to visit her? In person? On Death Row?
What the hell had he gotten himself into?


"This way, sir."

The uniformed female guard ushered Fred down the corridor of locked
cell doors. There were a few catcalls, but most of the inmates were
surprisingly well behaved.

"Marilyn?"

"Fred! I'm so pleased you could make it. Welcome to my humble abode."

Humble indeed. Her "abode" consisted of a 10-foot square cell containing
a cot, small wash basin, and lidless toilet.

"Let's have a little privacy -- what do you say, kiddo?" Marilyn nodded
at the prison matron, who turned abruptly and went out the cell door,
locking it behind her.

"Alone at last." Marilyn smiled.

"Tell me if you would, old girl, what's going on here. Let's start at the
beginning, why don't we. What do you want with me? Why did your lawyers
contact me? Why did they offer me fifty thousand dollars dollars if I'd
agree to visit you? And why did they hint at another, larger payment,
for 'unspecified services'?"

"Fifty thou is small change, little man. Money is something I've never
bothered keeping track of. Now *time* is another matter. Time is precious
to me. I measure it in days and weeks, and, as a certain date draws near,
I'll probably start counting the hours. And that's where you come in,
darling."

"Darling, is it now? Well, I think I'm getting a glimmer of what this
is all about. They don't execute *pregnant* women, do they, Marilyn?"

"Now, now, Freddie boy, let's just say I'm hot for your bod, and leave
it at that. Besides, don't you *want* to fuck me?"

"But the guards -- "

"It's been taken care of. A half million in cash can be mighty tempting
to a civil servant making in the neighborhood of like thirty thousand
a year. Don't worry, we're guaranteed an hour of total privacy."

There were two blue woolen institutional-issue blankets on the cot. One
of these Marilyn draped over the bars of the cell, blocking the view
from the corridor. The other she spread on the floor.

"They say the knee-chest position is best for getting pregnant," Marilyn
said. "And it's the right time of month for me, too."

She was on her hands and knees, head down on a pillow, and her bare ass
thrust out toward Fred. This was the very ass that had haunted him for
years, and just below it her pussy was gaping open for the taking. He
took it.

"Thank you, dear. That was nice. Ah, I see you're still hard, I see. It's
wonderful to be young and horny. Would you like to put it back into me?"

"Yes, but -- "

"Wait." She stood up and got a plastic squeeze bottle from a shelf over
the sink.

"Hand cream. How about we try something a little different now, Freddie
boy? Lube yourself up with this and stick it into my ass this time."

He pressed his aching cock against that puckered entrance between her
cheeks and the sphincter dimpled inwards, then yielded to him. He slid up
into her darkness, into the deepest of her mysteries, and she was tight
inside, and she cried out his name, then something else. It sounded like,
"Don't hurt me, Daddy."

"The first time was for business, and *that* was for pleasure." Marilyn
tousled his hair as they sat side by side on the cot.

"Why did you do it?" he asked.

"Do what? Fuck you just now? Moon you all those many years ago? Or kill
the people?"

"All of the above."

"Revenge," she said. "I'm getting back at the world."


Fred must have been firing blanks because Marilyn didn't get pregnant.
All the same, an appeal of her sentence managed to postpone the execution
into the next year. Strangely enough, the news only rated a couple
of paragraphs on page 8 of the paper and didn't even get into the Six
O'Clock News. The public had lost interest in the case.

Fred tried to arrange another visit, but he hit a stone wall. The prison
officials had revoked his visitation rights and her lawyers wouldn't
return his phone calls. Apparently Marilyn didn't want to see him
again. She had used him, then discarded him.

The execution took place without fanfare in the early hours of a gray
Thursday morning. They still used hanging in this part of the country,
and the noose snapped Marilyn's slim white neck cleanly as her beautifully
sculpted body dropped through the trap door.

Two months later the letter came. In the outer envelope was a statement
from the lawyers.

     In settlement of the estate of M. Wickelow and in accordance with
     her wishes as noted in her Last Will and Testament, the enclosed
     is transferred to your possession.

Inside the smaller sealed envelope was a key. It was for a safe deposit
box in a bank branch in a nearby town.

The bank officer led Fred down to the vault as soon as he identified
himself. Apparently this, too, had been arranged.

The safe deposit box contained a typed letter, a sheaf of handwritten
papers in a cheap binder, a number of stacks of $100 bills in bank
wrappers, and a loose bundle of what looked like stock certificates.

     Freddie,

     If you're reading this, then I'm dead and buried. You were the only
     one I could trust, in fact, the only one for whom I ever developed
     anything like affection. If I had been capable of love, I think I
     might have loved you. Keeping that in mind, I have one last task
     for you.

     Avenge me. I'm depending on you to even up accounts with the man
     who shattered my life, who ruined my childhood, who made a killer
     out of me. I'm talking about my father, of course.

     Harlan Wickelow is the man who took my virginity. He robbed me
     of my innocence on one bloody-red evening shortly after my eighth
     birthday. And he continued quenching his slimy lust in me for
     years afterwards, until I had my first period. Then he turned his
     attentions to my younger sister.

     Kill him. Kill my father. Let him join me in Hell so his soul
     can be torn asunder by the demons that have tormented me for all
     these years.

     There is $100,000 in cash in this box. That will cover your
     immediate expenses. The negotiable securities are bearer bonds,
     which means you can take them to the issuing bank and cash them
     in without showing ID. These have a face value of $10,000,000,
     surely enough for you to live on the rest of your life.

     No, I don't expect you to get your hands dirty with his filthy
     blood. Hire someone. Dave Boysen, one of my attorneys will put you
     in touch with some people who are in that line of work. The deed
     will never be traced back to you.

     Do this for me. Destroy the man who destroyed me. Kill him!

     Reaching out to you from beyond the grave,


     Marilyn


Harlan Wickelow slowly rose to his feet. His face could have been carved
out of stone

"And what should I make of this, young man? If it's blackmail you have
in mind, you're wasting your time."

"Fred Holstein's the name, and it's a name that you'll remember the
rest of your life. I have no use for either your money or your worldly
goods. There's only one thing I want and that's to honor your daughter's
final wish. She wanted me to have you killed, but a piece of shit like
you isn't worth risking jail time for. I'll content myself with blackening
your reputation and good name.

"I've sent copies of her testament, the one you've just read, to the
wire services and to major newspapers all over the country. By this
time tomorrow your name will be a household word, a curse word for a
misbegotten father who commits incest on his own daughter, a father who
abuses the trust of a child, a father who destroys his own family. You
were directly responsible for her death and indirectly for the deaths
of her victims, and now the bill comes due."

Fred paused, then continued. "Marilyn left me over ten million
dollars. I've donated every penny of it to a foundation that helps
incest and rape victims and I'm dedicating my life to hunting down and
prosecuting the perpetrators of those crimes."

"She was my little girl!" Wickelow wailed. He had collapsed back into
the chair and his face was hidden behind clenched fists. "I loved her!"

"So did I," Fred whispered. He walked out the door and didn't look back.

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