Message-ID: <49003asstr$1093594342@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: <news@google.com> X-Original-To: ckought69@hotmail.com Delivered-To: ckought69@hotmail.com X-Original-Path: not-for-mail From: brotherbuzzard@hotmail.com (Brother Buzzard) X-Original-Message-ID: <c8991b7.0408261510.4f0fb08d@posting.google.com> Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit NNTP-Posting-Date: Thu, 26 Aug 2004 23:10:44 +0000 (UTC) X-ASSTR-Original-Date: 26 Aug 2004 16:10:43 -0700 Subject: {ASSM} "Of One Flesh" (M Mg, rom, mc, va, pedo, magic, caution, no-sex) Lines: 457 Date: Fri, 27 Aug 2004 04:12:22 -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 X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2004/49003> X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Moderator-ID: dennyw, newsman Of One Flesh {ASSM}(M Mg, rom, mc, va, pedo, magic, caution, no-sex) By Brother Buzzard (C)2004 *******BE WARNED******** This story contains fiction and any resemblance to persons, places, or organizations living or dead (except for satirical purposes, as covered under Fair Use laws in the USA) is purely coincidental. Additionally, though there is no actual sexual intercourse in the story, some activities and situations portrayed are definitely illegal and/or immoral. This story is also definitely calculated to offend certain people, a group which may very well include you. Read at your own risk: I will not be held responsible for anything that happens to you or anyone else for reading this story. ***STORY BEGINS BELOW*** <Do we have to do this?> <Don't worry, sweetheart.> <I feel so ugly in this thing. And they always say such icky things...> <The rent's due, sweetheart. You know how it is. Just trust me.> The sun is on the horizon and sinking fast. The worn soles of the torn and discolored sneakers we retrieved from a dumpster are the only thing keeping little Marissa's dainty little feet safe from the crumbling sidewalk, which is littered with broken glass from vandalism and discarded crack vials. Her dress is as ugly as she says, but only to some; a gray rag, as worn and torn and discolored as her sneakers, held together mainly by a long strip of the same cloth tied around her waist. The skirt hangs just long enough to conceal her lack of undergarments, and one could, if the light were strong enough, see right through the front of the blouse, though there's nothing noteworthy under it to see. The grunge and a whiff of her unwashed self cling to her like a damp cloth. She walks with the aimless, innocent gait of a child, something I can never fully imitate. The hooker on the corner still has some of her good looks, but also has the pale, papery skin of a heroin addict. She wears dark pantyhose to cover the rash that's spreading down her inner thighs and fishnets on her arms to disguise the needle marks. The local pusher sometimes pays her for the names and embarrassing photographs of her customers, who usually don't realize until it's too late that she's sixteen. Marissa hesitates, coming closer only at my prodding. I let her stop a yard or so away from the corner. She squeezes me tighter. <I don't like this.> <It's all right, darling. I'm right here with you.> "What are you doing here, kid?" the hooker asks. "You look like shit!" The question shakes the little girl, but with a little effort I keep her from bolting in terror. "You're not even old enough to breed, are you?" The hooker shakes her head and goes back to scanning the streets for a paying customer. Marissa says nothing. A ride arrives, eventually, in a classier car than usual. He's white, clean-shaven, and wearing a business suit. "Hey, sweetcakes," he says. "You lookin' for a free ride?" "Not a free ride," says the hooker, leaning over a little to give him a better look at her team members, "but if the price is right..." "I wasn't talking to you," he replies. "Go sell your ass somewhere else, scabby." "What!?" She's so worked up that she trips over her high heels and tumbles to the ground. Shaking with rage, she hisses "Whatsamatta, sissy? Can't handle a real woman? You need that Little Red Riding Hood to get it up? Freakin' tree-jumper..." She stands up, composes herself, flips him the bird, and marches off in a huff as well as anyone can march in high heels. <Shut them out, sweetheart. They're only words.> The tears are welling up in Marissa's eyes. The man reaches out the window and strokes her cheek. "Aw, don't cry, little girl. I hate it when little girls cry." Nevertheless, Marissa lets loose with a flood of tears. I hear the engine cut off, and the man gets out to pick her up and carry her in his arms. "Come on, little girl. I'll let you ride shotgun." Carrying her around to the passenger side of the car, he unlocks the door, opens it, and carefully buckles her into the seat. She's still sobbing as the man gets back in on his side, but the feel of the cool plush seats is soothing and she feels better. At the same time, her fear is rising to her throat. <I can't do this!> <Do you want me to take over for you?> <No!> <Then just hold on to me. It'll be all right. Nothing's going to happen until we get there.> My assurance flows into her body, unclenching tight muscles, calming her breathing, drying her eyes. The sun has turned a brilliant coppery golden-red. The man takes the freeway home, giving her a view of the city's glorious glass towers, reflecting the golden light in a thousand mirrors. As we look at them together, the driver reaches over and strokes Marissa's neck. With my help, she doesn't shudder until he pulls his hand away. "You're such a pretty little girl," he says. "Have you got a name on you?" <I hate when they talk like they're nice.> <I know. Let me do the talking for this part.> "My name's whatever you want it to be." "Oh really?" he chuckles. "I didn't know I was dealing with a professional." <What's he saying?> <Don't worry about it.> "A what?" "Nevermind." We drive on in silence for a while. "That's a nice doll, little girl," says the man, mustering a smile. "Did you get him for your birthday?" "I got him in the courthouse." "The courthouse? What were you doing there?" "I was all alone, and I was bored, so I got me a friend to play with." <Man, I hope those words sound like something you'd say!> <I don't know. They don't sound like you.> <Then I've probably got it right.> "Oh. And they let you keep him, eh?" "He's always good to me." "Really? What does he do for you?" <Do you want to tell him, or shall I?> <I'll tell him.> "He gives me nice things and says nice things to me and he's always with me everywhere I go." "It looks like you give him nice things too. I've never seen a doll with a tuxedo before." "He got it at a party." "What kind of party?" "A sex party." "No kidding!? Where was this?" <I don't remember how to say all of it.> <That's all right. I can say it.> "Trinity Presbyterian Church." "The place that burned down? Wow! I know they used to hold GLSEN meetings there, but I had no idea!" "I don't like to talk about it much." "Hmmm..." He says nothing more for a long time. We arrive at his home as the last few rays of daylight are fading. It's small, but it has an automatic garage door and what little lawn it has is recently mowed. When the garage door is finished closing, the driver lays his hand on Marissa's knee and leans in to whisper. "You know, we haven't discussed the price yet. Would fifty dollars be enough?" <Fifty dollars! What a cheapskate.> <He sure is, but now pay attention. You'll have to learn how to do this yourself when you're older.> "If I don't ask for a hundred, Mommy will beat me." "She will? Uh, I see. Um, well I'll tell you what: you can tell her you asked for a hundred, and I gave you eighty, and threw in dinner and a free bath. Would that be all right with her, you think?" <I don't like baths.> <Don't worry. When it comes to that, I'll take care of it for you.> "Okay." "You're a good kid. You're shaking like you're sick, though. Have you had anything to eat at all today?" "No..." "Well, dinner's on me, and you are invited, little, uh... Katie. Can I call you Katie?" "Yeah, I can be Katie." "All right. Let me unhook you." He reaches down and unfastens the safety belt. Marissa and I together can't hold back a shudder as he pulls her out of the seat and into his arms, but he still apparently thinks it's from hunger. "It's not much, but I've got some chicken from last night, and some rice..." "I want a drumstick." <How did you know that?> <Kids always want the drumstick. It's like your law, or something. Would you like to do the talking now?> <No, but let me talk when I want to.> <Okay.> He carries her through a den and up the stairs to his kitchen, a small but--as real estate agents would put it--cozy room. There's a table with just two chairs at one end of the room, and he seats her at one of them. He gets an ornamental candle from a cupboard above the refrigerator and sets it on the table as I let Marissa follow it with her innocent gaze of curiosity. Stepping into his living room, he puts on some soft romantic jazz music. Then he lights the candle with a kitchen lighter, and dims all the other lights in the house. The candle smells sweet and fragrant, and burns with a soft pink flame. Strangely, he doesn't change out of his business suit before cooking the meal, and he doesn't ask Marissa to wash up for dinner. There's probably something he likes about dining in his business suit with a little girl in rags. They're all like this, his kind; they all have some ritual, some ceremony they feel compelled to enact, some fantasy to fulfill. At Trinity Presbyterian church just last month, some of his kind held a mock wedding. As often as not, these ceremonies are what pays our bills. In this case, it's what keeps us warm and well-fed. The chicken and rice may be mere leftovers as he says, but the man is a good cook. The chicken is teriyaki chicken, and it's delicious. He also serves a salad, which Marissa doesn't like, but I do. As compensation, I let her savor the taste of the chicken and the rice. He watches her across the table as we eat. The air seems thick and the meal seems to take a long time to eat, but finally the plate is clean. The man has barely eaten half of his portion, even though it's smaller. "All done?" he says. "As agreed, then, let me draw you a bath." Marissa says nothing as he takes her into his arms again, but she has to let me take over completely to keep her body from betraying her disgust. The bathroom is surprisingly large for this house, and the bath tub takes up a lot more of it than usual. When he puts her down, I let Marissa have full control again, but she stays silent as he pours the bath. <Is he going to try something now?> <I don't think so, but hold on to me just in case.> The bath is ready. He turns to Marissa with a smile and holds up a wash cloth. "Think you can handle it yourself? Or do you want me to do it for you?" "I can do it myself." He looks a little surprised at the edge of defiance in her voice, but he doesn't lose his composure. "All right. Tell you what, Katie: while you take care of that, I'll go finish dinner. Then I'll change into something more comfortable and be back to check on you, okay?" "Okay." He watches her over his shoulder as he goes, but he goes. She closes the door behind him. <This is your part. You're taking this bath for me, remember?> <Of course I do. You've done well, Marissa. Now rest a while, and I'll take care of everything.> Marissa's little hands strip her dress from her faster than any ordinary child's hands could, and she climbs into the tub. I seat the little doll in the tuxedo in the soap rack before resting her body. Every feeling is more intense for a little child; the warmth of the water washes over every nerve ending as I lay her body down in it. To Marissa, this would be much too hot. To me, it's a comfortable heat that would boil every ache and pain out of me, were her body an adult's body with an adult's aches and pains. I try to pass on the sleepy, soothing feelings to her as much as I can while bearing the heat for myself. The dirt on Marissa's body is just a little dust I had her rub into her clothes, and it comes away easily. As the heat gives way entirely to comfortable warmth, Marissa is almost asleep when there's a rap on the bathroom door, and it pops open. The man is standing naked in the doorway with an enormous erection; somehow, he doesn't look nearly as dignified without his clothes. <All right, Marissa. The time is now. Let me out.> "All nice and clean, Katie? I've got eighty dollars waiting for you now, but first you're going to have to earn it," he says. <You won't be out too long?> <Only as long as it takes. Let me out, darling. You need my strength now.> <How long will it take?> <Only so long as it takes to pay the rent. I swear. Let me out.> Marissa takes one look at the man coming toward us, and makes her decision in a heartbeat. Her hand goes to the doll of a man in a tuxedo, and when she picks him up, she suddenly shrinks down into a tiny anatomically correct doll in the hand of a man wearing a tuxedo. The water in the tub is wetting my fancy shoes, but they won't be much worse for wear when they dry out. Stepping from the tub, I put Marissa in my pocket and approach the guilty man, who's looking at me in dull disbelief. "You just made the biggest mistake you've ever made in your life," I tell him, and put my hand on his neck. His flesh turns to plastic almost instantly. I close my thumb and forefinger around his neck and the rest of my fingers around his back. Laying him on the counter, I then pull Marissa from the one pocket and a simple white dress from the other. <That gray thing is rather ugly, isn't it? Still, I say you'd be beautiful in anything, sweetheart.> <Am I really that pretty?> <Of course you are.> Getting the dress on Melissa is a delicate maneuver; the cloth is finer than anything human hands can spin, and I don't want to tear it. I finally manage to put it on her, though, and then I put her on the counter as well. <Now you know I've got to take care of a little business, but I'll be right back, sweetheart.> <Don't ever leave me. You promised.> <Never, little girl. You're the best thing that ever happened to me. Haven't I always told you that? Now sleep just a little bit. I'll be right back.> Picking up the foolish doll of a man who thought he would molest my little girl, I carry him from the bathroom to the living room. Through the confusion of the man's mind, I can see that he never had so much as eighty dollars in cash on hand, and was planning to kill my little Marissa when he was done with her. Nevertheless, he has ATM cards and a savings account. I scribble the PINs for them on a pad of paper he has by his telephone, tear off the note, and put it in my pocket. The fire place in the den has been neglected for a long time, but the logs in it are gas logs, and the pilot light is going. With a flip of the switch, they catch almost immediately. For a moment, his mind struggles feebly with mine, but he is no match for me: he is an amateur and I am experienced. His consciousness drowns in mine, and I throw his plastic remnant into the fire, which takes all of a minute to consume it. The mystery of his disappearance will probably rank somewhere behind that of Joseph Crater, who turned a corner in 1930 and was never seen again. Accounts I've read say that Judge Crater was involved in dealings with some shady people. I sometimes wonder if he ran into someone like me. Raiding the molestor's house for goods will take much less time than it took to plunder Trinity Presbyterian; maybe an hour or two at the most. It's a nice house and he's only been in it for a month, so I'll just throw his stash of pornography and sex toys on the fire and let the house stand this time. His clothes are mostly in my size, so I think I'll take some of them with me too. His car is rather sporty, but I've read in the annual report from my insurance company that it's not a very safe or fuel-efficient model, so I think I'll sell it to Eddie down at the chop shop. Other than a few electronic odds and ends (his TV should be easily fenceable and his computer is nicer than mine), there's nothing much else of value. Returning to the bathroom, I scoop Marissa up from the counter, and admire her perfect little form resting in the palm of my hand. For three long years, we've been together. Three years that seem like another lifetime to the little doll who captured a foolish young juror who sneaked into a child psychologist's office, thinking he'd steal an anatomically correct doll he saw displayed as evidence at a trial. Cradling her in my hands, I hold the little girl who showed me the error of my lecherous ways to my chest, as if I might curl her up inside of me. <We'll always be together, won't we?> <Yes, little darling. Always.> She's growing up, my precious little Marissa. While I can't tell whether our time together has aged me very much, she looks more like an eight-year-old than like the five-year-old she was when I found her. I can't make much sense of her memories from before that time, and neither can she, but our present condition speaks for itself: someone probably put a curse on her, something that stole her human form and turned her into a doll. Then, when I held her as my stolen prize for the very first time, my human form passed from me to her, and we merged together. Ever since then, we've been punishing the men (and in a very few cases, such as the Trinity Presbyterian incident, women) who try to steal even more of her. Some day, maybe when she's a little older, I won't have to put her to sleep and leave her in another room anymore when I'm dealing with the Johns who buy her. I look at my watch. It's almost 8:00 P.M. <It's bedtime, sweetheart. Let Daddy work, and in the morning you'll be yourself again.> Maybe one day, when we've saved enough from our work and she's old enough to drive a car and buy tickets at an airport, we'll set out to find the one who cursed her and bring him to justice; we do at least remember his face. Maybe if we can finish him off as we've finished so many others, that'll break the curse. In the meantime, the money from our latest job should help pay for several more months in the 10th story Wonderland I've built for her. It's all she needs at her age, though I'm already saving money for a mansion. I think there'll be enough left over to pay for another year of Catholic school for her, too, though we may have to take up homeschooling soon if we can't get the other children to stop asking her why she still brings a doll to school at her age. No one seems to notice that no one has seen the two of us together in the same place, but someone probably will eventually. We'll just have to cross that bridge when we get to it. No matter what happens, though, we'll always be together. Always. -- 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}| +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+